Thanksgiving always brings up memories of the many blessings I have in life – family, health, friends and a roof over my head. But there are many times I’ve not been thankful or happy, and from that unhappiness has come understanding.  I’m also thankful, a bit reluctantly, for gridlock traffic. When I’m sitting there, red taillights as far as the eye can see, I can practically feel my blood pressure hitting the roof.

But as I calm down, I have time to think about issues in my life, and I can usually come up with a solution or two. If that doesn’t work, I slide a CD into the player and sing along with Barbra or Josh as loud as I can, hoping someone will look at me like I’m crazy.

Whenever I’m looking for songs on the car radio, it’s aggravating scanning through songs with screaming lead singers or profanity. But then I’ll come across a song and my finger pauses on the seek button. John Denver’s “Sunshine” takes me back to a parking lot in college where dozens of us played that song as loud as we could on our transistor radios, all of us appreciating the beautiful day there in Hammond, Louisiana when we were young and idealistic and full of dreams.

For years, I was angry with myself for not finishing my college degree when I was 18 and carefree. I want to shake some sense into that young girl because years later, she’d have to go to school and work full time to get a college degree. But the years between 18 and 45 were spent accumulating life experiences, having children and realizing I didn’t know everything. As humbling as it was to go back to school with teenagers, I was thankful I had life experiences to add to that college degree.

Although I’m never thankful for housework, there’s a difference in picking up after our grandchildren visit. The place looks like a hurricane blew through after they’ve gone home. But as we put toys away, every one reminds us of the fun we had while they were here. The baby doll I found underneath the blanket is one our youngest granddaughter has to sleep with while she’s here. My heart melts when I picture her snuggled up under the blanket my mom made for her, that baby tucked underneath her chin. The Legos hiding underneath the bed remind us of the fun our eldest grandson has whenever he’s creating a superhero’s castle. The bigger Legos are a reminder that his little brother is learning how to build from the grand master.

I always find art work from our eldest granddaughter on her drawing table, and I marvel at her artistic ability and the way she always makes heart-felt cards for her mom. Looking through the papers, I love seeing the inventive worlds she’s created with a few colored pencils and markers.

I’m never grateful for the dirty dishes on the counter after a family get together, but those dishes remind me of cleaning up after Sunday dinners at my grandparents’ house. My grandfather would wash the dishes, the aunts would dry and we’d take turns putting everything away. After the kitchen was completely clean, we’d all sit down for dessert and the adults would talk for what seemed like hours. Although much of the conversation was way over my head, their voices were comforting and reassuring, and I’m so glad I have those memories.

I’ve had lots of supervisors over the years, and there were two who made life difficult. I wasn’t thankful I had to work for them, but when I finally worked for people who treated me as a person, not a servant, I was thankful I had the comparison. I might not have appreciated those great bosses unless I’d had the awful ones.

So this Thanksgiving, I’m thankful for the experiences I never thought I’d ever put in the “plus” column of my life. Without them, I don’t know if I’d truly be able to count my blessings.

Happy Thanksgiving to you and your family!

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

 

 

 

 

 

In my jewelry box is a special necklace. It’s made from polished rocks, one of my special loves, and was given to me by a classy, quietly gracious woman I interviewed over 10 years ago. That special lady, Kathleen Joerger Lindsey, passed away last week at the age of 99.

Over the course of her lifetime, Kathleen positively influenced Fort Bend County in countless ways, but none more so than what she did for literacy and the intellectually disabled.

Kathleen was the daughter of Mary Elizabeth and Francis Xavier Joerger and helped her father in his law practice. A bright and inquisitive young girl, she wanted to go to law school even though few women went to college, much less law school, in the 1930s. Undaunted, she applied to the University of Texas, was accepted, and was one of only five females in UT’s law class of 300 and one of three who graduated in 1939.

She put that degree to good work and began working for her father. Over her 60-plus-year career as an attorney in Rosenberg, she specialized in wills and estate law.

Listing her achievements is a testament to what someone with steely resolve wearing a silk glove can achieve. As a young woman, Kathleen and a dozen other avid female readers decided Fort Bend County needed a library. Some folks thought only those living in town would benefit, so the ladies went to Commissioner’s Court and got a bookmobile to serve everyone in the county.

But Kathleen didn’t stop there. She talked to Mamie George, and she donated a building next to the old Polly Ryon Memorial Hospital that became the county’s first permanent library. The George Foundation later expanded that initial investment and built the George Memorial Library.

One of Kathleen’s most satisfying contributions was bringing a school for the intellectually disabled to the county. Richmond State School was built on 200 acres of land, and Kathleen eventually added another 40 acres to the site. The result was a quiet home for those with special needs to live.

Both Kathleen and her late husband, Robert, were generous benefactors to education. For over 31 years, a scholarship has been given to a graduating senior at Lamar CHS. The Lindseys also set up a generous scholarship for any graduate in the county that wants to attend the University of Texas.

In 1996, Kathleen and Robert were named the Rosenberg Railroad’s volunteers of the year and they were also honored by the Rosenberg Revitalization Committee. There’s a beautiful gazebo in Seabourne Creek Park that Kathleen built to honor her late husband.

Kathleen donated money to Holy Rosary Catholic Church to start a campaign to build a parish hall. The Joerger-Lindsey Hall was built with matching funds from parishioners, and the hall is always in use for receptions and celebrations.

Ruth Kendziora worked for Kathleen for 57 years as her legal secretary and said Ms. Lindsey always followed the law. As far as Kathleen was concerned, Ruth said, the two most important words in the English language were “thank you.”

Kathleen – thank you doesn’t come close to the gratitude the people of Rosenberg and Fort Bend County owe you. Your generosity and drive to educate and enhance this county are two of the reasons Rosenberg’s been as successful as it has over the past 70 years.

I remember having lunch with Kathleen as her guest at the Fort Bend Country Club. We talked about women believing in themselves and how no one should ever give up on their dreams.

When I graduated from the University of Houston, Kathleen gave me that polished rock necklace along with a hand-written note of congratulations.

Every time I put on that necklace, I think of Kathleen and count myself lucky that I had the privilege of meeting someone who epitomizes the words “class” and “elegance.”

Rest in peace, dear lady. You’ve earned it.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.
  

A friend celebrated her 50^th birthday this week. Her Facebook page was filled with best wishes as well as comments lamenting that she was over the hill, the best days were behind her and it’s a downhill slide into obsolescence from here.

Because I’m older than she is, I have a different point of view about growing older. It’s hard to argue with a youth-obsessed society that believes if you’re over the age of 30, you’re ancient. I see this age bias almost every day, especially in the business world.

Those starting to climb the corporate ladder in their early 20’s are fresh-faced and eager to learn. They’re willing to work, but they either have unbridled ambition or they’re glued to social media.

Many are unable to put their phones down for longer than 15 minutes, and some need lessons on how to have a face-to-face conversation without resorting to checking their text messages or Snapchat every five minutes.

Workers in their 30s seem to be the anointed ones. They’re no longer novices in the conference room, and society thinks they’re tuned in to current events and trends. The “thirtysomething” bright executive doesn’t have a gray hair and wears Ray-Ban sunglasses, not bifocals. Ads, movies and television shows are aimed at them, even though people nearing retirement are usually the ones with cash to spend.

Those in their 40s straddle generations. They’re too young to be considered a “good ole’ boy,” and they’re usually too old for tube tops and muscle shirts. They’ve got car and mortgage payments, and they’re starting to help take care of their aging parents. What’s left from their paycheck either goes to the orthodontist or saving up for their children’s college tuition.

Workers in their 50s are in a tough spot. They’ve often been in the job too long to think about quitting and starting over, and that pension pot is too juicy to pass up. They either decide to take a chance and change careers or stick it out where they are until they can retire.

Then we get to the worker in his or her 60s. The kids are out of the house, grandchildren are arriving and grandma and grandpa finally have the television remote control all to themselves. They’re getting Medicare flyers and assisted-living ads in the mail – they still check the street mailbox – and they’re wondering why they have to retire. They still have so much to give to the world, but the world wants to put them out to pasture.

People over the age of 60 are gold to any profession if given the chance. They don’t worry about impressing the boss, they know petty office politics are just that and they’re willing to serve as a mentor. They’re not going on maternity leave or going through a mid-life crisis. Most importantly, they have years of experience to share with those willing to listen. They’re a little slower to learn the latest social media trend, but they know nothing beats a personal conversation.

They might not have the same fire in their belly as the millennials, but they’ve come to realize a slow-burning need to be useful lasts the longest. They won’t run the fastest, but they know the race doesn’t always go to the swiftest. The race goes to the one who can see the finish line and remembers to have fun while getting the job done.

So to my friend turning 50, the best is not only here, but every year gets better and better.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

When I was in high school, I was one of the officers of our pep squad. Besides sitting in formation, wearing an itchy vest on Fridays and cheering on our team, one of my duties was picking up doughnuts early Saturday mornings at the Krispy Kreme Doughnut Shop on Plank Road in Baton Rouge.

By virtue of the size of the trunk that could fit a VW Beetle and the ability to pile dozens of doughnut boxes in the back seat and the front, I was always at the top of the volunteer list.

Our pep squad usually ordered 200 dozen doughnuts, and we always arrived before the workers were finished boxing our doughnuts for one specific reason: the ladies would let us stand at the end of the assembly line, pick doughnuts right off the conveyor belt and eat as many as we wanted.

Free Krispy Kreme on an empty stomach always sounded good until half way back to school. That much sugar compounded with that 20-minute ride, surrounded by boxes of hot doughnuts in a hot car, and the result was I swore off doughnuts for the next 25 years.

I didn’t think about the chain again until a cold night when my sisters and I were finishing up a day of shopping.

It was almost 10 at night but that didn’t matter when we saw the blinking red light indicating hot doughnuts were ready at the Krispy Kreme store right outside the Virginia mall.

Obviously this shop knew how to cater to people with the late-night munchies, because that red light was a siren’s song. We pulled up – this Krispy Kreme had a drive-up window – and ordered a dozen hot doughnuts.

When the clerk handed us the box, we decided we should order two more dozen for our children for breakfast in the morning. They didn’t yet know the thrill of Krispy Kreme, and it was our mom duty to teach them correctly.

We didn’t make it a half mile down the road until that first dozen was gone and we seriously considered finishing off the second one and never telling the kids. That’s how good hot, fresh Krispy Kreme doughnuts are.

I thought about those Krispy Kreme days when I saw an article about the famous chain returning to the Houston area. The chain pulled up stakes back in 2006, and people are thrilled they’re making a return appearance to Texas.

There are some who’ll debate who makes the best confections, and there’s quite a few mom-and-pop shops around town who put out good doughnuts. They entice with candy corn and granola toppings, but all those toppings do is weigh down the prize.

For chains, Shipley’s and Dunkin Donuts put out a good product, no doubt about it, but there’s something special about Krispy Kreme. Perhaps it’s its lightness or the way the glaze completely covers the doughnut in an almost transparent sheen.

Maybe it’s because so many of us grew up with a Krispy Kreme shop within minutes of our house. For people from Louisiana, Krispy Kreme is as familiar to us as hot beignets from Café du Monde, the purple K&B sign and looking for the biggest crawfish in a just-boiled pile of mudbugs, corn and potatoes dumped on a picnic table.

The next time I’m in Houston, I’ll be looking for that blinking red light that tells me the doughnuts are ready. Add a cup of French Roast Community Coffee and, cher, I’m happy.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

I rushed in the door and threw my purse and keys on the couch. I opened the fridge and started piling onions, chicken and vegetables on the kitchen counter.

My husband came in to chat as we always do at the end of the work day, but my mind wasn’t in the conversation. My head was thinking about what I still had to do, what I had to do the next day and if there was any way I could get chicken to bake faster than chemistry allowed.

I think most people have a transition time between the office and home. Since I have a long commute, I use that time to call my mom or listen to a book on CD.

I try not to take my irritation out on other drivers because they didn’t do anything to deserve having an aggravated woman blow her horn at them for a small infraction.

Many days, though, I find myself riding home in silence with the windows down, trying to de-stress before I get home.

But those techniques didn’t work this afternoon, and I could practically feel my stress meter registering in the red zone. Sensing I wasn’t in the talking mood, my husband went outside for a few minutes and then stuck his head in the back door.

He said I should get my camera and come outside. The sun would be setting soon, and he thought it would be a pretty sight.

One more thing, I thought to myself, as I lowered the heat on the chicken and threw the cutting board into the sink. I found my camera bag underneath a pile of unread magazines and newspapers and yanked it out of the bag.

I walked outside, camera in one hand and looked at the sky. Clouds and blue were still visible, and I wasn’t happy that he’d called me outside to see a sunset that wasn’t even happening yet.

“Have a seat and wait for the sunset,” he suggested.

I plopped down on the chair, camera on my lap, my fingers drumming on the chair’s arm rest. I had a thousand things to do and here I was, wasting time waiting for the sun to set, a sight I’ve seen hundreds of times in the past.

But watching the sky slowly start to turn from light pink to a darker pink, I could feel myself relaxing a little bit. I leaned back in the chair and looked around our back yard. There were still flowers blooming, hardy hold outs of the summer season.

I hadn’t noticed how tall the new trees we planted in the yard had grown. There were little white flowers in the lawn, blooms I hadn’t noticed before.

There were songbirds chirping somewhere close, and the wind rustled the leaves in the bush near my chair. That caused me to notice a small lizard on a thin branch, he hoping I wouldn’t notice him, me hoping he’d stay put and not jump on my chair.

And then, almost before I knew it, the sky had turned from light pink to deep crimson, and I raised my camera and snapped away. With each click of the shutter button, I could feel the stress diminishing, just as the light in the sky was fading.

Sheepishly, I knew I needed to appreciate the quietly gorgeous way Mother Nature was closing her eyes, telling us the day was over and the sun would return in the morning.

That sunrise, the perfect bookend to a sunrise, brought with it the promise that every day is a chance to start over.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I was spending the weekend with my mom. She’d gone to bed early and I didn’t want to make a lot of noise. I looked for something to read and found a spiral binder – “Personal Log of A.J. Bauerlin.”
A.J. “Bert” Bauerlin was my mom’s boyfriend for over 10 years, and we loved him dearly. Bert first entered our family when my sister and her family moved next door to him in Martinsville, Va. “Mr. Bert” was a second grandfather to my niece and nephews, and we always heard stories about their next-door neighbor’s kindness and handiness.

A few years after Bert’s wife, Mary, passed away, my mom went up to Martinsville for a visit. She and Bert hit it off, and they began a 10-year long-distance relationship.

Every night at 10 p.m. without fail, Mom’s phone rang. It was Bert and nothing could keep my mother away from the telephone.

On holidays, Bert sent my mom flowers and every year, they’d travel to Bert’s naval reunion. Sadly, each year fewer and fewer veterans attended, but even at the age of 90, Bert was still going strong.

In 2004, Bert decided to write down his memories of his service in World War II. As was true to his nature, Bert dictated his thoughts into a recorder in a logical manner and double checked his memories through newspaper clippings and official online resources.

Mom had mentioned how proud Bert was of the memoir; so when I saw the binder, I pulled it out and began reading.

It was amazing how organized Bert’s writing was, and I found myself reading late into the night. I took the book home and not only saw the war through Bert’s eyes, but life back in the 1940s.
Bert talked about the prices of homes and cars and his childhood. He remembered the day he and his father were listening to an Eagles football game on the radio.

In the middle of the game, the announcer said they had an important message from the president. He told America about the attack on Pearl Harbor that morning.

As Bert put it, the “sleeping giant” had come awake; and by the time he was 16 and a half, he made up his mind to join the U.S. Navy. He’d read countless tales about pirates, and he figured the seven seas were for him.

On his 17th birthday, Bert enrolled in the U.S. Navy, lived through boot camp and attended signalman’s school. Bert was assigned to an L.S.T., a ship that carries guns, ammunition and about 600 soldiers.

Over his time in the service, Bert saw primitive cottages in Anchorage, ate with a family in Australia, lived through terrifying typhoons and stood on the deck as kamikaze pilots came within 100 feet of where he was standing, guns blazing.

He sailed across the seven seas, crossed the Equator, lived in fear of enemy submarines, and celebrated on the day the Japanese surrendered. From the bridge of his L.S.T., Bert saw Gen. Douglas MacArthur wade ashore in Leyte.

One night, he sounded the alarm when a kamikaze plane was coming straight for the ship and probably saved the lives of everyone on the vessel.

Through Bert’s words, I learned so much about the life of a sailor, the pranks young men play to take their minds off the real threat of death and of one man’s desire to protect his country.

I reluctantly finished reading Bert’s memoirs, and I wished he was still alive so I could thank him for his sacrifices and for such a well-written accounting of those three years.

So to all veterans, thank you for your service. Thank you for putting your life on the line to protect those of us who often take liberty for granted.

And to Bert’s children and grandchildren – you have an outstanding legacy in your dad. I’m lucky to have known him.

 

In every phase of life, there’s perks. At some businesses, that translates into free coffee. At others, a free parking spot close to the door. At others, the perks are a paycheck every two weeks.

Childhood has its share of perks, but we didn’t realize we held those cards until much later in life. The best perk childhood offers is ignorance of the meaning of mortgage payments, repairing a plugged-up toilet and going to sleep every night with the reassuring knowledge someone else is in charge.

But along with the perks came the powerlessness of having little power over your fate. For instance, breaking one of mom’s favorite possessions. Doesn’t matter if said knick-knack came from the dollar store or a garage sale, the minute a child breaks said item, it becomes Mom’s favorite followed by “this is why we can’t have nice things.”

We all remember that sick feeling in our gut. Worse was when Mom said “Just wait until your father gets home.”

For hours, our stomachs would be in a knot because we knew the wrath of the all-powerful father would come down on us like Thor’s hammer.

Then I got to be a teenager, and the perks I thought I’d have handed over to me, simply because I had the word “teen” in my job description, vanished. I thought I’d be able to sleep until noon, talk on the phone and then go back to sleep.

Instead, adult chores invaded my life, just as it did all other teens. There’s mowing the grass, babysitting the younger siblings and the worst, taking out the garbage. The perks of being a teen suddenly didn’t seem so wonderful.

And then we headed straight into adulthood. We thought we wouldn’t have to worry about homework, research papers or figuring out what to do with the rest of our lives.

Instead, we found out adults worry about paying the electric bill, cleaning out dusty air conditioning filters and figuring out how to get three children to a soccer game, baseball game and swim practice in one evening.

That’s over and above the free perks of getting gum out of a screaming child’s hair, removing the skunk stink from the family dog’s fur and disposing of mice, roaches and snakes that find their way into the kitchen.

And the adult perks never end. Adults hover over their darlings from the time they’re born until they reach the self-reliant age of about 15 because a parent who doesn’t pay attention finds themselves in heaps of trouble.

You finally reach retirement age and think that’s when you’ll have it made. They’re called the Golden Years, after all, so life should be a breeze.

The kids are grown and gone, the dog’s old enough to prefer sleeping under the dining room table to taking a walk in 100-degree weather and the trash generated by two people isn’t worth taking out more than once a week.

And what about those perks? The Golden Years perks involve hours in front of the computer to figure out how to file for Medicare. And then there’s sitting in a doctor’s office because of high blood pressure, tests to check your cholesterol, sugar levels and that pesky pain in your hip.

But there are positive perks – the unconditional love of grandchildren, not caring if you burp in public, being bold enough to argue politics and religion and, best of all, seeing the children you hovered over for all those years grow into responsible, respectful adults.

That perks beats free coffee and parking any day of the week.

My phone stopped talking to me. I don’t know what I did to make that electronic device so angry, but angry it was.

Without warning, the phone’s navigation system clammed up on a recent trip, and I didn’t know how to reach my destination. That electronic hissy fit cost me an extra hour on the road.

In these days of cell phones that can do practically everything, I’d come to rely on talking Google Maps, and as a result, got a bit lazy when it came to planning a trip in advance.

But after this last silent treatment, I decided to give my paper maps another shot. There’s a half dozen in the glove compartment of my car and I hauled them out after turning off my phone.

I can handle a map because my dad taught me how to read one before he taught me how to drive a car. But I don’t think this current electronics-driven generation has a clue how to read a road map that doesn’t talk to them.

Using a paper map’s not as simple as typing in an address and letting a voice tell you where to turn. Map readers have to learn about grids and finding a street when it’s located at Q and 19 on the map. They have to know why one road’s colored red and why another one is yellow.

The hardest part about using a paper map is learning how to fold it back up the exact same way it came from the state’s visitor’s center.

Those who don’t know how to read a paper map are missing out on the adventure associated with a road trip. The challenge starts with spreading a paper road map out over the kitchen table and looking at an entire state or city in one glance.

Novice map readers have to figure out where they’re starting and where they want to end up and make decisions ahead of time about stops and alternate routes.

A friend told me to write the directions down on an index card and tape the card to the dashboard. That probably sounds ridiculously old fashioned to those accustomed to a voice telling you to turn left in 500 feet.

But there’s a sense of accomplishment when you take the big-picture view of personally figuring out how to get where you want to go and then getting there.

Even if you get lost, you can pull out the map – folded in a way so just your route shows – and find a different way. Nobody’s the wiser because a paper map never electronically sighs and tells you “rerouting.”

I’ll admit paper maps can become outdated, but major roads and freeways seldom move. Besides, there’s a lot of excitement in taking your finger and tracing routes from your house to your destination, dreaming about all the sights you’ll see along the way.

If you’re lucky enough to get your hands on Rand McNally road atlas, the sky’s the limit. You can trace a route all the way from Alaska to Texas and, best of all, plan to see all the natural attractions along the way. Your phone can do the same, but the cynical side of me says they only call out the sites that pay to advertise their location.

A map and your finger lets you choose your own adventures, and they’re there for you to discover if you know how to read a map and aren’t afraid of some old-school fun.

Happy paper trails.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.