There are casualties when vacuuming.

Dust bunnies, dog hair and M&M’s hiding underneath the couch are the usual victims. I didn’t expect my son’s first guitar to be on the injured list the last time I hauled out the vacuum cleaner.

Chris moved his guitars back to our house while doing some home renovations. Unfortunately, his empty house caught on fire in the middle of the night and everything – his clothes, furniture and the entire house – was destroyed.

After the shock wore off, I was relieved he’d brought his guitars to our house, some of which he’d had since high school. This Ibanez guitar was the first one we’d bought him in high school.

Chris was fascinated with the guitar ever since his older brother started taking lessons. Chris would sneak into his brother’s room and play around on the guitar. He was pretty good, and when his birthday rolled around, we bought him that Ibanez from a pawn shop and signed him up for lessons.

A quick learner with a natural aptitude for the guitar, Chris was lucky to take lessons from an incredible guitar teacher, Steve Nicosia, and played until his fingers bled.

Late at night, when the house was quiet, I could hear Chris in his room, strumming and practicing songs over and over again. I knew that Ibanez was his way of coping with an often-tough world, and hearing him bring music to life was an incredible gift for me.

The afternoon I broke the guitar, I was in a hurry. I knew when I propped the guitar against the wall it was a mistake. I accidentally knocked the guitar over with the hose of the vacuum cleaner, and the “crack” I heard was like a punch in the stomach.

I picked up the guitar and saw the neck was broken. Chris kept reassuring me it was okay, but I knew that guitar was dear to his heart. I looked up guitar repair shops and left messages with numerous shops.

The next day, a friendly voice called back and said he’d be happy to look at the guitar. No promises, but he’d let me know if the guitar was worth saving.

I found Neil Sergeant at Professional Guitar Repair. A smiling man with a blonde ponytail opened the door and welcomed me in. It was like stepping back into the 1960s – guitar cases were stacked on the floor and colorful posters from dozens of bands lined the walls. Dusty shelves held an ample supply of replacement guitar parts and every tool and oil associated with guitars.

Neil tenderly took the guitar from my hands and put it on a padded work bench. He ran his hands over the wood and noted the Ibanez was from the 1970s but seemed to be in pretty good shape.

A cracked neck is common, he explained, as he efficiently removed the headstock, pegs and tuners. As he worked, we chatted. He said he’d originally gone to school to learn how to build guitars, but, over the years, he became fascinated with repairing them.

Corporate America wasn’t for him, he said, and I caught glimpses of the 1960s culture throughout our conversation. Neil was open and honest, and seeing how he expertly handled my son’s guitar, a virtuoso.

There aren’t many sole proprietors around these days, and Neil Sargent is one of the guys that makes America run. He was so much fun to talk with, and I left there feeling like I’d rediscovered an old friend.

Fingers are crossed that Chris will be strumming that guitar again and teaching his children to play and love the guitar, just as he did.

That love can start with a beloved 1970s Ibanez guitar, expertly put back together by a cool cat named Neil Sargent.

         This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

How does Janet do it?

Janet is my sister-in-law and the family’s official baker. Others in my family are good in the kitchen, but Janet’s often the one who arrives at gatherings with a plate of perfectly baked, delicious chocolate chip cookies.

In my roles as mom and grandmother, I’ve probably baked at least 200 cakes, dozens of cookies and an occasional pie. Most were courtesy of a box mix, but on special occasions, I go the extra mile and bake from scratch.

Last night, I wanted to make some end-of-the-school-year treats, so I decided to go old school, figuring I could probably still whip up a decent dessert.

I had a package of semi-sweet chocolate chips in the pantry, and I knew they’d print a cookie recipe on the back. Even though the ingredient list looked long, I knew I had everything, so I went to work.

First, the flour and sugar. The canisters on the counter were almost empty, so I decided to fill them up first. That resulted in my spilling flour all over the counter. Thinking I’d get a little smarter, I decided to pour the sugar straight into the measuring cup from the bag.

Mistake. The sugar came out in a rush and I spilled sugar all over the counter that mixed in with the flour.

The recipe called for ¾ cup of brown sugar, but after measuring, there was some left in the bag. I told myself it didn’t matter if I poured all the rest of that brown sugar in the bowl. I stacked the rest of the dry ingredients next to the bowl.

Then it was time to beat the butter.  I’d forgotten to take two sticks out of the refrigerator. A minute in the microwave softened the butter right up, probably a bit too much, but I confidently added the white sugar and reached into the fridge for an egg.

I accidentally dropped the egg, stopped, cleaned it up and went back to the recipe. But I’d lost track of where I was. Had I added the baking powder? What about the salt? The problem, I told myself, was too many ingredients.

I was facing a counter crowded with vanilla, oil, Crisco, measuring spoons, pot holders, cooling racks and the dinner dishes. I thought I’d added everything, so I moved on to the baking part.

The directions called for an ungreased cookie sheet, so I took them at their word. I finally got the cookies in the oven, set the timer and filled up another baking sheet.

I bravely and foolishly thought since I’d dragged out the baking pans, I might as well make brownies to go along with the cookies.

Luckily, I had a box mix for that and mixed it up – only two ingredients – whew.

I peeked in the oven. The cookies were as flat as a pancake.

“Maybe they puff up in the last couple of minutes of cooking time,” I thought.

That was incorrect.

When I tried to get the first batch of cookies off the baking sheet, they wouldn’t budge. I thought I’d have to get a hammer and scraper to get those cookies off. I quickly yanked the second pan out of the oven, took the raw cookies off and put some parchment paper down.

Back in the oven they went, and I put the crumbled cookies on a plate for my husband. He’s used to my disasters in the kitchen. I told him those crumbs would make great ice cream toppings.

He pretended to believe me.

When the last pan of cookies was finished – all as flat as a plate – I put the brownies in for the time called for on the box. Twenty minutes later, they seemed to be done.

I let them cool, but when I tried to cut them, it was like trying to cut mud. I added clumps of slightly underdone brownies to the plate of cookie crumbs and consoled myself with the fact that my husband would have a great ice cream sundae.

Everything tasted okay, but the kitchen was in shambles. I had flour, sugar and egg all over my shirt, I’d dirtied four baking pans, all the measuring cups, three bowls, a Pyrex baking dish and a dozen spoons and knives.

Home-made might sound heavenly, but the next time I have a desire to bake something special, I know exactly what to do.

Call Janet.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

I was in the doctor’s waiting room recently and, as always, there’s a variety of people anxiously awaiting their turn to see a physician.

On the couch to my left was a young couple. Both husband and wife were glued to their cell phones, seldom talking, but I’ve come to accept that as the new norm because they were probably texting each other.

On the next row over, a 60-something-year old man in designer clothing was filling out paperwork while his stylishly dressed wife waited next to him.

She kept tossing her hair back – that’s what caught my attention – and I watched them for a while as they went back and forth to the nurse’s desk.

She was holding something in her hand the whole time they walked around, and I realized it was a giant container of gum.

Sure enough, she was chomping away, and she did so the whole time we were all there – over three hours. Everybody, I realized, has their own way to cope with stress.

A middle-aged couple came in, and it was obvious they’d been in a motorcycle accident. The man was limping, carrying two scuffed-up helmets, and both he and his wife had huge bandages on their forearms and elbows.

Two EMTs accompanied them, and it wasn’t hard to figure out an ambulance had transported them to the office, not their Harley.

While I was busy observing other people, I kept hearing someone burping, and burping loudly.

My mom reared me to be polite, so I didn’t turn around at first. But after a half hour of non-stop burps, I looked to see who was belching with abandon.

It was an elderly woman, probably in her 80s, and she hadn’t a care in the world about venting the gas in her tummy.

She’d open her mouth, let out a loud burp and go right back to visiting with her son while eating a take-out dinner.

At first, I was embarrassed for her. It’s considered bad manners to burp that loudly in public without saying “excuse me.”

Maybe she didn’t realize what she was doing, but when she started issuing orders to the grown man and woman accompanying her, there wasn’t a doubt she had all her faculties.

And, in between the orders, she continued to belch without once saying “excuse me.”

Maybe she had the right idea.

At her age, who cares what anybody else thinks about a normal bodily function? She obviously didn’t, and she didn’t hesitate a minute when the nurse asked if she needed anything.

“An Alka-Seltzer,” I thought to myself.

“A blanket,” she said. “It’s cold in here.”

The woman was right – it was freezing in that waiting room, but she was the only one with enough nerve to ask for what she wanted.

A few minutes later, the nurse gently covered her with a warmed blanket that she settled into with, of course, a few more belches and burps.

Maybe we need to stop apologizing for things we have no control over. I find myself apologizing to people all the time when they walk in front of me, when I have to squeeze past them in the movie theater or when I do something I’m not sorry for but I feel I have to offer an apology.

The next time I feel a belch coming on, I’ll see if I can let loose and not say “I’m sorry” a dozen times.

Perhaps I can follow this woman’s lead, burp and keep right on doing what I was doing.

What’ll really happen is I’ll think about her when I burp, all alone in the living room, and then apologize to the couch.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

High school musicals and concerts are underrated.

Here in our community, music and theater lovers can find shows, performers and concerts that are right up there with anything you’d find in Houston.

Sure there’s a few off-key notes and missteps, but that’s to be expected from teens who are still learning the process.

I went to two free performances this spring – choir and band – and got more than I expected. The teens knew their cues, how to perform on stage and demonstrated proper theater etiquette.

Thanks to social media, I’m not quite sure audiences understand what they should do and shouldn’t do.

Almost everybody is recording the show on their cell phone. They seem to be totally oblivious to the fact that their cell phone lights up and is distracting in a dark auditorium.

They’re so busy recording, making sure the phone’s in focus and they’re getting the sound right, they’re missing the magic of the music.

Music has the ability to transport us to another place – sometimes it’s a calming place, if we’re listening to an orchestra, and other times it’s a place of excitement if we’re watching “Hairspray.”

Cell phones have created a barrier between us and the performers, and not just in the theater. We have a cell phone out all the time to capture every moment, and, as a result, we are losing the human touch.

At Little League baseball games, parents no longer visit in the stands. They’re too busy filming the game on their cell phones, uploading the pictures and videos to social media or checking their email for the latest buzz on an always updating news feed.

Few want to be bothered with talking to a stranger.

People walking or running around the park usually have ear buds on, listening to podcasts or music instead of the leaves rustling in the wind.

Maybe there’s no contest between bees buzzing and Lady Gaga, but we are sacrificing the interaction with the world around us for social media gossip that’ll be forgotten in hours.

Which brings me back to the band concert. After the first song started, I caught something out of the corner of my eye.

A woman on the third row, right in the middle of the theater, was leaning forward in her seat, her cell phone held above her head, filming the performance.

She didn’t just film one song, she filmed the entire concert. Four people behind her tried seeing around her arm up in the air, but they couldn’t, so they moved.

This woman never noticed there were other people around her.

That’s when I realized having cell phones out to record life was more the norm than sitting quietly and absorbing the music as an engaged group.

I struggle with finding the balance between capturing the milestone events on video and putting the phone or camera away to see everything with my eyes instead of through a lens.

I understand parents want to capture a special event so they can to watch their child over and over again. Those videos and films become more precious as the years go by. There are VHS tapes I have of family Christmases from years ago I guard with my life.

The video, however, was secondary to being there with my family, interacting, talking, gossiping and eavesdropping on all the other conversations around the room.

It’s easy to capture every moment of our lives on video and share it on social media. We have to be careful that in sharing every morsel of our lives we no longer have a private, personal life.

But I still want memories on film, so I have some advice.

Film the show, but do so as quietly as you can. Greet those sitting around you and ask if your filming will be disruptive.

Position the phone between your chin and your chest so as to not block others behind you. Dim your screen if you can.

And, look up from time to time.

It’s a beautiful world out there.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

They’re little.

Tiny almost.

No bigger than the head of a pin.

But when they bite, that attack can swell up to the size of a lemon.

I’m not talking about mosquitoes.

I’m talking about those little black gnats that crawl all over your face, up your nose, and in your eyes the second you step outside.

Annoying doesn’t even come close to describing their effect. As if we didn’t have enough aggravating situations in life.

Traffic for one. If I had a dollar for every orange cone in the state of Texas, I could retire a billionaire tomorrow.

Just about the time crews finish a section of road, the cones go up on the next section, and there’s gridlock traffic all over again.

Near our house, they rerouted traffic to the shoulder for a quarter mile. We drive over rumble strips cut into the asphalt while they’re working on the west-bound traffic.

The noise from the tires bumping over the rumble strips would wake the dead.

Anybody driving on Highway 59 can attest to the headache around narrow lanes with concrete barriers on both sides of the road.

I feel like I’m being squished through a sausage maker, especially when there’s an 18-wheeler barreling past me.

Once we get to where we’re going, we get to stand in long lines and deal with people who do not understand the concept of the next person in line should go to the next open cashier.

Not the person on their cell phone who runs up to the check-out lines and believes because they were already in motion they should go next.

Wrong.

Wait your turn because your behavior is annoying.

People talking loudly on a cell phone in a waiting room or in line is annoying. You might think you’re talking quietly, but you’re not.

Everyone five feet around you can hear everything you’re saying and, sometimes, we can hear the person on the other end of the conversation.

In no particular order, here are some other things that are annoying:  having it rain right after you washed your car. Pulling up to the ATM machine on a Friday afternoon and finding out it’s out of cash. Finally mopping the floor and then having the kids run in with muddy shoes.

Repeating yourself to someone who’s distracted but assures you they’re paying attention. Getting stuck at a red light next to a teenager blaring music so loud, your car vibrates.

Waiting for a delivery that’s supposed to come between 9 a.m. and 6 p.m., and you get a text message at 5:55 p.m. that the delivery is postponed until the next day.

Reading comments online about who lives and dies in “The Endgame.” At this point, if you haven’t seen “The Endgame,” time’s up for asking people not to reveal the ending. You’ve had plenty of time to see it.

A mosquito in the bedroom at night is annoying as are mosquitoes almost all the time. Sure, those insects are great for the birds, but explain that to the itchy red bump on my cheek that’s right next to the gnat bite on my forehead.

There are some ways around the annoyances. Stay off of Highway 59 and take Highway 90 instead. Enjoy the few minutes the car and floor are clean instead of concentrating on the dirt. Stop reading online comments about movies or shows until you’ve seen them.

And buy “Bugg” or use vanilla – both will repel those annoying little gnats.

When someone pulls up next to you at the red light blaring their music, crank up your radio and blare NPR back at them.

Hopefully it’s during pledge week – that’ll annoy anybody.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

My mother claims Mother’s Day was invented by greedy greeting card companies. She could be right, but having a day when we honor our mothers is a grand gesture.

Our ideals about motherhood are all over the place, especially in these days of social media where parents create the perfect cake, decorate a color-coordinated room on 50 cents and have time to build custom shoe closets.

Moms shouldn’t worry about what other people think, but it’s not easy to ignore our mothering skills when we feel we’re being compared to the mom down the street who grocery shops in Spandex, cooks organic food, has a job outside the home and still volunteers at the school.

When my boys were young, just getting them to school with matching shoes felt like a major accomplishment.

Instead of living up to some pie-in-the-sky model, it’s reality-check time.

Here’s some friendly advice for moms, and dads too, that will hopefully relieve some of the guilt associated with parenting, the most rewarding non-paying life-long job in the world.

Stretch marks are okay. They never fade, so don’t believe the hype in the back of magazines. Cellulite is also okay, so wear shorts with a swagger in your step.

Being tired is okay. When a mom’s day starts before dawn and includes getting sleepy kids out of bed in the dark, making sure grouchy children are dressed and backpacks and lunches are gathered for school, all before 8 a.m., that’s more work than some people do in a week.

Being cranky is okay. When you’ve been up all night with a teething infant, a child with projectile vomiting or a smart-mouthed teenager who loves sneaking out of the house, it’s okay to be a bit crabby at two in the afternoon.

Having a messy purse is okay. A woman’s banged-up handbag often resembles a five-and-dime store as it serves as a depository for toys, extra diapers, pacifiers and Zip-lock bags of Cheerios, some of which opened in her purse.

Over the years, my purse has been used as a pillow, second base, a booster seat in a restaurant and a door stop. No way I’m paying big bucks for an accessory that does all that.

It’s okay if you’ve forgotten to brush your teeth or your hair in the morning. It’s also okay to tell your child “no,” “your face will freeze like that,” “I said so” and “do I look like I’m kidding.”

On really stressful days, it’s okay to ride home from work with the windows rolled up while you scream at the top of your lungs.

It might not be healthy to eat ice cream straight out of the carton after sounding out every word in “Mr. Popper’s Penguins,” but a parent has to do what a parent has to do.

This year, let’s concentrate on what we should do:  sing and play with our children.

Honor traditions or create new ones for holidays and special occasions.

Make sure our children know they are loved, praised when they do right and enlightened when they do wrong.

They should know how to hold a fork and knife correctly, to chew with their mouths closed and to say “excuse me” when they burp.

They should know how powerful the words “I’m sorry” can be and that one should carry an elderly person’s groceries but not another person’s guilt.

They should know hugs make some of the worst hurts feel better. They learn that lesson when you hug them after a terrible day and when they hug you when you’ve had a rotten day.

They should also know their mother loves them and that they are the last thought she has every night before she goes to sleep.

So here’s to all the sleep-deprived moms and dads with worry lines who not only have stretch marks but knows how to stretch the family’s budget.

Happy Mother’s Day.

You are appreciated and loved.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

My grandmother often stayed with us during the summers. Those were memorable times as she was fun, strict, a bit irreverent, and always smelled like Chanel No. 5.

She didn’t like to get up early, but she was always bathed and ready for 12:30 p.m. because that’s when “The Edge of Night” came on television.

We knew better than to disturb her when Mike and Nancy were on the screen.

People often laugh at those who get addicted to the “soaps,” but those half-hour dramas are a part of numerous cultures, no matter what they’re called.

In high school, I became a devout watcher of “The Young and The Restless.” The show featured fresh and strong women with great hair who didn’t bother with bras.

Plus hunk Tom Selleck was a regular on the show.

My siblings were forbidden from making any excess noise from 11-11:30 a.m. because Lori, Leslie, Phillip and Jill would be battling out life.

I loved that soap so much, I scheduled my college classes around “TY&R.”  After my parents started watching TY&TR, I switched over to “General Hospital.” I couldn’t see myself discussing forbidden love with my parents.

The show was a favorite of mine for years. I remember a conversation I had in the grocery store with three women waiting in three different lines about “General Hospital’s” Luke and Laura.

The entire country was mesmerized by the story line of “who shot J.R.” from the night-time soap “Dallas.” My friends and family were glued to the T.V. when the season premiere aired with the answer of who’d shot the evil megalomaniac from the “Big D.”

That was followed by “Knot’s Landing,” “Everwood,” and “Falcon Crest.” Women over the age of 50 better belly up to the bar and admit they had at least one dress with big shoulder pads, courtesy of Linda Evans from “Dynasty.”

Although I’ve never seen one episode of “Downton Abbey,” the PBS series has thousands of viewers who read the online message boards, dress like their favorite characters and – like me in college – wouldn’t miss an episode of their soap, I mean drama.

The daytime soaps these days still revolve around sex, greed and smoldering looks between good looking people. Come to think of it, so do the night-time and premium channel soaps.

The only real difference between “The Kardashians” and “The Guiding Light” is the amount of wardrobe money and hair spray allotted to the stars.

Which brings me to the current popular soap, HBO’s “Game of Thrones.” People might not think GOT is a soap, but the show has a lot in common with the daytime dramas.

Both have dragons. The dragons from old soaps were the ancient matriarchs who caused trouble. GOT has fierce in-family fighting, but Victor Newman has argued and fought with every person in his family.

“The Edge of Night” had my grandmother.

“Game of Thrones” has me.

My son asked me to read the books and watch the show a few years ago so we could talk about them. I was hooked from the first episode despite its deserved “R” “rating.

People say the show is violent.

I agree.

They say there’s excess profanity.

I hear that every day in rush hour traffic, and it’s coming from my mouth.

Just like I know nobody on the daytime soaps ever cleans a toilet, I know there’s no such thing as white walkers or dire wolves.

But that’s what the world of entertainment’s all about.

Take me away, Calgon, from the constant, senseless and cruel violence in this world to the make-believe world of diamonds and pearls, flawless make up and fire-breathing dragons.

That’s what makes fiction so deliciously fun.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Recently Lamar CISD announced the names of four new schools, and they and those who nominated chose quite well.

The four new campuses are Clifton Terrell Jr. Elementary, Maxine Phelan Elementary, Harry Wright Junior High and Dr. Thomas Randle High School.

I count myself fortunate to know, or have known, all four.

Cliff Terrell was a true friend to education. I met him through this newspaper, and spent a wonderful car ride with Cliff to Wharton County Junior College one afternoon.

We talked about the future, education, children and life in general, and his outlook was optimistic and eager.

He was someone who handled a dozen different obligations with ease and grace and helped everyone from WCJC to the Boy Scouts to people in general.

Cliff passed away a few years ago, but he left a huge legacy and a definite chart to follow if one wants to make their community a better place – do what you say you’re going to do and do so with humility.

Before I met her in person, Maxine’s stellar reputation as the matriarch of the English department at Lamar CHS preceded her.

Tough and fair, knowledgeable yet always willing to learn, is what I was told. She cared deeply for her students and pushed them to go beyond what they thought they were capable of learning.

She came to the newspaper office one afternoon, and Clyde King said there was someone who wanted to meet me.

A petite woman introduced herself as Maxine Phelan. She had no idea I was the one who was awed to meet her.

I stumbled over my words, but that brilliant smile quickly put me at ease. Since that meeting, I’ve talked with Maxine and her husband, Herb, many times, and we’ve become friends.

When I was frustrated with a college grammar class, Maxine patted me on the hand and told me something I’ve never forgotten.

“New fads come and go,” she said. “Stick to the basics and you’ll be fine.”

I think she’s given hundreds of teenagers that same comforting advice over the years as well as knowledge, encouragement and a smile that lights up a room.

Harry Wright is a legend in town. He was the first principal at Terry High School and he united everyone when the school opened. I’ve seen him at sporting events and he’s a definite crowd favorite.

He is the epitome of an educator who believes in giving youngsters a chance and challenging them to do their best. I don’t think he’ll ever make it through the grocery store without at least one person thanking him for being a fantastic person and educator.

Dr. Thomas Randle has been the superintendent of the school district since 2001, and I’ll admit to being a bit in awe of him. However, when I first met him, Dr. Randle instantly put me at ease and remembers my name whenever I see him.

He visits all the campuses in the district, often taking a quick walk through the halls, talking to students along the way.

He’s legendary for the costumes he wears at the annual back-to-school convocations – race car driver, astronaut and farmer, to name a few – and he delights children every year as the Easter Bunny. There aren’t many superintendents who’d go that far to put a smile on a child’s face. He’s always challenging his teachers to get to the top of Mount Everest, in other words, never stop until you reach the top.

What these four individuals have in common is a passion about education, whether it’s in the classroom, the board room, the principal’s office or the superintendent’s office.

This community should be proud for honoring those who’ve spent their lives as down-to-earth, bona-fide teachers and educators.

Bravo Lamar CISD.

         This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

 

Like thousands around the world, I watched in sorrow as the 850-year-old Notre Dame Cathedral was engulfed in flames. The church is an icon for Catholics around the world, and especially the French.

Fire has caused some sorrow in my family, and watching helplessly as those flames in France seemed to gut the cathedral brought back memories.

Many years ago, I was visiting my grandparents. My grandfather sat by a big picture window in their library because he could see all the way down the hill by their house.

One evening, the house across the corner was on fire. He sat there calmly, watching the flames dance across the night sky.

“That’s some fire,” I said to him.

“Yes, I don’t think they can save it,” he said.

My aunt burst into the room, crying.

“Dad, your house is on fire,” she said between gulps of air.

“I know,” he said and continued looking out the window.

“You own that house?” I asked him. He told me he did. I asked how he could remain so calm.

“What’re you going to do,” he replied. “It is what it is.”

I’ve never forgotten how quiet my grandfather was as something he owned was destroyed right before his eyes.

He taught me an invaluable lesson – remain calm in an emergency and understand and accept when things are out of your control.

The second fire happened at a cabin we have in the woods. My husband was spending the night out there, and I got a call in the morning.

“There was a fire here,” he said. “But I’m okay.”

Fire fighters were quick to respond, but one section of the cabin was destroyed.              We finally figured out that flames had seeped out between the back of the fireplace and the wall.

We had no idea the structure had shifted to allow that to happen, and it was a good thing my husband saw what was happening and could call the firefighters out.

It took months to repair the damage at our cabin, but I was so grateful and thankful that my husband wasn’t injured in the blaze.

Our last run in with fire happened last summer. My husband called and quietly explained that our son’s 50-year-old house had burned to the ground.

Nobody was living there at the time, and the house had burned so fiercely and quickly, there wasn’t enough left to rebuild, much less run an investigation.

All I could do was cry.

After I calmed down, my husband convinced me that our son could have a fresh start with a new house.

A fire takes everything in its path – furniture, clothing, pictures, a feeling of safety, but you pick yourself up and go forward.

My grandfather was able to save most of the house and rent it out again. We rebuilt our cabin, and our son has started rebuilding his home. France has vowed to rebuild Notre Dame, and donations started pouring in from every nation on earth even before the flames were extinguished.

The morning after the fire at Notre Dame, a gold cross remained standing and seemingly untouched by the intense heat and flames.

People are saying the cross is a symbol of hope and, watching the light illuminate that simple cross, I believe they’re right.

Amidst the ashes, that simple gold cross is a sign that even though fire can destroy structures, the really important parts of life, the intangibles like faith and hope, cannot be destroyed.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

The bride was radiant and the groom smiled nervously. Friends and family were gathered at the Cotton Gin 116 event building in Brookshire to witness Margaret and David exchange wedding vows and begin a new life together.

The wedding was definitely a Lone Star event – both the bride and groom wore cowboy boots, and all the groomsmen wore Texas cowboy hats and vests. Guests were encouraged to dress casually in their favorite western duds, and yellow roses on all the tables reflected the theme.

As the bride walked in, she did so a little slowly as she’d broken some bones in her foot. Margaret’s foot was the last thing on her mind that evening.

She only had eyes for David and David only had eyes for her. Even though I was sitting a few rows back from where they exchanged vows, the unwavering looks that passed between them was electrifying.

They celebrated a wedding tradition I’d never seen before – both had written letters to each other, and they put the sealed letters in a wooden box to be opened on their first wedding anniversary.

They’d written how they felt about the other in the days before making their union official, and the minister told them the letters would be a great reminder of why they’d gotten married.

Their reception was spectacular. This was the first wedding reception at the newly renovated cotton gin, and the polished wooden floors were so shiny, I could see my reflection. The grounds were meticulously maintained, and the food was good and plentiful.

But the most wonderful part about the wedding was the love Margaret and David showed to each other. Even though the hall was filled with people, those two kept each other in their sight almost all the time.

I thought about all the times I’ve seen marriages go badly. Two people fall in love and make promises. Times get tough, and many bail, thinking someone new won’t cause them any trouble.

They’re mistaken.

Marriage has its share of unhappiness, but it’s worth toughing out the rough years if both people are truthful to each other and work to honor their commitment.

There’s another person who’s promised to stay through watching you sit on the side of the bed in your ratty pajamas while you cut your toenails.

They stick with you when there’s not enough money to pay the car note, you unexpectedly lose your job or you need a root canal and there’s no dental insurance.

The internet displays a world of beautiful people doing beautiful things while bragging about their beautiful lives.

It’s all an illusion, and reality faces a tough competition with fantasy.

We all get crow’s feet around our eyes, a little paunch from indulging in late-night chocolate ice cream and, sooner or later, the hair goes gray and bifocals are a necessity.

For those who stick it out, they understand between the wedding vows and the retirement home there are glorious moments.

Sometimes they don’t seem as numerous as the bad ones, but knowing someone else is there and won’t desert you is worth the world.

Looking at Margaret and David, I believe they’ve found someone worth holding on to. For their honeymoon, they’re taking Route 66 to see what’s on the path far from the interstate.

I have no doubt these two know what they’re doing and that the car trip will be filled with conversation, laughter and love.

And, oh, did I mention – Margaret and David are both in their late 60s. But from the look in their eyes, they’re teenagers at heart.

Best of luck you two lovebirds. Thanks for reminding me it’s never too late to believe in love.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.