I’m standing in line holding a towel, shampoo bottle and bar of soap. There’s two girls in front of me and two behind, all of us waiting for one of three narrow showers to open up.

 It’s College Dormitory Life 101, and I’m at the University of Texas in Austin at a summer journalism camp.

While listening to the girls whine about lame boyfriends, I thought about the two years I lived in a college dormitory back in the 1970s.

Heading off to Southeastern Louisiana University was my first big adventure, and I thought life in a dorm would be fabulous.

Back then, sleeping in the top bunk on a hard-as-a-rock university-issued mattress didn’t faze me. Neither did having a community bathroom for everybody on the first floor. I was the eldest of seven in a house with one bathroom, and we made it work.

My roommate and her mom were the decorating types, and they fussed over making sure we had matching blue rib-cord bedspreads from Sears and home-made gingham blue checked curtains. My contribution was a purple fish-net hanging in the corner and a James Taylor Mud Slide Slim poster.

In reality, I could’ve cared less about our decorating scheme. All I cared about was getting away from home and being on my own.

 

Now We’re Adults

I thought about those days a lot during our seminar as all the campers stayed in an older dorm, Jester West, which was built in 1969 and can accommodate up to 3,000 students.

Fitting a small city on 11 floors requires scrimping on square footage. Each room had two beds, a sink and some shelves, but I don’t think a VW Beetle could fit inside one comfortably.

Throw in two girls with their laptops, power strips to plug in hair dryers, curling irons, flat iron straighteners, cell phone rechargers and iPads and there’s barely enough room for the obligatory stuffed animals and piles of tennis shoes and Crocs.

Then there’s the matter of where to put clothes. Back in the seventies, Karen and I comfortably shared a closet because our wardrobe consisted of T-shirts and bell-bottom jeans.

Today’s college kid must hang clothes hangers from the ceiling to accommodate their 10 pairs of jeans, T-shirts from every punk rock band from the 1980s and two or three sets of pajamas for heading down to the first floor Wendy’s for midnight fries.   

That doesn’t even take into account the other essentials:  hoodies for cold classrooms, an oversized backpack for long treks across UT’s “40 acres” or a Keurig machine for those needed late-night cups of coffee.

Everybody has to have their own refrigerator and microwave plus a place to store the Orville Redenbacher microwave popcorn, instant mac and cheese, hot Cheetos and Pop Tarts. By the time you’ve shoved all that into this tiny room, it’s a wonder college kids don’t suffer from claustrophobia.

But I’m looking at that dorm room from an adult’s perspective. What seems like a tiny space is actually a comfortable cocoon far away from the prying eyes of mom and dad.

And let’s face it. Sharing a community bathroom isn’t a big deal if you find a sympathetic ear about that political science final while waiting in line for the shower. Boring white walls are an invitation to put up profane glow-in-the-dark posters.

As a bonus, might I suggest fish nets in the corners and a James Taylor poster.

I hear retro’s in.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.  

 

The young bridegroom stood at the front of the altar, glancing repeatedly at the back of the church.

His beautiful bride waited in the vestibule of the church, her father next to her, as they prepared to take the walk from childhood to adulthood.

My 26-year-old niece, Anna, married her long-time beau, Michael, this past weekend. The church was filled with family and friends who watched these two young adults pledge themselves to each other for the rest of their lives.

It’s not easy making a vow of that magnitude, especially in a world where we “unfriend” people on Facebook at the drop of a hat and people tweet their innermost thoughts to the world, promises and thoughts which are forgotten within the hour.

We’ve evolved into a throw-away and short-term society that believes tossing something outdated or broken is easier than the time and effort required to maintain it.

Few people keep a vehicle past 100,000 miles, preferring to trade in the old reliable sedan for a newer, fancier model.

When the microwave refuses to heat up Honey Buns or the coffee maker runs too slow, we don’t look for a repair shop – we buy a new one and toss the broken appliance. Manufacturers know this so they don’t make long-lasting machines.

When our 25-year-old freezer finally gave up the ghost and I asked to buy another one that would last that long, the salesperson told me they don’t make appliances like that anymore. He said a five-year lifespan was about all I could hope for.

So it’s come to that.

Five years is considered a lifetime. 

So to think two young people in their mid 20s would pledge to stay together for the rest of their lives is almost unrealistic. Until you take into account the character of Anna and Michael.

Over the years of their courtship, they worked to build a solid foundation for a life together. They talked, planned, laughed, cried and prayed and finally decided they were ready to pledge their lives to each other.

Michael and Anna were married in front of family and friends during a full Mass, and their reception was a joyous mixing of the Wahl and the Hebert families.  

Over the course of the night, the hall was filled with people dancing, laughing and toasting the happy couple. Grandchildren sat on their grandparents’ laps as relatives reconnected, sharing stories of past family gatherings and missing those who were no longer with us.

I looked around the hall, realizing people had traveled from all over the country to attend the wedding. Perhaps that’s the soundest show of support for newlyweds – families and friends making it a priority to witness the biggest promise one can make in life. 

Michael and Anna didn’t have to look far to see how a promise can come full circle. Our Aunt Bev and Uncle Jim flew in from New York to see Michael and Anna take their vows the same week they celebrated their 49th wedding anniversary.

In addition, my sister and her husband quietly renewed their wedding vows right after the ceremony. Twenty-five years ago, Donna and Jimmy were married by the same priest who married Michael and Anna.

Donna and Jimmy’s grown children witnessed the blessing of their union, just as we did when their parents were in their 20’s, two kids starting out with a promise to love and honor each other for the rest of their lives.

A promise and a prayer. Two intangibles that last a lifetime.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

By now, most high schools and universities have held their commencement ceremonies. Thousands of hopefuls have walked across a stage, received a padded cardboard diploma case from someone they’ve never spoken to in their life and been declared ready to take on the world.

To help them with this Grand Canyon step, speakers are invited to give inspirational talks to the graduates in hopes that they will keep walking when they reach the other side of the stage, somehow get a job and start sending money immediately to benefit the alumni cash register.

As in all things, though, some of the speeches are better than others.

Columnist David Brooks told graduates that they will not find their passion. It will find them. For many of the teens I know, that passion includes racking up hours of “Call of Duty:  Black Ops II” from the living room couch while consuming mountains of Doritos dipped in Cheez Whiz.

Dick Costelo, CEO with Twitter, told students they won’t recognize the impact they’re having in life until they’re having it. That’s sort of like realizing you’ve backed your car into a tree when you hear the thud.

Katie Couric knows how to inspire an audience. She told the graduates at Randolph Macon College in Virginia that everybody’s terminal. Exactly what 18-year-olds who can finally buy beer legally want to hear.

Rep. John Lewis from Georgia probably gave a speech that got the most applause – he told the Class of 2013 to go out and find a way to get in trouble. Good trouble, he cautioned, but I don’t know a teenager who would’ve listened for the caveat after hearing they had the green light to dabble in shenanigans.

Activist Bill McKibben told graduates in Florida not to let their minds go back to sleep. As if any of them been chomping at the bit in their morning classes. Ever try staying awake in a statistics or Elizabethan poetry class? I rest my case.

Newark Mayor Cory Booker told students to listen to the still voice in their heads. I don’t know about the graduates at Yale, but the little voice inside my head when I was 18 told me to go back to bed, listen to my “Rubber Soul” album for the 98th time and keep believing the Beatles would, one day, reunite.

Oprah told Harvard graduates that failure is “life trying to move us into another direction.” That direction, for some, might be the serving frappuccino at the local coffee house if they decided to major in the offbeat. Case in point, a course my Aggie son actually took and I paid for:  “The Language of Love.”

Seriously. I paid for that.

Astrophysicist Neil deGrasse Tyson told Rice graduates that they still have a lot to learn. Most 18-year-olds believe they already know everything. Asking them to admit they have a lot yet to learn is like asking my dog to sing “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall.”

Television writer Jon Lovett told the graduates at Pitzer College that it’s time to move on. They annoyed their parents for years and their professors for the past four. Now it’s time to go out into the world and annoy someone else. Unfortunately, many of them will repeat the cycle, move back home and resume annoying their parents.

Rob Lazebnik, a writer on “The Simpsons” penned a great tongue-in-cheek articles advising graduates to do what they do best – get lucky.

So roll the dice, Class of 2013 and hope Lady Luck is on your side.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

For months, I’ve been watching fun Houston events pass me by, thinking I couldn’t navigate my way to some of the activities I’d read about or thinking I should stay home and catch up on chores. I came across an old needle-point picture that reminded me that cleaning and scrubbing can wait until tomorrow.

And so I found myself maneuvering through the one-way streets of downtown Houston Saturday night to hear the Houston Symphony and one of my favorite singing groups, Pink Martini, live in concert.

For the first time in my life, I was going to hear a big-city symphony orchestra, and I really didn’t know what to expect. I’ve heard high school orchestras perform, and I’ve listened to countless symphony recordings courtesy of YouTube.

But I’ve never heard a full-fledged orchestra of professional musicians perform at a live concert. After finding my seat, I uncomfortably knew I was in the minority.

My Capri slacks and comfortable sandals didn’t quite measure up to the $200 designer dresses and $500 shoes all around me. Feeling like I wanted to crawl under the seat, I was rescued by a genteel lady in her late 70s sitting next to me. Her warm smile made me feel comfortable, and she answered my questions about the orchestra and the hall.

I found out the Houston Symphony is preparing to celebrate their 100th year in 2014, and they offer a variety of concerts throughout the year. After almost 20 years in Houston, I was a bit ashamed that I’d never taken the time to attend a single performance.

As the lights dimmed and the musicians sat upright and still in their chairs, I found myself holding my breath. Then Michael Krajewski, the principal pops conductor of the Houston Symphony, raised his baton, and the violins, violas, trombones, trumpets and clarinets began weaving their magic.

All my prior expectations about a symphony concert quickly fell away. I thought I’d hear only classical music, but I recognized the Gershwin songs they played.

I expected symphony musicians to be mostly older people. But I was quite surprised as the orchestra is comprised of people of all ages and nationalities.

A female flute player with corn rows was seated next to a young man who looked like he’d just finished his senior year in high school. A musician, who seemed to be in his 80’s, was playing alongside a serious young girl with straight black hair.

These musicians could be people in the grocery store, squeezing the lettuce or examining the labels on the mayonnaise. They could be the girl working in the college book store or the young man parking cars at the Astros game.

Seemingly ordinary people with extraordinary skills and talent were delighting hundreds of music aficionados and people like me who weren’t quite sure what to expect. The music brought me to tears, made me smile and made me think about the beauty people can create when they pick up a musical instrument.

When the orchestra played their last song, I realized the symphony isn’t just for River Oaks residents or grand dames with diamonds on every finger. The symphony is for everyone who wants to experience the joy of hearing notes that artfully weave around each other to create music that transports the listener to a world of harmony and acoustic beauty.

I’d originally gone to hear Pink Martini perform, a group my friends Bob and Denise Haenel introduced me to, but I reaped much more than hearing this talented group perform.

I was able to hear beauty.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The young man shook my hand, smiled and sat down, a notebook and pen in his hand.

“I’d like to ask you what you remember about the Vietnam War,” Carlos said. He was working on a history project and needed to interview someone who remembered the Vietnam War.

What I remember most about the war comes from my teenage years in the late 1960s, the height of the conflict. I started high school in 1969, and my freshman year was smooth sailing.

During my sophomore year, racial turmoil boiled over in our small Louisiana town. Integration had arrived, and two high schools in our area – one predominantly white and the other predominantly black – merged.

Those years were terrifying for everyone. Parents were picketing on the school sidewalks, and students were either scared or enraged.

I remember seeing our assistant principal with brass knuckles he’d confiscated from a student. The war halfway around the world didn’t scare me as much as the war inside the school walls.

“Did you have any family members serve in the war?”

The question brought me out of my reverie. None of my family members went overseas, but my friends’ older brothers and sisters were staging their own war.

Every day, it seemed, one would suddenly appear in bell bottom pants, love beads around their necks and their fingers in an perpetual “V” as they smiled and said “Peace, little sister.”

In school, boys were beginning to wear their hair in ponytails or in Afros, and the community was in an uproar.

Politics and the disintegration of my generation became part of our dinnertime conversation, and I went along quietly until Richard Nixon and Watergate put an end to my gullibility.

Up to that point, I thought the president was above reproach. After Watergate, I switched my voting designation to Independent and vowed to vote for principles, not parties.

“Did you know anybody who went to Vietnam?” Carlos asked.

His question silenced me. I didn’t personally know anybody who served when the war was going on, but I’ve interviewed quite a few veterans.

One man in particular has never left my thoughts. When we looked at pictures of him as a young man in the jungles of Vietnam, he cried for himself and all the boys who lost the ages of 18 to 25 to a war that took so many before their time.

His words echoed what a veteran from World War II had told me – he’d left home an idealistic boy and came home a man for whom reality was that death could come at any minute.

I had nothing to say to this grieving veteran. “Thank you” seemed like not enough and “I’m sorry” changed nothing. So I simply put my arm around his shoulder and sat there with him until the demons were silent.

“How did the war change you?” was the last question.

At the time, I didn’t think the war changed me at all. I didn’t have to go overseas, I didn’t put my life on the line nor did I have a family member who served.

But all of us who lived during that time changed. We became appreciative of our freedoms and discovered we had the right to change a political atmosphere that fostered corruption and allowed a vicious war to continue.

Wars change people, whether it’s a war on civil inequality, persecution half way around the world or a quiet discussion between a baby boomer and a young man ready to take on the world.

These changes will last long after the last bullet is fired.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I’m not someone who enjoys cooking, and that’s why I’m always on the prowl for easy recipes. When I was a new mother, I searched for recipes that could magically combine nutrition and taste.

For instance, dark chocolate is known to lower blood pressure and walnuts are known to boost brain power. Therefore, chocolate walnut brownies with a side scoop of chocolate ice cream must be healthy.

Whenever my friends and I would get together, we’d taste each others’ new desserts and, our mouths filled with whipped cream, mumble “I’ve got to have that recipe.” Weeks might go by before we got around to sending that recipe along in the mail.

But then the Internet came along, and we found ourselves regularly trolling professional cooking sites. Instead of waiting to buy Emeril Lagasse’s latest cookbook, we could check out Emeril’s blog and print out a recipe in a matter of minutes.

Outstanding amateur cooks began creating their own blogs, complete with photos. Some of them, though, didn’t quite understand that not all of us keep tahini sauce or Brie cheese in the refrigerator.

But many of them did understand that there’s thousands of inepts out there looking for secret tips and hints. When I found these honest blogs, I was hooked.

No more believing a recipe that calls for a 30-minute bake time when the actual confection requires at least 45 minutes in the oven. No more caved-in banana bread that’s raw in the middle but burnt on the edges because we didn’t know the secret strategy of lowering the temperature 25 degrees.

Cooking bloggers save the day.

Just when I thought my kitchen life couldn’t get any easier, along comes Pinterest. My sisters introduced me to this online bulletin board, and I can see why they adore this site and repin their favorites.

From ideas for decorating bathrooms to Houdini-inspired hair styles, Pinterest has everything the do-it-yourselfer could ever want.

Who knew how easy it could be to make a paper-cone wreath or that taking an old picture frame, covering the back with burlap and then using the glass as a dry erase marker could work for making a shabby-chic kitchen writing board.

The avid do-it-yourselfer will find instructions on making soap that looks like a snake’s skin or a step-by-step illustrated guide to reupholstering a sofa.

If you’re not handy with a pressure cooker or a glue gun, Pinterest has dozens of advertisers who will gladly steer you to their store’s Website where you can have something similar for 10 times the price.

One night, I decided to see just how deep the how-to articles ran. So I typed in random search words and now know Pinterest pinners can teach you how to train a dog to stop barking.

They can teach you how to put on eye shadow, complete with a diagram for subtle shading. Seventy six people not only wanted to know this technique, but they shared the article with dozens of their friends.

The folks at Pinterest do have a good sense of humor. They seldom explain how to make wine, but they have lots of projects for what to do with all your empty wine bottles. Hint, a chandelier and candelabras top the list.

After looking at dozens of fun projects, I’m inspired to get moving and be productive. Perhaps I’ll whip up some chocolate marshmallow fudge, mix up a home-made mosquito repellent or rewire the kitchen.

I think I’ll go for the fudge.

With walnuts.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Consistency.

That’s the word parenting books, magazines, blogs and Websites use when dispensing advice. I’ve been a variety of mothers over the years, and consistency wasn’t always my top calling card.

On exceptionally good days, mostly in my imagination, I was patient and kind and told and showed my boys how much I loved them.

In reality, I was often frustrated and, when my sons bashed a hole in the wall doing what I told them not to do, I will not say I was kind.

As a new mother, surrounded by heaps of laundry and dirty diapers, I started reading every parenting article I could get my hands on, hoping for a life-line.

I started with the expert, Dr. Spock. He said never put a baby to sleep on his or her back. If the baby spit up in that position, the well-liked doctor warned, the baby could choke. That advice made sense to me, so I always put my babies to sleep on their stomachs.

Today, doctors say always let babies sleep on their backs, never their stomachs.

If the so-called experts can change their minds, and there’s pros and cons on both sides of the child rearing situation, how can a mom know the right thing to do?

I didn’t, so I stopped reading the books and looked at the women in my life. They had a lot to teach me.

My elderly aunts were seemingly submissive to their husbands. But they ran their households with authority and wielded the paddle and the change purse.

My aunts taught me that mothers can waltz, dance and jitterbug. They also taught me how to knit and crochet, how to fold sheets and how to run a successful business, even without formal training.

On the surface, my grandmothers were polar opposites. My maternal grandmother was often in the kitchen or on the couch at night crocheting.

In reality, she helped out at the family store, taking shifts just like her husband and children, but she was the one who came home and put dinner on the table every night.

My other grandmother unexpectedly became a widow in her early 40’s. She took the only job she could with a 14-year-old daughter in tow, that of a housemother at a college fraternity house. Both were working women before the term became popular, and from them I learned moms were much more than mashed potatoes and pot roast.

But it’s from my mother where I learned the best lessons of what being a mom is all about. Through her example, I learned strength is found in perseverance. She taught her daughters and her sons that it takes quiet commitment, a sense of humor and unlimited forgiveness to keep a family together, both financially and emotionally.

She reminds me to love unconditionally, make decisions based on emotion and knowledge and to forgive people their blunders. She laughs at her mistakes and makes it a point to know her grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

I finally realized I didn’t need Dr. Spock, Dear Abby or a magazine for a parenting plan of action.

My mom’s the best blueprint for mothering I’ve ever known.

On this Mother’s Day, I want to recognize the mothers, grandmothers, aunts, friends, cousins, sisters and women who love with all their hearts, no matter if a child is theirs biologically or by choice.

I hope they remember that on any single day, they are all capable of greatness, even if the act is nothing more than wrapping their arms around a child and whispering “you are my greatest joy.”

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

All I wanted to do was adjust the clock in my car. After having some mechanical work done, the time read out was off, so I thought it would be rather easy to reset the clock.

After pressing every knob and then holding in two buttons simultaneously, I gave up. I had to research my car on the Internet to find out how to adjust a clock that, on an old-fashioned timepiece, is as simple as pulling out a knob.

Technology hasn’t simplified our life – it’s complicated it beyond belief. 

Take, for instance, turning a television on and off. I don’t want to go back to the days when our remote was my dad yelling for one of us to go change the channel. But today’s TVs are overly complicated.

Our current TV set up requires three different remote controls – one to turn the TV on and change the channel, one to work the DVD player and one for the cable.

Sure I could get one universal remote control, but that means I’d have to learn how to use a remote control all over again, and I’ve gotten quite adept at balancing the three so I can quickly watch reruns of “The Andy Griffith Show.”

Making a doctor’s appointment isn’t easy either. On the phone, I have to go through at least six recorded prompts before I talk to a person. Do I want the call in English, do I want to make an appointment, and my favorite, am I experiencing an emergency – to which I’m supposed to hang up and dial 911.

Let’s face it, nobody would dial the main number while bleeding profusely and then when the 911 prompt comes up, whack themselves in the head and say “why didn’t I think of that?”

When it comes to the kitchen, simple is out. Shrimp was on sale last week, so I bought a pound, remembering I’d seen broiled shrimp on a menu recently and thought it might be easy to cook at home.

Back home, I searched online and all the recipes called for fresh chopped parsley and green onions. I didn’t pick those up in the grocery store. I just picked up shrimp. Then they wanted me to add dry mustard. I thought mustard came in a yellow squeeze bottle.  

So I ended up doing what I always do – peel the shrimp, melt some butter in a pan, cook ’em until they’re no longer pink and then season with Tony Chachere’s.

And the list goes on. On our new vacuum cleaner, it took me 10 minutes to find the on and off switch because it was buried in a sea of fancy buttons.

When shopping for a new washing machine, high-end models had digital displays worthy of a NASA control center. We settled for the basic push-in-the-knob wash, rinse and spin model.

I don’t want to record six different shows at a time or a menu that looks like something NASA would whip up in its test kitchens. I don’t want a dozen different selections for washing bath towels. And I certainly don’t need 10 different settings for vacuuming a living room rug.

I just want simple.

My friend, Karl Baumgartner, has an easy solution for handling the pesky details in life, starting with the clock in his vehicle. He never changes the time when daylight savings time rolls around because, he said, for half the year, the time is correct and he doesn’t have to do a thing. The other half of the year, he always gets where he’s going early.

The next time daylight savings time rolls around, I think I’ll follow Karl’s advice. Simple and easy. Now that’s technology I can follow.
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

There’s no sign post or flashing lights outside the entrance to the Nash Prairie near West Columbia. Visitors won’t come across long lines of exhausted tourists waiting for funnel cakes.

What they will find is an opportunity to travel back to a time when Native Americans walked this prairie on their way to the Brazos River bottomland to fish and gather food.

Back then, a vast prairie extended from Louisiana to South Texas. Over time, the land was swallowed up by urban sprawl. Today, all that remains is the Nash Prairie, 400 acres of pristine land that has never been grazed or plowed.

These 400 acres miraculously escaped a contractor’s bulldozer, and the prairie is providing answers to researchers about how this area looked hundreds of years ago.

The Nash Prairie was once part of the KNG Ranch owned by the late Houston socialite Kittie Nash Groce. The land was eventually passed to St. Mary’s Episcopal Church in West Columbia.

Along the way, conservationists became interested in the prairie as did  Peter and Susan Conaty. Peter is the pastor at St. Mary’s and Susan spent hundreds of hours with researchers as they began examining the prairie.

They discovered over 300 botanical treasures most thought were long gone and realized they had a genuine treasure on their hands.

This virgin land is now a preserve, a laboratory and a seed bank helping landowners and other conservation groups along the Gulf Coast restore their lands to their natural state and reintroduce native plants that were thought to be extinct.

The Nature Conservancy now owns the Nash Prairie, and they are committed to protecting the land and helping landowners within a 300-mile radius restore their property to its natural state.

The Conatys are the local knowledgeable tour guides to the prairie and patiently answer any and all questions. Peter said they consider themselves stewards of the land and it’s where he feels closest to God.

I was fortunate to accompany the Coastal Prairie Chapter of the Texas Master Naturalists on a day trip to the Nash Prairie. We started the tour at Peter and Mary’s comfortable house in Columbia Lakes where their back yard is a gorgeous showcase for the advantages of using native plants in home gardens.

Cookies and punch are always served to anyone wishing to stop by, tour the Conaty’s back yard and then visit the prairie. Susan and Peter accompany guests out to the Nash Prairie as the land is still private. The prairie is located along a back country road, and unless one has a guide, it’s easy to drive right past the unmarked entrance.

At first, the prairie seemed like just another meadow, but as we walked further in, a gentle wind provided us with a symphony of rustling leaves and grasses and the outside world simply disappeared. Songbirds flitted in and out of the tall grasses and delicate spring flowers dotted the prairie.

In this last remaining virgin tract of prairie, I felt a connection with past people who understood that when Mother Nature is allowed to swirl the color wheel, beauty is the result.

As we drove away, I understood what Rev. Conaty meant when he told me I’d find peace on the prairie. Not only did I find solace and quiet, but I gained a greater understanding of our responsibility to this small patch of history.

For more information on the Nash Prairie, contact the Conatys at 979-345-3456 or email stmaryswc@centurylink.net. This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.