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.

US Army General Douglas MacArthur restages his landing from an LVCP on Leyte, Bert was on the L.S.T. behind the general.

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.

He’s been scaring the bejesus out of me since I was a teenager.

Not the boogie man.

Or the monster in the closet.

Those nightmares are run-of-the-mill.

The one who haunts my dreams is Stephen King.

And I love it.

The first King book I read was “’Salem’s Lot.” The story line is familiar for long-time “constant readers,” as King describes his fans. A flawed hero joins forces with a young person to combat evil.
But that’s like describing World War II as a back-yard snowball fight.

One of my favorite scenes in “’Salem’s Lot” is when a young vampire, Danny Glick, comes to one of the heroes in the book, Mark Petrie, and scratches at the window screen, wanting to come in.

King builds on Petrie’s curiosity and fear and his sadness over seeing his former friend floating outside his second-story room while never losing the terror about a hungry vampire scritch scratching at a screen, hungrily whispering to come in.

In all of his novels, King gets right to the point without wasting time with boring passages about spring meadows, unnecessary love triangles or people’s wardrobe.
With an economy of words, he quickly reaches into eye sockets, grabs the reader by the eyeballs and never lets go.

In “The Shining,” I remember being too afraid to turn the page when young Danny Torrance opened the door to Room 237. I didn’t want to turn the page because I was so scared, but I had to because my curiosity was stronger than my fear.

My curiosity was answered when Danny found a dead woman in the bathtub that comes after him.

Let’s not begin to mention those moving topiaries from “The Shining.”

The murdering clown from “It.”

Or, shudder, the return of toddler Gage from “Pet Sematary.”

By isolating those scenes, it’s easy to dismiss King as a shock writer. If a reader looks deeper, though, they’ll find King is the ultimate character writer.
Too often, I’ve read books where the main characters accomplish unbelievable feats. While wounded, they can kill the bad guy with one bullet while hanging onto a moving train.
The women are long legged with flowing hair who seduce a man in one scene and save the world in the next, all the while keeping their make up in perfect order.
King’s characters are fleshed out as real people, with flaws and virtues, and that includes the women. He artfully describes the battles they wage with inner demons, from alcoholism to cowardice to a lack of identity.

Some of my favorite King characters are from “The Stand,” his epic novel about the end of the world. Stu Redman is the main hero, and the constant reader pictures him as a regular guy in a flannel shirt who’s called on to save the world.

I also like the way Jack Torrance in “The Shining” is written. The movie, starring Jack Nicholson was awful. In the book, though, we see Torrance as a young father who wants to stop fighting his demons yet can’t overcome alcohol’s stranglehold on his life.

And in all of King’s writing, we eagerly go on a literary journey with him. We might find a dead body in “The Stand,” see a sadistic teenager get the tables switched in “Apt Pupil” or feel the anguish of John Coffee – “like the drink, only not spelled the same” in “The Green Mile.”

We come to understand hope when we read how Andy Dufresne survives in “Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption.”

When a writer makes us believe in redemption, that writer is a true American treasure. And for me, that person is the prolific and incredibly gifted novelist Stephen King.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

My wonderfully talented niece recently posted pictures of the birthday party she created for her 1-year-old daughter. Amber chose the theme of “Alice in Wonderland,” and every detail was covered.

She had green grapes strung through skewers to resemble centipedes. There were lacy sugar flowers and filigreed place cards featuring the whimsical sayings from the Lewis Carroll classic.

Our great-niece was outfitted in a dress worthy of any little girl wishing they were Alice, and everybody was clean at the end of the celebration.

Looking at the pictures, I found myself thinking back to the days when we had our sons’ birthday parties. I tried to talk my boys into having a party with activities for both girls and boys, but they practically threw themselves on top of their Transformers in horror.

First, no frilly dresses. Since most of our parties involved playing ninja on the swing set, party clothes were cut-off jeans and a T-shirt. I tried to slip a nice shirt over the birthday boy for the pictures, but that was soon covered with frosting, crushed Chee-tohs and spilled Hawaiian Punch.

Always the red Hawaiian Punch.

Instead of dainty sandwiches and confectionary roses, we had hot dogs roasted over a small campfire in the back yard.

We tried using skewers once, but metal skewers aren’t meant for food – they’re swords and the bearer of said skewer instantly turns into a dastardly pirate. That was the last time we tried that one.

No back-yard hot dog is complete unless it’s covered with lots of catsup and mustard that drips all over the fronts of their shirts or, in a really classy move, smears all over the sleeve of their T-shirt because shirt sleeves are handkerchiefs first, clothing second.

I tried using party hats as favors once, but that didn’t work. The boys punched the pointed end out and pushed the hats up onto their arms to form a gauntlet, aka Iron Man or Spider Man, who thinks he can jump off the top of the slide.

When it comes to cakes, we’ve had everything from a Superman cake to a Batman cake to a Spiderman cake. If you think red Hawaiian Punch is difficult to remove from a T-shirt, try removing red frosting from the front of that shirt.

Or blue.

Or red and blue frosting mixed with red Hawaiian Punch.

My niece had matching napkins for her daughter’s party, and the white tablecloth coordinated perfectly with the tiered plates and platters of finger foods. Both she and her daughter wore beautiful dresses and were clean throughout the whole event.

Forget napkins at a boy party. All we needed was a water hose and boys willing to hold their noses and cover their eyes while we hosed them down from their hair to their sneakers at the end of the shenanigans.

When it came to decorating our house for the boys’ birthday parties, all we had to do was make sure there was an ice chest on the patio filled with juice boxes and frozen ice pops.

Inside, breakable items went on top of the fridge, and we rolled up the rugs because red Hawaiian Punch and cupcakes that accidentally fall frosting side down into the rug leave their mark forever.
Especially red and blue Superman cupcakes that are then smashed into the rug by 5-year-old boys running through your kitchen on the way to the bathroom to fill balloons with water.

When it comes down to it, parents do the best they can to make milestone events special for their children.

No matter if it’s white petit-fours or red and blue Superman cupcakes.

And always the red Hawaiian Punch.

Always.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.