The bay is quiet in the early morning hours, the sounds of idling boat motors echoing around the harbor, preparing for a days’ catch.

Shrimpers, wearing weathered baseball caps pulled tight on their heads and faded black rain boots, head out to the open waters before dawn, hoping they’ll catch their limit of 50 bags of oysters, fresh from Aransas Bay.

This scene is replayed every morning in Rockport, a busy seaport town about three hours southwest of Fort Bend County. My husband is part of the Coastal Prairie Chapter of the Texas Master Naturalists, and they planned a weekend trip to Rockport to see the sights, especially the majestic whooping cranes.

The Rockport/Fulton area is a mixture of old and new Texas. Confederate cemeteries are on the tourist attraction list right next to modern art galleries. Because the temperatures were in the 70’s, the skies a brilliant blue and the humidity non-existent, we happily spent our first day outdoors.

At Goose Creek State Park, we saw a family cleaning the redfish they’d caught that day, and the efficient husband-and-wife team were surrounded by a flock of hungry brown and white pelicans. As soon as they’d finish fileting a fish, the pelicans would open their huge beaks to catch the skeleton, and there was invariably a fight to see who’d fly away with the prize.

Lunch was at the Moon Dog Café, a popular local hangout that’s right on the water front. With open sides and a constant breeze, the hippie-style cafe the perfect spot to watch the boats come in and out of the harbor.

Oysters were the main catch of the day, and the decks of all the boats mooring at the dock were laden down with bulging sacks of freshly caught oysters.

The dock manager said those oysters would be on their way to all parts of Texas as well as Mississippi and Louisiana by the afternoon and perhaps on dinner plates that same evening. The public couldn’t buy from the boats, but shrimp, oysters and fish were readily available from nearby shops.

We stayed at the Lighthouse Inn, a step back in time to the gracious hotel days when guests relaxed on shady verandas. Thanks to a great tip from Wayne and Vicki Poorman, we were on the dock before the sun rose the next morning, cameras in hand, watching the shrimp boats leave the harbor bathed in scarlet, pink and yellow light.

When it was time for the trip out to see the whoopers, I stayed in town as my stomach’s not happy on the open water. I took advantage of an afternoon to myself and toured Fulton and Rockport.

I started with a leisurely drive down Fulton Beach Road, stopping along the way to photograph The Big Tree, one of the oldest live oaks in Texas, and spend some reflective time at the Schoenstatt Chapel.

My afternoon ended with a tour of the historic Fulton Mansion, and the tour guides were knowledgeable about the time period and the house.

The 1877 Victorian mansion is in need of major repairs, from shoring up the foundation to getting a new coat of paint on the outside. Luckily, a year-long renovation starts at the end of February, and I’m glad I got a chance to see this majestic lady before she retreats for the next year.

Sunday afternoon, we left Rockport via the coast road, knowing we’d come back soon, if for nothing more than to sit on the dock on the bay – thanks Otis – and watch the sun illuminate the world.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

  On my way to church on Sunday mornings, I pass in front of Roper’s, a small cafe in Simonton where the parking lot’s always overflowing. I’ve often wondered why a small restaurant that’s well off the beaten path would be so crowded early in the morning.

  Breakfast is one of my favorite meals on the weekend. The smell of hot pancakes and sizzling bacon always makes my mouth water, and nothing’s beats sitting down with the newspaper, a hot breakfast and a full cup of coffee.

  I’m usually too lazy to pull out frying pans and griddles to cook for myself and I hate leaving the house early in the morning for breakfast. But last Sunday morning, I was once gain intrigued by all the vehicles in front of Roper’s and pulled in to see why so many people visit this place.

  Thanks to Maria Silva, a friendly cashier at the front counter, I found out Roper’s has been open for six years. Owners Marty and Lauren Gillespie aren’t just names on the sign; they work alongside their staff in both the country store section and the cafe.

  The name Roper’s has nothing to do with cowboys – it’s a tribute to a friend’s cattle dog. When ole Roper died, Lauren and Mary thought naming the cafe after that faithful pooch would be a great way to keep his memory alive.

  To the left of the front door is an almost hidden area where a dozen small tables are nestled. Red checked tablecloths create a homey atmosphere, and framed pictures look like what you’d find in your living room.

  Although the cafe is cozy and the staff is welcoming, what hits guests first are the delicious smells from the kitchen. Lauren and her team stay busy in the back, hand peeling dozens of potatoes that go into the tacos and creamy potato salad.

  What they do best, though, is making almost everything from scratch, from breakfast tacos to omelets where the diner decides what ingredients go into a light egg-based delicacy to a hand-pounded chicken-fried steak that not only covers the plate but leans over the side.

  Entrees range from a chicken tender basket to fried catfish. Side dishes like mashed potatoes, purple hull peas and fried okra are reminders of what our moms and grandmothers served at family get togethers.

  Lots of restaurants have great food, but what makes Roper’s different is the family atmosphere. Maria said whenever she hears a vehicle pull into the parking lot, she glances out the window and, as she recognizes the person getting out of the vehicle, starts pouring their coffee, fixing it just the way they like it.

  In the mornings, the cafe fills quickly with “the regulars,” people who stop in for a home-cooked breakfast before heading out to the work world.

  Men wearing blue button-down shirts chat easily with guys wearing faded denim shirts and starched jeans, and children are always welcome. Marty usually stays in the front, making small talk with customers while Lauren and her crew stay busy behind the scenes.

  When crawfish season arrives, the staff at Roper’s hauls out big pots and hosts giant crawfish boils on Saturday evenings. Lauren’s dad boils up the mudbugs, and customers love to sit at a table and dive into a pile of steaming hot crawfish and temper that Louisiana hot sauce with a cold Shiner.

  Good times, good food and good friends. That’s what Roper’s does well – allows old-timers and newcomers to sit a spell, talk about the weather, share a few laughs and leave with a smile and a full tummy.

  I’ll take that dinner over caviar and candlelight any day of the week.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

  When we’re young, people ask us what we want to be when we grow up and the answer’s often a model, a magician or president. These are whimsical careers, so as the years pass, we find professions to fit the persona we’ve grown into.

  As a child, I wanted to be a cowgirl. My bike was my trusty steed, and we circled the block – or the ranch as I liked to think – hundreds of times, always on the lookout for varmints. When I grew up, I realized I was scared of horses, so being a cowgirl was definitely not a vocation for me.

  When I was a teenager, I wanted to be an airline stewardess. I wanted to visit exotic places, and I thought a career with an airline would allow me to see the world with someone else footing the bill.

  As I took a responsible job as a secretary, I watched that dream of jetting away to Cairo, New York City and Paris dissipate like the long-ago dream of a little girl wanting to be a cowgirl.

  Motherhood came along and, over the years, I gladly accepted three blue bundles even though I was filled with terror, knowing I was responsible for those little lives. As time went on, I gradually felt more comfortable changing diapers, dispensing advice and protecting my boys from the cruelties of the world.

  We wanted to let them experience the fun of travel, so we’d occasionally fly to a colder climate during spring break. Out of the corner of my eye, I’d watch the flight attendants, wondering what faraway places they’d been to and where they were headed.

  A chance came along to work at a newspaper, and although I loved reading novels like “One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest” and “Don Quixote” and had dabbled in a little bit of writing, I never thought I could be a writer because the responsibility is solemn.

  With a few well-placed words and phrases, a writer can squeeze hearts, open eyes or move mountains. Whenever I write a column, I say a quiet prayer that my words are helpful, not harmful. Even though I’ve been occupying this space for over 10 years, I still gnash my teeth and agonize over what’s printed in this slot.

  More than just shouting into the wind, I fervently pray that if I’m writing a humorous column, someone will read the words in the midst of sorrow and a smile will sneak into their hearts.

  If a young mother is feeling overwhelmed, I hope reminiscences of my sweatshirts decorated with spit-up and linoleum floors that didn’t see a broom for weeks hits home.

  More than that, though, I want to keep stoked a perpetual fire in my heart to remember the real job of a journalist:  to report the truth. Those of us who write must always remember that words are the most powerful weapon in the world.

  I’m reminded of that fact when I hear “America The Beautiful” and “Danny Boy” and the tears well in my eyes over those simple yet stirring lyrics. As I watch television shows like HBO’s “Newsroom” and reruns of “The Wonder Years,” I know there are talented and unsung wordsmiths out there igniting our brains and our hearts.

  To this day, when I watch women riding horses, I marvel at their grace and agility. When I’m on an airplane and watch flight attendants going about their tasks, I’m grateful they can gracefully handle emergencies at 30,000 feet in the air.

  I’ll never be a cowgirl or a flight attendant. I’ll never walk a runway in a $3,000 designer dress nor will I preside over the United Nations. But in my mind and from my keyboard, I can climb on a mythical white steed and, like Don Quixote, fight the windmills.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald, Fort Bend County’s daily newspaper.

  On Monday, we’ll celebrate Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Day. As time goes by, King’s persona is often that of a man standing in front of a microphone giving his famous  “I have a dream” speech.

  But King was much more than a sound bite or a paragraph in a history book. Like many Americans, he was born poor. Growing up, he thought he was getting a good education, but when he got to college, King realized he was far behind the other white students. He studied, caught up and graduated from Boston University.

  His fight for civil rights began in 1954, and by 1955 he was one of the leaders in the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People. But King decided to follow a non-violent path for racial equality, and he was rewarded with having his home bombed, being arrested over 20 times and assaulted at least four times.

  At the age of 35, King was the youngest man to receive the Nobel Peace Prize, and he turned the $54,000 in prize money over to the furtherance of the civil rights movement. In 1968, he was senselessly assassinated, and the world lost a peaceful visionary.

  Over the years, I forgot most of what I knew about Dr. King. I mentally put him in a narrow category as a civil rights leader and felt sad when stories surfaced of his supposed extramarital affairs.

  But one day, I decided to read some of his writings to see for myself what King had to say and pulled up one of his most famous writings, “Letter from a Birmingham Jail.”  I read every word, and was absolutely fascinated.

  King wrote the letter in 1963 while sweltering in a hot jail cell in Birmingham, Ala. The letter was written in the margins of newspapers and on the backs of legal papers and quietly smuggled out.

  The letter was not only an incredibly insightful reflection on the country, King’s words became the philosophical foundation of the Civil Rights movement.

  King wrote he was in jail because injustice was there and he couldn’t sit idly by and watch what was happening. “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere,” he stated, and whatever “affects one of us affects us all.”

  King describes the anguish Negros endured when they saw their mothers and fathers lynched. He wailed about the 20 million Negros living in poverty in an affluent society and how he had to explain to his 6-year-old daughter that she couldn’t go to a public amusement park because she was the wrong color.

  I was so moved by “Letter from a Birmingham Jail,” I read the entire “I Have a Dream” speech. It’s easy to come away with only the last few lines but that’s unfortunate because one misses some of the best civil rights thoughts ever put down on paper.

  “Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksand of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood,” King states. He warns of drinking from the cup of bitterness and hate and urges people to rise to newer heights and not hate people for the color of their skin.

  His hope is deeply rooted in the American dream that all men are created equal and that, one day, the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together.

  As many of us relax on a national holiday, let us remember the words of Dr. King. If we can take a nation that’s still divided 40 years later and bring her together, there will be a “beautiful symphony of brotherhood.”

  And from that vantage, all people can sing together “let freedom ring.”
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald newspaper.

 

 

 

  I’m in search of the perfect tree. The criteria is simple – the first few branches ought to be close to the ground and the bark should be fairly smooth. The branches should gently expand to allow an adventurous 5-year-old to wedge her feet into the crevices so she can proceed upward.

  In short order, I’m looking for a suitable climbing tree.

  When I was young, there was a small grove of small trees between our house and my grandparents’ house. My friends and I loved playing there because the trees offered a shady retreat as well as a great place to hide from the world.

  For hours, we’d wage war with our plastic army soldiers, dig holes and then line the holes with tin foil to make lakes. When we tired of playing in the dirt, we’d find a tree to climb and go as high as we could.

  I don’t know what kind of trees grew in that stand, but there were enough branches in each tree to let us shimmy our way up at least 15 feet above the ground. We made more than our fair share of climbing mistakes, but, as time went by, we learned a few things.

  The first rule of successfully climbing a tree is making sure there are enough crevices and branches to use as foot and hand holds. The second is understanding that when you find a level, sturdy branch, it’s time to stop, sit and dangle your feet in the open air.

  Once settled, I’d daydream about adventures I wanted to take and far-off lands I’d one day visit. Up there, on top of the world, I was a princess or what I wasn’t most of the time, brave. Eventually we outgrew climbing trees, but memories of hours spent up in a tree always made me smile.

  When I became a mother, my sons loved nothing better than climbing trees, and they were much braver than their mother. They weren’t satisfied until they climbed as high as they could, and nothing thrilled them better than swinging on a rope anchored firmly to a sturdy branch.

  So it was with great satisfaction I heard my granddaughter declare she was looking for a tree to climb. And like all former tree climbers, I began my search for the perfect tree for her to climb.

  That quest was harder than I thought it would be.

  First, the trees in newer neighborhoods are nothing more than saplings, and I didn’t find any that could support the weight of a small child. Older trees in established neighborhoods have had all the lower branches trimmed away, and those with real promise were safeguarded behind formidable fences.

  I found myself constantly evaluating every tree I saw. They were either too tall, the trunks were too thick to climb up or the branches were too spindly. Finally I found a tree for her to climb, but, unfortunately, there was a huge mound of ants at the base of the tree, and neither one of us wanted to risk the bites.

  My granddaughter was disappointed, but her parents came to the rescue. Early one Saturday morning, they headed to Brazos Bend State Park where there are hundreds of majestic trees with low-to-the-ground branches.

  Within minutes, my son, his daughter and his young son were up in the branches while mom, eight months pregnant, remained on the ground, cheering her family on to greater heights.

  When I heard my phone beep with a picture of them snuggled in the branches of a tree, I smiled, the tears forming in my eyes because, thanks to their parents, my grandchildren discovered a wonderful secret.  

  They knew what it felt like to touch the sky.
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

For many of us, part of starting a new year is making a list of personal resolutions to improve or add something to our lives. One of my favorites that doesn’t include throwing away all the cookies in the pantry is redecorating.

  Unlike exercising or being nice to grouchy people, spiffing up our living space takes more than willpower – it takes money.

  Magazines and websites feature thousands of ideas to update and “evoke the essence of the aesthetic,” but some are quite deceptive in how much they’ll set you back. One of the most mentioned do-it-yourself spruce ups is replacing the pillows on the couch.

  The  last time I shopped, one new throw pillow from the local craft shop was $19.95. That’s right – almost twenty dollars for some sequins, pom poms and stuffing. By the time I finished updating the five pillows on my couch, that simple spiff-it-up tip would set me back over $100.

  That’s why I’m always a sucker for magazine articles about people who update their houses with recycled items. These articles promise readers pie-in-the-sky results if they can “reclaim elements” they’re already using.

  “Shabby chic” is the name decorators gave to a trend that’s nothing more than taking old stuff, making it look even older and then claiming you meant to put that chipped and dinged up coffee table front and center.

  The frosting on that old cupcake, though, is finding ingenious ways to incorporate natural items like branches, pine cones and rocks into your decorating palette.

  One article advocated using geodes for a natural look on an entry table. I love geodes as nothing’s prettier than blue and purple geode crystals, but I priced geodes at a rock shop – they’re $250 for one the size of a softball.

  I decorated our mantle with branches from a yaupon tree one year, but when the bugs decided to vacate the bark and take up residency in our living room and the red from the berries permanently stained the paint, I went back to artificial greenery.  

  One theory is universal – a bold splash of color is what every room needs. Orange pillows on the couch are perfect, one article stated, but there’s no way my Aggie boys would ever allow me to have anything orange in the living room.

  Another decorator used sand to cover the top of an entry table to give a house a nautical feel. With two grandchildren under the age of 6, that sand would be everywhere except on the top of that table.

  To top it off, the decorator stood two canoe paddles against the wall to add to the nautical feel. Our grandchildren would think we’d put two battering rams in the house – not a great idea for anyone with imaginative children.

  Outfitting a home office generates over half the decorating articles. The start of a new year is when many of us try and get organized in the spot where we pay our bills or the kids do their homework.

  I thought I’d try and update my office area as well, perhaps finding something a bit fancier for my pens, pencils and scissors than old, chipped coffee mugs.

  But then I priced home office knick-knacks — $12.95 was more than I wanted to spend for one cup holder, and I wasn’t willing to fork over $10 for a special container to hold paper clips when a lopsided clay bowl my son made at Boy Scout camp works just dandy.

  Sitting back in my office chair that’s about 10 years old, I realized I really am a down-home, green decorator. My decor won’t make the shiny pages of “Better Homes and Gardens” magazine, but it suits my re-purposed aesthetic just fine.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

  The end of 2012 is right around the corner, and many of us are jotting down New Year’s resolutions. There’s the promise to get in better shape, eat healthier and remain calm in rush-hour traffic.

Everybody,  it seems, has advice for those of us wishing to turn over a new leaf for 2013, and most of the suggestions are valid. Who can argue with deciding to forgive our enemies or vowing to keep the house neater.

But sometimes bad advice is shrouded in good intentions. Over the years, I think I’ve received more bad advice than good.

The first piece of bad advice I got was from Ms. Thomas, my high school typing teacher. A no-nonsense woman, Ms. Thomas spent most of her time correcting our posture and lifting our elbows.

Her advice to me was to be a secretary because I could type fast. With that one piece of advice, I decided to follow a two-year curriculum at a small college and become a secretary.

It never occurred to me to question that advice, and although I enjoyed being a secretary, I secretly yearned for a four-year college degree. It took 25 years, but I finally earned that diploma.  

Then there was the advice I got as a first-time mother. Nick was a colicky baby, and I always rocked him to sleep. A friend told me I was spoiling him and I should let him cry in his bed so he’d learn to go to sleep by himself.

Later that day, I put him in his crib and let him cry for about three minutes. When I went in to check on the baby, his little face was covered with spit-up. I cleaned him up, promising I’d never let any of my babies cry themselves to sleep.

In fact, the list of bad parenting advice, especially about discipline, is as long as my driveway. One of my boys loved to bite. I don’t know why he used this form of revenge, but biting was his favorite way to aggravate his brother.

All the parenting books said to never bite a child back.

All my friends said to use time out.

Old-timers said to bite him back.

One day, I was standing at the sink, and my little angel came up behind me and bit me on the back of my leg hard enough to leave a bruise. I turned around and bit him on the arm. He was astonished, and it was the last time he bit anybody.

After that, I vowed to only consider child-rearing advice from people over the age of 65, and that philosophy has served me well.

Relationship advice bombards us from all directions. When I was young, friends told me to never learn how to put gas in my car or fix anything around the house because that was a husband’s job.

If I’d followed that advice, I wouldn’t have known how to fix a broken toilet when my husband was out of town.  

Truth be told, there are advantages to listening to bad advice because those gems of well-intentioned but misguided words of wisdom have provided me with important life lessons over the years.

I learned nothing takes the place of a thirst for knowledge; and once we stop learning, we stop growing.  

I know how to trouble shoot an unhappy toilet and how to maneuver my way through our breaker box.

 I learned to cherish time rocking my babies to sleep and, even though I regret a lot of things I did as a parent, letting them cry themselves to sleep wasn’t one of them.

In 2013, I’ll vow to eat healthier and keep my road rage under control. After that, I’ll toss the advice books on my bookshelf.

And always rock my grandchildren to sleep.
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

  When my boys were young, they’d often ask questions for which I had to scramble for an answer. For instance, how a car works. When my 4-year-old son asked the question, I thought about telling him something up that would give him a general idea about internal combustion, but I changed my mind.

  “Magic,” I told him, and he was satisfied.

  During a scary thunderstorm, my sons asked what caused thunder.

  “It’s the angels bowling,” I said. They looked dubious.

  “Well that’s what my mom said,” I told them, and they were satisfied.  

  As parents, we try to answer all the questions our children ask us; and even though we try to be as truthful as possible, sometimes we have to make up explanations.

  But there are times when the only truthful answer is “I don’t know.” Such is the answer I give when asked why someone would open fire on a classroom and kill 20 innocent children and six innocent adults.

  There are numerous possibilities – he had mental issues, he came from a broken home, he was depressed or there were readily available assault weapons in the house. There are questions as to why he chose Sandy Hook Elementary, what set him off and why he murdered innocent babies instead of just taking himself out.  

  I keep thinking someone knew this piece of human garbage was unhinged. Somebody was aware things were not right with him, and they did little to stop him.

  Perhaps they were afraid they’d be considered biased or prejudiced against people with mental issues. Maybe they didn’t want to get involved in something a family is supposed to take care of behind closed doors. Maybe his family was completely exhausted and overwhelmed with the responsibilities of caring for someone so relentless and sick.

  Right now, we’re grieving for the loss of these 6- and 7-year-old babies who were sitting at their desks one minute and then being shot at close range the next. We sob and thank God for the adults who died trying to save the children.

  Still, our children ask us why bad things happen, and we can’t come up with a reason that makes any sense. I can’t begin to explain why 15-year-old Malala Yousafzai was shot by Taliban gunmen while riding her school bus.  

  Malala was an outspoken proponent of rights for girls, and she was opposed to the oppressive tactics of the Taliban. This young Pakistanian was shot in the face earlier this year in front of her friends and other young children while on her way to school.

  There are no suitable explanations as to why a lunatic opened fire in a crowded movie theater in Aurora, Colo. this summer. During a midnight screening of “The Dark Knight,” 12 innocent people were killed and 20 were wounded as the movie played on the screen.

  We’re still trying to understand why, in 1999, two evil teenagers decided to shoot their classmates in Columbine, Colo., an unbelievable act of terror that continues to reverberate throughout the land.

  These heinous acts shattered our belief that we live in a world where children and the weak are safe from men with machine guns and assault rifles, fueled by hatred and lunacy.

  So when our children ask us to explain why bad things happen in this world, I hope we can honestly say we don’t know but we’re working to make sure they never happen again.

  And then keep our word.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 With this latest snap of cold weather, the standard holiday songs are making a little more sense. We identify with Frosty the Snowman when we’re wrapping our pipes against a freeze, turning the knob on the mini-van air conditioner to the red zone and hauling heavy jackets out of the closet. 

  Frankly, I’d rather visualize cold holiday moments instead of experiencing them, and because we live in southeast Texas, we can watch other people dig themselves out of the snow while we’re running air conditioners year round.

  A Southern Christmas is different.   

  We don’t roast chestnuts over an open fire. When confronted with a roaring campfire, Southerners are scrounging around for hot dogs and Shiner beer. If Jack Frost tried to nip at a Texan’s nose, ole Jack might find himself with a nose as red as Rudolph’s.

Still some people wish for snow, sleigh rides and throwing snowballs. They think they’re missing something by not experiencing frigid temperatures and four feet of snow outside.

  But let’s consider the positives of a snow-less Christmas. First there’s the mild temperatures. We picked out our Christmas tree while wearing shorts and sandals.

 While holiday shopping, I wasn’t bundled up in a scarf and a bulky overcoat. I was strolling along from shop to shop wearing sunglasses and short sleeves.

  No snow and sleet to slosh through.

  No blowing snow in my face. 

  Just an easy saunter under a bright blue sky.

  Like me, our granddaughter loves a Southern winter. The temperature was still around 80 degrees this past Sunday, and she wanted to splash around with the water hose.

  Why not, I thought, and I let her dance around the back yard in her pink bathing suit.

I can hear my cold-weather loving friends whispering my granddaughter could’ve had just as much fun in the snow; but we spent one minute hanging up a wet bathing suit to dry versus spending 30 minutes thawing out snow boots, socks, a scarf, a heavy jacket, long johns and mittens.

  I know of what I speak. I grew up in Olean, N.Y., about 60 miles from Buffalo, one of the coldest places in the country. We lived five blocks from the elementary school, and we literally walked through hills of snow on our way to school.

  Getting ready required an extra 10 minutes just to snap up snow boots and layer on a woolen vest, sweater, scarf, a hat and gloves and then 10 minutes extra at school taking all those layers off and hanging them up where they’d dry out by the time the 3 p.m. bell rang.

  But no matter the perks of a warm, Southern Christmas, we still love holiday songs that revolve around snow and cold weather. I wish songwriters would come up with songs that reflect a Southern Christmas. Instead of “Winter Wonderland” lyrics, what about:

  “Cowbells ring, are you listenin’

  On the gulf, waves are glistening

  A beautiful sight

  We’re happy tonight

  Sitting on the beach in Whiskey Bay.”

  Or what about changing the words in “Frosty the Snowman:

  “Ole Mike the Tiger

  Loved the purple and the gold

  Dashing all around Deaf Stadium

  Growling make ole Bama fold.   

  There are many more perks to a Southern Christmas. We never have to worry about strapping snow chains on tires nor do we have to spend time protecting the truck’s undersides from salt damage after snow ploughs clear the roadways.

  We don’t spend money on a winter wardrobe and a summer wardrobe – I own one long-sleeved shirt and there’s not a sweater in my closet. I never have to rotate my clothes because I know even when the temperatures are in the 30’s, warm days are right around the corner.

  In fact, the weather forecasters are predicting the weekend weather should have high’s in the mid 70’s.

  Halleluiah, y’all.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

  

  The jig is almost up. Our 5-year-old granddaughter discovered some unwrapped toys in her parents’ closet, gifts a jolly ole elf was going to leave on Christmas morning.

  Young Kylie inherited her reporter genes from both her mom’s side of the family and her dad’s side, and those “seek-and-find” antennae were on full alert when she just “happened” to stumble on the gifts hidden in the back of the closet.

  I can’t say I’m surprised. When I was a young girl, snooping and looking for Christmas gifts was my prime mission. The best source of information were conversations my mom and aunts had when they thought we weren’t listening.

  One year I overheard the words “Barbie Dream House” and hoped they were helping out Santa Claus because that dream house was at the top of my list. On Christmas morning, a fully assembled cardboard Barbie Dream House, complete with a Barbie and a Ken, was waiting for me.

  After that, I figured my moms and aunts had a secret line to the North Pole because we always seemed to get exactly what we wanted for Christmas. That charade went on for years but I gradually unraveled the myth of Santa Claus.

  When I was in the fourth grade, I opened a closet in our laundry room, and I saw a white helicopter on one of the top shelves. I didn’t think much about the toy, figuring I’d find it wrapped up underneath the tree for my brother.

  But when I woke up on Christmas morning and saw the helicopter with a tag on it that said “From Santa,” I knew right then and there that my friends were right – Santa really was my mom and dad.

  Contrary to what psychologists say, I wasn’t traumatized by this realization. Instead, I was miffed at myself for not figuring it out sooner. After that, the only true mystery was figuring out what was in the wrapped boxes my mom put under the tree in the days before Christmas.  

  I shook, rattled and probed every box under the tree almost the minute she put them under there. I was a master spy at slowly but accurately removing Scotch tape from gifts and peering underneath the wrapping paper to see what was inside.

  And, just as stealthily, I’d re-tape the paper and act extremely surprised when we opened the gifts. Every once in a while, I’d tell myself I shouldn’t sneak a peek so I’d genuinely be surprised.

  Just as quickly, I’d talk myself out of that rationalization and go to work removing the tape from the rest of the gifts. My mom didn’t figure out I was a major snoop until years later when I caught her doing the exact same thing to a mystery gift my dad had left under the tree for her.

   The true generosity of Santa Claus wasn’t clear to me until I had children of my own. At night, as I’d tuck my boys into bed, they’d ask if Santa would really get them what they wanted. And on Christmas morning, when they saw that special gift with their name on it, the man at the North Pole got all the recognition, not mom and dad.

  Somehow, though, I didn’t want the credit for those gifts. Seeing the light in my sons’ eyes as they thought about how good they’d been that year and that someone with a hearty laugh and twinkling eyes was rewarding them was the best Christmas gift of all.

  This year, what my daughter-in-law and I will do is switch out toys as my granddaughter hasn’t yet discovered where I’m hiding her Christmas gifts. Hopefully, the secret identity of the jolly man in the red velvet suit will stay secret.

  At least for one more year.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.