After I saw the movie “Dances with Wolves,” I knew I had to see the rugged western United States before the “wild west” disappeared. It took a while, but I finally convinced my family to make the trip, and we fell in love with the beauty of the west.

My youngest son must’ve felt the same way because he heard the same call I’d had years ago.

He’d had a rough year.

In the fall, his house burned to the ground. Luckily, no one was home at the time, but to see ashes where your home once stood was devastating.

A couple of months later, Chris was injured in an on-the-job accident. Surgery on his finger was required, and his doctor told him he had to let the tendon heal.

While he was recuperating, he was able to spend a great deal of time with his four children, and being around his sons and daughters was more therapeutic than any antibiotic or surgical procedure.

A life-long dog lover, Chris also brought a baby bloodhound into his life but he remained restless.

In a conversation about places to visit, a friend told him about the Petrified National Forest in Arizona, and, for some reason, seeing something millions of years old intrigued him.

He remembered our trip to Yellowstone National Park but not the majesty an adult feels when seeing those rugged mountains, endless acres of rippling grasses and cobalt blue lakes reflecting snow-covered mountain peaks.

When one loses their home and there’s no job to go to every day, it’s easy to lose one’s way.

He needed an anchor.

He needed to find his way again.

So he loaded up an ice chest, a suitcase, and his puppy and headed west.

For many of us, driving those miles of deserted roadways through Texas, Arizona and New Mexico would be a nightmare, but not for Chris.

The miles gave him time to think and regroup.

He stopped at roadside shops and fell in love with Southwest art and artifacts.

Shopkeepers became sources of information and knowledge, and he soaked up their stories.

He took a detour for a stretch along the iconic Route 66 and, even though he’s young, understood the importance of that roadway in American history.

Because of the government shutdown, he wasn’t able to go through the whole national park, but seeing the nearby Painted Desert was incredible, he said.

Purples, reds, browns and tans painted the landscape as far as the eye could see, and that sight of endless beauty and possibilities struck a chord with him, and the trip was worth every hour spent on the road.

He came back to Texas in time to see his son compete in the Cub Scouts’ Pinewood Derby, and had gifts for everyone. His favorite souvenirs were his Baja jacket and the matching ones he got for his boys.

As they stood in a circle, all happily wearing their jackets, I sensed a peace and calm in their father I hadn’t seen in a long time.

Maybe the petrified wood struck home with him – this was wood that over millions of years transformed into something different yet similar to its original state.

Perhaps that gradual transformation from the original into something different is what makes nature and people strong, long lasting and things of new beauty.

“Go west, young man” is what newspaper editor Horace Greeley said in the late 1800s. Over two hundred years later, that advice is still sound.

At least it was for a young man who needed a bit of an adventure and to see that the world, like the highways and experiences between where we are and where we want to go, are filled with possibilities.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

This weekend, I spent hours oiling the fronts of our wooden cabinets, sprucing up the inside doors and dusting the furniture, including all the nooks and crannies on the dressers.

No need for a pat on the back – the last time I did that type of deep cleaning was 2017.

Yes, two years ago.

I have a love/hate relationship with housework. I love how the house looks when I’m finished sweeping, mopping and straightening up.

I simply hate the process to get there, and I’ve rationalized my way out of almost every household chore.

Dust, in my mind, leaves a protective covering on the furniture. It protects furniture from sun damage, especially since I banished window drapes years ago. I told the boys it was because we all have allergies, but the reason was much more embarrassing.

One spring, I took down the drapes to wash them since they’d never been cleaned, and they were covered with dust.

I’m surprised the curtain rods didn’t break from the extra weight.

Then there’s vacuuming. The carpet looks great when I’m finished, but when I’m yanking and pulling that metal monster across the rugs, it’s a chore.

Plus I always vacuum up a Lego or piece of cardboard and I have to stop, empty out the canister and dig out the offending item. Later, I’ll notice that I forgot to vacuum behind the doors, and with a dog, the omission is obvious.

Sweeping and mopping are two thankless chores. As soon as I finish sweeping the floor, someone spills something. The grandkids love cereal, but quite a few Froot Loops get spilled on the way to the table.

Our dog is thrilled, but I not only have to sweep up whatever she missed but then I have to mop the floor because there’s dog slobber everywhere. I love to walk around barefoot, but I hate stepping in dog spit.

Over the Christmas break, we had our grandchildren here, and I kept a damp mop handy at all times. I mopped up Kool-Aid, orange juice, spilled milk and syrup every day.

There was one particularly stubborn sticky spot, and I had to get down on the floor to remove it.

That’s when I noticed the baseboards.

We’ve been in this house about six years, and I never thought about cleaning the baseboards. But apparently that’s where the dust starts to accumulate before inching its way to the top of the cabinets where the dust partners up with the grease in the air and becomes almost permanently attached to the tops of the doors and cabinets.

Climbing down from the ladder, I noticed the fingerprints and hand prints on the wall. I secretly congratulated my grandchildren for managing to get a dirty hand print on a wall that’s taller than they are.

They do better than I do because when I looked at the bathroom mirrors in the daylight, I noticed that the top third of all the mirrors had a layer of dust on them.

At 5 foot 2 inches, I can’t reach that high, and I’m too lazy to drag a step stool around the house just to clean a bathroom mirror nobody will notice is dusty unless they’re here on a bright, sunny day.

As strange as it seems, I don’t mind cleaning the bathrooms. Perhaps it’s because porcelain glistens and shines when it’s clean and the bathroom towels smell wonderful when they’re freshly laundered.

That makes it easy to overlook the commode that needs a target on the lid for the young grandsons.

But right now, the bathrooms and cabinet doors are gleaming, the floors are clean and the baseboards look like I just painted them. Sitting back with a glass of lemonade, I had to pat myself on the back for a job well done.

And then I saw the dog lick the kitchen floor.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

Ten years ago, I admitted I might need glasses to drive. I could see well enough during the day, but at night, the headlights from oncoming cars were blurry. I bellied up to the bar and visited the optometrist who prescribed driving lenses.

He assured me I didn’t need reading glasses.

Yet.

A few years later, I noticed the words were a little blurry on the pages of my paperback novels.

“Cheap publishing,” I’d say, holding the book closer.

Then one afternoon, I saw some inexpensive “cheater” glasses in the drugstore. I slipped on a pair of +1.25 lenses, and the world jumped into focus.

I loved those cheater glasses so much, I’d buy a pair every time I’d see some. I rationalized they were less than $5, so I could stock on a few and avoid shelling out major bucks for glasses.

But after a year or so, the +1.25 lenses were losing their ability to let me see the small print. So I moved up to the +1.75. Those worked, but I found I had to move up to the +2.00. And, you guessed it, a couple of years later, I was at +2.50.

And then, the nose pad broke off my driving glasses, and one side kept digging into my skin. Plus I noticed the headlights were getting blurry again, and I figured it was time to admit I was getting older and needed all-the-time glasses.

As I was going through the eye exam, I realized just how much my eyesight had deteriorated in the past decade. Gritting my teeth, I agreed to progressive lenses so I wouldn’t have to juggle reading glasses with driving glasses nor would I have to find big enough sunglasses to fit over the progressive lenses.

Walking out of the optometrist’s office, I had to admit age was not only creeping up on me but it was passing me by like I was standing still. My knees creak most of the time, I’m turning the television up louder than I used to and, gasp, I think there’s a brown spot starting on the back of my hand.

Whoever coined the term “golden years” wasn’t thinking about that valuable commodity in the ground. Granted the alternative to growing older isn’t great, but those of us entering these “golden” years are complaining about the same things were heard “old people” whining about when we were younger.

“The kids never call.”

No, they don’t. They text or Facetime their family members. If you’re not getting phone calls from your grown children, learn about texting and Instagram.

“I can’t figure out my cell phone.” Few people over the age of 50 can figure out all the bells and whistles on a cell phone.

If you’ve gotten this far in life without knowing how to copy and paste a text message, then chances are pretty good you can get by the next 10 years without knowing how to accomplish this feat. Just use your cell to play Angry Birds and text the pizza shop.

“The health-care industry is a heartless maze.” Yes, it is. It’s also overly complicated, totally without compassion or empathy and a working entity only because insurance companies make a profit.

I can either whine like so many others or accept getting older. Along the way, I’m making strides — I’m getting used to the progressive lenses. I’m learning how to tilt my head at just the right angle to read the fine print on my medical card and I found the sweet spot when I want to read the newspaper.

I’m still not sure where to put my feet when getting on an escalator or walking up the steps, but the optometrist reassured me I’d catch on sooner rather than later. After all, these are the “golden years,” and so I have to make hay while the sun shines.

Let’s just hope the sun stays out while I get used to these progressive lenses.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald

I’m a list maker. From what to pick up at the grocery store to never-ending daily tasks, I make a list to stay organized.

I road map my way through life because, without some sort of direction or plan, I wander aimlessly from YouTube video to channel surfing to trying to match up orphaned socks.

For 2019, I decided to make a “try-it” road map. Once a month seems practical, and I’m including activities that are practically free because, well, I’m cheap.

Hopefully my list can inspire you to create your own list for the coming year. Make your checklist fun, make it realistic but, most of all, make the 2019 try-it list something you want to do.

Here goes:

January:  Get a library card and visit a location. The Fort Bend County Library system is one of the best in the state with convenient branches around most neighborhoods. Take advantage of their free e-books, books on CD or go old school with a real paper book. Best of all – a library card is free.

February:  Attend a theater production. The weather’s unpredictable, so indoors is a good bet. Cast Theatrical in Rosenberg is presenting “The Queen of Bingo” at the beginning of the month, and Inspiration Stage in Sugar Land is showing “Peter Pan” at the end of the month.

Plus many of our high schools will be presenting their spring shows, and your money benefits public education. Check the online school calendars for show times.

March:  Live it up. For families that can’t get away a whole week during spring break, spend one night at a hotel in Houston with an indoor pool, and the kids will be thrilled. If you’re young or empty nesters, book a hotel within walking distance to a jazz club. Groupon always has great deals.

April:  Jump in the car. A road trip through the Hill Country offers the opportunity to see Texas wildflowers at the peak of their glory. There are well-marked trails around the Cat Spring area, and that’s less than an hour from your front door. Pack a picnic lunch, and the afternoon’s practically free.

May: Chill out.  Stop at an outdoor café and relax. Order a glass of lemonade and a slice of pie and watch the people walk by as you relax underneath an umbrella for less than five bucks.

June, July and August:  Stop sweating. I’m grouping these months together because they’re brutally hot, so unless you’ve got access to a pool or are willing to ramp up the AC, find something inside.

For kids, check out the free programs at the Fort Bend County Libraries – which should be easy because you have your library card – or a museum. Gone are the days when museums were stuffy relics – they offer interactive activities for all ages and are well worth the price of admission.

September:  Road trip. Fall’s a great time to watch the leaves change color, so a day trip’s in order. Head over to the Hill Country and catch a few glimpses of scarlet and orange from some of the tallow trees. Most of the wineries have outdoor seating areas, so bring your own cheese and crackers to go with a glass of Texas wine.

October:  Polka time. October’s festival month. Admission is often free, so as long as you stay away from the kettle corn and turkey legs, you’ll have a great time browsing through the booths and sampling free treats.

November:  Family time. Visit a relative you haven’t seen in a while. Don’t go empty handed – stop at one of the local bakeries for some kolaches or cookies and surprise your elderly aunt or cousin with something yummy.

December:  Do the Jingle Bell tour. Go see the Christmas lights in any neighborhood or visit the holiday tree-lighting ceremonies from Sugar Land to Rosenberg to East Bernard and experience an evening of old-fashioned fun. You don’t need to spend a fortune to soak up the Christmas spirit.

So there you have it. A years’ worth of activities that won’t break the bank. Enjoy!

 

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The year 2018 is coming to a close, and it’s hard to believe we’re racing toward the mythical 2020. We still have to get through 2019, so it’s time to write the annual resolutions list.

You know what I’m talking about — the unrealistic list we all make in January and toss in the wastebasket by the time Valentine’s Day rolls around.

This year could be different if I alter my mindset as to what to improve, what to change and, most importantly, understand the difference between the two.

Instead of the same old, same old list, I’m going to take a different direction in 2019. In no particular order, here’s the list:

Stop nagging. I can hear my family fist pumping the air with this one. I admit I’m a nag. I offer the same advice a dozen different ways, rationalizing I’m being helpful.

That thinking is wrong.

My sons are adults and fully capable of running their lives without my comments and observations. Family members and friends don’t need my opinion about what they’re doing and, frankly, I’m probably wrong anyway.

Listen and talk less.

I’m guilty of adding my own personal narrative or anecdote when someone’s telling me about a problem or a situation in their life. I think if I tell them what happened to me, my story will help them.

That thinking is wrong.

If someone’s talking about their family, their problem or asking a question, I need to keep the conversation on them. That means truly listening to what they’re saying instead of thinking about what I’m going to say.

I will heed that old saying – God gave us two ears and one mouth for a reason.

I think my husband will stand on the kitchen table and applaud this resolution.

Pay attention.

We laugh about the time our 3-year-old granddaughter told my husband to pay attention. In my case, it’s no laughing matter.

I often don’t pay attention to what people are telling me – not because I don’t care but because I’m not paying 100 percent attention. The older I get, the more I’m realizing I need to concentrate on the task at hand, not the dozen other things running around in my head.

This year, I’d like to slow down and make note of the things I have to remember in my phone instead of a piece of paper I’ll lose because I’m not paying attention to where I left the note.

Let go.

My uncle died when he was young from kidney failure. Marshall’s death was a tragedy, and my mom’s family was rocked to the core, especially my grandmother.

For the rest of her life, she wore only black or navy blue and there was always a sad anger about her.

Whenever someone passed away, she looked in the book she had of the people who’d sent flowers to Marshall’s funeral. If they hadn’t sent flowers to her son’s funeral, she did not send flowers to their family.

She checked that book for 40 years.

I don’t want to be a bitter person, but I can feel the seed growing in my heart. So it’s time to let go of the anger and resentment I’ve been carrying around. The people I resent have no idea I feel this way, and the only person I’m hurting is myself.

Besides, my friends and family are tired of hearing me complain.

I’m tired of hearing myself complain.

Instead, I’ll fill my mind with good thoughts and give out compliments instead of complaints.

This thinking is right.

I might not be able to live up to these ideals all year long, but I’m going to try. And that’s what the new year is all about – trying to live a better life.

Happy New Year!

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

 

 

 

 

The 5-year-old boy walked up the steps, his bowtie straight, his white shirt tucked in.

He took a few steps onto the stage, turned to the audience and, with his right hand in front of his waist and his left hand behind his back, he bowed courtly to the audience.

His smiling piano teacher, Rhonda Klutts, handed him his music, and he sat down to play.

His feet dangled above the ground, but his tiny fingers correctly tapped out “Jingle Bells.” At the end of the song, everyone let out their breath and polite, yet enthusiastic, applause filled the church.

And so it went at the first recital for Miss Rhonda’s Christian Piano Studio.

It was also the first piano recital I’ve ever attended.

I wasn’t sure what to expect at a recital for students who’d only been studying for a couple of months. “Chopsticks” with two fingers maybe, but not both-hands-on-the-keys renditions of “Up on the House” and “Away in a Manger.”

None of the students were over the age of 12, and every one was a little scared. But with their piano teacher’s hands on their shoulders, they took a deep breath and jumped in.

Some played softly, some more confidently, but they all finished. A few times, Rhonda came up and put her hands over theirs on the keys to get them redirected, and the audience was patient until the pianist was ready to begin playing again.

I can’t imagine the fear a child has when they sit down at a piano bench, knowing everyone can hear every mistake they make. I credit their teacher with giving them the courage to keep going.

There’s a bit of bias here – I’ve known Rhonda for over 20 years, the last 10 as a co-worker. I met her when she was directing a school choir at a somber funeral, and I’ve grown to be her friend as well as an admirer.

She’s always wanted her own Christian piano school, and after retiring from 30-plus years as a music teacher, she made that dream come true.

So few of us have the opportunity to see our dreams turn into reality. Rhonda didn’t make the decision easily because she adored her career as a music and choir teacher.

But she felt the time was right, and she and her husband, Joe, moved to a home that could accommodate an in-home studio and a new direction.

She transitioned into a second career as a small business owner doing something she loves – teaching young ones how to read music, learn the scales and then make the notes on a page transform into music one can hear.

At this time of the year, we think about finding the perfect gift, and I can think of no greater gift than to instill in children a passion for the arts, whether that’s playing a musical instrument, learning how to direct a play or write a special story for others to read.

Combine that with finding the courage to play for family and friends to hear is truly an accomplishment.

To anyone who teaches children a special skill, please know that your gift is a life-long one, and the child, and the world, will be a much better place for having the arts continue to flourish.

May your holidays be joyful ones, and in the words of the old song, “May all your Christmases be bright.”

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

The grandchildren were visiting, and we decided to bake some cupcakes on a rainy, cold afternoon.

The smell of a cake or pie baking always perks me up, and I figured the same would be true for the young uns.

I pulled two cupcake tins out of the cabinet, and noticed how discolored they’d become.

Those cupcake tins, practically brown from 40 years of baked-on grease, have served their purpose well. They’ve allowed us to bake hundreds of cupcakes and corn-bread muffins.

One year, I melted all the bits and pieces of crayons in the boys’ room in the tins and made discs of color for coloring book fun.

The baking sheets are in the same worn shape. Some are warped but they still provide a great baking surface for chocolate chip cookies and Thanksgiving rolls.

Tonight, I found myself re-looking at a lot of things in the kitchen and in the house. Stacked on the shelves were the now-faded Pyrex mixing bowls I’ve had since the late 1970s.

I’ve seen the exact bowls in antique stores, but I’ve never thought of not using the bowls that have come in pretty handy all these years.

My favorite memory of the green Pyrex bowl is coming into the kitchen one morning and finding my 3-year-old with the bowl between his legs, his hands stained red as he scooped up red Jell-O by the handfuls and slurped them down.

There’s the plastic spatulas in the drawer, and every single one is burned in the middle from where I put them down on a burner or the side of the frying pan.

Years of being in the dishwasher has bleached them out, but as long as they’re useful, I’m still going to flip burgers and pancakes with them.

Our dishwasher’s done a number on a few more of our more seasoned kitchen utensils. There’s no more red writing on the side of the Pyrex measuring cups. We just guess – yeah, that looks like a half a cup – and dump the water in the green Pyrex bowl.

Looking around, there’s a lot of Pyrex in our kitchen from the gold and avocado small casserole dishes to the white cookware with blue flowers on the side. I’ve broken a few of the lids, but there’s replacements online, so I’ll keep using them, just as I have for the last 20 years.

All our drinking glasses are etched. Sometimes it’s hard to tell what’s in the glass, but the cheapskate in me can’t throw away those glasses when they’re still usable.

They’ve been doing their job for about 25 years and, until I accidentally break them, they’ll keep showing up on the breakfast and dinner table.

There’s some Corell dishes still in every-day use here. Sure they have an outdated pattern on them, but who cares. They hold sandwiches and mashed potatoes quite nicely, so they’ll stay in use until we literally wear the strawberry pattern off the plate.

All true Louisiana cooks have at least one Magnalite pot in their cabinet. I’ve got a big one I use for gumbo, a smaller one for jambalaya and a pot for simmering gravies. I got those pots in 1975, and even though they’re a little pitted and no longer shiny, no way they’ve outlived their usefulness.

I’d like to believe that, like their owner, the dings, scratches and worn spots add character and in no way detract from their usefulness.

That’s how I am – a little worn around the edges but still quite capable of doing my job – making cupcakes, gumbo and, best of all, memories.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Most of us want to make a positive difference in the world. We hear about people running races to find a cure for a childhood disease or wearing pink to raise awareness about the devastating effects of breast cancer.

There’s clothing drives, food drives and fund raising efforts being held all over the world to combat hunger and homelessness. Here in our community, organizations raise thousands of dollars to help those in need.

Those efforts are worthwhile and definitely needed.

There is a way, however, we could make the world a little better place, and it only takes two minutes of your time.

It might not seem like you could accomplish a lot in that short amount of time, but consider taking two minutes in the morning and two in the afternoon to genuinely ask another person how things are going.

Most of the time, we give a superficial answer to a superficial question.

“How was your weekend?”

“Fine. How about yours?”

“Fine.”

“Do anything fun?”

“Nah, just worked around the house.”

“Me too. See ya.”

That’s usually how our encounters go – just enough to acknowledge the person, ask the polite question and move on.

Ask any more, and we appear nosy or pushy. Don’t ask that second question and it looks like we don’t care or only asked to have something to say while we’re waiting for the elevator door to open or for that person to get out of the way of the coffee maker.

Truth be told, we often don’t know anything more about that person other than they work where we work.

But if we allowed ourselves to ask a genuine follow-up question, we just might find out something interesting about the people we come into contact with each and every day.

The willingness to personally connect has been waning for the past few years.

The days of dropping in to visit relatives or friends for a cup of coffee and a chat are long gone. We’re either too busy or we don’t want to barge in on people without being invited.

We text friends and family members instead of visiting or calling on the phone. The times we do talk are because we can’t text.

There’s a self-imposed barrier between us and other people, and we make little effort to break down the wall.

Whenever opportunities for conversations come our way, we deflect and run.

I often get exasperated when my phone rings or someone stops by my room to chat. Later I find they had something on their mind they wanted to talk about with another person, but I felt I had to file papers or clear off my desk instead.

So today, even though it was two hours past quitting time and I was working late to get caught up, a colleague stopped by and we chatted for about 20 minutes.

Mostly small talk, but at the end of our conversation, Rachel’s the one who said if we’d just take two minutes to talk to other people, we could perhaps make the world a better place.

She’s right.

Take the two minutes. Forget the filing. Forget catching that elevator. Spend one or two minutes talking with someone you encounter every day but never seem to have the time to stop and listen to them talk, sometimes about nothing, sometimes about what’s important.

Their body language and face will tell you if they’re willing to talk, so pay attention. Sooner or later, they’ll remember you were someone who seemed to genuinely care about what they had to say.

Be that person.

Two minutes.

That’s all it’ll take to make someone’s world a little brighter.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

I don’t know.

Three small yet powerful words that can answer most of life’s questions.

What are you going to do with the rest of your life?

What are your plans after high school?

When are you going to settle down and get married?

We’ve always been told “I don’t know” is not an answer. “Yes,” “No,” and “Maybe” are responses, but sitting on the fence with a perplexed look on our faces isn’t really an answer.

Perhaps we’re selling those three words short.

“I don’t know” means quite a bit. It can mean we’re not sure and we don’t want to commit.

Sure the job we have stinks, but when people ask us when we’re going to move on or find something else to do, it’s tough to say we’re stuck at a job we hate.

It’s harder to say we’re staying at a dead-end job because we have to pay the utilities and mortgage on a house we’re already regretting buying and having to put a new battery in the junker mini-van.

Walking away from overwhelming responsibilities to do something different isn’t at option at this point in our lives.

We tell ourselves we don’t know all the time. A glance in the mirror causes us to do a double take – was that really me with that huge derriere, gray hair and double chin?

What was I thinking when I put on those too-tight pants this morning? Maybe I was thinking they’d look okay with a long top but the shirt didn’t cover as much as I thought it would.

Or maybe I wasn’t thinking. Those clothes were the first things I grabbed after a tossing-and-turning night. I really didn’t know what I was putting on except I could reach them in the closet and they were clean.

Little kids respond with “I don’t know” except when asked who broke the cookie jar. On that question, they blurt out “not me” and eventually rat out their little brother or sister. But when pressed, ole “I don’t know” is the culprit.

When they’re growing up, the questions never stop – why do I have to take a bath, why do I have to eat vegetables, why do I have to go to bed?

Most of us take our time and answer the questions as best we can, but inevitably, questions come up where we have no suitable response – death, moving, a shortage of money. There’s no explanation a child can understand except I don’t know.

When the questions involve the tooth fairy or Santa Claus, we hem and haw and throw out a fairy tale we heard when we were kids. If the children don’t buy those answers, we almost belly up to the bar – I don’t know if there’s really a Santa, but if you don’t believe, you don’t get anything.

That response usually stops the questions.

“What’s your curfew?” was our question to said teen when they came rolling in an hour late.

“I don’t know,” was the answer. “Did I even have a curfew?”

Of course they had a curfew. Of course you wanted to know who they were with and where they went.

When your child asks why you have to be so strict, you can spend hours defending your reasoning.

Or you can answer fairly quickly and with frank honesty – “I don’t know.”

Parents are always supposed to know, but let’s face it, most of the time, we’re winging it, secretly praying we’re making the correct decisions and saying the right words.

But we don’t really know if what we’re doing is the best answer or the best solution.

So why not be honest.

I don’t know is a perfectly acceptable answer.

I just know it.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

The mid-term elections are over.

Most of the candidate’s yard signs are in storage, and we’re no longer getting political calls and text messages on our phones.

I’m still wondering how these political pollsters have my personal cell phone number since I’m not a volunteer nor have I ever posted my number on any political site.

My dad would have the answer:  communists.

He was convinced the communists were around every corner and the culprit behind every political fiasco.

It didn’t help that we had random air raid drills at our elementary school where we were supposed to crouch underneath our desks when the atomic bomb was dropped on us by the Russians.

Now it seems ridiculous to think that hiding underneath a school desk would shield us from radiation, but the fear of the communists was so high, we did anything to escape their evil clutches.

To add to the paranoia, there were posters all over the school walls to be on the lookout for the, yes, evil communists.

We no longer have to worry about the communists, or any other shady shenanigans, slipping by unnoticed. These days, people, robots or trolls leave comments on every online news story, blog and video.

Frankly, they’re fun reading for a variety of reasons.

First, the comments reinforce my belief that there are really stupid people out there. I used to wonder how these ignoramuses maneuvered through big words like “economy” and “deficit,” but then I realized that they weren’t reading the story.

They were simply restating the rhetoric they’d seen somewhere else, copied the words and pasted them in the comments section. That’s the reason why so many comments spout the same political garbage post after post.

Some of them reflect the writer’s intellectual level, especially their writing skills. The ability to spell and capitalize words has atrophied in direct relation to the growth of the Internet.

Not only do hot-headed posters misuse “you’re” and “your” – excuse me while I put on my Grammar Police hat, but “you’re” is an abbreviation of “you are,” such as “you are screaming in print when you type in all caps.” “Your” should be used when stating “your opinions are pointless.”

Some of the comments make good sense, especially when calling out ridiculous “breaking news stories” that are often no better than “The National Enquirer” headlines or stories out of a dime novel from the 1950s.

Witty, snarky commenters have a field day with ridiculous stories, and that’s when I applaud the freedom of the press on the Internet. These writers make me laugh out loud, especially those who have an acerbic wit and the English skills to match their right-on-target comments.

There are often intelligent and lucid points of view from both sides of the political table. Even when I don’t agree with what the writer states, if their comment makes me stop and think, that’s a great brain exercise.

This newspaper encourages and runs signed letters to the editor. I especially applaud these people because they can’t hide behind some cute or clever online persona. They allow their opinion to be printed in the newspaper with their named signed at the bottom in the town where they live for everyone to see.

I read each and every letter because they make me think and applaud the writer, even if I disagree with their position.

My dad loved reading the opinion page in the newspaper, and I know he’d love reading all the online news and political comments. He’d tell anyone who’d listen where these far-fetched beliefs come from – yes, the communists.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.