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.

Finding our "losted" friends

            A couple of years ago, my granddaughter was at a children's play place having a great time with two other little girls. At one point, she came running up to our table without her two new friends.

            "My friends keep losting me," she said, tears filling her eyes.

            We reassured her that they were in different parts of the maze and they'd catch up with her again. She got some hugs, we dried her eyes and she headed back into the play area to find them.

            My granddaughter's comments about "losting friends" came back this week when one of my mom's two best friends passed away after fighting pancreatic cancer.

            For over 30 years, Joy and Mona have been my mom's best friends. The three met when they all worked for Exxon, and they have seen each other through marrying off children, welcoming grandchildren and spoiling great-grandchildren.

            They helped each other make the crossover from full-time employment to retirement. Over time, they moved apart from each other, but they met for off-the-wall adventures at least once every other month.

            The glue that held them together was a genuine love for each other, forged through getting through the rough times together.

            When Mona's husband was diagnosed with cancer, my mom and Joy rallied around their friend as her life changed to deal with his illness.

            Joy was diagnosed with cancer, but in the middle of her treatments, her husband died unexpectedly. Mona and my mom were there with Joy as she continued her radiation treatments and sorted through the overwhelming sadness of sudden widowhood.

            Last week, Joy's condition deteriorated and she was placed in hospice. Two days later, she passed away.

            So many of us have dear friends we keep "losting" along the way. Our lives get busy with responsibilities, family obligations and time on the computer.

            We rationalize that clicking the like button on Facebook is enough to keep our friendships flourishing, but when we stop sharing the highs and lows in our lives, there's not a strong enough foundation to support us when the roof caves in.

            Long-time friends caution us when we're about to make a bone-headed move but then forget to say "I told you so" when their predictions turn out to be right.

            They'll tell us if those pants make us look like a hippo wallowing in mud or when it's time to touch up our gray roots. They'll call us on the phone with a phrase from years ago that instantly connects us to a happy time in our lives.

            I thought about all the well-meaning sentiments I've read in greeting cards and realized the only thing that really matters between long-time friends is making it a point to know what's happening in each others' lives.

            So I looked online and found my best friend from high school. I sent Trudi a message, asking if we could be Facebook friends, thinking it strange we should be asking to be friends when we went through puberty, college and our first child together.

            Just as my granddaughter did, I'm going to pull my shoulders back and make myself go look for my "losted" friends. Those relationships are a lot more important than what's in my email box or making sure the furniture's dusted.

            To paraphrase a scene from the movie "Dance With Me," friends, like spouses, are the ones who are a witness to our lives. They care what happens to us, the good and the bad.

            And when they're "losted," we need to go out and find them.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Chewing coffee grounds

            My husband's out of town for a few days, and I've got sole responsibility for the house and dog. Thanks to modern technology, the house runs itself – the air conditioning comes on and off automatically, and a timer controls the lights.

            But the dog?

            That's a different matter.

            Our dog, Channell, is quite attached to my husband. Since he works out of the house, she has a charmed life. That pooch naps inside on rainy mornings and sleeps underneath the living room fan on scorcher afternoons.

            I'm at school during the day, so Channell's had to spend the past week all alone in the back yard. I'd love to give her free reign, but she's a magician when it comes to jumping the fence.

            We'd go to the movies and leave her in the back yard with a big doggie treat. When we came home, she'd be sitting in the driveway, wagging her tail, half-eaten dog treat in her mouth.

            For her safety, we built a dog run that allows her to move around a secure area in the yard. Her house is back there along with plenty of food and water.

            She's got life pretty good and I told myself she'd be fine by herself all day long. After all, she's just a dog.

            But after the first day of coming home after dark, the guilt kicked in, and I promised her I'd get up early the next morning and take her for a walk.

            When the alarm went off at 5:30 a.m., I got up, brushed my teeth, snapped the leash on Channell and off we went. She had a wonderful time, and I felt like a responsible pet owner.

            Realizing I had some extra time, I loaded the dishwasher, paid some bills and folded a load of laundry. I left feeling pretty good about all I'd accomplished.

            Until 3 p.m.

            My eyelids felt like there were bricks holding them down, I had a tough time remembering my name and my legs felt like cement logs. I stumbled down to the Coke machine, and a can of caffeine later, I felt a bit more human.

            That night, I went to bed early and promised myself I'd get up at 5:30 again and be a responsible dog owner. Channell and I got up, we had a walk and by lunch time, I was dragging.

            Wanting to chew coffee grounds for the caffeine rush, I admitted the truth – I'm not a morning person.

            In my early days, I could stay up late for nights on end and never miss a beat. When I became a mom, the biological clock went out the window. I was governed by colicky infants and childhood nightmares with only the sun and moon as timepieces.

            When my boys were teens, my late-night biorhythms rejoiced. Teenagers go to bed late and get up late. Then the boys moved out but I was still answering to being at work at a specific time.   

            Over the years, I grew accustomed to getting up early and going to bed early and habits are hard to break. Even on the weekends, I get up at the same time and go to bed at the same time as I do during the week.

            As much as I hate to admit it, having a regular time to get up and go to bed is good practice. So when that alarm goes off at 5:30 tomorrow morning, I'll drag myself out of bed and take that dog for a walk.

            And hope the school's Coke machine's is well stocked.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.