As the eldest of seven children, bossing around younger brothers and sisters came with the territory. The seven stair-step Heberts were close-knit, and we usually traveled as one unit, especially if one of us was threatened.

One afternoon, our youngest brother came home and said a kid had threatened to beat him up.  The four eldest siblings marched down the street, shoulder to shoulder and found that coward, telling him if he messed with one Hebert, he got all of us.

We were a cohesive unit until it came time for the dinner dishes, and that’s when everyone seemed to disappear. About that time, we sisters put on our bossy pants and started issuing marching orders.

Our brothers usually did what the girls said, mostly to avoid hearing us gripe. But there were times we took advantage of their good natures.

One year, I had to make a harem-girl costume for a school play. I needed a model about my height to wear the skirt so I could put in the hem, and I spotted my brother, Johnny, watching television.

I gave him a direct command to get on the kitchen chair and put on the skirt so I could pin it up. I know he did it because I have an old Polaroid picture of my brother reluctantly standing on a wooden chair, wearing a yellow harem-girl skirt.

We didn’t limit our bossing around to our brothers. We included their friends as well. My brother, Jimmy, had two best friends – Ricky and Dickie – yes, that’s their names. These three buddies hung out at our house all the time, especially on Saturday mornings.

Those two would sit on the couch while I cleaned, and no matter how much I yelled at them to get out, they quietly stayed put. I figured they were too stupid to understand what I was saying or they just ignored me because I was, after all, a bossy big sister.

Years later, Ricky told me they paid my brother to let them stay on the couch because they liked watching me vacuum in my T-shirt and underwear.

The little creeps.

As we got older, quite a few “friends” came home with my brothers, but it was really to meet my sisters. And, as turnabout is fair play, some friends came home with us to meet our brothers. That arrangement has worked out quite well as our sisters-in-law were first our friends.

The happy, however, sometimes came with the sad. After my father passed away, the three sisters decided we’d quietly go to the funeral home and choose Dad’s casket. As we were getting ready to leave, we noticed our four brothers standing by the back door.

They refused to let us go to the funeral home alone, and so all seven of us chose a casket for my dad, voting on our favorite casket, knowing majority ruled.

Over the years, we’ve had squabbles, but we’ve grown to understand and appreciate the differences that separate us and the similarities that bind us.

Instead of chasing down bullies, we’re watching our children marry and admiring pictures of each others’ grandchildren and vacation photos on Facebook.

Our brothers – Jimmy, Johnny, Joey and Jeff – are wonderful, responsible men and my children and grandchildren absolutely adore their uncles. My sisters and I know our brothers would do anything in the world for our mom, their wives, their children, their pets and their sisters.

Even if that sisterly request involves climbing up on a rickety kitchen chair and trying on a yellow harem-girl costume.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

When my husband and I arrived at Joshua Springs Park and Preserve in Comfort early in the morning, the park was deserted. But soon, Junior came trotting along and stayed with us for our entire visit, hoping for a food hand out.

Junior is a young fawn who was abandoned right after the preserve opened seven months ago. It’s obvious Junior’s been around people as he showed no fear and seemed to prefer our company to solitude in the brush.

On the other hand, I was looking for some peace and quiet over spring break, and heading to the small town of Comfort, right in the heart of the Texas Hill Country, was exactly what I needed.

Our stay at Meyer Bed and Breakfast on Cypress Creek was a blissful getaway experience. We stayed in the 1857 Ernestine Meyer cabin, and we loved walking around the grounds, especially swinging in a wooden swing on the creek bank, watching the sun go down.

Breakfast was served family style with everything from pancakes to fresh fruit to home-made bread pudding. Later in the day, we enjoyed window shopping in downtown Comfort and dinner at the local mom-and-pop eateries.

One of the areas I wanted to visit was the Joshua Springs park as I love taking nature photos. We hoped we’d not only take pictures but also have the chance to spot migrating birds and emerging wild flowers.

The park has well-groomed walking trails that meander through gentle hills. Informational signs let visitors know what types of grasses and flowers grow in the park and the types of frogs and snakes hiding in the native grasses.

We spent a peaceful morning in the preserve, and I happened to have a nice conversation with a man heading out to the pier, fishing pole in hand. He recommended a nearby place for lunch, and we took him up on his offer, heading out to Po Po’s restaurant in Boerne.

Located at the crest of a hill, the restaurant dates back over 40 years, and we did a double take when we walked in the front door. Every surface of the inside of the building is adorned with decorative plates in all shapes and sizes. According to our knowledgeable waiter, there are over 2,500 plates inside the building, a collection started by the original owners.

The food was great and we headed out, tummies full, to visit a few nearby wineries. California’s long been known as the wine capital of the United States, but Texas wines are quickly gaining on the West Coast and for good reason – the wines are fabulous.

At Singing Waters winery, we spent a couple of hours sitting underneath some shady live oak trees, enjoying a nice breeze. We stopped at  a small grocery store on the way back to our room and picked up cheese, summer sausage and crackers to go with the wine we purchased.

We ended the day back on our favorite swing, watching a Texas black squirrel explore the live oaks. My mind kept circling back to Junior. Plans are for this little fawn to be released  around a herd of white-tailed deer who should take him in and teach him how to survive in a world where he belongs.

We can all learn a lesson from Junior:  although it might seem more comfortable where everything’s handed to us, sometimes making our own way in the world, accompanied by friends, is the best way to go.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

In a small Southern town, high school athletics are often the biggest draw. Football stadiums are packed, and people sit in the same spot year after year. They know how to avoid the obnoxious fan who not only screams at the coaches but knows exactly what plays the coach should call each and every time.

It’s the same with basketball. Fans and supporters pack the gymnasium,  and referees take the same verbal beating the football refs take – they’re blind, they missed the call and they must be working for the opposing side.

With every win, the town celebrates. With every loss, the town mourns but remains hopeful that next season will be the magical one.

The team that will put them in the headlines and bring pride and honor to the town.

The team that’ll bring home that impressive state trophy. 

And that’s exactly what two high school basketball teams in our area did this past week up in Austin. B.F. Terry High School clinched the 4A UIL state championship title, and Travis High School earned the 5A UIL state championship trophy.

I was lucky enough to go to the Terry game, and we arrived early at the Erwin Center on the University of Texas campus. The arena was packed with fans, scouts from colleges all over the United States, UIL officials and former players.

Excitement was in the air as the 2A teams, White Oak and Brock, were on the court. On one side of the arena were fans from White Oak, a small farming town outside of Longview and on the other, the cheering section from Brock, a town west of Fort Worth.

The score rocked back and forth the last five minutes, and when White Oak won that exhausting game, the cheering from their student section raised the roof.

When it came time for Terry to take to the court, three entire sections were packed with excited fans wearing red T-shirts, the words “Ranger Pride” on the front. They faced a formidable team, Dallas Kimball, a two-time back-to-back state championship squad.

Going into the half, the Rangers were down, but they came back like steam rollers the second half, took the lead and never looked back.

When the final buzzer sounded, the on-their-feet fans refused to leave until the boys hoisted the state trophy over their heads.

After the game, fans waited near the Terry bus for almost an hour, and families, schoolmates , players and coaches took pictures with everybody, the trophy at the center of almost every shot.

That devotion was the same for the Travis Tigers. After losing the state title last year, this young team went back to Austin determined to bring home that title. And they did exactly what they set out to do accompanied by their fans who never stopped believing that trophy would find a permanent home in the Travis lobby.

Over the years, high school athletes graduate and move on. Seasons change and turn into years. For the faithful who go to games year after year and sit in the same seats, one day, there might be somebody new sitting next to you.

When you introduce yourself,  there’s a chance the wistful face has a history.

 “I was on that state championship team back in 2013. And, man, what a ride we had.”

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

  When I was a teenager, I always looked forward to the weekends. School days were a round robin of getting up early to catch the bus and staying up late to finish homework. During the week, I often felt like a zombie, so my weekend goal was to put some Z’s in the sleep bank.

  Saturday was the one morning of the week when I could curl up under my bedspread and try to sleep until noon. That was impossible, though, thanks to my mom.

  By 8 a.m., she was banging around in the kitchen which was right outside my bedroom. It was impossible to sleep with all that clanging going on and, as I’m motivated by guilt, most of the time I grudgingly got up and helped her. Back then, I wondered why she couldn’t just leave everything alone until the afternoon.

  When I got older and spent weekdays chasing toddlers, running errands and cooking meals, I realized Saturday mornings were the one day of the week when I could get caught up with the dishes, laundry and bathroom chores.

  Although we’re now empty nesters, old habits die hard, so this past Saturday, I grabbed my cleaning bucket and headed down the hallway. I glanced at the walls and noticed tiny fingerprints about two feet off the ground.

  I recognized my granddaughter’s fingerprints and remains of the peanut-butter and honey sandwich she’d been eating while telling me a story. Then I saw my grandson’s fingerprints on the wall going up the stairs.

  I started to clean those off, but then I remembered how happy my granddaughter had been while recounting the story about the princess dream she’d had.

  My grandson’s handprint was made while he was learning to climb the stairs all by himself. Looking at those little handprints, I smiled for it wasn’t so long ago that I was cleaning their father’s fingerprints off walls.

  In the house where my sons grew up, the bedrooms were upstairs, and when the boys came down the stairs, they dragged their hands down the side walls of the stair case.

  One overhead section became a good-luck slapping charm, and all three would touch that section of the wall when they came down the stairs.

  As a result, that one tough-to-paint section had a permanent gray spot from their handprints. I complained incessantly about the dirt, yelling at them to stop putting their hands all over that one unreachable spot.

  But when our youngest son went off to college and we put the house up for sale, I looked at that spot over the stairs, the gho

sts of their fingerprints bringing back memories of my life when my boys were still under our roof.

  We leave fingerprints all over the place in life, at the milestones we commemorate with hugs, handshakes and hearty pats on the back. Many of us talk with our hands, spreading our hands wide when asking a question and our palms thrown upward when we’re fed up.

  Our hands check to see if our babies have a fever, smooth the hair away from our spouse’s face and tickle our children while tucking them into bed at night.  

  So I think I’ll leave my grandchildren’s fingerprints on the wall for a while. People leave traces in our lives in the most unexpected places. We can either wipe those fingerprints away, ignore them or smile and remember how the people who own them touched our souls.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

 

   

I love a good story, especially ghost stories. Perhaps it’s because my family had its own set of ghosts that I’m so intrigued by them. My father had a special name for the ghost in our family – “Mr. Toops.” Whenever the back door flew open by itself, Dad would always say “Come on in, Mr. Toops.”

We never thought much about my father’s invitation because Dad was a little silly at times. Later we found out that Mr. Toops was a real person, a man who lived next door to my father’s family.

Mr. Toops was hard of hearing, and he often walked right in the back door, figuring it was a waste of time to knock and wait for somebody to yell “come in.” My Grandmother Marguerite would see him standing there and say “Come on in, Mr. Toops,” and the line stuck through the next two generations.

There were plenty of other ghost sightings in the Hebert family – my grandmother claimed she often saw a faint image of a man standing near the edges of family functions. She wasn’t afraid of the Gray Man, as she called him, and neither were we.

She claimed her ability to see him was because she was born with a veil. Near the turn of the century, almost all births were at home. Marguerite was no exception; and when she was born at home in New Orleans’ mystical French Quarter, her birth was something special.

Marguerite was born with a “veil,” part of the amniotic sac that can partially cover the face of the child. It’s not common, but midwives believed that a child born with the veil had special powers and could see ghosts and into the future.

My grandmother said her mother kept the “veil” in a sealed jar, but someone stole it, and she believed the veil was headed for a voodoo ceremony. Despite the loss of the veil, for all her life, my grandmother had the ability to see and know things before they happened.

My mother’s father also had the gift of second sight and sensed when something was about to happen, from the culmination of a business deal to knowing someone was coming to visit.

From those two, I developed an insatiable curiosity about things beyond what we can see.

Whenever I hear a story about someone having a sixth sense, I want to know every detail, and that’s why I bent my brother’s ear the other night.

Johnny recently had an encounter with someone who could tell the future. He was visiting with a nun in Louisiana, one who supposedly has the gift to sense when things are going to happen and, in some cases, to heal people. She relayed to my brother that he needed to watch his blood pressure.

Just a few days earlier, my brother had a full physical, and he checked out fit as a fiddle. But while exercising, he over-exerted himself and developed a two-week long headache.

The doctor told him his blood pressure went through the roof, and he suddenly remembered the nun’s prediction.

My  next phone call to my brother will be to see if he can introduce me to this special nun. Perhaps she’ll know if there’s any hope one day I’ll develop a sixth sense like my grandparents.

It sure would be nice to know who’s about to knock on the back door.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The United States Post Office has to be one of the busiest places in town, especially on a Saturday morning. I found myself there this past weekend mailing two large boxes to my son in Taiwan.

I didn’t realize cologne was a hazardous waste – although Old Spice might qualify – so I had to open both boxes because I couldn’t remember which box had the bottle. Then I had to stuff everything back in the box, buy a roll of tape from the Post Office kiosk to reseal the boxes and fill out complicated mailing forms.

Printing my name in the tiny boxes took most of my concentration, but after a couple of minutes, I noticed a woman trying to address an envelope next to me. I quickly apologized for taking up the counter, and she sniffed and muttered “I asked you to move three times. You’d think you’d have heard me.”

Instantly, I was apologetic and mortified that I’d been one of those people I gripe and complain about all the time – the hogger. You know the type – they do whatever they want to do without paying the least bit of attention to anyone around them.

Sheepishly, I realized I gripe about a lot of behaviors people exhibit in public, and I’d had just such an experience before going to the post office. Earlier that day, I ended up in the grocery store line behind a young mom.

A tall blonde, wearing a diamond tennis bracelet and expensive jogging clothes, got in line behind me. A checker walked up and said she’d take the next person in line. The woman in the jogging suit made a bee-line to the open cashier and never looked back.

The young mom in front of me was stewing but didn’t say anything. Finally I leaned over my basket and said “Don’t people like that really get to you?”

Immediately she smiled and we had a pleasant conversation about impolite people who ignore the unspoken rule of grocery store etiquette – when a cashier opens up, the next person in line should go next, not the barracuda who lingers around the ends of the line, hoping to catch a freshly opened check-out line.

“Karma will get her,” I said to my new friend. “Karma has a long memory, and she never forgets.”

I’m a firm believer in what goes around comes around. When I was younger, I griped about people who walked all over others and never seemed to get what was coming to them.

These types still aggravate me –they’ll steal a parking spot even though you’re sitting there with your blinker on and they run red lights because their time is more important than yours.

But the older I’ve gotten, the more I see karma come around and “reward” these people for their rude and impolite behavior.

That woman who cut in front of us in the grocery store line? I watched the wind smash two grocery carts into her driver’s side door when she was putting her bags in the trunk.

The person who stole the parking space will, sooner or later, have to park at the far end of the parking lot in the pouring rain, and people who run red lights invariably get pulled over by the police.

You can only rob from karma for a short amount of time and then she wreaks her revenge.

I needed to appease the kismet goddess, and I saw my chance when a young girl walked up to the post office counter to mail a shawl to a friend.

She ended up having to buy a mailing box, but she didn’t have any tape. I handed her the roll I’d just bought and told her to help herself.

She was surprised but I said I was simply paying back the karma guardians. She laughed and said karma was definitely nothing to fool around with, and now she was bound to do something nice for somebody because, she said, “what goes around, comes around.”  

Even for we table hoggers.  

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

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.