There’s a philosophical question I’ve never been able to answer: what’s the value of an apology?

In theory, making an apology sounds perfect – the person who did the wrong deed owns up to their mistake to the person they wronged. The offended person hears an apology, forgives, and moves on.

Apologizing has its place in relationships, and I’m here to set the record straight on a few wrongs I’ve committed.

I owe an apology to my brother, Jimmy. When we were young, probably in elementary school, we’d walk down the hill to the movie theater. Back then, all kids went to the weekly matinee without any parents.

One Sunday, we went to see “Sleeping Beauty.” Toward the end, my younger brother became afraid of the witch that turned into a dragon. He begged me to take him home. I did, but the entire way up that hill, I called him a big baby.

I’m sorry, Jimmy. You were just a little boy, and I was a bratty big sister.

I owe an apology to my brother, Johnny. When we were in middle school, we found some cigarettes while waiting for my dad to come out of the VFW Hall. I dared Johnny to smoke one. He did as his big sister asked.

The minute my dad was within earshot, I ratted my brother out. My dad made him smoke the rest of the cigarettes in retaliation. I don’t think Johnny’s ever forgiven me for that one, so brother, I apologize. That was a rotten thing to do, especially from a sister to a brother.

I owe an apology to my sister, Diane. I remember getting angry with her and holding her down on the floor, my hands around her neck. I let her up, but I’m sure I scared her. For that, and the times I chased you out of our room and hogged most of our shared space, I apologize.

In fact, as the oldest child in the family, I probably made all of my siblings’ lives miserable on a regular basis.

Sisters and brothers, I’m sorrier than you know.

I owe my mom an apology. She unloaded the dishwasher early on Saturday mornings, and I thought she purposely banged the pots and pans around to wake me up. I’d act like a bratty teenager for the rest of the morning.

In reality, my mom worked a full-time job outside of the home, had a hot meal on the table every night for seven children and always got us to church on Sundays.

Mom, I did not appreciate how much energy it took to handle all the jobs you had, almost single-handedly. I didn’t appreciate that Saturday was the only day of the week you had to get things done, and I complained because you woke your ungrateful teenage daughter up at 10 in the morning by working.

I apologize, Mom. That was a selfish way to appreciate all the hard work you put into your family.

I owe my sons an apology. There are way too many to list here, but mostly for being too wrapped up in books or talking on the phone to really listen to them. I apologize for not seeing who was causing the friction because I just wanted the fighting to end.

There were way too many pizza deliveries to our house, and way too many complaints on my end about unmade beds. I should’ve been thankful you thought enough of me to send me a card on Mother’s Day and for always saying “I love you” before we ended a phone call. I also made you live in a dormitory your first year at college. I really apologize for that one.

To friends and family I promised a phone call or visit, I apologize for getting too wrapped up in my own life and forgetting to make good on my promise.

And last but not least, my husband. I’m sorry for not thanking you enough for all the things you do to make my life easier, and that’s one long, long list.

Even though I’m the one letting myself off the hook with these apologies, they come from a contrite heart.

Maybe the value to an apology is the knowledge that their big sister, daughter, wife, friend and mother finally admitted she was wrong.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

 

 

I’m a proud Class of 1973 Baker High School graduate. We were the Buffaloes, and we had great teachers, a winning band and a never-give-up football team.

Baker was a blue-collar town, but none of us felt richer or poorer than anyone else. Over the years, we’ve held reunions, but we mainly keep in touch through social media.

My best friend in high school, Trudi, is as amazing today as she was in her teenage years. She married a fellow Buffalo, John, and this amazing couple still keeps up with the happenings back in Louisiana.

Two of my favorite people, Lynn and Al, met in high school, and I remember the day Al first met Lynn. We were in science class, and he turned around and told me he’d met the girl he was going to marry.

That was 50 years ago, and they’re still going strong as are Trudi and John. Six guys, including John and Al, were friends in high school and have stayed best buddies for the past 50 years.

They call themselves the “Sam Castons.” The wives and, in my case ex-wife, stay in touch as well because we go back even further than high school.

The friends and memories we made back then are some of the building blocks that made us who we are. That’s why what happened to Baker High School was so sad.

After the 80’s, the area declined economically. The school system in Baker was part of the East Baton Rouge School board. In early 2022, the City of Baker School Board separated from the East Baton Rouge system and created its own school district, thinking they could do a better job on their own.

It was a disaster.

Lack of money and other factors took their toll. Mold was found, the buildings abandoned and slowly rotted from neglect.

Every time I’d go back to Louisiana, I’d drive past Baker High and practically cry, seeing broken windows, litter and graffiti on the walls where we once hung pep rally posters and club meeting notices.

Finally, the city razed the main buildings. The school district is rebuilding, but the place we called our home away from home was gone.

Recently, I met up with Al and Lynn. They were heading to the Austin area to watch the solar eclipse with Trudi and Johnny, and they had a surprise gift for the “Sam Castons.”

Weeks ago, Al was driving past the site where Baker High School once stood, and he saw a pile of bricks. He stopped and picked up a dozen or so, not knowing what he’d do with them, but wanting a keepsake.

Al went back for more a few days later with an idea in mind, but the trash collectors had already come and gone. He’d gotten the last of the bricks from Baker High.

Al and Lynn cleaned up the bricks and had a metal plate made for the ones that were in decent condition. On top is a red metal plate with black letters, our school colors. Engraved in the script used on our high school diplomas are these words:  “Baker High School, Memory Brick, Class of 1973.”

I can’t ever thank them enough for saving a keepsake of the place where we met life-long friends.

What we had isn’t lost because the bricks and mortar are gone. All of us carry our high school memories with us everywhere we go.

Thanks to Al and Lynn, in case I forget those long-ago days, there’s a slightly weathered brick on my desk to remind me.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

The lights are off, the alarm’s set, the house is quiet.

Click, click, click.

I open my eyes. There’s a sound in the room.

Click, click, click.

It’s the overhead ceiling fan. We haven’t used the ceiling fan in weeks since the weather’s been cold outside. This was the first night we turned the fan on and, there it was, the noise.

Click, click, click.

Normally I can tune out noise. This talent – that’s what I call it – started when I was a young girl. There were seven children in our house, and we were a loud family.

Because there were so many of us, we had to talk loudly to be heard. I’ll be honest – there was lots of yelling from a couple of us because we needed to be heard.

If we weren’t yelling, laughing or playing, the television was on. I think the TV played almost non-stop when we were growing up. That’s how I learned to tune out unwanted noise – either concentrate on the people around me or the television.

When I first went to college, I lived in a dorm. There was always noise because there was one central bath area.

Somebody was usually yelling up and down the hall for another towel, to see if somebody was in their room or there was music playing.

In order to study and finish homework, I learned to tune out all that commotion.

When I moved to a house, the first thing I did when I came home from work was turn on the television. It didn’t matter what was playing – the noise was familiar and kept me company.

Then my first child came along. “Sesame Street” was usually playing in the background no matter what we were doing. This is before parents learned about the dangers of overstimulation.

Instead of mentally overwhelming him, Nick learned to tune out what he didn’t want to hear. Later in his childhood, that ability translated into tuning out my voice when I asked him to take out the garbage or put his clothes away.

That tuning out ability went right down the line to his brother. Every school morning, I’d yell upstairs “Are you up yet?” Every. Single. Day.

When Nick called from college early one morning, I was in the midst of yelling the daily nagging refrain.

“Oh no,” Nick groaned. “It’s the voice from my nightmares.”

Apparently he’d tuned out my voice but the trauma remained.

But when it comes to noises in the house, my hearing is selective. I can ignore loud music and singing coming from our granddaughter’s karaoke machine, but I jump right up whenever the dryer dings that the clothes are finished.

I can hear a cricket in the next room in the middle of the night and ignore somebody tapping on the desk in an office.

The cricket requires immediate removal, no matter how long I have to search that bedroom. The office tapper could bang out the chorus to “Wipe Out” and I wouldn’t blink an eye.

If my car makes an odd noise, I turn the radio up. If the grandchildren are over and they’re loud, I smile and let the chaos run its course.

These days won’t last forever, and a noisy house is a small price to pay for having them with us.

My husband believes the motor might be going out in the ceiling fan. As that’ll be an expensive fix, I think I’ll put that ceiling fan noise in the category of “let’s tune this out.”

That’s a noise my checkbook and I can live with.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.