Almost everyone is busy preparing for the coming school year.

School administrators are scrambling to fill the remaining vacancies on their campuses. To say they’d offer a reserved parking spot, weekly spa treatments and a free Thanksgiving turkey to a qualified applicant is an understatement.

Bus drivers and crossing guards are desperately needed as are cafeteria workers and special education aides. The pay for these positions isn’t nearly what these angels are worth.

Teachers are attending professional development sessions where energetic instructors show PowerPoints and use hands-on activities about the latest and greatest theories in how to get kids excited about learning.

The only thing the audience can think about, though, is how they’re never going to get their room set up when they’re spending all their time listening to someone preach.

Parents are staying up late shopping online for Crayola Crayons – only the boxes with 24 original colors, please – colored folders with brads and Ticonderoga pre-sharpened pencils.

They’re questioning why they have to buy a dozen boxes of Kleenex and a case of hand sanitizer. They forget that if one child has the sniffles, the whole class is infected, and teachers can kiss an entire box of tissues goodbye in an hour.

The easiest component in the back-to-school preparation track are the kids. Most get ready for school by wishing their friends are in their classes and that they have a nice teacher.

There’s no shortage of advice about how to have a successful school year.

One of my favorite pieces of advice is to establish routines and consistency. At home, that’s easier said than done when factoring in baseball and soccer practice, traffic jams and last-minute school projects that require at least two after-dinner trips to the store.

Professionals suggest teachers set up a calming learning environment. That’s all fine until a child decides to throw a hissy fit and rip down all the motivational posters on the wall.

Yes, teachers should create a positive and welcoming classroom environment. That’s possible with a smile, easy-going attitude and making sure the kids know you’re happy to be there.

Parents should limit screen time, but sometimes, mom and dad need a breather.

Of all the advice I’ve seen, read, taken or ignored, getting ready for the school year boils down to a couple of sentences.

Don’t sweat the small stuff. Can’t find those pre-sharpened pencils? There will be a pencil sharpener in the classroom.

Don’t understand the computer programs the school district expects you to master so you can contact a teacher? A hand-written letter still works.

Teachers, worried about not having time to set your classroom up exactly as you want?

No worries.

Allow your students to help put the final touches on the room. It might not look like something the seasoned teacher down the hall has or a picture you saw on Pinterest, but it’ll be a space your students will call their own.

The old adage that kids will long remember how you made them feel is absolutely true. Treat them like an experiment and they’ll resent you for not seeing them as a person.

Not every kid comes to school having had a hearty breakfast and a leisurely morning. Never forget that kids and parents are usually doing the best they can under their current circumstances.

Teachers, remember that children need your smile and your grace, both emotionally and in the amount of work you send home. Don’t forget to send home a praising note or make a praising phone call every once in a while.

Administrators, grant your teachers and staff leeway so they can be innovative and creative.

Parents, please give teachers mercy because some of them are parents as well as professionals. Offer to help instead of criticizing.

Take a deep breath and remember… no matter what piece of the educational puzzle you are, it takes everyone working together to put the big picture together.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

With rainy days followed by hot, humid weather, I stayed indoors and tackled some of the long-overdue household chores on my to-do list.

As school is right around the corner, I decided to use the tried-and-true method of A-F grading. Here’s my Housekeeping Report Card for the Summer of 2024.

Laundry – A – I’m a weirdo who enjoys doing the laundry. There’s a feeling of accomplishment watching a pile of smelly, wet clothes transform into folded, dry stacks of clean clothes.

Vacuuming – F – Why vacuum something I’m going to walk on over and over again? Besides, we have brown carpet and light brown tiles in the house so the dirt is practically invisible.

Mopping – F – See note on vacuuming.

Dusting – F – As my friend Patsy likes to say, dust is a protective covering on furniture. Our furniture is over 40 years old and still looks great. Underneath layers of dust, that is. I’m tempted to raise this grade to an A, but in terms of housekeeping, it’s a definite fail.

Rearranging pillows on the couch – A – I don’t go to bed unless the pillows on the couch are arranged in a specific way. Maybe if I spent more time vacuuming than rearranging pillows, our house would be cleaner.

Making the Bed – A+ – I never made my bed when I was a teenager. My husband convinced me that making the bed in the morning was a good start to the day. He’s been right about a lot of things. This is one of them.

Washing windows – D – The only reason I didn’t get an “F” here is because I occasionally wash the inside windows and the windows on the patio door. Toddler handprints have a way of being quite evident.

Cleaning the Fridge – C+ – I’ve improved in this household chore, mostly because it’s just the two of us here, so there’s not as much food in the refrigerator.

Maintaining an orderly pantry – D – I try, I really try to put things in the same place in the pantry after each shopping trip. But when there’s a sale on something and I buy a dozen cans, things must push aside to make room. That’s not always an orderly shove.

Closets – B- – The grandkids have closets in their rooms, and for the most part, those stay orderly. However, whenever they come over to play, forget order. Legos, swords, cars, trucks and plastic fruit are all over the place. When they go home, I shove everything in the closet and shut the door.

The Kitchen Table – A – I make sure the table is cleared every evening after dinner with plastic fruit in a bowl and napkins in the middle of the table. Now if leaving my laptop, notebook, pens, headphones and mouse on the table count as cluttered, then this grade could easily be lowered to a C.

Bathrooms – B – Of all the household chores I avoid, cleaning the bathroom isn’t at the bottom of the list. I procrastinate, but once I get going, I don’t mind swishing the bowl, cleaning toothpaste out of the basin and Windexing the spit off the mirror.

My Car – C – I could blame my messy car on my grandchildren who ride with me quite a bit. But they’re not responsible for the gum wrappers in the front cup holder, the discarded grocery lists or the unfolded blanket, two umbrellas and extra pillow I carry around for emergencies.

Kitchen Drawers – B – I don’t have fancy dividers or holders in most of the drawers. For spatulas and big spoons, they’re tossed in the drawer well enough so the drawer closes. I do have a holder for forks and knives, but when a toddler helps unload the dishwasher, all bets are off.

When I add everything up, I’m passing and that’s good enough for me.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

News reports are constantly ringing the doom-and-gloom bell.

There’s good reasons.

Inflation is on the rise, people are still without electricity after the hurricane, and the mosquitoes have multiplied faster than lightning.

As depressing as these realities are, there’s some recent news that hit a little closer.

I don’t want to believe Houston writer and columnist Ken Hoffman died.

When we first moved to Houston 30 years ago, we subscribed to the Houston Post. At that time, Hoffman was a breath of fresh air.

The columnist wrote about everyday problems and annoyances, always taking a humorous spin. He wrote about the best kind of fast food to eat in the car, food reviews about affordable places people visited and finding the tastiest carnival food.

Hoffman regularly profiled a dog needing to be adopted, and the pups he profiled had a 100 percent adoption rate.

He published a book, “You Want Fries With That?” and, as usual, poked good-natured fun at the trials and tribulations of maneuvering through life.

His take on the human condition was spot on, and I don’t want to believe he’s no longer with us.

I don’t want to believe exercise guru Richard Simmons has passed away. I remember when the sequin-draped Simmons burst on the exercise scene back in the 80s.

He was funny, relatable and his routines were easy to follow. On his television show, he wasn’t afraid to cover touchy subjects about weight and body image.

He readily shared his painful journey of being an overweight teenager and the tough struggle to establish himself as a serious celebrity. I loved watching his exercise videos, Sweatin’ to the Oldies, and laughing at his self-deprecating humor.

He had become a recluse and was in poor health, and his passing leaves a void in the world.

I don’t want to believe Dr. Ruth Westheimer is gone.

The respected author, sex therapist and talk show host was a pioneer forty years ago when only men dominated the air waves and the therapist’s office.

She answered questions about sex honestly and didn’t back away from sensitive subjects.

Dr. Ruth was a tiny Jewish grandmother, an immigrant to this country who worked as a maid to help pay for her education. She was the last person you’d think could give out advice about intimacy, but she did so in a way that made people feel comfortable talking about sex.

I don’t want to believe someone tried to assassinate a former U.S. president, a current presidential candidate.

It doesn’t matter whether you’re a Democrat, Republican, Libertarian, or someone who abstains from politics.

Shooting at someone while they’re surrounded by innocent people, simply because you disagree with what they’re saying, is unacceptable.

Shooting at children while they’re in a classroom is intolerable.

Shooting at people while they’re praying in church is evil.

Shooting innocent people, no matter where they are, when they are or who they are, is an abomination.

Period.

I can’t believe we even have to make that declaration.

But we do.

I want to believe we are better than the lowest common denominator of society.

I want to believe writers like Ken Hoffman will be remembered for the smiles and laughter he brought to the world.

I want to believe Richard Simmons and Dr. Ruth Westheimer will be remembered for helping people feel better.

Despite the pessimism, sad news and anger in the world, I don’t want to accept this is the best we can offer the world.

We’re capable of being better.

We need to make that change now.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

It’s dark outside. The wind is howling, almost in agony, and the rain is pelting against the windows.

I can hear the big trees around our house pushing and groaning, the wind punishing them as much as it is the house.

Hurricane Beryl is here, and I’m scared.

For days, we’ve been watching a tropical storm develop in the Gulf of Mexico. Early predictions had the storm heading into Mexico.

Then the storm inched its way north, and Corpus Christi was the entry point.

The fates intervened with an open door straight into the Houston area.

Like everyone, we got busy.

We tied the outdoor furniture to a big tree in the back of the yard and moved lighter things into the garage.

We made sure we had gas in the cars, bottled water, drinks, snacks and chips.

Lots of chips.

After that awful February freeze, we bit the bullet and bought a generator, a decision I haven’t regretted one minute.

Sunday night, we went to sleep, knowing when we woke up, the world would be different.

And it was.

About 3 a.m., the winds and rains started. At first, like a tapping at the door.

By the time 5 a.m. came around, the tapping had turned to pounding. We could hear the wind as it screeched and big branches groaning.

Not being able to see what was happening was terrifying. Horror writers have known what happens in the dark is always scarier than what happens in the daylight.

As dawn broke through, it was worse than I thought. I could see the towering pecan trees around our house swaying and bending.

To watch these old trees trying to withstand 40-mile-an-hour winds was both reassuring and scary.

I’m especially watching the sycamore tree our grandson planted a few years ago. It’s taller than our house, and now it looks like it’s made out of a rubber band.

If trees are like people, it’s better to bend than not bend and break. Let’s hope the trees know that.

At the beginning of the storm, we had internet access, and the radar was nothing but orange, red and dark yellow all around the Houston area.

We tuned in to the Houston news stations, and they were reporting outages, unbelievable as the homes without power went from the thousands to the millions.

What’s crazy is there are people driving in the storm. Either these people are incredibly stupid or there’s an emergency. That’s the only reason why someone would be driving in the middle of a hurricane.

Without warning, the wind comes roaring  through the yard, and everything in the house rattles and shakes. Then I notice the Mexican plum tree that’s provided so much shade over our pool is on its side, yanked out and thrown down by the wind.

Whenever the wind gusts, the small branches of the shrubs outside our kitchen window knock on the window, almost begging to come in.

Finally, the wind dies down, and the rain eases up. It’s the eye of the hurricane, and its eerily calm outside. We walked outside to assess the damage and see a huge limb blocking our driveway.

I hear a sound, and our neighbor, Arthur, and his teenage sons Luke and Kyle have arrived, chainsaws in hand. They saw our driveway was blocked and came to help. In times like this, having neighbors who come to the rescue is worth more than gold.

Soon, the rain starts to pick back up and so does the wind. It’s not as angry as it was a few hours ago, and we know the storm will soon be over.

We head back inside and thank the good Lord our home and lives were spared and pray others sustained little or no damage.

Later that afternoon, as I’m sitting at the kitchen table, my husband noticed a hummingbird darting in and out of the now calm bushes. I wondered where that little fella was during the storm, but he made it through.

And so will we.

Neighbors will help friends, the power will come back on, we’ll all replant and replace.

We made it.

 

Denise’s email is dhadams1955@yahoo.com

 

To my grandfather, Henry Eade, the Fourth of July was a day to celebrate. Every year, he retold the story of how he came to America as a young boy.

His family was leaving Lebanon, a war-torn, poor country. My great-grandfather believed they could have a better way of life in America.

My grandfather remembers seeing the Statue of Liberty from the bow of the boat and crying tears of hope.

I’m glad my grandfather doesn’t have to hear people say the Fourth is only good for getting out of work, barbecuing and setting off fireworks.

Perhaps there’s some truth to those statements. But like many traditions and celebrations, the feelings of gratitude and freedom from tyranny can be forgotten underneath the pageantry.

Fifty-six men signed the Declaration of Independence. Most of the statements were revolutionary. Those who signed risked quite a bit by signing their names to a declaration that called out the king of the most powerful country in the world.

Because of their bravery, America was established.

Here we are, almost 250 years later, and I wonder what they’d think of how our country’s behaving.

Political parties put their affiliation, wallet and the candidate before what’s best for the country.

People refuse to stand for the Pledge of Allegiance or when the American flag passes in front of them in a parade.

It might seem we’re falling deeper into apathy. But we’ve had shining moments.

On May 8, 1945, people in America and around the world celebrated to mark the end of World War II in Europe. My mom said her hometown celebrated the end of the war, proud of what America had helped defeat.

After the horrific events of Sept. 11, 2001, people cried when “America” or “The Star Spangled Banner” was played.

A lot has changed since then, and so many people feel disenfranchised from what America was supposed to be.

But there are those who still believe.

There was an engineer at the chemical plant where I worked back in the 1980s. Rumor had it that he’d escaped from a communist country and had been granted political asylum.

One day, I asked him how he’d come to America and what, if any, rumors were true.

He said in his country, people were free to go to dinner and talk about politics.

But you never knew who was listening.

Later, there would be a knock on the door. You were taken away and never seen again. He decided he’d had enough, and he made plans to leave.

With only the clothes on his back and money in his pocket, he waited under cover of night at a checkpoint. When the guard passed, he ran like the wind to freedom. The guard was yelling at him to stop or he’d shoot, but this man kept going.

He said the next week, someone was crossing at that point and the guard shot and killed that person. But the man I was talking to made it to freedom.

He risked his life to come to this country and never looked back. For him, the freedoms we enjoy were worth leaving everything he knew and all the people he loved.

This Fourth of July, I’m going to celebrate that America has flaws. America has a lot of things that need to change. But she’s still the country my grandfather and my friend dreamed of and where they found success and freedom.

Is this a perfect country.

Nope.

But we’re still working on what those 56 signers of the Declaration of Independence demanded.

And one day, we’ll get there.

 

Denise’s email is dhadams1955@yahoo.com

 

I’m afraid of snakes.

Make that terrified of snakes.

The thought of accidentally stumbling across something slithering two feet in front of my shoes scares the fire out of me.

I was scrolling through Facebook one day and saw a suggestion to join a Texas Snake Identification page.

This is a public group with over 126,000 members. Their goal is to “provide accurate information regarding snakes that are native to our Great State of Texas.”

There’s a few rules – no selling or buying of snakes and no abuse of members. They genuinely want to help people learn how to identify snakes.

Most people post where in Texas the snake was found and ask for identification. Mostly, they want to know if the snake can kill them.

Knowledge, as they say, is power.

Intrigued, I timidly hit the follow button.

The first post was a picture of a long, thick brown snake in someone’s back yard.

I backed away from the screen in horror and clicked away from the snake back to funny toddler videos.

But later, I returned to the site, telling myself these are only pictures, not real snakes. Instead of being afraid, perhaps I could learn about the different types of snakes.

Or I’d be traumatized for life.

The more I scrolled through the site, the more I learned. People post a lot of pictures every day. Folks genuinely want to know what kind of snake they found hiding near their back door or, horrors of horrors, in their laundry room.

Administrators usually post answers within minutes. They’ll identify the snake by a common name and then the scientific name. They also include whether the snake is harmless or venomous.

Knowledgeable herpetologists explain the different patterns and what the colors mean. They often point out the size and shape of the eyes and head. They even describe the different nose holes and dispel myths about snakes.

Someone posted that they thought poisonous snakes had triangular shaped heads. Even harmless snakes – yes, there are lots of those – can flatten their heads to appear venomous and dangerous.

I didn’t know snakes were clever.

Great, one more thing for my nightmares.

I’m amazed at people who get close to unfamiliar snakes to get a better picture. I cringed when someone posted that you can tell something about a snake if you look closely at its lips.

They have lips?

Oh Lord, no.

I’d never get close enough to a snake to check to see if it had lips or eyelids. To check for eyelids, you’d have to wait long enough to watch the snake blink.

Today, for the first time, I correctly identified a snake by looking at the picture. I remembered someone posted information about the coloration and designs on a rat snake and, yep, this was a beneficial rat snake.

Recently, I spotted a small coral snake on the road when I was riding my bike. I screamed bloody murder and pedaled as fast as I could to get around it.

But I knew what kind of snake it was.

I still laugh hysterically when someone’s relieved that a seven-foot-long slithering creature in their laundry room is a good thing.

But with the help of the Texas Snake Identification page, I’m discovering knowledge can help overcome fear.

Until I come face to face with another snake.

Then, knowledge or ignorance, it’s run for the hills.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I know exactly what she’s thinking.

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

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

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

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

However, I still obey the speed limit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They used the big ones.

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

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

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

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

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

 

  This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Somebody’s always watching.

Retailers know all your buying habits.

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

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

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

All from one search to understand what I was reading.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald 

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

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

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

That was the only good news in this article.

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

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

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

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

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

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

What a world.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.