These days, it’s hard to imagine being without cell phones to send messages, check our email and, last but not least, make a phone call.

Our home computers link us to the world, whether it’s 24-hour news channels, movies, gaming or researching how to remove carpet stains.

But last week, my 9-year-old grandson and I attended Cub Scout Day Camp and discovered life without electronics is not only possible but a ton of fun.

Going to an outdoor day camp during the tough Texas summers isn’t anyone’s idea of a great time. It’s hot, the humidity’s high and breezes are almost non-existent.

But about 500 young girls and boys arrived at Cub Scout Outdoor Adventure Day Camp and discovered no matter the weather, fun could be had without electronics, television or a laptop computer.

Grandson Jason and I attended Cub Scout camp last year, so we knew what to expect. We looked forward to going this year because members of his den – Emily, Mackenzie and Edric – would also be there.

The first day was loud and boisterous as Scouts found their dens and schedules were handed out. Over the course of five days, excited boys and girls discovered dozens of skills.

Our group of 13 Cub Scouts learned how to stay healthy and fit, how to take care of animals and how to conduct a few simple science experiments.

They especially enjoyed the forensics station, led by an enthusiastic junior staffer named Joseph. He showed them how to take fingerprints which resulted in their solving a crime of who ate the cookies.

The Scouts learned how to play marbles, an almost lost art in these days of electronic games, and the Scouts made their own marble bags.

During free time, they enjoyed sno cones, walked around on stilts and played board games.

The youngsters also traded “swaps” – Special Whatchamacallits Affectionately Pinned Somewhere.” Jason loved trading his mini skateboards and pipe-cleaner caterpillars for pretend campfires, bead lizards and lanyards.

All the Scouts had a chance to learn how to shoot a bow and arrow, a BB gun and a wrist rocket. The rocket is a sling shot that straps onto the wrist, and the kids used dog food pellets as their “bullets.”

The trained range masters were patient and helpful every day. Whenever a child got a bull’s eye, they drew a picture of a bull’s eye on the back of the camper’s shirt with a Sharpie pen. That was a definite bragging point.

The highlight of the week was the last day when a fire truck from the Houston Fire Department arrived.

For over half an hour, the firefighters sprayed water over everyone’s heads. By the end, everybody was soaking wet, running around in the water puddles, laughing and cooling off.

All week, my co-den leader Julie and I talked about how this experience was an old-fashioned, back-to-the-old days adventure.

The Scouts enjoyed playing games that did not require electricity, wifi, or batteries.

They didn’t have their noses buried in an iPad or laptop.

They learned to talk to each other as they earned belt loops and badges.

They didn’t mind the heat as they played chase, looked for different leaves and plants and cultivated new friendships.

Even though temperatures were in the upper 90s and our feet hurt at the end of every day, the experience was worth every minute.

Many thanks to the Scouters who organized, planned and ran the camp. You made hundreds of children happy, allowed them to be cyberworld free and created memories that will last a lifetime.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

I’m a cautious person. I drive at or under the speed limit, even when there’s not another vehicle in sight. Even if I’m the only one at the intersection, I come to a complete stop.

If this makes me sound like a goody-goody, I’m not. I simply don’t want to take unnecessary chances.

But the demon voice in my head whispers temptations. It’s a good thing it’s getting harder to hear or I’d scribble outside the lines a lot more than I already do.

So often, there’s a conflict between what I look like and what I feel. On the outside, I have wrinkles earned over the years, and I proudly tell anyone who’ll listen about my amazing grandchildren and how things were 20, 30 and even 40 years ago.

I wear prescriptive lenses, color my gray hair and, when shoe shopping, I look for comfort and practicality before fashion and style.

In many ways, I’m getting more like the people I used to call old geezers.

But that’s not how I feel on the inside. My mom, who’s an active 91, said when she looks in the mirror, she still sees a young girl.

I know exactly what she’s thinking.

What’s on the outside, especially as we get older, often differs from what goes on inside our heads.

There, it’s a different story. I’m bold and brave. I drive without a care in the world, pushing the speed limit. The windows are down and the air conditioner’s off.

The older, cautious me drives with the air conditioner on from April to October and the heater on full blast from January through March.

In November and December, the windows are down, and I feel 15 years old again with a brand-new driver’s license in my wallet.

However, I still obey the speed limit.

The young girl inside only goes to the express line in the grocery story because she’s the only one she’s shopping for.

Instead of low-fat yogurt, fruit and chicken in the cart, there’s chips and dip and bags of sugar. Filling out the cart is full-calorie Coca Cola and ice cream.

That could be the reason the older me is having so much trouble losing those extra inches on the hips.

There are some areas where the young person inside of me and the aging person on the outside intersect.

When I’m alone in the car, the music’s blaring. I could chalk that up to the above-mentioned hearing loss, but music is and always has been the background in my life.

Back in my teens, it was rock and roll. These days, there’s some rock and roll but Broadway tunes and hits from the 70s are at the top of the playlist.

The old me also can swear like a sailor. In all honesty, I’ve always used colorful language, starting when I was 18 years old.

I went away to college for a couple of years, and the girls across the hall in our dorm were hippies.

They smoked cigarettes, wore hip-hugger jeans and bandanas over their unwashed hair. I thought they were the coolest girls I’d ever met.

They also swore, and I don’t mean the little words.

They used the big ones.

The ones my mother would’ve washed my mouth out with soap if she’d heard me use them.

Of course, I immediately added them to my everyday vocabulary. That still hasn’t changed although I do refrain when I’m around children and relatives.

I question every single stupid bureaucratic rule put in front of me. “Why” and “who says” are part of my regular word list along with a shrug of the shoulders. Then I go right ahead and do what I want to do.

Even though there’s quite a few differences, there’s a lot that’s still the same. Geezers and the young can share mutual interests and benefits.

And if that means we’re occasionally ordering a Coke float from the drive in and drinking it on the way home with the windows down, then that shared space is heavenly.

 

  This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

When I was a teenager, we didn’t have individual phones. We had a solitary wall-mounted phone in the kitchen. Somehow, we managed to get along with one phone.

There were drawbacks – we shared a party line, dialing a call took forever if most of the numbers were nine, and long-distance calls cost a fortune. That old-school technology, though, offered some advantages.

We had to memorize phone numbers which kept us on our toes. I still remember our home number – 775-7993. There was no need to dial an area code because they weren’t required.

Nobody knew how many times you called or if you’d even called them. That subterfuge came in handy with boys I liked.

I could call their house to see if they were home. If someone answered the phone, I could quickly hang up and they had no idea who called. Now, there’s no hiding – you can’t hang up fast enough to hide the fact that you called someone.

With cameras on every building, corner and house, it’s rare to do anything in secret.

Almost every intersection has a camera filming around the clock. Stores and malls are nothing but cameras in every nook and corner.

On social media, if a house is broken into or suspicious activity occurs, most of the neighbors will post feed from their home monitoring system on social media.

It’s not like in the old days when spy equipment was only affordable to James Bond types. Today’s home security systems are less than a hundred bucks, so everyone has them.

Somebody’s always watching.

Retailers know all your buying habits.

Forget trying to hide those Oreo cookies. The store already knows if you like double-stuffed Oreos or if you’re a traditionalist, preferring plain Oreos in the blue and white bag.

Credit card companies know everything about you, and I mean everything. They know where you buy gas for your vehicle and the size and brand of shoes you like.

“Based on your browsing history…” is a frequent phrase the bots send me. Once I was reading a murder-mystery book, and I Googled a phrase about blood types. For months, I got all kinds of information about blood testing kits.

All from one search to understand what I was reading.

The Amazon people know more about me than my husband. They know the kinds of toys I like to buy for my grandchildren, the kinds of vitamins I take, and they know what brand of home perm kit I prefer.

Same goes for the brick-and-mortar stores. No more secretly throwing a few extra candy bars in the grocery basket, taking them out of the bag in the parking lot and eating them on the way home.

Even if you throw away the wrapper to deny accountability, the grocery store computer knows you’re a sucker for Hershey bars in the check-out lane.

I often think about the things we did as teens that would get us busted these days. More than once, I was in a car with friends late at night, all of us carrying rolls of toilet paper, and laughing as we rolled somebody’s front yard.

At slumber parties, we made crank phone calls – “Is your refrigerator running?” and calling radio stations, begging the all-night disc jockey to play our favorite song.

Now we’d be busted for criminal mischief and reach a recording instead of a real person. And every call would be recorded.

Technology is great, but there are days I long for the anonymity of days gone by.

Maybe I’ll spring that line about the refrigerator on my grandchildren and see if they get the joke. It’s not the same as making an anonymous prank call, but a laugh is still a laugh.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald 

As I’ve gotten older, my outlook on birthdays has changed.

When I was young, I wanted a new Barbie doll. During my teenage years, it was a new album. In my 40’s, I wanted comfortable shoes. As we age, our wish list changes.

I looked online to see what people are looking forward to in their older years. One study said many people in their 60’s are happy.

That was the only good news in this article.

In depressing detail, the author went on to chronicle all the downsides of getting older.

Our risks of contracting cancer or another disease are on the rise. I think I’m safe from Mad Cow Disease and the bubonic plague, but “old people” illnesses are getting closer and closer.

We also have hearing loss to look forward to. I suppose all those hours of listening to Steppenwolf and Chicago full blast have come home to roost.

“Born to Be Wild” can’t be fully appreciated with the volume turned to three. That knob needs to go up to at least 10 with the bass fully loaded.

I’m okay with getting hearing aids. They fit behind the ears and are barely noticeable. I want to hear what everybody’s saying – being nosy has always been part of my DNA, and I’m not going to let vanity get in the way.

Right up there with hearing aids is the inevitable need to wear glasses. But no worries there. We don’t have to settle for stainless steel or thick black rims. We can order glasses in every color of the rainbow or, if we really want, contacts can change our eyes to any color we want.

What a world.

Our skin changes as we age. Wrinkles, age spots and bruises are part of the new landscape on our arms and faces. Since there’s not much I can do about those wrinkles, I’m fine with how I look. Most of those marks came from going to the beach, and since I adore the sun, sand and surf, I’ll take the wrinkles.

Our bones and joints ache, we don’t sleep through the night, and a visit to the doctor can be the highlight of our month.

After decades of eating Sugar Babies and Icees, our teeth start to give us trouble, but the dental industry is right there with implants and replacements. We can finally have that Pepsodent smile.

Our brains aren’t as sharp as they used to be. For some, dementia and mental decline is unavoidable, and my heart goes out to those people and their caretakers.

For the rest of us, it might take longer to pull up names and facts, but thanks to Google, we don’t have to rack our brains to remember who won the World Series in 1967.

It was the St. Louis Cardinals, by the way.

For all the things we can’t recall, there are things we do remember. We know what it’s like to hold a transistor radio up over our heads to get the best AM signal.

We remember how careful we had to be when putting 45 RPM records on our home stereo and how we guarded those yellow plastic discs like they were gold.

We remember eating Sugar Frosted Flakes, Sugar Pops, Sugar Smacks – pretty much sugar for every breakfast. We loved Oscar Mayer bologna sandwiches – and we can sing the catchy jingle.

I don’t know how to use most of the software on my computer nor do I know how to maneuver around a Google doc. My phone, television, car and grandchildren are smarter than I am.

But there’s hope because there are things this ole gal knows.

I can drive a manual transmission, and I know how to pop the clutch. I can brew a hearty pot of coffee using an old-fashioned percolator. Not only can I make a bed with hospital corners, I can fold a fitted sheet.

I am who I am – a work in progress with regrets, accomplishments, setbacks and leaps forward.

Old age is coming whether I like it or not. The best way to greet it is with open arms, streamers and an “I-dare-you” grin on my face.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

Insect repellent.

Check.

Long sleeves.

Check.

Sword, shield, battle gear.

I wish.

Mosquito season has officially begun.  This year, the nasty insects are out in full force thanks to the heavy rains we’ve had over the past few weeks.

Coupled with the heat, it’s the perfect condition for mosquito larvae to hatch. It’s miserable for anyone who steps outside.

The grandkids and I were getting in the car one evening, and at least a dozen mosquitoes shoved their way into the car in the few seconds the doors were open.

That doesn’t include the ones we fought off on the way to the car. While swatting the bugs, the kids and I talked about the importance of insects in the circle of life.

They’re food for birds, help provide nutrients to the soil and, according to Texas A&M University, have the potential to be a tasty addition to restaurant menus.

No thank you.

Not all bugs are disgusting. Our boys loved picking up rolly pollys, watching them curl up and then waiting for them to unfurl and crawl off again.

Our grandchildren are equally fascinated by rolly pollys and caterpillars, and they’re not afraid to pick up little bugs.

All except the black, hairy stinging caterpillars. We made sure the kids stayed far away from them.

The South has more than its share of disgusting insects. First on the list are the ferocious, relentless and ever-present fire ants. They’re the most terrifying warriors on the planet.

Nothing can kill them. There hasn’t been an ant poison created that can stop them. Their bites are ferocious, and they attack with amazing speed.

The government should find a way to use them in warfare.

Then we have love bugs. There’s nothing to love about these seemingly harmless black bugs that float around during love-bug season. That is until you examine the front of your car and see a million love-bug bodies smeared across the grill.

They’re impossible to remove unless you use a power sander and, when you do, their carcasses take the paint right off your car. Maybe they’re bird food, but I doubt it. So we’re stuck with them until we find a way to rid the planet of these pesky bugs.

In certain years, oak trees are covered with caterpillars. They’re a big, swarming circle of disgusting bugs that make it look like the bark’s moving. Don’t stand too close to the tree to get a closer look – they’ll fall from the branches into your hair.

Northerners are always afraid when they see their first big, brown cockroach. That fear goes into full-blown terror when they realize those things can glide. The crunching sound they make when you step on them makes me gag, but a dead roach is better than a live one.

We have a problem with gnats right now. Much like the love bugs, gnats are tiny, almost invisible terrorists that bite and leave big welts all over your face or neck. It’s tough to find a bug repellent for them, but we did – Bug Soother spray in a big green bottle.

No matter where you live, flies are always a problem. I had a super fly in my car for two weeks – it wouldn’t get sucked out of the windows nor could I kill it. When I left the doors open for a few hours, that fly put out a mayday call for friends, and three more joined in.

But I found the secret to killing flies. Come up at them from behind. They can’t see you, and you’ll swat them every single time.

Until a harsh winter arrives, we’re stuck with the revolting bugs, stinging caterpillars, hairy spiders and ferocious fire ants.

Now where’d I put that can of Off?

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

My grandson and I made our way through the maze of one-way streets of downtown Houston, searching for the Houston Municipal Court building on Lubbock Street.

We pulled into the parking lot, and a friendly man gave us a parking permit. We’d made it to Teen Court.

My daughter-in-law, Alle, signed up her 16-year-old son, Alex, to take part in this program for teens who are interested in considering a career in law and/or criminal justice.

Alex would like to pursue a career as an attorney, and she thought he’d benefit from experiencing a working courtroom.

Teen Court is a hands-on, real courtroom with real cases overseen by a judge. Many cities in Texas, like Houston, sponsor Teen Court, and the goal is to provide an overall understanding of the juvenile justice system.

Teens who’ve already pled guilty or no contest to a crime have the choice to come to Teen Court and be tried and judged by their peers.

They agree to have teens serve as prosecutors, defense attorneys, and jurors. They understand they will accept the sentence handed down.

We weren’t sure what to expect on our first visit, but a friendly man welcomed us to the courtroom. He encouraged us to pick up dinner provided by the court. Alex signed in, we picked up our to-go boxes and sat down on one of the wooden benches.

The courtroom was filled with teens dressed in their best clothes. Jeans and T-shirts are not allowed, and it was obvious that the “church” clothes gave the teens an air of responsibility.

In advance, teens know if they’ll be on the defense or prosecuting team. Six are chosen at random to be jurors.

At our first trial, J. Elaine Marshall, the director and presiding judge of the Municipal Courts Department, asked the audience to stand.

Everyone took an oath – what’s said in Teen Court stays in Teen Court is the main idea. When the charged teen and his or her family came into the courtroom, they and their defense team left the room to converse about the charges.

When it was time to begin, Judge Marshall instructed the teens in what to do and the case started. Because of the sensitive nature of the charges, I won’t go into detail, but the teenage attorneys did a great job at presenting their side of the case.

Just like we see on television, the teen attorneys asked permission to approach the judge or the jury box. They followed the rules of the courtroom, just as they would if they were adult attorneys.

When both sides were finished presenting their cases, the jurors retired to a room to decide the sentence.

One of the judges took the time while the jury was out to speak privately to the attorneys about how they’d done representing the City of Houston or the defendant.

When the jury returned, the sentence was read, and everyone was thanked for their time and service.

None of the teens who pled guilty were made to feel like criminals. They were treated with respect by the adults and teens in the room, and everyone learned from the experience.

Alex and I have been going to Teen Court for the past few months, and we both find the experience exciting, engaging and informative.

On the ride home, we enthusiastically discuss how both teams behaved, the questions they could have or should have asked.

I’d recommend Teen Court to any high school student interested in pursuing a career in the law for an up-close look at how the judicial system works.

Many thanks to those in the Houston Municipal Court building who take the time to teach this next generation how the American legal system works.

It’s been fascinating to watch the past few months. I can’t wait for next year.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

 

 

If you grew up in the 50s and 60s, being on an organized sports team wasn’t an every-day part of growing up. Sports were all around, but in a much more casual way.

There were pick-up baseball and soccer games in a neighborhood empty lot or somebody’s back yard, but matching uniforms with numbers on the back weren’t on our radar.

For years, there was a never-ending basketball game in my parents’ driveway, one that finally ended when our mom sold the house.

My brothers played cut-throat basketball, and when the nephews got tall enough, they joined in. At first, the uncles gave advice, but as it became evident the nephews had surpassed them, the older generation handed the basketball over to the young-uns.

My sons loved baseball much more than basketball. When they were in elementary school, we joined the local Little League. There we made life-long bleacher buddies, and we found out what being a team parent was all about.

For the most part, parents paid our dues, made sure everybody got a trophy, and, most importantly, made sure every child on the team got to play no matter their skill level.

There are still leagues where there’s no official score – the game is fair. That might be the official statement, but almost every parent and every player keeps score. That’s because in sports, competition pushes players to want to get better and be the best.

This fall, our 12-year-old grandson played on an organized basketball team for the first time. He wanted to try a new sport, so his mom signed him up for the Longhorns. At the first practice, we quickly realized only one of the boys had ever played on a team.

The coach had his work cut out for him.

In one of the first games, it was clear our Longhorns were up against a power-house team. These kids knew how to dribble, pass, shoot three-pointers, steal the ball and rebound with ferocity.

By the beginning of the fourth quarter, it was obvious we weren’t going to win – the score was 50 to nothing. Finally, one of our players got fouled and he made the shot.

At least there wasn’t a zero in our column.

I hoped the other coach would let up and send his secondary team in. He did not. They showed no mercy. Our players walked out of that gym humiliated, especially when the other team was laughing and making fun of our boys.

I was furious. What about sportsmanship? What about being fair? I didn’t want the other team to let the Longhorns win, but a bit of mercy would’ve been, in my opinion, the right thing to do.

A few days later, I talked to a retired baseball coach, and he offered a different side of the argument.

These players were taught to win, just as our coach was teaching his players. What lesson would that other coach have taught his players if he told them to take it easy on the opposing team? My friend said our boys would’ve felt even more humiliated if somebody felt sorry for them and let them win.

At the next practice, instead of bad mouthing the other team or feeling down, our coaches and the boys on the team doubled down.

Practices went long. Drills were run over and over. They practiced passing the ball, getting rebounds and fighting to put points on the board.

When the last three games rolled around, our team was one of two who made the playoffs.

The Longhorns ended the season with second place. That afternoon, they held their heads high when they walked out of the gym, a medal around their necks. Their air of pride and confidence was quite a bit different from a few weeks earlier.

Whether it’s playing basketball in a driveway or a gym, competition brings out the best or the worst in us.

In my grandson and his teammates, I saw the best.

 

This column waws originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

 

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.