Jury duty more than an aggravating afternoon

           I looked at the mail and my heart sank.

            A jury summons addressed to me.

            My first words were not “oh joy.” 

Every time I looked at that letter, I’d grit my teeth in frustration.

            I was to report to the Fort Bend County Courthouse at 12:30 p.m.; and as I maneuvered down Golfview, which is a construction nightmare, I became even more aggravated.

            I pulled into the parking lot of the Fort Bend County Justice Center, though, and was quite impressed. The graceful building fronts a spacious parking area and the entrance is grand and modern.

            The line to get into the building never slowed, thanks to deputies who politely moved us along to the jury waiting area.

I expected to wait in a cramped room with metal folding chairs, but I was pleasantly surprised to find a comfortable waiting area with plenty of padded chairs.

Playing on a big television screen was a video of what to expect from jury duty. The film featured judges and lawyers who explained most of the questions jurors might have. The room filled quickly, and soon the judge came in and asked anyone who couldn’t serve to see him.

After the last person had their excuse signed, the judge thanked everyone for their time. An easy-going clerk explained the afternoon’s process to us, traded a few jokes and made the waiting time pass quickly.

            Soon a deputy began calling names with instructions to line up in the waiting area. I think everyone in that room was silently praying “please don’t call my name.”

            Then my name was called, so I sighed, picked up my purse and got in the line. When we entered a courtroom, five well-dressed people were silently facing us – two prosecutors and two attorneys flanking a nervous young man.

            No one spoke a word as we took our seats and listened to another set of instructions from the judge. As the attorneys visually sized us up, I glanced at the people sitting around me. They came from all walks of life – young, old, middle-aged – and all had a similar look of trepidation on their faces.

            The prosecutors went first, showing us a PowerPoint to explain voire dire, the process by which jurors are selected. People were encouraged to speak freely to questions I’m sure had been carefully chosen.

            Then the defense team took the podium, asking if we could honestly say the person at the defendant’s table was innocent until proven guilty. I looked at that man and wondered what he was thinking.

He was putting his fate in the hands of six people he’d never met before, and I realized it was true what the first judge had told us – jury duty is not a chore to be taken lightly.

A juror decides whether or not a person goes to jail that day or walks out into the sunshine a free man or woman. At that moment, I realized the seriousness of what we’d been asked to do.

Later that afternoon while heading back to my car, I noticed a walking path to a covered swing. I wondered if jurors who are charged with determining the fate of defendants sit there and mentally prepare for what they’re being asked to do.

            After what I’d heard that afternoon, I believed the six strangers I saw in that courtroom would come together as a team and justice would be served.

 A word to the wise:  Do not wear a T-shirt, jeans or a warm-up suit to serve as a juror. Give the court the honor and respect she, and the people seeking justice in her courtroom, deserves.  

 

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

A pooch for a shrink

Nothing gets our family dog more excited than seeing us take the leash from the top shelf of the front closet. She knows that means it’s walking time and she’s going out.

Most of the time, walking Channell is my husband’s job because he likes walking, he’s in better shape than I am and he’ll take the dog out when the weather’s hot, cold, rainy or mild.

                When the hubby’s not home, walking the dog falls to me, and I’ll admit to being a poor substitute because I won’t go if it’s too hot, too cold or raining.

Also our walks aren’t nearly as long as when Channell goes with the man, but our dog seems just as excited to head out with me as she does with him.

                Channell, to her credit, does not call me a slacker.

                The adventure starts with trying to clip her leash to her collar. Even though Channell knows the drill, it’s sometimes hard to attach the leash because she’s so excited.

But she’s a smart dog, so when I stamp my foot and say “we’re not going,” she lays down and lets me hook her up.

                Heading out the door, I know to hang on to the leash with all my might. She’s revved up like a tornado when she sees the road stretching out before her. But first, we have to stop at the end of the driveway so she can smell the ground around the mailbox.

                I know she’s checking out other dogs who’ve marked their territory, so I let her take her time. Then we’re off down the street. The next-door dog fiercely guards his territory and barks ferociously the whole time we’re in front of his house.

                Channell ignores him and keeps her eyes out for her sworn mortal enemy, the squirrel. Because there’s pecan trees along our route, she knows there will be aggravated squirrels chattering at us from the safety of the high branches.

                After we pass those pecan trees, I start to relax and enjoy the nightly stroll.

Unless I think I hear a bat overhead, the mosquitoes are biting or it’s cold. Then all I do is complain to Channell about how much I hate the cold, how much I hate bugs and if a bat gets in my hair, I’m dropping the leash and running for cover.

                Channell does not tell me to stop being a baby.

                What she does quite well, though, is listen. A few months ago, a good friend suggested I try positive self talk. He said that instead of criticizing myself, I should tell myself nice things. I should take advantage of walking the dog to practice positive self talk, he advised.

                So one night, I tried it out with Channell as my sounding board.

                She listened to my entire soliloquy without interrupting, unless you count stopping to sniff an ant pile or marking a lone daisy interrupting.

On our walks, Channell’s helped me through a variety of problems and issues. Sometimes her advice is to nod her head in agreement, other times to ignore my really mean remarks, and sometimes to simply listen.

                At the end of the walk, Channell knows which one’s our driveway and she always turns in, leading me home. She walks a lot slower back up the driveway than she did 20 minutes earlier, but her tail is wagging. I know I feel better for having gotten what’s bothering me off my chest.

                Channell does not tell me “I told you so.”

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Families lose when texting during dinner

        We were at a restaurant recently, and there were two families having dinner, as different as night and day.

At one, the mother was yakking away on her cell phone. The teenage boy and girl were totally immersed in their cell phones. The father was eating in silence, the lonely look on his face telling a sad story.

            At another table, a mom and dad were there with three teenagers, and they were engaged in a lively conversation the whole time. There was laughing and talking and it seemed obvious they were comfortable and happy sharing food and conversation.

            I thought about dinner time when I was their age and the one unbreakable rule – you did not miss Sunday dinner with the family. All nine of us went to Sunday morning Mass together, and then came home for roast, rice, mashed potatoes, salad, rolls and gravy.

            Mom insisted we use a tablecloth and the best dinner plates. Somebody always spilled their Kool-Aid, but Mom wanted us to understand that dinners together were important, no matter how many times she had to wash that white tablecloth.

            Dinner lasted a long time because we Heberts are extroverts, and we talked about all kinds of things. My dad had definite opinions about the government and how we should succeed in life.

            As we got older and braver, we’d challenge his beliefs so dinners were always lively and cemented us as a family.

 

Modern Family Dinners

            I recently conducted an informal survey with about 60 teenagers, asking about dinner time at their homes, and the results were sad. Most said they either ate in their rooms alone or they ate in front of the television.

            For those who ate together as a family, they said dinner time was when they felt safe to talk about their day. As a family, they shared their achievements, disappointments, funny moments and the aggravating events. They said that hour was the highlight of their day.

It didn’t matter that their definition of family wasn’t what’s portrayed in “Family Circle” magazine. For some, family meant a single mom or single dad. For others, it was two parents and younger siblings who couldn’t yet join in the conversation, but they were learning by example how families connect.

Because technology runs our lives, we’re losing out that the most important people we should be communicating with are the people in our families and those whom we break bread or share take-out fried chicken.

So often, I see people in restaurants on their cell phones, ignoring the people at their table. Worse is when everybody’s on their cells, mistakenly believing that what’s out there in cyberspace is more important than the people at the table they chose to spend time with.

The solution’s simple:  put away the cell phones. If you’re paranoid about missing an emergency call, assign different ring tones to your loved ones, put the cell in your pocket and only answer a call from them.

Stop texting during dinner and insist your children follow the same rule. If you’re that addicted to your cell phone and can’t break away from technology for 20 minutes, you’ve got more troubles than we can address here.

Start talking face to face. If your teenager has his or her face glued to that cell phone, they are not learning the fine art of face-to-face conversation. It’s your job to teach them.

            Insist your family sit down for meals together and form bonds that will last a lifetime. They do that when they share the blessing, pass the bread and find acceptance at the family dinner table.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Embrace that baldness with ferocity!

As a parent, there are certain traits we wish to pass on to our children –Daddy’s blue eyes, Mama’s pretty smile or Grandmother’s creative talents.

My son called me today to sarcastically thank me for passing on one of my Dad’s most noticeable traits – his bald head.

My father started losing his hair when he turned 18. Photos of him in his U.S. Navy uniform show some wavy brown hair, but it’s quite obvious this young sailor’s hairline is receding. By the time my dad was in his 30’s, he was almost bald.

He was so self conscious about his balding head that he ordered a toupee, an expensive luxury in those days. We were mortified, Dad was thrilled and he wore that rug for years, and not always successfully.

We love to tell family stories about the times my Dad’s toupee wasn’t cooperative.

One was when he forgot he was wearing his toupee and he dove into the neighborhood swimming pool. All we saw was something furry floating on the top of the water, a hand coming up from the deep, reaching up and snatching the poor pelt.

A minute later, my dad came up in the shallow end, holding the wet toupee to his head and walked out of the pool with as much dignity as he could muster.

Once my dad and brother went on a carnival ride where the outside wall spins faster and faster. The floor eventually drops out, but the centrifugal force keeps people in place. It kept my dad in place all right, but his toupee slowly started rising.

My brother loves telling how Dad fought gravity to hold the toupee onto the top of his head until the end of the ride.

Finally Dad realized how ratty that toupee was looking and decided to go “au natural.” He made a lot of jokes about his new look – he had better things to do with his energy than grow hair on his head and that the good Lord only made a few perfect heads. The rest He covered with hair.

Then today I got the phone call from my son, good naturedly thanking me for passing on the Hebert gene for baldness. No amount of Rogaine or handfuls of vitamins were going to stop his receding hairline.

I told him I was sorry and tried to offer some solutions.  

“Try not to notice it,” I told him.

“That’s like not noticing you have two feet,” he said.

 “Cut your hair really short like your cousin,” I told him. He said he wasn’t ready to get rid of the hair he has left.

“All your uncles are bald and look how fabulous they are,” I said. He agreed but said he was still in mourning over the loss of his hair.

At this point, I was out of solutions.

“Shave your head,” I practically yelled. “Strut your stuff. Pretend you’re a secret agent like Sean Connery or the captain of the USS Enterprise like Patrick Stewart.”

Be bold.

Be brave.

Be bald with ferocity.

And while you’re at it, son, keep in mind that you’ll never have to buy another hair brush.

You’re welcome.  

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.