Friday nights are movie nights for us. It’s a holdover from our working days when Friday signaled the end of the work week.

The 2025 “Superman” was on our streaming service, so we settled in for a night of fun movie watching.

I grew up on Marvel and DC Comics and was a fan of Superman, Batman, and Spiderman. My brother took our grandson to see “Superman” over the summer, and they loved it.

A third of the way through, I wondered what I was watching. Was this a comedy? Action film? An attempt to reignite interest in Superman?

If so, they’ve made a huge mistake.

I kept hoping the movie would decide what direction it wanted to go. But after seeing some woman in the Daily Planet office whose only job was to look like a bimbo, I’d had enough.

What happened to the really good movies? The ones where you rooted for the heroes, booed the bad guys and, at the end, wished the movie would go on for another two hours.

Sadly, they’re in short supply.

I remember the first time I saw “Star Wars.” This was the only movie I’d seen that had nothing to do with Earth. The story line was filled with a variety of people struggling with decisions.

Luke wanting to strike out on his own, Princess Leis taking charge of saving the galaxy, and Obi Wan coming out of retirement to teach Luke the ways of “The Force.

I walked out of that movie with my head spinning.

It was the same with “Raiders of the Lost Ark.” Great characters, a great script and action from beginning to end. The story line was easy to follow, and we rooted for Indiana Jones every second of the film.

When it came to comic book superheroes, the first “Batman” movie was a bit off the wall, but the story of The Joker and Batman was true to the comics.

Seeing Batman’s co-creator, Bob Kane, having a cameo was icing on the cake. Same goes for seeing Stan Lee in all the Marvel movies.

The first “Wonder Woman” movie was not only true to the story line in the comics but added depth and humanity to Diana. Seeing a strong woman on the screen made my heart soar.

But somewhere along the line, filmmakers got off track. They changed superhero story lines, and I’ve yet to figure out why they thought it was okay to alter a 50-year history to make major no-turning-back decisions.

They changed the fate of Captain America. They retired Batman, and killed Superman, Ironman, and Wolverine.

True Robert Downey Jr. and Hugh Jackman were perfect in their roles as Ironman and Wolverine, but the beauty of a well-written story is the characters live on no matter who’s saying the lines.

Sean Connery might be the ultimate James Bond, but Daniel Craig did a bang-up job carrying on the 007 dynasty.

For some reason, whether it’s to sell tickets, feed their own or the short-sighted belief that the stories have all been told is ridiculous.

There’s a reason Superman, Iron Man and Batman have survived over 50 years. They are troubled characters who strive to do the right thing even though they are in personal pain.

That makes them relatable and evergreen to humans.

In the end of the first Superman movie starring the late great Christopher Reeve, he flies off into space as the beautiful theme song written by John Williams plays.

Reeve looks straight at the camera and smiles. The first time I saw this movie, my young son turned to me and said excitedly, “Superman smiled at me!”

That’s the magic of movies. To make the audience believe.

Somewhere we lost that magic.

I hope we can get it back again.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

The other day, my husband mentioned we’ve purchased three vehicles in the time he’s had one truck.

He logically explained the math. We sold vehicle number one when the mileage was high. Then we bought vehicle number two. That vehicle was toast when some guy ran a red light and totaled my car. Then we had to purchase another vehicle.

“That makes three,” he said.

Oh, my dear husband.

The answer is “one.”

He might be a certified financial planner, but he doesn’t understand “Dee Math.”

“Dee Math” is named after my mother, Dee Hebert. The term came into my vocabulary a few years ago. She called to say she’d saved $100.

“Wow, Mom, how did you do that?” I asked.

“I bought a comforter for your brother, and it was $300,” she said. “I returned it and bought another one for $200.”

Triumphantly she added – “I saved $100!”

I was quiet for a minute and then I countered her crowing.

“Mom, you spent $200,” I said slowly.

She was quiet for a minute.

“Denise, you don’t understand math. I saved $100,” she said.

Ever since that conversation, my family refers to the method of making numbers work out in your favor as “Dee Math.”

I’ve been using some form of “Dee Math” all my life, mostly because I’m awful with numbers.

Not all numbers give me fits. Without cheating, I know my address, my Social Security number and my drivers license number. That’s about the extent of current numbers I can recall on the spot.

I’ve used one particular credit card for years, but I still have to get the physical card out of my wallet to get the security code, and that’s only three digits.

Every company wants you to enter a password that includes numbers. In these days of hyper security, I don’t understand why a password has to be a hundred digits long.

A line from a song would work wonders as a password. Think how much more fun “This gun’s for hire” or “She loves you yeah, yeah, yeah” would be as your passwords instead of the impossible to remember XY17##*jei@@ , but no, they want numbers.

To create a password with numbers I can remember, I have to go back to my childhood home and phone numbers. Those numbers, for some reason, stick.

Not my current home phone number. We still have a land line, but whenever I’m asked for a back-up number, I have to look up “Home” on my phone.

Whenever I use Google Maps, I can remember the street I’m looking for, but not the number. My son and daughter-in-law live in a beautiful home in Houston. I know it’s on Woodway Drive, but I text them every time I go to get the house number.

My son finally put the address in my phone, but I can’t remember how to find it.

I saw a YouTube video about the numbers on a Ross Department Store tag and what those numbers mean. These numbers are important because you can save money if you know how to decipher the code on the tag.

I’ve seen the video three or four times, and I still can’t remember what the numbers mean unless I call that video up on my phone.

Back to the real number of cars I’ve bought.

“We bought the first car because it was time to get another car,” I said calmly. “That’s one. The second car was totaled, so that doesn’t count. The third one is a replacement, not really a car I wanted to buy. So the answer to the number of cars I’ve purchased is one.”

They say math is important, and I agree. If only it wasn’t made up of numbers, then math and I would get along just fine.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

 

When I was young, travel sounded exciting. I could picture myself looking up at the Eiffel Tower or relaxing on a tropical beach in Hawaii. Instead, I changed a lot of diapers and saw a lot of Little League baseball parks.

No regrets, though.

These days, I tend to be a homebody, so I live through my friends’ travels.

I see their photos on social media. They’re walking up mountains, sailing around the Mediterranean, and climbing the steps at an ancient ruin. A voice in my head says I can do the same, but maneuvering the airline industry is a big roadblock.

Recently I attended my niece’s wedding in Virginia. I considered driving, but an 18-hour solo car ride was out of the question. Trains take too long, so flying was my best option.

I looked online to find a flight. The choices were overwhelming. At least a dozen airlines flew where I was going. After a half hour of scrolling through all the departures and arrivals, I found a flight that seemed to be the best fit.

Then the marathon question-and-answer session began. First, I had to choose a departure time. That’s a tricky question in the Houston area.

There’s seldom time when the freeways aren’t jammed. After a half hour, I found a flight that didn’t mean I had to get up at 3 a.m. to catch it.

Then did I want to pay top dollar or travel on a budget. The economy flights were restrictive. You can’t cancel, you can’t upgrade, and you can’t breathe on the plane. Okay, I made that last restriction up, but you get the point.

Then I had to choose a seat.

Each seat had a different price. Want to sit close to the front? That’ll cost you at least $35. Sit in the back where you’re the last one to get off? That’ll only cost you time because you’re the last one to get off a plane with over 200 people jostling overhead baggage.

I chose the option of letting the airline assign me a seat for free, figuring I was traveling alone and didn’t care where I sat.

Then there was the baggage option. The restrictions between checking a bag and having a carry-on were confusing. After 20 minutes of trying to figure out what could and could not be taken on the plane and the exact dimensions of a suitcase to carry with me, I gave up and paid for a checked bag.

Then it was time to book the return flights. At that point, I threw up my hands and called the customer service line. I talked to a real person who reluctantly walked me through the reservations.

He got his revenge, however, when I looked at the connections closer to my departure date. I had less than an hour in Charlotte, N.C. to make a connection. My sister’s familiar with that busy airport, and she said there are no moving sidewalks to move travelers from one terminal to the next.

I played the “I’m a senior citizen” card and asked for a wheelchair to make that connection. Yes, I felt like everyone would be staring. Yes, I felt old, but I had less than 50 minutes to make a connection in a sprawling airport.

From a wanna-be world traveler with stars in her eyes to the nervous lady getting wheeled from Gate A45 to Gate B6 in the Charlotte airport – a distance of 1.2 miles, according to my helper – seeing new places should be a fun adventure.

The first step is finding a way around the hurdles.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I always cry at weddings.

Doesn’t matter how well or how little I know the bride or the groom, I will be the one tearing up and choking down sobs.

It also doesn’t matter if the marriage is doomed from the start – I’ve been to a few of those – or if the bride and groom are grownups starting over. When they look into each other’s eyes and profess their undying love, the water works start.

There were plenty of tissues in my purse when my niece and goddaughter, Lauren, married her wonderful fiancé, Chase. Their wedding was right out of a story book. Lauren wore a beautiful white gown with a long train. Chase was absolutely beaming in a handsome suit and tie as he waited for his bride.

The venue for the wedding was a sweeping vineyard in Virginia. The ceremony took place in the late evening with a gorgeous backdrop of grape vines growing on gently rolling hills. The mountains framed the couple and their wedding party, and the light from the setting sun bathed all of us in a warm, soft light.

When her dad walked her down a gently sloping lawn to where her future husband was waiting, we were all sniffling a bit, even the die-hards who claim they never get mushy at a wedding. All except for the bride and groom. They had eyes and smiles only for each other.

Chase and Lauren were surrounded by family on both sides and friends who’d come from all over to help celebrate the newlyweds. When the couple turned and faced their family and friends as husband and wife, applause echoed in the valley.

As the wedding party took pictures, the rest of us visited. Strangers became friends over glasses of wine, and we were all one big happy group by the time we sat down to a gourmet dinner.

When it was time for the traditional speeches by family and friends, the audience both laughed and cried. After the cake was cut, the wedding formalities were completed.

Then it was time to let loose and party.

The music was loud and lively, and almost everybody was out on the dance floor.

I haven’t danced in many years, mostly because of my arthritic knees, but I got out on the dance floor and shimmied and twisted with the rest of the group.

Didn’t matter I didn’t recognize one song from the DJ’s playlist.

Didn’t matter I looked ridiculous.

I was having fun with my young nieces and nephews, my brothers and sisters and Lauren and Chase’s many friends.

We closed the place down in fine fashion, and we were still laughing on the bus ride back to the hotel. Some wedding guests continued the party after finding a local bar that stayed open for a few more hours.

As I watched them go off to continue to celebrate, all I could do was smile. From those who’d been friends for years to those who’d only met that evening, the connecting feeling was joy. We were all brought together by two people.

In these days and times of uncertainty, both here and around the world, a simple act of professing one’s affection in front of family and friends, promising to love, honor, and cherish, is incredibly optimistic.

And entirely realistic.

Some tears we shed are sad ones, and we’ve all been there. But when there’s an occasion to celebrate, take it.

Get out on the dance floor, even if you’re holding on to a walker or you’ve got some smooth moves. Celebrate every chance you get.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I was talking to my sister on the phone early on the morning of Sept. 11, 2001. She said a plane had crashed into the side of a building in New York City. I imagined a small tourist plane had accidentally hit one of the skyscrapers.

We hung up and I went to the newspaper office. Then managing editor Bob Haenel was watching the news on a small television in his office. I’d never seen that television on in all the time I’d been at the paper, but, that morning, he was watching the news unfold.

It wasn’t a small charter plane that hit the North Tower of the World Trade Center. It was a jetliner, filled with people and jet fuel. Smoke and flames were pouring out of the building, and, all of a sudden, another airplane hit the South Tower.

We all gasped.

Bob turned to us and said, “We’re at war.”

With utter calm, he told us to call the hospitals, the sheriff’s office, the school districts and the fire stations. See if anyone from here was in New York City and try to talk to them. At that time, we had no idea if other buildings around the country were going to be targeted.

We scrambled to the phones, making calls and getting information. After we’d add to the main story for the newspaper, we’d head back to Bob’s office to see what was happening. All air-borne planes in the United States were ordered to immediately land at the closest airport.

All but one plane had landed – United Airlines Flight 93. The people on the plane let their loved ones, and in turn the country, know that terrorists had taken over the plane.

The people on that plane knew they were a flying bomb. Planes had not only hit the World Trade Centers but the Pentagon as well and they were headed to Washington D.C. The passengers had a plan – take over the cockpit and land the plane safely.

Whether or not they breached the cockpit or the plane was shot down by the American military, ultimately United Flight 93 crashed in a field, killing everyone aboard.

As we neared time to run the presses, we weren’t sure if the day’s horrors were over.

Nobody knew if there were more attacks planned.

Nobody knew if our children and families were safe.

Nobody knew what was going to happen next.

All we could see were images of two giant buildings in New York City burning and then collapsing. People running away, covered in dust and debris. First responders, police officers and fire fighters risking their lives to save others.

Almost 3,000 people died senselessly on that day in New York City. Men and women had gotten up like any other day – showered, brushed their teeth, grabbed a bagel on the way into the office and were working at their desks when the unimaginable happened.

On my way home that afternoon, the roadways were eerily silent. Nobody was honking their horns. Nobody ran red lights. We were silently polite to each other, united in our grief, grateful our loved ones were safe.

Now 24 years later, we tell ourselves this type of evil can’t happen again, but zealots are capable of incomprehensible evil.

On the flip side, people are also capable of unbelievable good.

Today we give thanks for our lives and our freedom. We pray for those innocent souls who lost their lives on a sunny, cool fall day.

We pray for the brave men and women who rescued so many that day without hesitation. Some lost their lives. Some live with the memories of that nightmare day.

The rest of us continue to pray and we remember the words of Todd Beamer, a passenger on the ill-fated United Flight 93. These two words should remind us to step up for what’s right, even when we’re afraid.

“Let’s roll.”

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Years ago, Fort Bend Herald photographer extraordinaire Russell Autrey and I had a conversation about food. Both of us love a good plate of Texas barbecue or enchiladas.

The conversation took a turn to cooking healthier meals. I have a theory – food that’s low in fat and low in calories tastes bad. Food that’s high in fat and high in calories tastes good.

To prove my point, I named all the food that’s high in calories and high in fat that tastes good. The list included ice cream, chocolate in any form except dark chocolate, doughnuts, fried chicken, mashed potatoes and macaroni and cheese.

I challenged Russell – name a food that’s high in calories and high in fat that tastes bad.

Couldn’t think of one.

Then I asked him to name all the foods that were low in calories and fat and tasted good.

Silence.

I formed this belief when I was a little girl. My mom boiled spinach and then sliced a hard-boiled egg on the top for a decoration. I refused to take one bite.

I went to bed hungry that night, but Mom sneaked a peanut butter and jelly sandwich to me before I went to sleep.

As an adult, I’ve learned to like brussels sprouts, peas, green beans and broccoli as long as there’s butter and salt covering those vegetables on my plate. Throw in some bacon, and we’re talking feast.

But surely, Russell challenged me, there has to be some tasty vegetables that are low in calories and taste good.

I thought about celery, but that has no taste whatsoever. Carrots at least have some taste and crunch, but would I choose a bowl of carrots over a bowl of chocolate decadence ice cream?

No way.

Russell finally piped up with a food he considered low in calories and high in taste.

His answer – beets.

I asked if he’d ever eaten a beet. Russell admitted he’d never eaten a beet, but they looked pretty.

Not pretty enough to eat, I replied.

I told my mom about this conversation, and she said she likes beet salad.

Of course she does.

Beet salad often has olive oil, avocados or maple syrup in the recipe.

Fruit is usually a healthy choice. It’s hard to beat the taste of sweet watermelon, plump blueberries and red strawberries in the middle of the summer. Those fruits are high in sugar, but we overlook that detail because fruit is healthy.

Unless, of course, you cover the fruit with a scoop of vanilla ice cream or a cup of whipped cream.

In trying to change my eating habits once again, I went back to the basics. Salads, I knew, are a healthy choice.

I went to a salad bar recently, and all the healthy choices were there. I chose wisely until I got to the end of the serving line. There were bread rolls, tomato soup – 300 calories a cup – and a variety of salad dressings.

I looked at all of them, and with the exception of straight vinegar, most dressings were 250 calories for a tablespoon.

I’m one of those who like a lot of dressing on my greens, so if I put two tablespoons of dressing on this healthy salad, I could’ve had a Big Mac for the same calorie count.

Big Mac:  High in fat. High in calories. High in flavor.

Salad with no dressing:  Are you kidding?

So go ahead, name a food that’s low in calories and fat and tastes good without the benefit of salad dressings, bacon drippings or butter.

As long as it’s not beets.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Milestone birthdays are the ones we look forward to achieving.

The first one I celebrated was an odd year. In Louisiana, teens could get their driver’s license at the age of 15, and I desperately wanted to drive.

On my birthday, I arrived at the DMV before they opened and was the first person in line to get my license.

The next milestone birthday was the year I turned 18. Not because I could buy liquor and cigarettes.

The real reason was – nerd alert – because I could vote in a presidential election.

I was so excited to finally have a voice in helping choose the next president.

Turning 50 was a big deal for me. I’d started a new career, and my boys were living in a college dorm. My identity had changed from mom to no-longer-needed mom. With a few bumps and tears, the year turned into a successful milestone.

Fifty-five was a great year because the discounts began to flutter in my lap like autumn leaves. Stores had a special day of the week where seniors got an extra discount.

Restaurants, like IHOP and Dairy Queen, offered “early-bird specials” for people over the age of 55, and I loved getting a couple of bucks off the price of my pancakes or burgers.

There wasn’t a discount or special offer I missed once I hit that golden age. Every place I went, I’d always ask for the senior discount.

Twenty percent off clothes on Wednesdays, special discounts on Tuesdays and free coffee at some fast-foot joints. Throw in an AARP card, and the savings roll in for the silver-haired crowd.

Lots of businesses cater to old folks. Tuesdays are senior discount days at the movies, but that’s not a huge incentive for me. Being older means I don’t like driving at night, so I usually go to the afternoon matinee.

But I love that the discount is available.

This year, I had another milestone birthday – 70. Most people don’t like admitting how old they are. I look at it differently.

I had no control over when I was born, so my age isn’t a decision I made, and I don’t mind telling people how old I am.

So far, being 70 has come in handy.

My cell phone was giving me a headache. I got a message that the phone couldn’t save my photos because I didn’t have enough room in the cloud.

I already pay extra for storage, and I didn’t want to upgrade again. I went to the Apple Store, and a nice young lady asked if she could help me.

“I’m having trouble with storage,” I told her, and then I had an idea.

“You know, I’m 70 years old and these things just aren’t as easy as they were when I was your age,” I said as I held out the phone to her.

She smiled and helped me figure out the problem.

I think she felt like she was helping her own grandmother.

After that, I was on a roll.

The tire pressure light came on in my car, so I went to the tire store. I explained to the nice young man that I was 70 years old.  I didn’t have a clue what all those bells and lights were all about.

Just like the girl in the Apple Store, he smiled and said he’d handle everything for me.

Admission – I knew more than I let them see. I think the old saying is “dumb like a fox.”

These milestone birthdays just might be worth their weight in gold. I wonder what I can get when I hit 80?

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.     

One of my favorite shows is “Young Sheldon.” The characters are three-dimensional, and the story lines are relatable.

Almost every episode, the Cooper family sits down to dinner, often to an American meal of meatloaf, mashed potatoes and carrots.

Growing up, family dinners in the Hebert house are reminiscent of the ones on “Young Sheldon.” I often wonder how our mom managed to work outside the home and then get a hot meal on the table every night.

Mom was a great cook, and some of the meals I remember were spaghetti and meatballs, gumbo and baked chicken. Mom either made the salad dressing, or a bottle of Wish-Bone Italian Dressing was on the table.

We always had Kool-Aid to drink, and somebody spilled their drink at every single dinner. Manners were expected, and we always had to ask to be excused before getting up.

When we were teens, we’d miss weekly dinners because of jobs or after-school activities. The one meal we were forbidden to miss was Sunday dinner.

Sunday mornings were always chaotic. Before we left for church, Mom would put a pot roast in the oven on low heat while we all fought for time in the bathroom.

But somehow seven children and two adults managed to pile into my Dad’s old Cadillac and arrive at St. Isidore Catholic Church.

Always late.

Always to the front row.

I remember being mortified as we marched down the center aisle – our own parade – and slid into the pew. Usually, a slight shoving match took place when we were sitting next to each other which earned us a withering look from either mom or dad and, once, the priest.

At home, we all pitched in to get dinner ready. A cotton tablecloth was mandatory for Sunday dinners, and we’d set out the plates – all collected with coupons from Winn-Dixie.

Another sibling would make the Kool-Aid while one put ice in the glasses. Mom expertly made the mashed potatoes, warmed the corn, whipped up a salad and got the roast on a platter.

We’d say the blessing and then dig in. It was a rule that we passed to the right, understandable because it was mass chaos without that traffic pattern.

While we ate, we talked about a variety of topics, from what we’d done that week to what was happening in the world.

We were free to give our opinion about politics as long as they agreed with our dad’s philosophy that everything was a communist plot.

Our sister, Diane, loved to argue with Dad and he loved the back-and-forth as much as she did. Some of those “discussions” got pretty loud, but Diane said that’s how they communicated.

Nobody got up from the table until after dessert, and we all helped clean up the kitchen, wash the dishes and put things away. All the while, conversations were taking place.

At the time, we didn’t realize those meals would become some of our favorite childhood memories. Unfortunately, I didn’t recreate Sunday dinners with my boys. But whenever the grandchildren are over, we sit down together for meals.

One of our dinner traditions is for everyone to say one good thing that happened to them that day. If I forget to ask, one of the grands will pipe up with a good event from the day.

We linger at the table and talk, and the faint memories of my family are always in my head.

Every time I watch a television show where people are sitting down to share a meal, I’m glad the writers remember those little things, like sharing a bowl of mashed potatoes or spilling a glass of red Kool-Aid, can create some of the best childhood memories.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

The first week of school is an exciting, and exhausting, time for everyone in the family. As a grandparent, it’s a sigh of relief, knowing we don’t have to get up before dawn and face those early-morning battles.

That first week can also be a sentimental one. We remember the tender moments from when our children were young and eager to go to school.

There’s an excitement about shopping for back-to-school supplies. I imagined leisurely picking out backpacks, supplies, and clothes with the boys, all of us happy about this new phase.

That’s not exactly how those preparations happened.

Even when I shopped early, there were angry crowds on the school supply aisle, and not just from the frazzled moms. There was the inevitable argument and meltdown with my sons about what kind of backpack to buy.

Batman and Spiderman were popular. One year, there was no rest until we found a backpack decorated with Ninja Turtles. When they left elementary school, we were looking for plain black backpacks.

I went shopping with my grandchildren for backpacks, and the 10-year-old practically jumped for joy when he found one with Minecraft logos. When he touched the front and the panel lit up, you’d have thought he won the lottery.

The school supply list is a nightmare for parents. I learned early to buy the kit from the school, but there were always a few “extras” they needed that weren’t on the list. I was frantic, trying to find everything listed.

But the first year I cleaned out backpacks in May and found that unopened pack of red-and-blue pencils, I quit trying to check everything off the list.

Lunchboxes were a new adventure as well. Mine claimed they didn’t like the school-provided lunch, so I made their lunches every morning. Said lunches had to go in an acceptable lunchbox. Popular ones for our boys included a few Batman lunchboxes, a Roger Rabbit plastic one and the must-have Ninja Turtle lunchboxes.

Once they were in middle school, the only acceptable lunch container was a brown paper bag. Because they were growing, I had to join Sam’s Club so I could buy larger paper bags.

I was lucky that my sons weren’t picky about clothes. If there was a superhero on the front, we were good to go.

Once uniforms were instituted, back-to-school clothes shopping got a whole lot easier.

Until they got to high school. Then I became an ignoramus who churned butter and had absolutely no fashion sense. I finally gave them a budget and let them choose what they wanted. If they wanted to blow the budget on a pair of expensive jeans, that was their choice.

Luckily, they were used to checking price tags, so they usually made frugal choices.

Then, finally, the first day of school arrives.

As the bus lumbered down the street, boys safely inside, I remember closing the front door and sighing with relief that the morning chaos was over.

I replayed the “Halleluiah” chorus in my mind as I headed to the kitchen to put away cereal boxes, milk, and half-eaten pieces of toast.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but those first days of school would be memories in the blink of an eye.

Now my grandchildren are looking forward to their first day of school. Reliving my sons’ days through them is a nostalgic feeling I’m glad to share with my daughters-in-law.

They are wonderful moms, and I believe they’re feeling the same way I felt for all those years. I know they’re shedding a few tears as they wave goodbye.

There’s a big part of me that’s relieved I don’t have to pack up three lunches every morning, fight the “did-you-brush-your-teeth” battles and pray nobody tells me they feel like throwing up.

At this point, the memories are what’s priceless.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

There’s a giant hole in our bathroom ceiling.

Not by choice, but by necessity.

A few weeks ago, we noticed a light brown spot on the ceiling, and we knew it was a leak. We thought the water was due to the recent heavy rains. A contractor came out, cut a hole in the ceiling and found the culprit.

There was a 29-cent cap that failed on a cold-water line that went nowhere – unbelievably odd – and the ceiling and some walls needed to be replaced.

While the contractor was looking around outside for additional leaks, he noticed a few places where the roof had failed, so he suggested we replace the roof.

The 30-year roof lasted about 14 years, which I’m told, is about par for roofs these days.

Accepting the short shelf life seems to be the phrase of the day.

We heard the same story about the expected timeline for appliances a few years ago when I had to replace a freezer we kept in the garage. Our 20-year-old Kenmore freezer had survived two moves, countless power outages and grazing teenagers before it finally gave up.

I went to an appliance store and asked for another freezer that would last that long. I kid you not, this was the salesperson’s reply: “Ma’am, we don’t make them to last that long anymore.”

Our dryer has been chugging away for over 25 years. It’s noisy and simple but whenever I look at new dryers, I choke at the price tag.

Then I realize a new, expensive model will only last a couple of years. I might as well hang on to the old one because I know it’ll hold up.

It seems electronics are built to be useful until the newest cell phone, tablet or laptop hits the market. Even though you’re happy with your old model, manufacturers make it difficult to keep them.

You can’t get replacement parts any more or they change the port size so your tried-and-true flash drives and devices no longer work.

We have a box of cords that no longer fit any electronic devices, but I have a hard time throwing them away. Every upgrade requires a different cord. It’s impossible to keep up.

There are warranties you can buy when you purchase an item. I still laugh about the $4 three-hole puncher I bought that offered a protection plan for only $6.

Then we must keep up with the warranty. My desk looks like a tornado touched down, so I’d never find that warranty if I put it in one of the desk’s nooks and crannies. Even though I have a filing cabinet, I don’t think I could fit another piece of paper in there.

Besides, few companies issue paper warranties these days. Everything’s electronic, and my email box is fuller than a tick on a summer day.

Until the studs and dry wall are completely dry, we’ve got a gaping hole in the ceiling, a dehumidifier fan blowing 24/7 and a fine coating of dry wall dust covering the counters, floor, light fixtures and ceiling fan blades.

We signed up for a new roof, but when the contractor told me this one was sure to last at least 20 years, all I could do was laugh.

I’ve learned warranties these days are about as valuable as believing Santa or the Easter Bunny is going to deliver a dryer or new freezer that’ll last another 25 years.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.