Early in our careers, we’re excited to have a job and, more importantly, a paycheck. We might change career paths over the years, but there’s a big payoff at the end – retirement.

Our daydream is sleeping late and drinking coffee on the porch instead of being squeezed into a cubicle. In retirement, the dream is to do what we want, when we want and nobody’s bossing us around.

Magazine and television ads show genteel people in retirement, their beautiful white hair perfectly groomed. They’re often wearing a sweater draped around their shoulders as they ride bikes through Italy, climb mountains or drink champagne while admiring the view from the deck of a cruise ship.

Those scenarios are certainly true, but there’s other things about being retired that aren’t shown in print ads.

That beautiful white hair? Only a few people are blessed with those genes.

The rest of us have battleship gray hair with a mind of its own if it hasn’t thinned or fallen out.

Sweaters are necessary because we’re cold all the time. Forget cashmere – we’re wearing an old sweater we’ve had for years because we’re too smart to buy something strictly for looks.

Like a cliché, the music is too loud, and we can’t understand why this young generation believes morose and meaningless lyrics are worthwhile.

But then we remind ourselves that every one of us knew how to play “Wipe Out” with pencils on our school desk.

I see retired people exercising, either online or at a fitness club. Pilates and yoga classes are pretty popular among the over 60 crowd.

But let’s face it. If I vacuum too vigorously, I could throw out my shoulder, and my elbow aches for an hour.

I look at the dust on the ceiling fans and tell myself those blades need to be dusted. That chore requires me to get on a ladder, and there’s no way I’m climbing up a ladder balancing a cleaning wand.

Forget late-night snacking. In my younger days, downing a Coke and a bag of Doritos at one in the morning was no problem. Now, caffeine keeps me awake and eating anything that spicy is a message for acid reflux to come calling.

Forget skipping and running. Bad knees and arthritis require that we not only walk, but having a cane or a walker is often a necessity.

We fuss at people who drive too fast because we’re putting along in the right-hand lane. We get in the left-hand lane if we have a turn coming up, even if it’s half a mile away.

When I find myself muttering under my breath about reckless drivers, a voice in my head reminds me to find “Born to Be Wild” and play it. I’ll pull over, queue up the song and blast it on the radio.

Just because we’re retired and eating dinner at 4 p.m. doesn’t mean we’ve given up.

We’re sensible.

We drive slower because our reflexes aren’t as sharp as they used to be. That makes us smarter than we were in our 30s with a stack of speeding tickets.

We don’t climb on a ladder because nothing’s worth bruising a hip. That dust can stay on those ceiling fan blades until kingdom comes for all I care.

One day, I might find myself on the deck of that cruise ship. But being older, I know I don’t have to go back to work in a few days.

I don’t have beautiful white hair, but I have the freedom to color it, let it go gray or shave it all off. There’s no one I have to impress and there’s no dress code in retirement.

I’ll vacuum when my arthritis isn’t flaring up and, if I miss hauling out the vacuum cleaner for a few weeks, so be it.

I take the trash to the street wearing a robe and slippers, and I only wear make up if it’s absolutely necessary.

That’s what retirement looks like for me.

Time to sit back, enjoy the view from my air-conditioned living room window and look back on the mistakes and accomplishments in my life.

There’s still time for making more memories. I have time for friends and family, time to enjoy the things I enjoy, skip over what I don’t like and smile because I know the difference.

Maybe that’s what retirement’s all about – realizing what’s really important.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

One of my favorite songs is “For Good” from the musical “Wicked.” The first time I heard the song, the lyrics hit home because that’s how Bob Haenel was to so many of us.

“We are led to those who help us most to grow if we let them…”

This wonderful man passed away in the early morning hours of June 9. He fought a long battle with Alzheimer’s and finally took his last breath with his constant nurturer and wife, Denise, holding his hand.

I met Bob in the mid-1990s when I wrote a column for this newspaper highlighting the people of Pecan Grove. When staff writer Devoni Wardlow took another job, I applied for the now-open Thursday slot.

He gave me the job and, for over 25 years, so much more.

Bob wasn’t flashy. With his beige sweater, slacks and a tie, he seemed like someone’s favorite relative. He had a quick sense of humor and a sharp wit.

He kept a supply of Diet Cokes and his office was an organized mess. He was a paper stacker, but he could always put his hands on the needed piece of paper in seconds.

Bob was an avid golfer, and he loved their property in Caddo Gap, Ark. Photos of him in the creek with his boys and Denise were some of his favorites.

He loved sports, rock and roll trivia and bluegrass music. Most of all, Bob loved his wife, Denise. Whenever he talked about her, his blue eyes lit up. He adored his sons, John and Evan, from the little boys they were to the wonderful men they have become.

                “So much of me is made of what I learned from you…”

He inspired many of us who came to the newspaper as green reporters. Bob never berated nor did he micromanage. He’d point out where to change a story and let us revise. He quietly taught us journalism fundamentals.

Both sides count.

Less is more.

Stand up for the little guy.

That last line was a core belief of Bob’s. He said if we weren’t there for the people in the community, who would be? Throughout his long newspaper career, he never let the “little guy” down.

We worked with Bob, not for him. Writers left the open newsroom with more confidence, a deeper knowledge about the news business and a firm belief in the importance of good, solid journalism.

“Some people come into our lives for a reason.”

The reason you came into the community’s world is to make sure they were heard and to tell their stories.

The reason you came into your reporter’s lives is to remind us that the news is more than a line on a profit margin sheet.

The reason you came into so many lives is to remind us we mattered, from your family to the people you reported on for over 30 years.

“I know I’m who I am today because I knew you…”

In my darkest days, Bob was there with a lifeline. When I didn’t believe in myself, Bob, for some reason, did. He saw a spark in me I didn’t know existed. He fanned that spark with easy encouragement.

Although I’m a writer, there aren’t adequate words to convey how much I admired Bob Haenel, how huge an influence he was in my life and how much our hearts are aching now that he’s no longer with us in person.

He never realized how huge and powerful an impact he made on those of us who were lucky enough to know him. He was simply being Bob.

This dear man’s spirit will remain with all of us because he changed us. And as the song lyrics state, Bob changed us for good.

You fought the good fight, Bob. Rest in a well-earned peace, free of deadlines, free of pain.

And maybe, just maybe, you’ll finally get to open that hot dog stand you dreamed about for so many years.

 

    This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Our grandson, Alex, is spending some time with us this summer. This evening during dinner, we started talking about movies.

Some of Alex’s favorites are the Harry Potter films and a few of the “Star Wars” movies.

In “Harry Potter,” Alex loved the special effects and the story line of how Harry defeated the “one who shall not be named.”

With “Star Wars,” Alex hadn’t seen the original movie from the 70s that introduced “the Force” to audiences around the world.

I told him how scary it was when Darth Vader first appeared on the screen. The heavy breathing, the dark, heavy cape and the mask combined to make one scary villain.

“But he’s nothing compared to the Wicked Witch of the West from ‘The Wizard of Oz,’” I told him.

Alex had never seen the movie, he said. I told him that “The Wizard of Oz” played on television every year at Thanksgiving. This was before cable and streaming services, I explained.

Every year, we all looked forward to being scared again by the witch and cheering Dorothy and her friends on to meet the wizard.

The more I talked about the movie, the more excited I got. I told him we were going to sit down after dinner and watch it. We left the dishes and found the movie.

As the opening credits played, I pointed out “The Wizard of Oz” was filmed in 1939. The special effects pre-dated CGI and modern ways of creating magic on the screen, I told him.

I gave him a heads up – I knew the lyrics to all of the songs and most of the dialogue. I would not be able to resist singing and talking along with the characters.

He was a good sport and allowed me to sing along with Dorothy on “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” and with the Cowardly Lion on “If I Were King of the Forest.”

Like most of us, Alex said the Wicked Witch of the West was scary and he liked the special effects in the Emerald City, especially the Wizard.

I warned him that I always cry when Dorothy whispers to the Scarecrow “I think I’ll miss you most of all.” And tears were rolling down my cheeks when Dorothy clicked her heels together, just like they have every time I’ve watched this film.

When the movie ended, Alex said he could see why it was a classic. We talked about what makes a great movie, and the great ones, we agreed, are always about friendships.

Dorothy was supported by her friends the Scarecrow, the Tin Man and the Cowardly Lion, and they, in turn, supported and loved her. Together, they made it down the yellow brick road and discovered the traits they wanted most of all were always inside themselves.

The same goes for Harry Potter. Without Hermione and Ron, Harry would’ve eventually realized his potential, but his growth was more powerful because he was surrounded by his two best friends.

Luke Skywalker achieved his legendary status as a hero with Leia and Han with him. All of them grew because they had each other.

The same is true for any hero or heroine in literature, the movies and especially us. We are more powerful than we think ourselves to be. When we have a friend standing by us, it’s easier to find what we’re really made of.

Especially when that power has been there all along.

I’m glad Alex and I watched “The Wizard of Oz” together. Sitting with my grandson, I once again was reminded that there really is no place like home, especially when surrounded by loved ones.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

My dear friend’s mom moved to this area from another state. Newly widowed, the mom wanted to be closer to her daughter. In what must’ve felt like a whirlwind, her house sold quickly, and she bought a home here.

Before she moved, however, they had an estate sale. Years of accumulated belongings were marked for sale because the new house was smaller. Even though organizers state dozens of reasons why it’s a good idea to get rid of clutter, letting go isn’t easy.

I’m someone who likes being surrounded by memorabilia and clutter. All around my desk are photos of family members, knick knacks from trips we’ve taken and half-filled notebooks. I can’t bear to part with a notebook that still contains blank pages.

Plus, I’m a self-proclaimed pen addict. On some pens, the ball point drags, and that gets to be tiresome after an hour. There’s an old coffee cup near my computer with my favorite pens, and I know I’d take the cup and all the pens with me if I moved.

My friend’s mom and I were talking about whether to hang the many photographs she’d brought with her. Right now, the walls in her new home are pristine, and hanging pictures requires patience and measuring. Plus, hanging pictures results in lots of holes in the wall and frames to dust.

My advice – hang the pictures.

Surround yourself with the faces of the people you love.

We have a small room where the grandkids watch television, and the walls are covered with family pictures.

The grands often ask me who the people are in the black-and-white photos, and I explain about their great-great grandparents. The kids hear now-familiar stories about how my grandfather started his business in this country and how my grandmother ran a fraternity when she was in her 90s.

Being in a new house has to be overwhelming but being surrounded by things that remind us of the path we’ve taken changes the blank slate of white walls into a dynamic tapestry of where we’ve been and who came with us on the journey.

Taking our familiar furniture and placing it on a new rug or floor blends the old and the new. Just because we’re in a new house or a new city doesn’t mean we don’t take our traditions and that salt-and-pepper shaker collection with us.

Starting over, whether we choose the new path or it’s forced upon us, is scary and, at the same time, exciting. Even though we leave behind a house or a city that doesn’t mean the memories don’t come with us.

Every time I go into a Lebanese restaurant, I’m instantly back in my grandmother’s kitchen, the smell of chicken and rice as familiar as my name. Browsing through an antique store and seeing items from my childhood take me back to our house on First Street in Olean, N.Y. and to our first Louisiana house on Evans Drive.

I hope my grandchildren are storing the smells and sights of our home for when they’re adults and want to remember an extra part of their childhood. To make sure, I’ll keep the baby toys, the old corduroy couch where we curled up and read books and the drinking glasses where they first tasted strawberry milk.

I know my friend’s mom will make more memories in her new home. I also know she brought along the memories of every place she’s ever lived.

Those memories stay with us forever but there’s always room for more.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Recently I went through the girls closet at our house and gave away the clothes they’d outgrown.

Some of the clothes were the princess dresses the girls had. I didn’t think I’d ever want to part with them, but a friend’s daughter was the right age for the dresses.

I realized it was selfish to leave those pretty dresses hanging unused in the closet when I knew her daughter would enjoy them.

One was a simple purple dress I made. It wasn’t fancy, but the dress was long and had lace. The fanciest one was a dress I found in a dress store at least 15 years ago.

The light pink dress was full of tulle and lace and, when the wearer twirled, the dress flowed out in a beautiful circle. The dress itched our younger granddaughter, so she didn’t wear it very often.

But my friend’s daughter absolutely loved the dress, and she wore it all the time. Knowing the dress was being enjoyed by a young girl absolutely made my day.

I thought back to the days my Aunt Bev would let my cousin and me play in her closet. Aunt Bev was a “girly girl,” and she had a closet full of beautiful clothes and accessories.

She let me try on all her gloves, and that was back in the day when the gloves came up to our shoulders, the tiny pearls at the wrist an extra beautiful touch.

We’d try on her hats and spray perfume on our necks, just like we’d seen our moms do when they were getting dressed up.

I spent many hours sitting at Aunt Bev’s make-up table with the three-paneled mirror. The flat part of the dresser held tubes of lipstick, powder and blush, three “tools” I used with abandon.

She never fussed at us for messing up her things, an extremely gracious thing for her to do. As an adult, I thanked Aunt Bev many times for allowing us to play in her closet and to allow us to believe we were really princesses.

There’s something magical about playing dress up, both for girls and boys. My sons loved dressing up as superheroes when they were young. They especially loved capes.

We had a black cape for when they felt like Batman, a red one for the days they wanted to scale tall buildings – an overturned kitchen chair – and a green cape for the days they pretended to be the Green Lantern.

True Spiderman and the Green Lantern did not wear capes, but in a young child’s imagination, capes are a necessary part of the superhero wardrobe.

We also had a Flash costume complete with a headdress and yellow boots. There was also a Wolverine costume, realistic down to the plastic adamantium claws.

Many times, they’d dig around in our closets, looking for bandanas, boots, hats or anything else they could use to create what they saw in their imaginations.

When they put on those costumes, they believed they were somebody else, usually superheroes. They jumped off the couches, making sound effects like they were squirting a web or slashing a bad guy’s cape.

For hours, they’d wear those costumes and live in their fantasy world. Watching them, I was transported back to my Aunt Bev’s closet. My boys might’ve been Superman, but I was an exotic fashion icon from the hat on my head to the high heels that were five sizes too big.

I hope my friend’s daughter never loses her willingness to play dress up, just as I hope my son and son-in-law teach their 2-year-old sons that it’s okay to let your imagination run wild.

And never forget the childlike joy in pretending.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

 

 

 

Louisiana is known for its beautiful scenery, mysterious swamps and, most of all, her scrumptious food.

If you’ve never had a steaming bowl of dark, spicy chicken and sausage gumbo, you’re missing out. Some of the best Louisiana eating is in the spring because it’s crawfish season.

I remember my dad boiling crawfish. He’d set up folding tables in the back yard and cover them with layers of newspaper.

My mom would place paper towels on the tables, and Dad would fire up the propane burner. He’d always dump a couple of boxes of crawfish seasoning in the big pot of water on the burner. He added small potatoes and corn on the cob to the pot for, in Louisiana lingo, a bit of “lagniappe” – something extra.

As kids, we loved picking up the live crawfish and chasing each other with the mudbugs until it was time for them to go in the water. When Dad believed the crawfish were cooked, he’d drain the crawfish from the pot and dump the cooked crawfish on the table.

There was a system – when the first batch of crawfish was eaten, we’d roll up the newspaper with the shells inside, dump that in the trash can, and put down a clean, dry layer of newspaper.

Then it was time for round two, and we’d peel and eat crawfish until we thought we’d bust. The potatoes and corn were too spicy for me, but not for my red-pepper-loving relatives.

I thought about them when driving through Louisiana this past weekend and the memories from those get togethers. There are billboards up and down I-10 advertising places to eat, each one making me miss Louisiana food.

Most of the time, I’m in a hurry to get to Baton Rouge and a hurry to get home, so I’ll pull into an interstate fast-food joint. They’re convenient and as bland as bland can get.

I didn’t want to leave Louisiana without having some Cajun food. Sulphur’s near the state line, and I was running out of choices.

That’s when I saw a sign for The Boiling Point restaurant. I turned on my blinker and saw a building that looked like it had been there for years.

The parking lot was filled with mud-caked pick-up trucks, and I knew I was in the right spot. Metal tables and chairs offered lots of places to sit, and decorations were sparse. I wanted to get back on the road, so I asked the nice lady behind the counter for a suggestion for something quick I could eat in the car.

She suggested a pistolette. She said they’re small rolls filled with the customer’s choice of seafood and cheese. Because it’s crawfish season, I chose that.

I left a few minutes later, bag in hand, and got back in my car. I opened the foil and the pistolette looked like she’d described it.

But when I took a bite, it was heaven.

Big, thick crawfish tails were mixed with a creamy cheese sauce, and the roll was hot and crunchy on the outside, just like freshly baked French bread.

I wished I’d ordered a dozen of those, and I was thankful I’d taken the time to stop in at a local restaurant.

So many times, we go to the chains to eat. We overlook the places that have been around for years, or the restaurant that’s not shiny and new.

But when we take a detour and a chance on a locally-owned restaurant, that’s an opportunity to experience something wonderful.

There are still quite a few locally owned restaurants right here in our community. Take a chance and support the families that allow us to enjoy the meals their families have enjoyed for generations.

Dedicate the extra time to stop in and order from a real menu, eat with a metal fork and knife and have your food served on a real plate, not from a sheet of wax paper.

Slow down, pull in and sit a spell. The time you spend at a local spot is time well spent.

 

      This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Sunday is Mother’s Day, and I was stumped about choosing a gift for my mom. She has everything she needs and steadfastly tells us not to buy her anything.

We’re fortunate our mom is still with us, and we know how lucky we are. Still, I wanted to get her something. While shopping, I saw a pretty pink box with “Mom” stenciled on the top.

The inside was empty, and I had an idea. I’d fill the box with notes, highlighting some of the wonderful memories mom created for our family.

Coming up with the memories was easy because there’s so many ways mom made sure we knew we were loved. She underplays the little ways she made life special for us, and I wanted her to know how much the small gestures meant.

I thanked my mom for sneaking peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to me in the pocket of her apron on the nights I was a picky eater. She didn’t want her daughter to go to bed hungry.

When we were young, the thunder and lightning scared us. I thanked my mom for telling us not to be afraid – the thunder, she said, was simply the angels bowling.

Even though our mom worked outside the home, we had a hot dinner every night. She also made sure we had roast, rice, mashed potatoes, corn, salad and gravy every Sunday after we came home from Mass.

I thanked mom for her steadfast devotion to her faith, especially the Virgin Mary. I remember helping her create a special altar with fresh flowers from the yard to honor Mary.

Mom made birthdays special. With seven children, holidays like Easter and Christmas were shared.

But she always made our favorite dinner and favorite dessert on our birthdays, even when she worked full time. I thanked her for teaching us how to make someone feel special. I know now she must’ve been bone tired, but she never complained.

How our mom made sure we never felt deprived or did without is still a mystery to me. Our dad was a salesman, and we never knew how much money he’d bring home. But mom made sure we never felt less than.

I thanked my mom for creating a life-long love for our Lebanese heritage. She also learned how to cook Cajun food to honor our Louisiana roots, and gumbo remains our every-year Christmas Eve dinner.

Our mom loves music, and if I heard “A Taste of Honey” by Herb Alpert once, I heard it a thousand times. Whenever this song comes on the radio, I’m immediately back home, a smile on my face.

Mom has a beautiful voice, and I can still hear her singing, serenading us on Saturday mornings.

I thanked her for instilling a love of movies in us. I can recite the dialogue in “Stella Dallas,” “Imitation of Life,” and “Backstreet” without notes.

My dad could tell a joke better than the comics on television, but our mom is the one with a sense of humor.

She always found a way to make us laugh, even in the tough times, and some of her zingers are family heirlooms. One of my favorites: “Keep your chins up, honey. All of them.”

Mom took up crocheting for a few years, and one of my favorite Christmas memories is the year she made beanies for all the boys and grandsons. That’s over 30 head coverings.

Of all the wonderful gifts mom gave us, one of the best is how she makes our children feel special.

Each grandchild will tell you their grandmother – Siti – doesn’t play favorites, but secretly, they’re her favorite.

I thanked mom for putting up with a rowdy house of seven kids and a crazy husband, all the while making us feel safe and loved.

I thanked her for valuing each one of us, loving our strengths and weaknesses, always knowing what we needed and when.

She’s a shining example of what it means to be an incredible mom, a loving grandmother and an even greater great-grandmother. Most of all, she’s an incredible friend.

I love you, Mom.

Thank you.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

I consider myself a life-long learner. When computers arrived, I immediately volunteered to learn the software.

Books about foreign places and travel were the novels I’d check out of the public library. I read “Black Beauty” and believed I knew everything about horses.

I never go on a trip without reading the travel guide, and I can recite useless trivia about some of the places we’ve visited. Want to know about the back roads through Yellowstone National Park? I’ve got the answer.

Self-help books are some of my favorites, and I’ve learned a lot about organizing, housekeeping, child rearing and improving personal relationships from the pages of a well-written book.

But it’s time to admit – there are some things I have no interest in learning.

Whether that’s a product of my baby-boomer age or being retired, I have little interest in broadening my horizons in the following areas. I’ve seen videos telling people that they need to do these things immediately.

First – how to change the filter in the dishwasher.

I grew up in a family of seven children, and our dishwasher ran at least once a day. I don’t ever remember looking for a filter in the bottom of the dishwasher and cleaning it.

That roll-around dishwasher lasted for years, so trying to take my current dishwasher apart to get to a filter in the bottom – which I can’t even see – doesn’t interest me at all.

Same goes for the washing machine filter. It’s at least 25 years old, and clothes come out clean.

I also don’t care if I ever change flat tires.

I know how the process works.

I know where the jack’s located.

My solution to solving road issues is belonging to AAA. When I had a flat tire a few weeks ago, I called the toll-free number, a nice mechanic came out to where I was stranded, changed the tire and I was on my way.

I also have no interest in learning how to do my taxes. I’m fortunate that my husband reads the tax manual for fun.

I humbly relinquish all my Uncle Sam responsibilities to my much more qualified spouse.

My laptop’s convenient whenever I travel and when the grandkids come over. Right now, it’s running a little slow, and I’m sure I’ve gummed up the works with stupid downloads and having too many files on the desktop.

I have no interest in learning how to defrag the laptop or download a program to diagnosis the problem. I will leave that to people who are up to date on computer issues.

Becoming a complete moron isn’t my goal either.

There are things I’d like to learn.

I’d love to know more about the women who paved the way for my generation. Not just the ones mentioned in the first couple of paragraphs in history books but the lesser-known ones who made positive impacts in their communities.

Even more importantly, I’d like to know more about the women in my family. The few tidbits I know reveal women who, when handed tough blows, rose to the occasion and excelled.

There will come a time when I’ll have to learn how to handle tires, appliances and computer issues. But until I have to, I’m going to put those learning lessons on the back burner.

Knowing the difference between having to and wanting to, I believe, still makes me a life-long learner.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Dusty road construction at almost every intersection.

A line of orange cones so long, you can’t see the end.

Everywhere, there’s snarled-up traffic, horns blowing, and bumper-to-bumper traffic.

Enough.

Finding serenity is difficult under these circumstances, but don’t give up. There are places to get away from the endless noise.

Two state parks are within an hours’ drive – Brazos Bend and Stephen F. Austin, some of the best in the park system.

Calm Seabourne Creek Park in Rosenberg is a nice step away from civilization. Neighborhood parks are good choices, but often they’re filled to the brim with families.

Here in Fort Bend County, there’s quite a few spots of calm, peace and quiet. Best of all, the ones mentioned here are free to the public.

The Memorial Prayer Garden behind the First Baptist Church in Richmond is a small but powerful place to rejuvenate.

The Zen-style Garden not only offers a shaded sanctuary with a giant oak tree in the center, but The Labrinth allows you to focus on your thoughts as you walk the small maze.

The garden is next to a private school, and the sounds of children laughing and playing will put a smile on your face. Add the gentle sounds of wind chimes, and you’ll be as relaxed as the butterflies that visit.

Richmond’s history dates to before the mid-1800s and much has changed. Despite all the construction, there are sites that allow visitors to take a step away from the hustle of city living.

Check out Wessendorff Park in Richmond. Located next to the historic Richmond Police building, the park invites visitors to sit for a spell next to a bubbly fountain and enjoy the blooming flowers.

A small bridge guides you to the historic Morton Cemetery where shade and pathways allow you to relax your mind.

You might be inclined to roll up your sleeves at the community vegetable garden where volunteers grow food to add to the pantry at Helping Hands. The garden is located next to the police station.

Over in Rosenberg, Our Lady of Guadalupe Catholic Church has a stunning patio area. A beautifully designed stone fountain honors Our Lady of Guadalupe and welcomes the weary to the elegant church.

Flowers not only add fragrance and beauty, but they also attract butterflies. Time will cease to exist when you visit and watch the clouds roll past.

The Stations of the Cross garden at Holy Rosary Catholic Church in Rosenberg is open to people of all denominations. Even if the “Way of the Cross” isn’t in your faith’s doctrine, you can still walk the quiet pathways and marvel at the beautiful stonework.

There are benches for visitors to sit and relax, and the garden has no walls or fences. In the middle of this growing city there’s a place to step away from the chaos.

Instead of looking for a fast-food lunch or coffee from a franchise, all these parks are located near home-town businesses.

Visit the small stores in downtown Richmond and Rosenberg, sit a spell on the benches that dot these areas and meet the friendly business owners.

You might find reconnecting with people and supporting local businesses is the final step you need to truly rejuvenate.

Finding peace and quiet in a growing, busy county might seem impossible, but these refreshing oases are within minutes of your front door.

All that’s asked is respect when you visit, both for the surroundings and others who are looking for the same thing you are – tranquility.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.      

Easter Sunday is this weekend, and the holiday always takes me down memory lane.

I remember shopping for Easter clothes with my mom when I was a little girl.

The floral Easter dress always included white gloves and frilly white ankle socks.

The best part of getting ready was picking out an Easter hat. I never liked the rubber band under my chin to hold the hat on as it cut into my neck.

By the time I was old enough to make sure the hat didn’t blow away, I no longer cared about Easter hats.

We usually attended Easter Sunday Mass because we were busy dyeing Easter eggs the night before. The must-have item for coloring Easter eggs was the square Paas Easter Egg kit.

Inside were tablets in different colors – red, yellow, blue and green are the shades I remember. We’d drop each tablet into a coffee cup and then measure out the vinegar, something our pantry never seemed to keep on hand.

Luckily there were neighbors who bailed us out.

Also in the kit were wire egg holders, and we fought like cats and dogs to use those. There was also a white wax crayon to write our names on before dyeing the eggs.

The kit included stickers – which we fought over – and paper stands representing the Easter Bunny, baby chicks and other cute animals. These stands held our dyed eggs and, like with everything else in the kit, we fought over those.

My mom would go behind us and “marbleize” the eggs with cooking oil, and we groaned and complained every year that she’d ruined our mottled and uneven dye jobs.

The next morning, after the Easter Bunny did his job, we’d enjoy an Easter Egg Hunt. I don’t remember any of us getting food poisoning because the eggs were all over the house and yard for hours, just waiting for us to find them.

For the next week, it was chicken or tuna salad sandwiches, chock full of chopped hard-boiled eggs.

I kept the tradition of dyeing Easter eggs alive with my boys from when they were in elementary school until they were in high school, but I think I enjoyed the ritual more than they did.

Our grandchildren dye their eggs at home with their parents and siblings, and we love seeing pictures and videos. We don’t intrude because I know how precious those memories with children are.

One year, I tried dyeing eggs by myself, but that was more depressing than not dyeing eggs at all. So, I stopped buying two dozen eggs and a new Paas dye kit. I substituted eating a bag of Cadbury eggs to soothe my missing those long-gone evenings.

These days, we host an annual Easter egg hunt for the grandchildren at the house with Uncle Nick and Aunt Ingrid taking on the responsibility of hiding eggs.

The kiddos stand at the back door, not peeking, anxiously awaiting the signal to hit the back yard and find the eggs. The patio’s off limits to the older ones as that’s where Nick and Ingrid hide the eggs for the toddlers.

Then the race begins, candies are found, traded, hoarded and enjoyed the rest of the day.

For those fortunate enough to still dye and hide Easter eggs with your children, savor and enjoy every minute of chaos.

The years fly by faster than the Easter Bunny hops through your yard the night before Easter.

May your holiday be holy and happy!

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.