Dear Santa... how about one afternoon, just one afternoon?

 

            Christmas is tomorrow and, like most people, I'm scrambling, making sure I've purchased and wrapped gifts for everyone, the turkey's defrosted and there's eggnog in the fridge.

            I've been blessed with good health, a wonderful family and more than enough of what I need. But since Santa's a magical guy who promises to deliver things we want, not necessarily what we need, here's my pie-in-the-sky Christmas list...

            A convertible. Yes, Santa, I know this wish is totally impractical. There wouldn't be room for the four car seats I need for my grandchildren. I also need plenty of space for my briefcase, camera bag, over-sized purse and boxes of books on CD from the library.

            But to cruise along a back country road in a sleek convertible, the top down, the wind blowing through my hair and the Beach Boys blaring, what a wonderful ride that would be.

            A cruise. I've never been on a cruise. In fact, I've been on very few boats in my life. But imagining a week with unlimited delicious food, having my bed turned down every night and visiting exotic locations would be a dream come true.

            However, my stomach is unreliable and, thanks to a bout with salmonella years ago, unfamiliar foods send my stomach into orbit. I'm afraid a week on the open seas would do the same.  

            So Santa, if you could send me on a cruise where I wouldn't have to deal with anti-sea-sickness patches all over my back, I'd be a happy camper.

            A trampoline. An odd Christmas list, Santa, but I don't want a trampoline because I have four young grandchildren.

            I want a trampoline for me. I'd love to jump up and down, do flips and let loose much like any 7-year-old child does when presented with something to jump on. You'd have to include courage and a neck brace for me to carry out these acrobatics, but to fly through the air would be worth the risk.

            Courage. Much like the Cowardly Lion in "The Wizard of Oz," I'd love the audacity to stand up to bullies, slay the wicked witches of this world and protect my loved ones with a snarl and an intimidating style.

            I did have the courage to stand up to the con man at a recent street festival who charged $5 to throw a dart at a balloon and then gave children a plastic water pistol.

            When a short, obviously angry woman stands in front of your tent and says at the top of her voice "how do you live with yourself ripping off little children?" and demands her money back, I guess I've got buried courage.

            Which, come to think of it, so did the Cowardly Lion.

            An afternoon. This is probably the hardest item on my Christmas list, Santa. I'd like an afternoon to spend with my dad.

            He's been gone for over 13 years now, and there's so many things still left to say. I want to tell him all about my grandchildren and thank him for being a magical "Pops" to my children.

            I want to ask his advice about how to grow older without ever having to grow up. I want to smell his Old Spice aftershave one more time and let myself get swallowed up in a bear hug that only dads can give to their daughters.

            And then, just maybe, I'd have the courage to take my dad's hand and jump on the trampoline with him. And that, dear Santa, is my Christmas wish list for 2014.

            To all those who have a pie-in-the-sky Christmas list, may all your wishes come true and may Santa deliver everything your heart desires.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Still the bossy-pants big siser

            On my way home every afternoon, I call my mother. I actually enjoy the long drive because she's such a good conversationalist.

            Today, however, instead of her cheery "hello," a message came on saying the phone number was not in service.

            That was impossible. Mom's had the same phone number for years.

            So I called a few more times and got the same answer. Then I tried calling Mom on her cell phone. I knew this was useless because Mom can never find her cell phone, but I had to try.  

            When the "leave a message" prompt came on, I hung up and called my brother, Joey, who lives near Mom. I asked him if there'd been a power outage, and he said there hadn't been.

            "I'm in town and I'll go over there in a few minutes to make sure she's okay," he said, much to my relief.

            This wasn't the first time I'd called my younger brother to check on Mom. The first time was years ago after my father had passed away and Mom was living alone for the first time in her life. I called to check on her and she picked up the phone, breathless.

            "Just a minute," she said and I heard the phone drop to the floor, hitting chairs and the wall on the way down.

            After five full minutes, she hadn't returned, and I panicked.

            What if she'd fallen and hit her head? What if she'd had a stroke? What if she was bleeding and no one was there to check on her?

            These were the wild questions running through my mind because those were the worries she'd shared with me a few weeks earlier. Living alone is scary, especially for a widow.  

            So I called my brother, Joey, who lived four blocks away from Mom's house. My sister-in-law, Debra, answered the phone.

            "I need Joey to go over to Mom's right now and check on her," I said, explaining what had happened.

            "He's on the ladder painting the house," she said.

            "Tell him to get off the ladder and get over there right now," I said in true bossy pants, big-sister style.

            And in true, younger brother "better-do-what-she-says" fashion, and because Joey's one of the kindest people in the world, he jumped off the ladder, got in his car and drove like an Indy 500 race car driver over to Mom's.

            He burst in the back door, the paint still wet on his clothes, and yelled for her.

            She had been in her wallpaper store, a small business she ran from the house.

            "Your oldest daughter in Houston called and told me to get over here," he said, still out of breath.

            "Oh yeah, the doorbell rang at the same time the phone rang," Mom said. "I meant to come back to the phone but I forgot."

            Joey looked at her, shook his head and stomped out to his car. He went home, got on the ladder and didn't speak to me for two weeks.

            He was entitled.

            So today, thinking back on that event, I told him what had happened and he said he could be at Mom's in less than 15 minutes. I thanked him, but in the meantime, called Mom. She picked up and said the cable service had been out all afternoon.

            Without any explanation, I told her I'd call her right back, and I quickly punched in Joey's number to tell him Mom was fine.

            "And I didn't have to get off a ladder to find that out," he said, a laugh in his voice.

            No matter what, I know I can count on my brother, Joey, to not only take good care of Mom but to never let me forget that when it comes to panicking, nobody holds a candle to his bossy-pants big sister.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

           

Through heaven's gates - welcome Lucille

            My first assignment at The Fort Bend Herald, formerly the Herald-Coaster, was as the obituary writer. I had other responsibilities, but then-editor Bob Haenel told me the obituaries were the most important part of my job.

            For some people, their obituary might be the only time they would have their name in the newspaper, and I'd better make sure I spelled everything correctly.

            As I typed, I found myself wishing I'd known some of these people who were no longer with us. They'd served their country, survived tough childhoods and brought themselves up from dirt poor to establishing foundations.

            So it was with sadness I read that Lucille Stewart Jackson passed away. I interviewed Lucille over 10 years ago, and it's an afternoon I remember well. The retired nurse had invaluable knowledge about Fort Bend County, especially Kendleton.

            She was so gracious in her little house just north of Pecan Grove and willingly shared the memories of growing up black, poor and proud.

            We talked about how life was back in those days, and she could recall details with exact clarity. She remembered the people, how it was to be not quite accepted but to keep working toward equality and fairness.

            The obituary mentioned she had two sons, Nolan and Donald, who were both deceased. What the obituary didn't mention is that her sons were killed in an automobile accident together. In one evening, Lucille lost her entire family, but throughout her life, she always helped others, especially her church, Oak Hill Missionary Baptist Church.

            There are many people in our midst who were instrumental in the early days of Fort Bend County, and I wish I had time to visit with each and every one because their memories of growing up here are fascinating.

            The story from Junior Hartledge who drove cattle across what's now New Territory. He slept underneath the stars, never dreaming of the metropolitan suburbs that would one day replace native grasslands and sprawling prairies.

            I often think about the stories I heard from Virginia Scarborough and the wonderful, Southern way she recalls growing up here and of the safety and security she felt on the streets of Richmond.

            I felt the same nostalgia when I heard childhood stories from Arthur and Lydia Mahlmann and Mason Briscoe, especially how Saturday nights were full of excitement in downtown Rosenberg.

            Girls would try out the new lipstick at the drug store while the young boys sipped on beer and munched on sausage. Families came in from the fields on the weekends and filled the downtown streets of Richmond and Rosenberg with music and laughter.

            I can't pass a corner grocery store in Rosenberg without thinking of the family whose father went to the store every Sunday afternoon to help neighbors call their families back in Mexico.

            I often think of a 97-year-old man I interviewed in Sugar Land who remembered sleeping in the sugar cane fields at night because people of color weren't welcomed in the houses.

            His memories were of  stalks waving in the moonlight as far as the eye could see. What a sight that must've been but how sad that he wasn't allowed in the main house, not even for his marriage ceremony.

            I've been privileged to listen to stories from those who served in World War II, Korea and Viet Nam, and not just men. I'll never forget the afternoon I spent with four women who were nurses during World War II and how they held the hands of their fellow soldiers as they lay bleeding on the battlefield.

            And now we've lost Lucille Jackson. Fort Bend County is a better place because she was here and a sadder place because she's no longer around. May you rest in peace, Lucille.

            I know you were welcomed into heaven's gates by two smiling, familiar faces.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.           

 

Decorating the tree... crack... smash...

            I just watched a three-part series on a home decorating Website about how to decorate the perfect Christmas tree. I started to doubt the smartness in this series when the first video showed the consumer how to take the artificial tree out of the box.

            A professional decorator proceeded to tell me to take three rolls of wide ribbon – this store  is in the business of selling lots of sparkly things to people – and meticulously thread the ribbon through the artificial tree.        

            She then added at least giant ornaments to the tree in addition to numerous strands of blinking lights.

            By the time she got through, I couldn't believe I'd wasted 4 minutes and 36 seconds to watch some girl turn an artificial tree into something that looked like a drunk decorated it for Bourbon Street.

            I'm not an expert, but there are a few Christmas tree traditions we followed when our boys were young to ensure we had the perfect Christmas tree.

            First, we always got our tree from a tree farm. You'll find a tree that's either a lot smaller once you get it home or so big you have to chop off the bottom two feet – for which you paid good money – just to get it through the door.

            But while you're out in the cold, walking through mud, listening to heated arguments over who gets to cut the tree down, you'll eventually find a tree everyone can agree on.

 

Time to Decorate

            At home, we employed a step-by-step method to decorate the tree. We started with the lights, and we've never had an evening of decorating the tree without someone stepping on the lights as we're stringing them on the tree.

            I can't blame the boys. I'm always the one who steps on the lights.

            Next is the garland. Every year, I tell myself to buy shimmery gold garland. Every year, I forget. So we end up with three feet of metallic silvery garland I bought back in the 1980s that only goes around the tree once. But it's tradition to put garland on the tree, so we leave it.

            Then it's time for the ornaments. I have every single ornament my sons made, starting in pre-school all the way through elementary school. That now-yellowed macaroni angel has just as prominent a place on the tree as my ornament from the White House.

            The most nostalgic ornaments on the tree are the one-inch thick slice from the bottom of the boys' first Christmas tree. Nick's is 33 years old, Stephen's 28 and Chris' is 27. They remind me how quickly they went from little babies to grown men. 

            Some of the ones I love the most are the plastic snowflake ornaments the moms at Pecan Grove Elementary gave to the students every year.

            If I never said thank you, ladies, I'm doing so now. Those ornaments with my sons' pictures from first through fifth grade are probably the most cherished decorations on our tree.

            The final touch are the fake icicles. I tried to convince the boys to place the icicles on the tree one by one, but they were impatient by the time we got to that point in the decorating evening.  

            We ended up with clumps of icicles on the tree that look like blotches of aluminum foil. I've come to expect that's how the tree should look.

            So with half the lights working by the time Christmas Eve gets here, plastic Ronald McDonald ornaments peeking out in between the branches and faded bread-dough ornaments on the tips of the branches, I couldn't ask for a more perfect, if somewhat unprofessional, Christmas tree.

            I wouldn't have it any other way.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Giving thanks for the little things that add up to a whole lot

            Since 1997, I've occupied this space every Thursday and that includes 17 Thanksgiving holidays. I've written sentimental columns about giving thanks for families, friends and good health, and these blessings remain at the top of my gratitude list.

            The columns I've enjoyed writing the most were the ones where I've given thanks for the little things in life. And because I'm eternally grateful for the every-day things we often overlook, here we go again.

            I'm going to start with my car because I'm a true Texan who'd be lost without a vehicle. With temperatures in the 90s nine months out of the year, I'm grateful for my car's hard-working air conditioner.

            And for the other three months, I'm grateful for power windows so I can enjoy the cooler temperatures as I wait at the never-ending red light at Highway 36 and Highway 90A.

            Occasionally I'm thankful for the teenager that blasts horrific rap music out of their tricked-out car. Those wretched lyrics are a reminder that I was lucky to grow up with true poets as song writers. Billy Joel, Carole King and John Lennon wrote lyrics that still makes baby boomers smile and cry.

            I'm grateful I wore giant bell-bottoms, puke-green neon-colored shirts and earth shoes with cut-out tires for soles. When my sons accused me of not understanding what it means to try and fit in with the latest, crazy fashion craze, I could reassure them in all honesty, "Oh yes I can."

            I'm thankful I like to sing. I'm no opera star nor would I ever win a karaoke contest, but singing at the top of my lungs to a favorite song is a definite soul enhancer.

            Occasionally I believe I'm right on the money until I turn the radio down and actually listen to myself sing.

            Ouch.

            But the experience makes me feel like Barbra Streisand on the bridge of that boat in "Funny Girl" even though I'm a middle-aged woman in the front seat of a four-door sedan.

            I'm fortunate I knew the love of three of my four grandparents and very lucky I came to know my parents through the eyes of a child and the understanding of an adult. To know them from both perspectives is an irreplaceable gift.

            I'm thankful I'm nosy. When I was young, I'd sneak into the kitchen after Sunday dinner and eavesdrop on my aunts' gossip session. I had no idea exactly what all those words meant, but I understood enough to know it was taboo.

            Decades later, I'm still nosy but now this newspaper pays me to snoop.

            Taking the less-traveled road. The quickest way home in the afternoons is on the freeway to another busy street to a highway. Lately, I've veered onto a side route that takes a bit longer but carries me down winding roads past open now-dormant cotton fields.

            Twice I've been rewarded with gorgeous sunsets, and I was lucky enough to have my camera nearby to capture those views for all time.

            I pulled over on the side of the road and marveled at nature's canvas. Then silently, I gave thanks for the divine hand that swirled the clouds and retreating sunlight and created those brilliant reds, oranges and yellows for tired travelers looking to refill their spirits.

            So this Thanksgiving, as always, I'll say thank you for that which we often take for granted but thank the Lord for each night:  our friends, our family, our health and the little things in life, like a sunset at the end of the day.

            There is beauty in each and every one of those.

            Happy Thanksgiving!

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Music connects us from Sam Cooke to Billy Joel

            While shopping in the grocery store, I heard a Beatles song playing in the background. There weren't any vocals, but the melody from "Let It Be" was instantly recognizable.

            Who could've ever dreamed the revolutionary songs from our youth would be used as elevator music? Those songs motivated us to change the world and make life better for everyone around us.

            After dinner, still thinking about those songs, I clicked onto YouTube and started searching for meaningful songs from the past.

            Even though Frank Sinatra was before my time, he's my mom's favorite crooner from her teenage years, so I clicked on "When I Was Seventeen." By the end, I knew this was a song I could understand at any age but only appreciate at this stage in my life.

            One that caught my interest was a 1964 song "A Change is Gonna Come" by Sam Cooke. This song addressing social problems was a brave one in the days when people of color were lynched.

            Cooke risked his popularity with a song that had the potential to inflame a segregated country. Fifty years later, the lyrics are as brave as they were back in the sixties.

            That led me to Aretha Franklin's "Respect." I found myself rocking in my chair and tapping my feet on the floor. The Queen of Soul can still rock the joint almost 50 years later and, she's right. We all need a little respect.

            From there, I listened to "Fortunate Son" by Credence Clearwater Revival. Those drums and the strong solo guitar at the beginning are as thunderous as they were back in 1969. Fortunate sons are still sidestepping responsibility and those without connections are still paying the price.

            Eventually I moved on to the 1970s and the choices were pretty slim. After all, this was the "bubble-gum" and heavy rock era, two sounds I dislike. 

            So for the next 30 minutes, I listened to pitch perfect songs from The Temptations and musical poetry, courtesy of Billy Joel, and had my hope renewed. My imagination, as it did for The Temptations, still runs away with me, and the Piano Man can bring tears to my eyes with his song of lost love "And So It Goes."

            Surely the 1980s had a few songs that would cause me to duel it out with the Muzak windmills.  After skipping past Milli Vanilli and Simple Minds, I found Michael Jackson. His call-to-action song "Man in the Mirror" more than made up for some of the paper-thin acts from the 80s.

            About the time I was ready to call it a night, I came across "Poetry Man" by the incredible Phoebe Snow. She had a gentle voice that snuck into your heart, and the words to that song are still beautiful.

            And that brought me to the one timeless anthem for all young girls – "Seventeen" by Janis Ian. I remember hearing that song on the radio in high school and pulling the car over to the side of the road.
            Like her, I was always the last one chosen for basketball and the awkward one who watched the beauty queens get everything.

            Muzak can homogenize these songs all they want to anesthetize people in elevators and grocery stores, but if we remember that some of our song writers are our generation's most gifted poets, then maybe all's not lost.

            In the words of the late and superbly talented John Lennon, there are places and people I remember, and these songs about love, growing older and seeing the beauty in our souls connect them all.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Customer Service - a lost art?

            I stopped at a local stationery supply store, picked up what I needed and went to the check-out counter. I waited for a few minutes and then started searching for someone to run the register.

            There were three employees behind the copy desk on the other side of the store, so I asked if somebody could open the check-out line. One said I had to come over to the copy center. So I went back, picked up all my items and walked to the other side of the store.

            I was a little miffed. I was in a hurry and that's why I went into the office supply store instead of a big box store. I mentioned to the teenager checking me out that perhaps they should put a sign at the check-out register for customers to walk over to the copy center.

            The look she gave me could have withered steel.

            As she was shoving my purchases into a bag, an elderly gentleman slowly shuffled up to the counter. He carried an old-fashioned briefcase with scuffed edges, and it took effort for him to lift the case up to the counter.

            He pulled out a worn three-ring binder filled with papers and said he wanted to get a new binder. The girl checking me out totally ignored him, but another clerk told him to go to Aisle 5.

            "Where?" he asked, obviously not able to hear her clearly.

            She yelled "Aisle 5" at him and pointed across the store.

            I leaned over and told the gentleman that as soon as I finished, I'd help him find Aisle 5.

            The clerk checking me out rolled her eyes. The other clerk looked at me, and I mouthed the words "You should help this man. That's your job."

            To her credit, she immediately told the man she'd walk with him and help him find the binder.

            My clerk barked she was ready for me to pay.

            Many of us buy our gifts and supplies online, so we seldom deal with a real human. It's easy to get ticked off when encountering rude store clerks, but perhaps today's workers aren't trained in customer service.

            So here's a few guidelines: 

            Smile. Even if you're making minimum wage, you're getting a paycheck to help customers. The reason that store is in business is because people come in and buy items. Your sour attitude means they won't be back.

            Know your establishment. If a customer comes in wanting 40-watt bulbs, you need to know where they are and if they're in stock. Customers don't expect you to know how to re-wire a house, but they do expect you to know your products.  

            The customer is always right. That's a tough one because more often than not, the customer is wrong. They misread the price, they misunderstood the sales flyer or they can't get the coupon to come up on their phone. Agree with them, find the right answer, smile and reassure them mix ups happen all the time.

            Don't insult the customer. If someone takes the time to spend their dollars locally, don't make them feel stupid. They won't come back.

            Customer service is more than learning how to run the computer. It's more than using a headset or knowing the difference between a tablet and a laptop.

            Customer service is when someone happily leaves the store where you work and then comes back another day because the employees made them feel important.

            Perhaps solving the dilemma of poor customer service is simply a matter of teaching employees that customer satisfaction starts with them.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

My Lebanese and Cajun heritage -- lots and lots of hair

            My siblings and I are a mixture of Lebanese and Cajun heritage. The cultures are on opposite ends of the world, but it's uncanny the traits the two share. I don't know what side my likes and dislikes come from, but they intersect more times than not.

            Take hair. The hair on my head falls out in handfuls, clogging up the shower drain at least once a week. Using tweezers to remove hair from my upper lip, chin and on my eyebrows is like using a nail clipper to cut the lawn.

            Both cultures share a love of food, which is a mixed blessing. My relatives taught me that food cures everything, both good and bad.

            Feeling down? Drown your sorrows in Pepsi and some hummus. Having a bad day? Then it's a full-course meal of rice and gravy with a side order of corn bread slathered in butter. Because nothing says "I love you" more effectively in both the Lebanese and Cajun cultures than a big helping of fattening food.

            Or two helpings.

            Or three.

            The ability to swear. I know all the major profanities from both languages. Thank you, Uncle Vinny, for teaching me how to swear in Arabic.

            Thank you, Grandma Hebert, for teaching me to swear in French. Throw in hand motions from both cultures, and there's no doubt what I'm trying to say.

            Nicknames. My Lebanese grandmother also had nicknames for her grandchildren. Because I was the oldest and bossiest grandchild, I was "The General," and my take-charge sister was "Nikita," after Khrushchev.

            My Cajun grandmother had a boyfriend that wasn't too bright. She called him "Eh La Ba," which means "you over there." He never knew what the term really meant.

            How to treat elders. Our Aunt Domina was a borderline hoarder and showed up at the oddest times at my grandmother's house. We still respected and accepted her.

            It was the same with the odd relatives on my dad's side. We overlooked their idiosyncrasies and chalked it up to being eccentric like all good Southerners.

            How to eat odd foods. None of our Lebanese cousins think it's odd to eat raw meat (kibbee) or to add pine cone nuts to ground meat and then bake it.

            Likewise, none of our Cajun cousins thing we're crazy when we order blood sausage (boudin) or slurp raw oysters. And from both cultures, everything tastes better when it's either wrapped in bread or the remnants of what's on the plate is sopped up with bread.

            The value of money. From my Lebanese relatives, I learned how to pinch pennies. I remember watching my Lebanese grandmother wash aluminum foil so she could reuse it.  

            From my Cajun relatives, I learned "laissez le bon temps rouler" – let the good times roll. I've learned to combine the two for a more satisfying way to handle life.  

            The cultures crossed when it came to weddings. Both cultures invite every cousin and friend to the wedding, and they all come.  

            And the booze. Lebanese weddings were swimming in wine as were all the Cajun weddings I ever attended.

            Both cultures love dancing – the Lebanese people dance the "dubkee" at weddings and the Cajuns dance with anybody who's in the room.  

            I'm betting there are other cultures that mirror mine – there's always that crazy aunt that dances like she's on Bourbon Street, the uncle that performs magic tricks and the grandmother who pinches your cheeks and asks when you're going to finally settle down, get married and have babies.

            Oceans and continents may separate us but when it comes to food and having fun, I think most cultures would agree – live it up like your hairy Aunt Domina.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

My best Halloween treat -- my son

            Tomorrow is Halloween and it's one of my favorite days of the year. When I was young, the reason was simple – I loved candy, especially free candy, and Halloween was the one day of the year we could eat as much candy as possible before going to bed.

            I have faint childhood memories of princess costumes and dressing up as a hobo. Only one childhood Halloween stands out vividly for me – it was the year a kid jumped out from behind a tree and tried to steal my candy.

            My brother was with me, and we were both shocked when this kid attacked me, but I held on tight to my pillow case filled with Tootsie Rolls and chocolate bars.

            I'd worked hard for that loot, and there was no way some hooligan was going to take it away from me. The attack lasted less than 30 seconds, but my brother and I still remember every detail exactly the same over 50 years later.

            But that memory pales in comparison to the real reason Halloween is so memorable for me. My youngest son, Chris, was born on Oct. 31, 1987.

            At the time, though, I wasn't so sure having a third baby so close to the second one wasn't God's trick.

            I found out I was expecting our third child while I was still nursing our second one. I couldn't figure out why I was pregnant, but my mother, who's a devout Catholic, believed there was a reason.

            "Wait and you'll see why this baby at this time," she said.

            I didn't believe her, thinking I'd be wearing maternity clothes for the rest of my life.

            Right before I went into labor, my grandfather was admitted to the hospital, and my mom flew back home to be with her family.

            Henry Eade lived a good life, and he ran successful businesses. His most lucrative was the Standard Five and Dime Store that carried yarn, household goods, wallpaper and tools. The biggest calling card for me was the candy counter.

            The Standard Store's candy counter was a child's paradise. The shelves were packed with boxes of black and red licorice strips, candy bars, suckers, candy necklaces, bubble gum and baseball trading cards. There were lollipops, Ice Cubes, Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, Nestle's Crunch bars and candy that's no longer made.

            My grandfather always gave us a paper bag when we came to the store and told us to fill it up. Perhaps that's why I have such a sweet tooth as my candy memories are tied up with my grandfather's generosity.

            Henry ran that store until Oct. 30, 1987 when he passed away. His funeral was held at the same time I was in the hospital having my youngest son.

            I talked to my mom right after Chris was safely in the nursery. She was still at the funeral home, and she reminded me of our conversation eight months earlier.

            "You wondered why you were pregnant," she said. "The answer is God doesn't take away without giving us something in return."

            I believe a special angel watches over my son, and we joke that Henry's doing double duty keeping up with Chris who's an active father, husband and welder. 

            Chris, I believe, is somehow comforted, knowing this man he never met has his back.

            And even though Halloween is a mixed blessing for me, I've always been a little sorry Chris has to share his day with the biggest candy heist of the year.

            Instead of complaining, though, he takes his children trick-or-treating on his birthday, passing up cake and ice cream for holding his children's hands as they walk up and down the streets in their neighborhood.

            I know there's somebody else walking along with that family as they go from door to door.

            I believe Henry's watching his great-great grandchildren's trick-or-treat bags fill up with candy laces and bubble gum, the same goodies he gave his grandchildren so many years ago.

            Happy birthday, Chris. You're the best treat I've ever gotten on Halloween.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Watch out, Mr. Garbage Can

            My car seems to be a magnet for garbage cans. Not that my car's being used as a trash bin. It's that my car has built-in radar for garbage cans on the side of the road.

            The result is I keep knocking the side rear-view mirror off my car.

            Let me address your "how-blind-is-she" questions right off the bat.

            These were big garbage cans, the big-as-an-elephant ones.

            These garbage cans were not camouflaged or hiding behind a big bush. One was bright blue and one was bright green.

            I hit them. Plain and simple.

            Now for the explanation.

            I was coming home from Louisiana down Highway 64, a pretty stretch of road with houses set far back from the highway. I spotted a big plastic garbage can at the very end of someone's driveway.

            The can was sticking out into the road a little bit, but I figured I could get around it with no problem. Until a speeding F-150 truck came along in the opposite lane, a truck extremely close to the middle line.

            I realized I had to take my chances with either the garbage can or the F-150. I chose the garbage can.

            Bam! I thought for sure I'd knocked the entire rear-view mirror assembly off the car. Luckily, I saw the assembly was still there, but the mirror was gone.

            As I'm a cheapskate, I turned around and found the mirror – intact – right next to that huge garbage can.

            I stopped at my son's house on the way home, and he shoved the mirror back on.

            He then asked if I was going to tell his father about my encounter with the garbage can.

            "Are you kidding," I said. "Why in the world would I ever admit to such a stupid mistake?"

            Truth is, that garbage can wasn't the first thing I'd hit with my car. A mailbox comes to mind. The house. The lawnmower trailer. About 20 curbs. And the trash unit at the Chinese restaurant.

            I'd never damaged my car or the things I hit, except the house, so I conveniently filed this garbage can incident away under the "let's not mention this again" tab.

            Until I was backing out of my son's driveway last week.

            Bam! I hit their garbage can. Their big, industrial-sized garbage can. In my defense, it was either hit the garbage can or go into the ditch. I chose the garbage can.

            A few days later, I noticed the mirror was gone.

            I called my son and daughter-in-law and asked them to look around to see if the mirror was in front of their place. No luck.

            I looked in their ditch with a flashlight and drove up and down the roads by their house, looking for that mirror.

            Gone.

            I knew at this point I'd have to tell my husband what happened.

            "So you didn't tell me about the first run in you had with the garbage can," he said when I finished my story.

            "Why should I embarrass myself if I didn't need to do so," I said in return. "Only an idiot would do that. "

            Immediately I thought "Only an idiot would run into a garbage can... twice."

            To his credit, my husband only said we'd order a new mirror and it wasn't a big deal.

            Forty-six dollars later, there's a snug, new mirror on the side of my car. I now have my radar on full alert for any garbage cans loitering near the edge of the highway, their hungry handles set on my rear-view mirror.

            I have two words for you, Mr. Garbage Can.

            En garde.  

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The flu? No way!

            I do not have the flu.

            I've been running a fever of 102 for the past three days, and my back feels like Tony Soprano worked me over with a chain and a billy club.

            I've got a sore throat that goes from the back of my throat to my chest and a cough that travels up and down my spine.

            But I do not have the flu.

            Before you ask, I did not get a flu shot.

            But that's a moot point because I don't have the flu.

            This situation is similar to the five years I put up with a cranky gall bladder.

            I'd have gall bladder attacks that put me in bed for hours, but I didn't need my gall bladder out.

            It wasn't until I had gall bladder surgery that I began to quietly admit that, yes, perhaps I did need to have that particular body part removed.

            But the flu?

            No way.

            This denial could also be like the time I insisted on driving my aging mini-van to Louisiana even though I knew better. With 140,000 miles on her and a known cooling problem, I insisted on putting those last 650 miles on our old van, not a brand-new one.

            My Aggie boy and I had to stop every 50 miles between Baton Rouge and Beaumont to put a gallon of water in the radiator and to let things cool down before we could keep driving.

            He thought the trip was a great adventure and swore there was nothing better than greasy food that slid off the plate at the truck stops.  

            I called my husband when we crossed the state line, parked the van in the shade, had him come rescue us and never looked back.

            But back to this crud attack I'm having. It's not the flu. The flu is an ailment other people get. Other people run high fevers, chew ibuprofen and aspirin every two hours and go to bed at 7:30 at night.

            Oh wait. That's what I've been doing for the past three nights.

            But I don't have the flu.

            My eyelids feel like there's bags of cement riding on them, but that has to be because I haven't slept well the past few nights. Waking up repeatedly during the night to put on two or three blankets and then throw them off has to be the reason I'm so tired.

            The lack of sleep also explains the reason I want to go to bed at 7 p.m. and why I slept 12 hours straight Saturday night. 

            To be on the safe side, I check my temperature again.  

            It's 101.5.

            I get a different thermometer because something must be wrong with the one I've been using.

            It's 101.7.

            Two defective thermometers in the house. Just my luck.

            Surely that means my allergies are acting up. After all, a cold front's blowing in. That has to be the reason my head feels like a helium balloon about to explode and my legs feel like somebody hit them repeatedly with a baseball bat.

            But the flu?

            No way.

            Even though I looked up "flu symptoms" on Google and I have 10 out of 10 symptoms.

            Even though my husband is quietly spraying Lysol on everything in the house he thinks I've touched.

            There is no way I have the flu.

            I think I'll just down two aspirin, rub some Vick's Vapor Rub on my legs and call it a night.

            The flu?

            Fahgettaboudit.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.