I texted my sister last week, asking her for her home mailing address. I wanted to send her a card, but I didn’t have my address book at the office.

She texted me back her address along with an extra comment – “Get with current technology and put my address in your phone.”

“Who deals with an address book anymore,” she said with a laugh when I called to thank her for the address.

I figured everyone had a tattered A-Z address book with the home addresses of all their friends and relatives penciled in the pages.

They don’t. At least not any more. People keep up with email or Facebook addresses because few people mail letters or cards to other people.

Perhaps keeping home addresses is out of touch with today’s way of communicating – emails, evites and texting – but there’s something special about getting a card in the mail – the U.S. mail – that’s been addressed by hand and has a hand-written note on the inside.

In a metal box in my closet are letters my father, mother and grandfather wrote to me, and those letters are priceless. They’re a tangible reminder of my loved ones’ personalities, their being that shines through the shaky and slanted penmanship on the paper.

I looked online for other obsolete items in the home. Topping the list was encyclopedias. I’ll go along with that idea, but I have fond memories of sitting down with the Childcraft “How and Why” books for hours, reading about animals, different countries and the mysteries of the ocean.

Today, I can find all that information in seconds on Google, but I’m glad I have memories of getting the actual book off the shelf, year after year, and reading the books together with my younger siblings.

Phones have long been on the extinct list, and I wouldn’t trade my cell phone for all the wall or rotary phones in the world.

But there were long hours of sitting with a pink Princess rotary phone in my lap, wrapping the cord around my wrist and fingers, while talking to my high school best friend Trudi about who was the cutest Beatle – John or Paul.

Much has been written about the uselessness of a paper map, and I’m the first one to let an electronic voice in my car tell me exactly where to turn, where the traffic jams are and when it’s time to slow down because there’s a radar gun ahead.

But I’m glad my dad taught me how to follow a route on a paper map and that our sons know how to read a map as well. Those of us who know how to fold up a paper map get extra bragging rights.

The article also noted that photo albums are obsolete now that we have digital displays that flash images like a miniature television screen.

On this entry, I’ll disagree.

I love looking through old photo albums, especially with the older members of my family. Those black-and-white photos with the black triangular paste-in corners open up the memory floodgates.

Their rich stories about the old days connect me to the past much more than walking past a flashing digital display on a bookshelf. I now find myself flipping through photo albums with my grandchildren, passing the tradition on to another generation.

I wouldn’t trade my much-erased and dog-eared address book, oversized photo albums or the faded family pictures on the wall for all the high-tech, speedy electronics in the world.

So pass me that princess rotary phone because I still remember my best friend’s phone number.

Trudi, we still need to talk about George and Ringo.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

Twenty-one.

That’s the age many teenagers dream about because they’re officially considered an adult.

Twenty-one is a top casino game where players try to beat the dealer.

This week marks the 21^st year I’ve been writing this column.

I took over the Thursday slot from Devoni Wardlow, a friend and fellow writer, when she moved away from the county.

I submitted three tentative editorial columns to then managing editor Bob Haenel, and he gave me the green light.

Grateful and terrified were the two feelings that accompanied me on that first week back in 1997 when I introduced myself to readers of The Herald-Coaster.

I thought I’d run out of topics after three months. Twelve weeks turned into six months which turned into a year, 10 years and then two decades.

For many years, my sons provided most of the ammunition for these columns. They’d pull some stunt, look at me with a sigh and say “This is going in the column, isn’t it.”

Absolutely.

Who could pass up writing about seeing their child sneak a Halloween pumpkin down the stairs in April, their first days of school or the stockpile of smelly socks I found in the back of their closets?

There were columns about the toys they had to have growing up – the White Power Ranger sword where I literally sprinted out of West Oaks Mall, ran the red light to get to the Toys R Us across Highway 6 and nabbed the last Power Ranger sword in stock.

Over the years, I’ve tried to capture motherhood in a humorous light. It’s either laugh or cry when one realizes the reason the washing machine is groaning and whining is because the college kid put in 25 pounds of stinky jeans and towels in the same load.

I’ve stayed away from politics as I don’t feel I’m qualified to pontificate on the pros and cons of who and what’s on the ballot.

I’m like most people – I vote for the candidate I hope and pray will do a good job and vote yea or nay on issues I think are in the best interest of the community.

Writing for this newspaper has allowed me to meet so many wonderful people from all walks of life and from all economic levels. They are often unrecognizable to the general public, but their contributions are the framework of what good citizenship is all about.

Some of the columns that are nearest to my heart are the ones I’ve written about people who dedicated their lives to improving this community – the late Arthur and Lydia Mahlmann, Hilmar Moore, Frank Briscoe and Kathleen Lindsey, to name a few.

And there are those I’ve written about who are still active well into their later years – Virginia Scarborough and Lucille Jackson are at the top of the list, and there’s hundreds more I’d love to write about.

I’ve worked with some of the best writers, reporters, photographers, carriers and newspaper support staffers around, and they’ve contributed more to my life than they’ll ever know.

Although there’s always a knot in my stomach every Thursday morning when the presses are running, working for this newspaper has provided me with a constant sense of gratitude.

I’m humbled and grateful to the Hartmans for allowing me to keep writing for them, to Bob Haenel for believing in me and giving me and other female opinion writers a chance, and to Scott Willey for allowing me to continue occupying this space on Thursdays.

Mostly, I’m grateful to those of you who take time to read this column. You’re the reason I sit in front of the computer, peck away, eat cookies, hit the delete button at least a hundred times and finally hit the send button.

Thank you for sticking with me for 21 years. Who knows what adventures are ahead?

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

The grandchildren were able to make a day visit this past weekend, and we decided to find a pumpkin patch for a head start on Halloween. That holiday is a special one as it’s their dad’s birthday.

When Chris was born, I remember thinking he’d enjoy having his birthday on a day when he could dress up and get free candy.

But he didn’t really get to celebrate his big day because his friends had no interest in attending a birthday party when they could be walking around at night in a ninja costume getting free Hershey bars and candy corn.

So we planned ahead and had his party a week early. That strategy stuck with us, and when the grandchildren were able to visit, we went pumpkin hunting early.

At the pumpkin patch, there were dozens of pumpkins in every shape, color and size. As the grandchildren roamed the spacious lot, they examined and judged almost every single pumpkin.

Few made the cut. Too bumpy. Too tall. Too short. Too round. Not round enough. Too big. Too small. I told them the only requirement was that they had to be able to carry their choice to the car.

Immediately 10 were eliminated from the running.

With their best of the best safely in their arms, we made our way home where supplies were waiting.

We’ve elevated our game from when a knife and a long spoon were the only tools needed. For our sons, the decorations were whatever they drew with a crayon and their dad handled the carving duties.

As grandparents, the sky’s the limit. I had stick-on jewels in every color, pipe cleaners, orange pom-poms, googly eyes, sheets of Halloween stickers, markers, Sharpies and bottles of paint.

The older two decided they wanted theirs carved while the younger two wanted theirs whole. Later I found out it was so they could cuddle the small pumpkins while their older brother and sister wanted to put a candle inside to make theirs scarier.

While we were decorating, I started thinking about Halloweens when their dad was young.

I’ll admit it — I wasn’t the best costumer. When my boys played baseball, I convinced them to be baseball players. During the soccer years, they were, yes, soccer players.

There was a year the boys went as salesmen, complete with a shirt and tie – not my best year – and the year they were pre-teens and went as road kill, an idea I borrowed from a friend.

There was the year I spent two weeks making a Flash costume and a clown costume, and they played in those for the next two to three years. Ninjas and mummies were always easy, and I’d offer extra candy if they’d choose those ideas.

One year, the youngest boy wanted a Wolverine costume he’d seen while trick-or-treating.

I didn’t order the costume, thinking he’d forget.

He didn’t.

For a solid week after Halloween, he said Santa was going to bring him that Wolverine costume. When the costume finally came back in stock in early December, I had to pay extra for expedited shipping, but the costume was waiting for him on Christmas morning.

Happy hunting out there all you vampires, princesses and puppy dogs. Here’s hoping your plastic pumpkin is overflowing with Reese’s peanut butter cups, Kit Kats and lollipops.

And, for us, the best treat of all, happy birthday Chris.

 

Denise’s email is dhadams1955@yahoo.com.

My son was sitting on the floor sorting out his mail when he happened to glance underneath my desk.

“Where did you get this fabulous speaker,” he said, holding up a box with the JBL logo on the side.

Embarrassed, I admitted it was a Christmas gift from his brother almost a year ago, but I’d never opened the box. I appreciated the gift, but there was another reason the gift stayed in the unopened box for nine months.

“I’m not sure what’s in that box,” I admitted.

“Are you kidding,” he said, shock in his voice. “It’s only one of the best Blue-tooth speakers on the market.”

When I opened the present, I remember thinking it was a thoughtful gift, but I didn’t quite understand how a Bluetooth speaker worked.

Besides, I didn’t think I needed anything fancier than the inexpensive MP3 player I bought off Amazon. I figured out how to put songs on it and, last week, downloaded an audiobook so I could listen to novels while out walking.

I was perfectly fine with the two little speakers hooked to my computer, my Black Friday earphones and a small radio in the kitchen. What did I need with a Bluetooth speaker?

But then Chris pushed a button on the back, and the speaker came to life. With a huge grin on his face, he paired his phone with the speaker and it was like Toby Keith was giving a concert in the room.

Chris explained how easily I could play music from my phone.

I had to belly up to the bar again.

“I don’t have any music on my phone,” I said. “I just use the phone for texting and making phone calls.”

He looked at me like I confessed to churning butter instead of buying Land O Lakes at the grocery store.

“You can play songs from YouTube,” he said and asked me what songs I liked.

“Black Velvet,” I said without hesitating.

The old song by Alannah Miles is one of my favorites. I’m not an Elvis fan, but that sultry song is one of the best around.

In seconds, I was singing along in that “slow, southern style,” and I was amazed once again at the sound and depth of the music coming out of that little speaker.

After he left, I took the directions out and felt stupid seeing how easy it was to use the speaker. All I had to do was pair it with my phone – yes, I can actually do that – and then I could listen to all my favorites as loud as I wanted.

When the house was empty, I paired my phone with the speaker and jumped onto YouTube. I found Wilson Phillips’ song “Hold On,” another favorite, and then went right through the playlist for Martina McBride and James Taylor.

“Sweet Baby James” always makes me cry, and being surrounded by Taylor’s voice while I chopped tomatoes and cucumbers made kitchen duty fly by.

Needing something to kick away the sniffles, I danced my way through all of Credence’s songs – “Favorite Son” and “Bad Moon Rising” which led me to Tina Turner’s version of “Proud Mary.” There’s no way to not sway and sing through those songs.

When I was washing the dishes, I called up Tracy Chapman’s “Give Me One Reason” and thought about how music has kept me company on long car drives, lonely nights and on glorious days when I felt I had nothing to lose.

I should’ve opened that box months ago.

Thanks, Stephen, for giving me a great gift that brought the sounds of joy back into my every-day life.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

Over the summer, we were fortunate to spend time with our grandchildren. One of their favorite outings was a rock climbing gym in Katy.

This past weekend, our son, Chris, decided he wanted to take a look because his children talked non-stop about their climbing adventures.

When he was young, Chris fearlessly climbed everything, and I remember taking him to a rock climbing gym when he was in Cub Scouts where he fearlessly scaled every wall he was old enough to tackle.

That fearlessness was evident in his children as they climbed to the top of all the walls in an area set up for younger children and teens.

This time, dad was along, and the older children wanted to climb the bigger walls.

The only way to do that was to have an adult take a belay class to learn how to hold the ropes and assist climbers up and down the walls.

Chris readily volunteered and, after an hour, he was certified. The older two children headed off to find a wall while the younger ones played in a room right next to the grown-up climbing area.

The only open beginner spot was at the end of the wall, but we figured the site would be a good starting point. Our eldest granddaughter went first, and I swallowed hard seeing how high the wall was.

She carefully started up the wall and, about three fourths of the way up, looked down and froze. The distance between her and the ground was at least 30 feet, and it was the highest she’d ever been.

Her dad quickly realized the predicament she was in, and he coaxed her to come down. At first, she didn’t want to, but she eventually made her way back down to the ground.

By the time she was in arms’ reach, Chris pulled her to him and reassured her she’d done a great job.

But she’d been spooked by the height, rightly so, and said she wasn’t going back up.

Most of us have been scared by something in our lives – a horse bucked while we were riding, an unexpected fender bender makes us nervous every time we get behind the wheel or we find ourselves avoiding situations out of our comfort zone.

We knew the only way Kylie could conquer her fear was to go back up, but that’s a tall order for a 10-year-old.

As she sat next to us, shaking, her dad told her she didn’t have to go back up unless she wanted to. Silently, she kept looking at the wall, apprehension evident in her eyes.

After a few minutes, she stood up and said she wanted to try again. But she asked if her dad could move the rope over to a section that wasn’t on the end. She said not being able to put her foot on a foothold was what spooked her.

He hooked her up to the ropes and told her to go for it. We watched her take a deep breath and begin climbing.

Both of us had tears in our eyes as that brave young girl went all the way to the top of the wall. She came down with a huge smile on her face, and her dad spun her around and around, telling her how proud he was of her for going back up that wall.

Conquering our fears isn’t easy to do, but when we do, we’re left with a feeling of accomplishment no one can take away from us.

Buoyed with confidence, we can take chances and go beyond what’s comfortable because we did something we were scared to do.

And we survived.

Step by step, Kylie beat back her fear and emerged triumphant.

I hope she knows how proud we all are of her. But more importantly, I hope she understands how proud she should be of herself.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

 

I caught the tail end of a movie from the late 1980’s, “Baby Boom,” starring Diane Keaton. She’s a ruthless businesswoman in New York City on her way up the corporate ladder.

Life changes dramatically when Keaton inherits a toddler from a distant cousin and has to adjust her life to raise Elizabeth.

Keaton moves to a farmhouse in Vermont she’s dreamed about for years. She thinks the old place will be perfect and jumps right in. Turns out the house has all kinds of problems, and it costs her a fortune to fix it up.

I can relate to that character as I’ve jumped into so many situations, regretting almost as many as I celebrated.

The first car I ever bought was a small Honda. They were new to the automobile line back in the early 1980s, but I didn’t need a big car. That white hatchback was the right size for my son and me, and so was the price.

I bought it from a showroom that didn’t haggle with the price. Those first Hondas were priced like television sets – the low price was the final price.

We kept that car until baby number two was coming, and then traded it to a friend for a minivan.

The last we heard, the hatchback went on to rack up over 200,000 miles on the odometer.

Never regretted buying that car for a minute.

I did regret buying an exercise bicycle.

Getting in shape in one’s living room has been around for a long time, but VHS tapes made it possible for anyone to pop an aerobics tape into the VCR and exercise alone.

The tapes were good, but I thought I needed to ramp up the routine. I bought an exercise bicycle from a friend. His wife seldom used it and I got the bike for a good price.

I rode it a few times and got bored quickly with only seeing my bedroom walls.

After a few months, I regretfully realized the exercise bike was the best coat rack I’d ever bought.

So, I bought a used bicycle, thinking I could tool around the neighborhood with my young son on the back of the bike and my elder boy riding his Hot Wheels car alongside us.

Young son screamed like a banshee the entire time, and sitting on a bicycle for more than 20 minutes was not comfortable or fun.

Sold both bikes and never regretted seeing them leave the house.

A co-worker recommended some stock when I was in my early 20s. I wanted to be like a Wall Street tycoon and make a fortune dealing in stocks.

So I bought a few shares of a stock he recommended at $20 apiece, dreaming of the piles of money I’d make.

There wasn’t any wheeling.

Wasn’t any dealing.

Just a steady decline in price, but I held onto the stock, believing that one day, the price would skyrocket.

Thirty years later, one share of that stock was worth one cent.

That was a deal I regretted for three decades.

Still, some things are worth it. I might regret the extra inches on my hips, but I don’t regret the Pralines and Cream Blue Bell ice cream on nights when I was feeling a little blue.

Nor do I regret the decadent Baklava Cheesecake covered in caramel syrup my sisters and I practically licked off the plate on a recent get together.

Choices are made and we live with the satisfaction of having made a great decision or the regret at having been a dope.

So walk past the exercise bike and pass the Blue Bell.

Life’s too short to live it with regrets.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

I grew up thinking Elizabeth Taylor was my cousin.

“Poor Liz,” my mom would say with a sigh. “She’s back in the hospital. Her back’s acting up again. And she’s divorced another husband.”

Elizabeth Taylor was my mother’s favorite actress. From the time mom was a teenager, she’d hurry to the drugstore after school to pick up the latest fan magazine and read every word about the movie stars.

She wanted to know all the details about her favorite stars – Jimmy Stewart, Susan Hayward, Spencer Tracy and, most importantly, the queen herself, Elizabeth Taylor.

Mom talked about Liz so much and with such familiarity, I thought she was related to our family, and we should light a candle at church to atone for Liz’s wayward lifestyle.

These days, we don’t have to wait for the latest magazine to show up in the grocery store check-out line to find out about the lifestyles of the rich and famous.

All we have to do is click around on the internet, and we can find out every secret about every star in every country.

Besides the fact that most of that information’s untrue – just as it was in the 1950s – the juiciest tidbits on the Internet come with the headache of clickbait.

According to the Urban Dictionary, the bait is a link that makes readers want to click on it.

“You won’t believe what this guy does after he works out…”

“Big companies hate her…”

“Four thousand ways to reuse a plastic bag…”

Just like the fan magazines, we want to know the answers to these questions. Could a shark really eat a Navy helicopter? What truths did Pam and Jim from “The Office” teach us about love? And how could we pass up an article telling us all the ugly truths about “Gilligan’s Island?”

That’s the trick – they know people want to look behind the curtain and find out the real reason Ethel was always a few pounds heavier than Lucy.

Clickbait does everything it can to reel readers in, and some of the articles are practically impossible to resist, especially if it’s midnight, you’ve got insomnia and the fridge is empty.

I’ll admit it – I click on those ads, even though I know I shouldn’t. The last one I clicked on was the before and after photos of a North Carolina town that showed the impact of Hurricane Florence’s flooding.

I had to click through four articles and four photos to get to the flood pictures. They looked familiar to those of us who experienced Harvey – flooded streets, houses with water up to the roofline and elderly people in boats carrying their cat or dog.

There wasn’t any news, however, about the condition of the people in those towns, their homes, the repair effort nor up-to-date information on water and rain levels.

There were a lot of ads about making scrumptious mac and cheese dishes and 13 legit ways to scramble eggs.

And here I thought there was one way to scramble an egg – melt butter in a frying pan, crack an egg in a bowl, stir it with a fork, pour it in the hot pan and stir until the eggs are the consistency you like.

So I didn’t click on that ad because I don’t care if there are 12 other ways to scramble an egg. One is just fine with me.

Sorry, Madison Avenue – or wherever your clickbait offices are now located – this consumer has learned her lesson and won’t be clicking on anything that looks suspicious.

Unless the article’s about Elizabeth Taylor.

That I gotta check out.

Liz is, after all, family.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

They say a picture is worth a thousand words.

In the case of photographer extraordinaire Russell Autrey, there’s a double treat.

Russell takes the best pictures, and he has a great story to go with each and every one he captures.

I’ve been lucky enough to hear quite a few of those stories over my 20-year history with Russell.

When my family moved to Texas, we settled in Pecan Grove. One afternoon, a neighbor told me my son Nick was pictured on the front page of The Herald-Coaster newspaper.

I went to the newspaper office on Fourth Street, bought a few papers with Nick’s picture on the front and signed up for a subscription.

Over the years, I’d open the paper and see incredible photos of every-day life. Sure enough, the photo credit was attributed to Russell Autrey, and I found myself looking forward to the next day’s paper to see what he’d come up with.

Now people can see a collection of his favorite photos and pen-and-ink drawings in an ongoing exhibit at the George Memorial Library.

Dozens of Russell’s photographs are beautifully and tastefully displayed. The exhibit includes pictures from his early newspaper days, and the black-and-white photos captured life as it was when people lived off the land and their wits.

Many of the photos I remember seeing on the front page of the newspaper, and I smiled as I looked at them, remembering the circumstances surrounding the photo of the little girl holding an icicle and the elderly gentleman kneeling in a wooden church, his eyes closed in silent prayer.

Not only did he catch moments with his camera, he also recreated daily life with a pen and ink.

His attention to detail is astounding, from accurately replicating weathered siding to including the faded graffitti on the side of a building. There’s the added bonus of hearing Russell describe the circumstances around his artwork, thanks to a QR code and the chance to listen to Russell on your phone.

There were no strangers in the gallery – all of us had a connection with Russell, either through family, friendships, our days at The Herald Coaster, now Fort Bend Herald, or a love of photography.

Even though most of us have a few more wrinkles and a lot more gray hair, we were excited to see each other in a happy situation, all thanks to a smiling man at the front of the gallery who was graciously sharing stories about his life behind the lens.

What we didn’t have time to tell him was how positively he’d affected our lives.

Russell’s genuine friendliness, willingness to talk with anyone, his natural ease with children and the elderly, and his gifted story-telling ability are as much gifts as the artist’s eye he’s blessed with.

His stories connect us to what’s really important and that’s the small, every-day moments from stopping to take time to watch the sun rise over Bolivar Peninsula to capturing the pure joy of children frolicking in the rain.

That’s the mark of a true artist – where others walk past something seemingly insignificant, Russell always sees the beauty in the every day, the ordinary and the often overlooked.

If you’re friends with Russell, as thousands are, you are indeed a lucky person. I’m so glad I’m one of those lucky ones.

Make sure and visit the free exhibit at the George Memorial Library, 1001 Golfview in Richmond, through the end of October.

Stop in and make sure you’ve got that QR code downloaded so you can hear the master storyteller describe his view of life through the lens.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

“It’s time for a sister trip,” the text stated.

My sister, Diane, sent the same message to me and our youngest sister, Donna.

She was right.

Years ago, we’d take a sister trip every summer. Looking at the text, I couldn’t remember the last time the three of us got away for a girls weekend.

Life got in the way. Weddings came along and then babies and an outside-the-home job.

With those life events came understanding. Instead of seeing each other as pesky siblings, we saw each other as strong women, balancing work and family.

Years ago, we decided we needed to reconnect and decided on “sister trips” and our mom came along. One year, we all headed to Las Vegas as mom’s brothers lived there.

Our sister-in-law, Debra – who after 40 years of marriage to our brother is really our sister – and our youngest brother Jeff joined us.

We had a blast seeing the lights and action on the Vegas strip. A laser tag game was one for the books when Jeff’s only mission was to follow Diane around and blast her every time her power light came back on.

A trip to Charlotte, N.C. was one I’ll always remember. Not just because of the midnight ghost tour we took in the downtown area and touring the majestic Biltmore but because we were all together in a beautiful bed-and-breakfast antebellum home.

As our children grew into adults and grandchildren arrived, we stopped going on our sister trips. We’d promise each other that the next year would be different, but something always came up and the trip would get cancelled.

But not this year.

Diane was adamant we get together, and we settled on Houston. Reservations and tentative plans were made, but we left most of the long weekend to chance.

Our first afternoon was spent at a spa. I’ve never gotten a facial or a massage, but my sisters told me the experience would be great.

And it was.

Soft music played while the technician kneaded my tense muscles, convincing me to enjoy the relaxing music and soothing scents. The technician spent more time giving me a facial than I spend on my face in a month.

Dinner was a wonderful treat at Yia Yia Mary’s Greek Kitchen with a sinfully rich and absolutely scrumptious baklava cheesecake for dessert.

We thought we’d hit the jackpot with that, but when we happened on an 90 percent off the already-marked-down sale price at a favorite clothing store, our weekend ratcheted up to a whole new level.

It had been a long time since I’d gone clothes shopping, and I’d forgotten how much bonding takes place in the dressing room as women toss pants and shirts to each other over the doors and answer the age-old question “does this make me look fat?”

We spent our last night watching the LSU Tigers win their season opener, comparing our aches, knee troubles, wrinkles and cellulite during the commercials.

Wee reminisced about our parents, friends from the old neighborhood and reliving favorite family memories.

Driving them back to the airport, I thought about how much sisters mean to each other, from sisters by birth to those through marriage and those who’ve become sisters through friendship.

We’ve shared good times and bad, fun times and not-so-fun ones. My sisters tease me, accept me and love me unconditionally. I feel the same way about them.

I wouldn’t trade my sisters for anything, and I can’t wait until the next sister trip. Who knows what adventures await?

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

A dear friend is a school librarian, a position she loves.

Over the summer, she had to take most of the biographies and encyclopedias off the shelves.

Not because the printed information was outdated but because students seldom use hard-cover books for research.

The internet took the place of the encyclopedias. People no longer want to trudge to the library to find out how many home runs Babe Ruth hit in his career.

They want Google or Siri to instantly and easily give them the answer.

Contrary to popular belief, reading isn’t dead. In fact, people are reading more than ever. They’re just doing so on an electronic tablet or their cell phone.

Many are watching a movie or playing a video game on their devices, but many are discovering the joy in exploring what authors have to say.

One such writer is my great-niece Camryn Jones. Camryn is 10 years old and is a voracious reader. She gets that from her mom, Hope, who usually has a couple of books going and loves to share reviews through her Instagram account.

She passed that love of reading on to her two children, Landon and Camryn, and they’d much rather curl up with a good book instead of a video game. I also credit Hope’s husband, Benji, with loving to read as much as his family.

Hope and Benji also have a Little Red Library in front of their home in North Carolina where they willingly share the books they’ve read with their community.

Most of the books earn a written review by Camryn, and her critiques are as down to earth as this marvelous young lady is.

Camryn has also written over a dozen books. This summer, Camryn attended a writer’s camp, and I was thrilled to read one of the chapters in her book “Unknown.”

The story is about a young knight who’s also an “Unknown,” a mutant that’s rare in the year 8014.

The introduction instantly draws the reader in:

“As the dragon draws nearer, the smoke flies out of his nostrils. One by one by one. It’s a few yards away now. That was my cue. I draw my sword from my belt. It is shining silver.”

I could recap the story of the young knight and the battle, but Camryn tells the tale much more eloquently:

“I am an Unknown. An unknown is a mutant. We are very, very rare. We all have different powers. Mine is healing. I have another. It is really special. My other power is killing.”

She describes the battle between a dragon and this special mutant and how the young knight wants to protect the village from the dragon.

“I stood up and ran towards him. He looked at me with eyes of fear. He knew me. I was Unknown.”

Remember, these words come from a 10-year-old author who knows how to stack suspense, grab the reader and not let go.

I can’t wait to read more of Camryn’s writings. I know she’s going to set the literary world on fire, just like her special Unknown lit up the countryside protecting the village.

This wonderful story blossomed in the mind of a young girl where the ideas were sewn from the pages of books, nurtured by parents and then penned by a smart, independent young lady named Camryn Jones.

Unlike her hero, Camryn will never be an “Unknown.”

She knows right where she’s headed and that’s as far as her imagination will take her.

You go my darling girl.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.