Like a Fiddler, or Paul Newman, on the Roof...

            My idea of dressing up is scrounging around in the back of my closet for the one nice dress I own, putting on the necklace and matching earrings my husband gave me and brushing my teeth.

            So it's a bit odd that I absolutely adore watching the glitzy Oscars. From the time I was a young girl, I've been glued to the television on Oscar night. I always sat on the couch next to my mom where she'd deliver a running commentary on the lives of all the stars.

            "Oh, there's Liz," she'd say, spotting Elizabeth Taylor in the crowd.

            I was mesmerized by this dazzling movie star who traded husbands like I trade in my sneakers. Even on our RCA black-and-white television, there was no downplaying Liz's vibrant smile and the star quality of those bigger-than-life actors and actresses.

            I distinctly remember the year "The Sound of Music" was up for Best Picture. My mom played that vinyl record constantly, and I knew the words to "My Favorite Things" and "Do-Re-Me" within a week. My mom and I were both rooting for our favorite movie to walk away with the Oscar, which it did.

            Nineteen sixty-eight was a turning point for the Oscars with controversial films like "In the Heat of the Night," "The Graduate" and "Guess Who's Coming to Dinner" up for major awards.

            My mom didn't care about the controversy, and neither did I. We were simply hoping for a glimpse of one of our favorite stars, Paul Newman, because he was up for Best Actor for his role in "Cool Hand Luke."

            Between wondering if Liz was happy, if Paul's eyes were really that blue and if Cary Grant was as debonair in real life as he was on the screen, my mom and I critiqued the writers, the musicians, the costumes and the make-up artists.

            One of the last years I watched the Academy Awards with my mom was my senior year in high school. When 1972 rolled around, quite a few things had changed – the country was in an uproar over the Viet Nam War and my friends were burning their bras.

            I was anxious to start my own life and, like many teens, I wanted to get out of the house and pretend to be an independent nomad.

            But on that last Oscar night we spent together on our plaid couch, Mom and I went right back to my childhood, keeping our fingers crossed under the afghan, hoping Topol would win the award for Best Actor for his role as Tevye in "Fiddler on the Roof."

            That movie reflected so many events that were happening in our family, and, to this day, "Fiddler on the Roof" remains an Hebert family classic. My mom made sure all of her children received a cassette tape of "Fiddler on the Roof" to listen to in our cars and we all own a copy of the movie.

            When we moved to Texas, Mom and I couldn't be physically together for the Oscars, but we always discussed the categories in depth prior to the show, and this year's Oscar was no exception.

             Every year, when I sit down on our couch and cover up with an afghan my mom crocheted, I know that without our traditions – as simple as watching the Oscars and dreaming about Paul Newman – our lives would be as shaky as a fiddler on the roof.  

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

 

 

Having the gift of second sight

            I love a good story, especially ghost stories. Perhaps it's because my family had its own set of ghosts that I'm so intrigued by them. My father had a special name for the ghost in our family – "Mr. Toops." Whenever the back door flew open by itself, Dad would always say "Come on in, Mr. Toops."

            We never thought much about my father's invitation because Dad was a little silly at times. Later we found out that Mr. Toops was a real person, a man who lived next door to my father's family.

            Mr. Toops was hard of hearing, and he often walked right in the back door, figuring it was a waste of time to knock and wait for somebody to yell "come in." My Grandmother Marguerite would see him standing there and say "Come on in, Mr. Toops," and the line stuck through the next two generations.

            There were plenty of other ghost sightings in the Hebert family – my grandmother claimed she often saw a faint image of a man standing near the edges of family functions. She wasn't afraid of the Gray Man, as she called him, and neither were we.

            She claimed her ability to see him was because she was born with a veil. Near the turn of the century, almost all births were at home. Marguerite was no exception; and when she was born at home in New Orleans' mystical French Quarter, her birth was something special.

            Marguerite was born with a "veil," part of the amniotic sac that can partially cover the face of the child. It's not common, but midwives believed that a child born with the veil had special powers and could see ghosts and into the future.

            My grandmother said her mother kept the "veil" in a sealed jar, but someone stole it, and she believed the veil was headed for a voodoo ceremony. Despite the loss of the veil, for all her life, my grandmother had the ability to see and know things before they happened.

            My mother's father also had the gift of second sight and sensed when something was about to happen, from the culmination of a business deal to knowing someone was coming to visit.

            From those two, I developed an insatiable curiosity about things beyond what we can see.

Whenever I hear a story about someone having a sixth sense, I want to know every detail, and that's why I bent my brother's ear the other night.

            Johnny recently had an encounter with someone who could tell the future. He was visiting with a nun in Louisiana, one who supposedly has the gift to sense when things are going to happen and, in some cases, to heal people. She relayed to my brother that he needed to watch his blood pressure.

            Just a few days earlier, my brother had a full physical, and he checked out fit as a fiddle. But while exercising, he over-exerted himself and developed a two-week long headache.

            The doctor told him his blood pressure went through the roof, and he suddenly remembered the nun's prediction.

            My  next phone call to my brother will be to see if he can introduce me to this special nun. Perhaps she'll know if there's any hope one day I'll develop a sixth sense like my grandparents.

            It sure would be nice to know who's about to knock on the back door.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The life of the table hoggers

            The United States Post Office has to be one of the busiest places in town, especially on a Saturday morning. I found myself there this past weekend mailing two large boxes to my son in Taiwan.

            I didn't realize cologne was a hazardous waste – although Old Spice might qualify – so I had to open both boxes because I couldn't remember which box had the bottle. Then I had to stuff everything back in the box, buy a roll of tape from the Post Office kiosk to reseal the boxes and fill out complicated mailing forms.

            Printing my name in the tiny boxes took most of my concentration, but after a couple of minutes, I noticed a woman trying to address an envelope next to me. I quickly apologized for taking up the counter, and she sniffed and muttered "I asked you to move three times. You'd think you'd have heard me."

            Instantly, I was apologetic and mortified that I'd been one of those people I gripe and complain about all the time – the hogger. You know the type – they do whatever they want to do without paying the least bit of attention to anyone around them.

            Sheepishly, I realized I gripe about a lot of behaviors people exhibit in public, and I'd had just such an experience before going to the post office. Earlier that day, I ended up in the grocery store line behind a young mom.

            A tall blonde, wearing a diamond tennis bracelet and expensive jogging clothes, got in line behind me. A checker walked up and said she'd take the next person in line. The woman in the jogging suit made a bee-line to the open cashier and never looked back.

            The young mom in front of me was stewing but didn't say anything. Finally I leaned over my basket and said "Don't people like that really get to you?"

            Immediately she smiled and we had a pleasant conversation about impolite people who ignore the unspoken rule of grocery store etiquette – when a cashier opens up, the next person in line should go next, not the barracuda who lingers around the ends of the line, hoping to catch a freshly opened check-out line.

            "Karma will get her," I said to my new friend. "Karma has a long memory, and she never forgets."

            I'm a firm believer in what goes around comes around. When I was younger, I griped about people who walked all over others and never seemed to get what was coming to them.

            These types still aggravate me –they'll steal a parking spot even though you're sitting there with your blinker on and they run red lights because their time is more important than yours.

            But the older I've gotten, the more I see karma come around and "reward" these people for their rude and impolite behavior.

            That woman who cut in front of us in the grocery store line? I watched the wind smash two grocery carts into her driver's side door when she was putting her bags in the trunk.

            The person who stole the parking space will, sooner or later, have to park at the far end of the parking lot in the pouring rain, and people who run red lights invariably get pulled over by the police.

            You can only rob from karma for a short amount of time and then she wreaks her revenge.

            I needed to appease the kismet goddess, and I saw my chance when a young girl walked up to the post office counter to mail a shawl to a friend.

            She ended up having to buy a mailing box, but she didn't have any tape. I handed her the roll I'd just bought and told her to help herself.

            She was surprised but I said I was simply paying back the karma guardians. She laughed and said karma was definitely nothing to fool around with, and now she was bound to do something nice for somebody because, she said, "what goes around, comes around."  

            Even for we table hoggers.  

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

On the dock on the bay

            The bay is quiet in the early morning hours, the sounds of idling boat motors echoing around the harbor, preparing for a days' catch.

            Shrimpers, wearing weathered baseball caps pulled tight on their heads and faded black rain boots, head out to the open waters before dawn, hoping they’ll catch their limit of 50 bags of oysters, fresh from Aransas Bay.

            This scene is replayed every morning in Rockport, a busy seaport town about three hours southwest of Fort Bend County. My husband is part of the Coastal Prairie Chapter of the Texas Master Naturalists, and they planned a weekend trip to Rockport to see the sights, especially the majestic whooping cranes.

            The Rockport/Fulton area is a mixture of old and new Texas. Confederate cemeteries are on the tourist attraction list right next to modern art galleries. Because the temperatures were in the 70’s, the skies a brilliant blue and the humidity non-existent, we happily spent our first day outdoors.

            At Goose Creek State Park, we saw a family cleaning the redfish they’d caught that day, and the efficient husband-and-wife team were surrounded by a flock of hungry brown and white pelicans. As soon as they’d finish fileting a fish, the pelicans would open their huge beaks to catch the skeleton, and there was invariably a fight to see who’d fly away with the prize.

            Lunch was at the Moon Dog Café, a popular local hangout that’s right on the water front. With open sides and a constant breeze, the hippie-style cafe the perfect spot to watch the boats come in and out of the harbor.

            Oysters were the main catch of the day, and the decks of all the boats mooring at the dock were laden down with bulging sacks of freshly caught oysters.

            The dock manager said those oysters would be on their way to all parts of Texas as well as Mississippi and Louisiana by the afternoon and perhaps on dinner plates that same evening. The public couldn't buy from the boats, but shrimp, oysters and fish were readily available from nearby shops.  

            We stayed at the Lighthouse Inn, a step back in time to the gracious hotel days when guests relaxed on shady verandas. Thanks to a great tip from Wayne and Vicki Poorman, we were on the dock before the sun rose the next morning, cameras in hand, watching the shrimp boats leave the harbor bathed in scarlet, pink and yellow light.

            When it was time for the trip out to see the whoopers, I stayed in town as my stomach's not happy on the open water. I took advantage of an afternoon to myself and toured Fulton and Rockport.

            I started with a leisurely drive down Fulton Beach Road, stopping along the way to photograph The Big Tree, one of the oldest live oaks in Texas, and spend some reflective time at the Schoenstatt Chapel.

            My afternoon ended with a tour of the historic Fulton Mansion, and the tour guides were knowledgeable about the time period and the house.

            The 1877 Victorian mansion is in need of major repairs, from shoring up the foundation to getting a new coat of paint on the outside. Luckily, a year-long renovation starts at the end of February, and I'm glad I got a chance to see this majestic lady before she retreats for the next year.  

            Sunday afternoon, we left Rockport via the coast road, knowing we'd come back soon, if for nothing more than to sit on the dock on the bay – thanks Otis – and watch the sun illuminate the world.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.