The best treat, not trick

            Today is Halloween, an extra special night in the Adams family. Not only is it an evening when adorable trick-or-treaters knock on the door, it's also our youngest son's birthday.

            When he was born, I worried about Chris sharing his birthday with a major holiday and not being able to enjoy a day where he would be the star. 

            Although we always had a separate party for him, it was always disappointing not to have people concentrate on just him for the day.   

            I tried to put more effort on his birthday than the holiday, so elaborate Halloween costumes moved to the back burner. It was a lot easier to skate along with easy costumes 26 years ago, back before Pinterest made Halloween complicated.

            When I was a kid, Halloween was a snap, especially our costume. I remember one year borrowing the bathroom plunger, covering the plunger end with a bandana and then tying the bandana in a knot. We put on one of dad's old jackets, smeared a little dirt on our faces and we were bums.

            Not only are today's youngsters clueless about the definition of a bum, if we tried to pull off a costume like that, we'd be accused of ridiculing the homeless.

            Our other go-to costumes as kids were the teacher – mom's glasses and a notebook – the farmer – some rolled-up jeans, suspenders and a straw hat – or, if your mom was really creative, the Boris Karloff monster. That required face make up, eye shadow and Dippity Do in your hair to make it stand up.

            Not today.

            It's full-fledged costume time from life-like silicone face masks to fully accessorizing the costume.

            Kids need a to-the-floor Batman cape, nifty tool belt with nunchucks, the full bat mask and padded body armor. I'm surprised nobody's packaged a plastic Halloween Batmobile to make the ensemble complete.

            When it comes to hauling home all those Three Musketeers bars and Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, marketers want us to buy plastic buckets specifically designed for Halloween.

            No pillow cases – which worked perfectly fine back in 1963 – or a paper grocery sack which few of us have thanks to being hyper-vigilant recyclers. We might have a few markers, but I can't see the point in going all Michelangelo and the Sistine Chapel on a brown paper bag that's going to get bumped and dragged along sidewalks.

            Today's required accessories are the $4.99 glow-in-the-dark plastic bucket, a flashlight and glow-in-the-dark strips to tape to every inch of a child's costume, thereby negating the $49.99 you spent for them to look like Bruce Wayne.

            And then we get to the granddaddy of all big-jobs, the jack-o'-lantern. We've gone light years beyond a toothy smile and two circles for the eyes. The creative types are building three-foot high pumpkin-and-squash extravaganzas for a dazzling front-porch Hollywood production number.

            Which will rot in the Texas 80-degree autumn weather in about three hours.  

            One year, the boys and I copied a jack-o'-lantern look from a magazine and got it right. It's the one where the jack-o'-lantern appears to be throwing up all the seeds.

            Yes, that was fun until ants and spiders decided a vomiting pumpkin on our front porch would make a cozy new home.  

            Despite all the fun about Oct. 31, there was no choice about how to celebrate the perfect Halloween in the Adams household. All we needed was a chocolate cake, candles, ice cream and birthday presents wrapped in birthday wrapping paper.

            Happy 26th birthday, Christopher Henry James Adams.

            You're the best treat we've ever gotten.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.              

             

 

Salve for our souls

            Watching children is a fascinating study in how our perception of time changes. When we're young, there's no such thing as not enough time. We play until we're hungry or our parents tell us it's time to come in, take a bath and go to bed.

            There's no Google calendar going off every 15 minutes reminding us about a report that's due, a dental appointment or that it's time to send in the mortgage payment. As we move away from childhood into adulthood, we stay constantly aware of the responsibilities of time.

            Exploring the importance of time isn't anything original on my part. Quotes abound, from Ben Franklin's "Lost time is never found again" to Professor Michael LeBoeuf's "Waste your money and you're only out of money, but waste your time and you've lost a part of your life."

            I shall politely disagree with Professor LeBoeuf because his analysis of wasted time doesn't quite match mine. The first thing that comes to mind when I think about wasting time is sitting around doing nothing.

            It's practically impossible to do nothing any more. We're busy with work, school or family from dusk to dawn, repeat the rush the next day and bang our heads against the counter when we read articles about how to more efficiently manage time so we can fit in a Pilates class.

            Waste time? That doesn't even come into the equation.

            I can, though, recall a couple of hours I spent by a lake this past weekend. I didn't fold any clothes, dust any furniture nor did I take a productive, brisk walk around the shore.

            I simply sat, let my mind drift and, according to the professor, wasted time. But during that wasted time, I solved a couple of problems and found myself thinking about the past.

            One particular memory came floating back – an afternoon 20 years ago at some land out in the country my parents once owned.

            My father's been gone 13 years now, and I distinctly remember the day our whole family gathered at their place. My dad always had big plans for that land, and because he changed his mind so often, we usually tuned him out.

            That afternoon, though, my brother-in-law, John, had a camcorder and recorded my dad talking about all the things he wanted to do at the land.

            We kidded John about wasting time recording Dad's grandiose plans, wondering how he wasn't bored stiff. But John was the only one who understood he was preserving my father's hopes and dreams.

            I'd give anything to go back and waste that afternoon listening to my dad talk about what would make him happy. But I've lost that opportunity, believing I had better things to do.

            Sitting by that lake, I came to a conclusion. I'm going to throw out all the learned advice and try not to hurry through the mundane parts of life.

            In those every-day, sometimes boring moments are where we find clarity. A hummingbird darting through the flowers is a reminder that even the smallest of us will survive if we keep going.

            A child carefully choosing the right crayon for her masterpiece is a reminder to take our time when creating a work of art because creativity simply cannot be rushed.

            An elderly man, standing next to a grove of trees, wearing suspenders and a flannel shirt, isn't wasting time when he's talking about his dreams. And, just as importantly, we're not squandering anything if we stop what we're doing and simply listen.

            Because that's not wasted time.  

            Those moments are salve for our souls.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Gems are right there in the little books

            As a long-time reader, I've always appreciated the power of books and how they can alter the course of our lives. As a youngster, I read every Nancy Drew mystery on the library shelf and was inspired to keep my wits about me at all times.

            In high school, I stayed up all night finishing "The Godfather," and the Corleone family idioms are part of my vocabulary. "It's time to go to the mattresses" remains one of my favorite phrases.  

            I'm also a fan of novels that take the reader through generations, including Taylor Caldwell's generation-spanning "Captains and the Kings" and Alex Haley's riveting "Roots."

            Although these gargantuan novels are cautionary tales about what not to do, I've come to realize it doesn't take a book the size of an anvil to affect the way I look at life.

            Short, little books are a goldmine. I'm not talking about the greeting card books filled with clichés and flowery statements. I'm talking about slender books that dispense sensible advice and words for living.

            William Strunk Jr. and E.B. White's "The Elements of Style" is only 85 pages, but it's a must for anyone writing or editing. My copy has bookmarks and pages marked with Post-It-Notes and sits right by my computer.

            Two of my favorite little books are gems I'll pick up whenever I have a few minutes. One is a surprisingly short book from the master, Stephen King, that has nothing to do with vampires or gunslingers.

            This book is about how to approach writing. Pay attention to how real people behave and then tell the truth about what you observe, King states, and the scariest moment in writing is just before you start.

            Reading those words, I thought they applied not only to writing but also to life. All of us are scared when we start on something new, but the best way to get through that, as King states, is to simply and quietly get started.

            That thought brings me to the best short book I've ever read, "The Last Lecture" by the late Randy Pausch. More than 5 million copies are in print, and one read through will convince anyone Pausch's words are a solid-gold blueprint for life.

            Pausch was a professor at Carnegie Mellon whose classes were always full. It's an academic tradition at the university that a professor gave a last lecture before classes dismiss for the year.

            When Pausch was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, the school didn't want to ask the popular professor to give the last lecture.

            But Pausch volunteered, and the video on YouTube has been viewed over 16 million times. His follow-up book is a longer explanation of the video, and each chapter reflects a man who sees joy and opportunity around every corner.

            Pausch, in fact, claims that people can classify themselves into two categories from the Winnie the Pooh books – we're either happy and optimistic Tiggers or gloomy pessimistic Eeyores.

            Pausch doesn't write about dying in his book – he talks about how to live life. Live your life the right way, Pausch writes, and your dreams will come to you. Manage your time like money because all of us have a finite amount of both.

            I have a green crayon taped to my desk because Pausch says we shouldn't forget to indulge the creative child inside ourselves. Every time I look at that crayon, I think about Randy Pausch and his little book about life.

            And the Tigger inside me giggles for joy.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Fun at the county fair

            Growing up in Louisiana, where lands are divided into parishes, county fairs were only for Yankees. When we moved to Fort Bend County, people were excited about the county fair, and we weren't quite sure what to expect.

            Our first step into win-a-goldfish land was when our daredevil boys were tall enough to ride the big rides. Those clanking metal monsters are what I picture when I think of the fair, even though it's been at least 15 years since I held my breath while my boys rode the Tilt a Wheel.

            For some, it's the smells of cotton candy and fried turkey legs that define the county fair experience. Others can't wait for the rodeo attractions, the cattle and horses defining the fair for them.

            There are some who do nothing but complain – the fair's too dirty, too commercial and not what they remember.

            It's easy to single out those superficial aspects, but in the process, we forget the enchantment at the Fairgrounds.   

            Rising up in the sky from the comfort of a Ferris wheel gondola and seeing the county from high up in the sky is a treat like no other. If we're lucky enough to pause and sway at the top, we can literally see for miles.

            For those who whine about the high calorie and fat count of the funnel cakes, I can't argue. But I can point to the delicious first taste of a funnel cake, dusted with confectionary sugar as proof that there is a way to bottle satisfaction.  

            Some complain about the crowds. It's easy to overlook happy moms and dads pushing strollers when we're on the lookout for pickpockets or thieves. It's also easy to become cynical about the carnival workers, dismissing them as second-class citizens.

            We don't watch them take down all those carnival booths late at night after everyone's gone home nor do we know what it's like to live on the road 10 months out of the year. They're the worker bees in this greased metal hive, and they make sure rides are safe for our families.

            Over on a side stage, singers warm up to participate in the fair's talent contest. There are professional singers on the program, but most folks would rather see someone they know belt out "Crazy" by Patsy Cline.

            Away from the midway lights, one can find the exhibit halls. Inside are shelves filled with jars of jellies, pickles and relishes, their creators all hoping to win a coveted blue ribbon. Plants, quilts, paintings, photos and crafts of all kinds are on display, some with ribbons and others boasting coveted rosettes.

            Many people miss my favorite part of the fair – exhibits by the youngsters. For the past year, dedicated young people have been nursing and grooming a steer, pig, chicken, cow or lamb.

            They brushed the animal's coat until it glistened like velvet; and at the auction, they stand by while their animal is sold to the highest bidder. They do so with a stiff upper lip because they understand life on a farm and that the money goes to a scholarship fund to help them go to college.

            After 30 years, I've come to realize the county fair isn't just a once-a-year event. The preparation goes on year round, from youngsters raising chicks, bands preparing to march in the annual parade and hundreds of committed volunteers working behind the scenes.

            Because of them, we can watch our child win a blue ribbon and admire a silvery moon from the top of a Ferris wheel.

            I wouldn't have it any other way.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

That faithful old Selectric

            While browsing in an antique shop, I came across a silver typewriter ball used on IBM Selectric typewriter. Back in the 1970s, they became the industry standard, thanks to that revolutionary font ball. They also came up with a great carriage return that stayed inside the typewriter body instead of a typist having to reach up and push a lever to make the roller go back to the left-side margin.

            I was taught how to use a Selectric by our company's head secretary, Betty. She showed me how to change out the "golfball," and I still remember the thrill I felt when I first typed a memo on the company's first tan Selectric.

            In addition to that nifty type ball, the Selectric had a self-correcting ribbon. If I missed a mistake, Betty made me lightly dab Liquid Paper on the error, blow on the paper until that spot dried and then type over the mistake. She'd always check to make sure I hadn't globbed on the Liquid Paper so the mistake was almost invisible.

            The Selectric was overshadowed when I was asked to be one of the guinea pigs on a new word processing machine made by a rival company.

            I didn't know what a word processor was, but when a huge, sleek machine was wheeled into my office a few weeks later, I was thrilled.

            The biggest difference was a screen that showed me what I'd typed and how the page would look before I'd print it out. The words and characters were recorded onto magnetic cassette tapes, much like a VHS tape for movies. Mistakes could be easily corrected in the machine's memory before printing out a pristine copy.

            No more hard returns at the end of the line, a skill Betty refused to learn, and no more Liquid Paper. I remember that smug feeling of thinking I was so smart at the age of 19 because I wasn't afraid of trying new machines.

 

Technology Moves Fast

            But technology moves fast. Pretty soon every secretary had a word processor, and those segued into primitive computers.

            Of course these machines took up the entire desk, required floppy 5-inch discs and expensive printing ribbons, but they totally revolutionized how we carried out our business.

            When they were rolling in modern personal computers, I was a full-time mom, so I watched the confetti-throwing technology parade march right past me.

            When I did go back to the work force, everything had changed. I was in the newspaper business, and beige Macintosh computers were the "in" item to have.

            It took a while to get used to the Mac language, but the logical and straight-forward operating system won me over. Finding I could highlight an entire paragraph with three clicks of something called a mouse, underline and bold words and sentences with clicks and drags was absolutely amazing.

             Today, I marvel at my nieces and nephews who can hook their parents' television to the Internet through an iPad. Even my 5-year-old granddaughter knows how to find songs and games on my cell phone.

            While watching my 2-year-old grandson play a pre-school game on the iPad, I thought about Betty. I wondered what she'd think of the technological wonderland we live in today.

            She'd probably smile, say the bells and whistles were fine and then ask me to type a decent memo. She'd check my spacing, spelling and grammar. And, last but not least, she'd make me demonstrate my skill with Liquid Paper.

            I'd like to see a 19-year-old beat me at that.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.