In my hometown, schools were named after a saint or a city. Here in Texas, schools are named after people who’ve positively contributed to the educational system.

The history behind the names of some of the older schools in our area is a rich and diverse one. Some are named for those who enhanced the community outside a classroom.

One is named after Taylor Ray who was instrumental in establishing a school district in the late 1800s.

Manford Williams was determined to improve education when he saw the system needed assistance. He helped form the Lamar CISD and served for 26 years on the school board.

Campbell Elementary was the first school named after an educator, Bess Campbell. People still talk about the positive influence she had on their lives.

Cora Thomas was born and reared in Fort Bend County and taught for 38 years. Irma Dru Hutchison helped open Lamar Consolidated High School and taught for over 30 years.

I feel honored to have met some of the people who have schools named after them. Adolphus Elementary is named in honor of the late judge Jim Adolphus who was always a supporter of the educational system.

Culver Elementary is named after another judge, Thomas Culver, who supported the law, education and his family. I took a group of Cub Scouts to visit his classroom one afternoon, and he called out a friendly greeting to me and the Scouts from the bench.

Lindsay Elementary is named after the late Kathleen Lindsay. Although she wasn’t an educator, she was a pioneer in all aspects. She was one of only three women in her graduating class from the University of Texas’ law school in 1939.

She helped open Richmond State School and was instrumental in starting the Fort Bend County Library system, an idea of the Share-a-Book Club. They started with a bookmobile, and now there are 12 branches celebrating the system’s 75^th birthday.

In life, Mrs. Lindsay was the definition of grace and culture, and spending time with her was always a pleasure.

Such is the case with one of the newest elementary schools in Lamar CISD, Phelan Elementary.

Maxine Phelan is an educator who taught at Lamar CHS for many years. When I first came to this area, I was told she, Mike Cooper and Richard McDaniel were the epitome of excellence. Having met Mike and Maxine, those accolades are well deserved.

Maxine and I have become friends, and I know first-hand why her former students and colleagues respect and admire her.

The first few years of teaching were rough for me, but Maxine constantly told me to stay the course and showed me how to reach students in a positive way. That encouraging nature is evident in every aspect of her life, from school to church to family.

She is generous and kindhearted yet she knows when it’s time to get tough. Teachers not only have to teach the curriculum, but they’re often a coach, counselor or referee.

They’re supposed to have all the answers for parents, the community and their administrators.

That’s an almost impossible request because they’re dealing with human beings. Little ones who cry, laugh, act out and bring all their emotions with them to a safe place – a teacher’s classroom.

The positive impact teachers have on a student, a school and a community lasts a lifetime.

Just ask any student who was fortunate enough to have a seat in Ms. Phelan’s classroom.

To all the Knights at Phelan Elementary, know the original knight in shining armor is about 5 feet tall, has a razor-sharp mind and a generous heart.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Not yet.

That thought kept running through my mind as I watched our 15-year-old dog yelping in pain, unable to move.

She came to us as a temporary dog. One rainy night, our son and his family heard a sound outside their home. They looked and found a puppy struggling in the ditch, close to drowning.

They rescued and took care of her until she was about 8 months old. An opportunity to go to school out of state meant they’d have to give their dog away. They tried to find a home for Channell, but in the end, I told them I’d keep her until they got back.

I’ll admit, I’m not a pet person. I used to tell my boys they could have a picture of a goldfish for a pet, but eventually, they wore me down.

I told my husband I’d take care of the dog, but she won him over in a matter of days.

It wasn’t hard because Channell is a great dog.

She doesn’t jump up on the furniture, has never torn anything up and only barks if someone’s at the door.

When the grandchildren were young, she never bit or nipped at them as they often pulled on her tail or ears. She whines if my husband – her alpha mate – leaves without her, and he enjoys taking her places with him.

We know she’s getting older – she sleeps a good bit of the time and she lost her hearing a year or so ago.

When she gets up, she slowly stretches each leg out before tentatively moving forward. We don’t notice her aging because it’s been gradual over the past couple of years.

Two weeks ago, I noticed she wasn’t eating and had a few accidents inside, a rarity for her. I took her to the vet who diagnosed a bladder infection.

After a few days on an antibiotic, Channell rebounded, so my husband took her out to the country where she loves to run and play, even at her age.

He came home with Channell in a sling, the whimpering dog unable to walk or move. We think she fell but we’re not exactly sure what happened.

An X-ray showed no broken bones, but she has arthritis all down her back and it’s a wonder she’s as agile as she normally is.

The night after her injury, I kept getting up to check on her. The only parts of her that moved were a slight wagging of her tail and her big brown eyes looking at me, almost questioning what was happening.

I had no answers, but I touched the top of her head – the one place where she didn’t yelp when touched there – and told her what a good dog she was and how much we loved her.

Even though she couldn’t hear me, the words comforted me, and I hope she somehow could sense my caring and sorrow that she was in so much pain.

When I left to go to my mom’s birthday party in Louisiana, I quietly told my husband I supported whatever decision he might have to make about her future, and I was sorry if he had to make the hard one all alone.

But the next day, the old gal was actually moving around. She wasn’t running but she did manage to walk to the door and go outside. By the time I got home, she was almost back to her old self, and I thanked God for helping her recover.

Channell’s an important part of our family. When the time comes for her to cross the Rainbow Bridge, I hope we’re with her in those last moments so we can give her the caring goodbye she deserves.

But not yet.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Our mom is turning 90 years young next week.

Mom says she doesn’t feel 90, and she has the outlook of someone half her age.

As a front-row bystander to her life for many of those years, I have a few insights as to how Mom’s retained a young attitude.

#1:  She doesn’t see herself as old. By society’s measuring stick, she’s definitely a senior citizen, but she doesn’t accept that verdict. Recently, she went on a senior citizen’s trip to a casino in Baton Rouge.

When I asked how it went, she said the trip wasn’t any fun.

“All those old people slowed me down,” she said. When I reminded her that she was the same age as those she was complaining about, she sniffed and said “I’m a young 90, not an old one.”

#2:  She listens to her own voice. When there were hurricane warnings last year, Mom got in her car and drove around. She wanted to see what was going on out there.

My brother said the governor ordered everyone to stay home. Her answer was simple:  “Well, he didn’t tell me.”

#3:  She has deep beliefs. When we were kids, Sunday Mass was a requirement, not a choice. Even though she was probably tired and would’ve liked to relax on a Sunday morning, she made sure all seven of us were dressed, out the door and sitting on the front row.

#4:  She has a great sense of humor. My brother came to visit her and she asked if he was hungry. He said he wasn’t, but she said she could fix him a sandwich.

He declined. She offered leftovers. He declined. When he was leaving, she stood at the door with a paper bag, rattled it and said “We have pears!” We teased her unmercifully for weeks about being a food pusher.

Instead of getting mad, she gave all of us a plate with a pear picture on it for Christmas so we’d always have pears.

#5:  She’s not a great driver, but that doesn’t stop her. Even at the age of 89, she still gets out and drives herself around town. But not without minor incidents she tries to keep a secret.

She keeps asking my brother for bumper stickers advertising his Catholic radio station.

We thought she was helping promote the station.

Nope. She uses the bumper stickers to cover up the dents on her car, much like one would put a bandage over a scrape.

#6:  She loves the casino. When I asked her why she plays the slot machines when she shops thrift stores, she said: “Don’t think of those quarters as real money, and you’ll have a lot of fun.”

#7:  She knows every one of her children and grandchildren personally. She remembers our friends from elementary and high school and she knows who we hang out with as adults.

She knows what sports and activities her grandchildren play and enthusiastically supports them in whatever they choose to do, from soccer to baseball to playing an instrument.

#8:  She knows what to remember and what to forget. As a natural snoop, I grow frustrated when she can’t remember some of the family gossip that rears its head from time to time.

She told me it’s more important to know what to forget.

#9:  She’s loyal. Whether it’s a claim to fame at having watched “The Young and the Restless” for over 40 years to still being a top fan of Elizabeth Taylor and Sean Connery, if Mom thinks you’re great, you’re that way for life.

#10:  She gives great advice. She knows when to dry tears and when to say that’s enough.      Her advice is exactly what you need to hear at that exact moment, even if it stings a bit to hear the words.

Happy 90^th Mom. You are loved even more than you can guess. May the casino chips fall in your favor, and let’s hope there’s a 007 movie marathon on your special day.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Sydney’s eyes slowly opened. Her classmates were standing up, pulling on backpacks and stretching. Class must’ve ended, but she’d been asleep. That late-night job at Popeye’s was getting to her.

She popped a piece of gum in her mouth and slowly made her way out of the classroom. At the door, she once again noticed the now-faded sign Mr. Thompson had posted on the wall – “Stay on the path.”

What the heck did Thompson know about a path. She looked at the teacher – he was at his desk, his bifocals balanced on the end of his nose, as he frowned at the laptop screen.

They’d all heard about Thompson’s frustrations – he was secretly a rock star. Many times, they heard him brag about the gigs – did anybody really use that word anymore? – he’d snagged at some of the bars downtown.

But here he was, day after day, year after year, slaving away at teaching freshmen literature.  She had no interest in Jay Gatsby or Daisy Buchanan. She had even less interest in Shakespeare.

“Follow your dreams,” Thompson would tell them. “Stay on the path, get a good college education and don’t forget to register to vote.”

What kind of mediocre dream was that Sidney would wonder. Not hers, that was for darned sure.

She yawned, melded into the crowd, and made her way to gym class. For the first time, Sydney wondered if anybody else questioned the sugary goop pedaled by teachers.

“Don’t follow the path. Blaze the trail,” was a poster on the wall in the gym. That was a direct contradiction to what Thompson had posted, but the gym teacher was certainly different than the rock star.

Ms. Booker was young, and rumor had it she’d been courted by the WNBA. For some reason, nobody really knew, Booker had finished her college basketball career and returned home to take a teaching and coaching job at Southmore High School.

Booker sure hadn’t blazed any trails. She’d followed the path and it landed her in this back-woods town in a dead-end job.

Sydney yawned again. She hated her job at the grease pit, even more so because she closed up at night. It wasn’t that Sydney was a go-getter – the late-night shift manager made more money, and Sydney had to hand her paycheck over to her mother.

That woman had followed a path all right. The same one her mother and grandmother had followed – get pregnant young, drop out of school, take a job making minimum wage and spend your later years with yellow teeth and nicotine-stained fingers, complaining about the landlord.

“Do better in life, Sydney,” her mother would tell her in a tired voice as she laid on the couch, surrounded by cigarette smoke.

Sydney pushed the image from her head and wondered if she could escape dressing out today. Maybe she could claim she was sick, or she’d pulled a calf muscle. But before she could approach the coach, Booker blew her whistle.

“Don’t even come up here and tell me you’re too sick to participate today,” she yelled. “Unless you’re bleeding from the ears or nose, you’re dressing out.”

So much for weaseling out of gym class, Sydney thought.

She dressed out in her smelly gym clothes, not caring that she smelled like day-old fried chicken. As she stood with her classmates, noticing with smug satisfaction that nobody stood too close to her, Booker began to talk.

“Today, we’re going to talk about motivation before I make you run laps around the court,” she said, holding a basketball under her right arm.

“My college coach had a saying – sometimes the right path is not the easiest,” she said. “That’s definitely true in here. Sydney, stop that yawning and spit out that gum.”

Sydney swallowed her gum, not caring if it rotted in her stomach for the next 75 years as her best friend had told her numerous times.

“But sometimes, the right path is the easiest one,” Booker said. “And today, the right path is running around this court twice and then taking a seat on the bleachers.”

She blew the whistle and indicated the girls should start running. Sydney didn’t mind the warm-up. Running was something she enjoyed. She had a course she followed in the evenings – around her block, cross the street to the abandoned house, down the sidewalk, being careful to avoid broken concrete and the barking pit bull, and then around the corner for the last leg home.

The mindless running allowed her time to think, time to sort out where she wanted her life to go. That’s the mindset she adopted as she ran around the basketball court, past the nicked-up bleachers, past the rack of basketballs and past the girls who brought doctor’s excuses and got out of running.

Sydney wondered if those girls had a path already forged for them. Excuses after excuses to get out of doing what needed to be done. Her mother certainly had her fair share of excuses – she couldn’t ask for a raise because she was afraid of her boss. She couldn’t look for a different job with better pay because she didn’t think she had the skills to get a better job.

She was on that same path she’d always been on, and she’d passed the same markers, the same rejections and put downs she’d always heard. Familiarity was comforting if not exciting.

Sydney had decided a long time ago that wouldn’t be her lot in life, but as she turned the last corner for her laps, she realized something. In her four years at this god-forsaken high school, for the hundredth time she’d seen that stupid sign, she hadn’t blazed anything. She wasn’t an honor student; she wasn’t the fastest runner and she wasn’t filled with creative ideas.

She was a plodder, somebody who followed the path that others had laid out years before. What if she made a change, she thought. What if she decided to take the road less traveled – she’d heard something about that in freshman literature class.

Without thinking, when Sydney turned that last corner, instead of heading to the bleachers, she kept running out the door, into the hall.

“Robinson, come back here,” she heard coach Booker yell. But Sydney wasn’t listening. She was on a different path, not the same one she’d been on for the past 16 years.

She wondered how far she could run before she either ran out of gas or the security guard caught up to her on the golf cart.

Only one way to find out, Sydney thought. Keep running on a different path, starting right now.

And so, she ran.

 

We all have chores we secretly enjoy. Mowing the grass is a couple of hours where we don’t have to answer our cell phones or talk to anybody else.

I don’t mind washing my car. For an hours’ worth of work, I can get in a clean car, both inside and out, until it rains again. Thanks to the drought, that clean feeling lasted weeks.

There is one chore, however, I despise. I’ll put this one off until I can’t avoid the task any longer. The job? Cleaning out the refrigerator.

My husband went on a trip for a couple of days, so I took the opportunity to clean out the fridge.

A big job requires preparation. First, put on loud music. I found a YouTube channel with hits from the 1970s and Elton John got me in the right frame of mind.

Elton and Susie were hopping and bopping to the Crocodile Rock. I was hopping and bopping to wilted lettuce and shriveled grapes.

The next step was get an empty trash bag. Check.

Next, fill the sink with hot, soapy water.

And, last, take everything out of the refrigerator and stack the bottles and cartons on the kitchen counter.

Check.

During the pandemic, I watched more cleaning videos than I care to count. I know how to shampoo a rug and that dryer sheets can remove hard-water spots from shower doors.

Thanks to the organization videos I watched, our refrigerator is filled with small baskets.

One holds packets of cheese, one has packets of pepperoni as the grandkids love making their own pizzas and one has all the little things that don’t fit in the other baskets.

Then I took inventory. The milk had expired three days ago – that went down the drain as did the yogurt containers from 2020.

There was a bag with leftover chicken. I think I baked that, what, two weeks ago? I learned a long time ago to never open the Zip-Loc bag when the food’s been hiding in the back of the fridge for a while.

Oh, here’s that small bag of ground meat.  I might’ve been wearing a sweater when I first browned that ground meat, so in the trash it went.

Once everything was out and sorted, it was time to clean the shelves. That’s where the hot, soapy water comes into play.

I remembered seeing organizers tell viewers to take the shelves out, but that was too much work, and Elton had already sung “Honky Cat,” “Tiny Dancer” and “Rocket Man.”

I used a dishcloth and wiped the shelves clean.

Hey, I wasn’t getting graded on the cleanliness of the fridge, so spot cleaning was good enough for me.

An hour later, I was finished. The trash bag was full, all the bottles and cartons were back in the fridge and the soapy water was cold.

Goodbye, unpleasant chore. We’ll meet again right before Thanksgiving when I’ll need room for a frozen turkey to defrost.

As I patted myself on the back for a job well done, Elton was singing “I’m Still Standing.” And guess what, Elton? So was I.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My granddaughters and I curled up on the couch this weekend and watched the 2015 live-action remake of Cinderella. The gowns were incredible – can we bring back chiffon – and the sets were lavish.

Writers updated the story to give Ella a bit more spunk, but we still have a long way to go to transform these fairy-tale princesses into young women who can take care of business.

Walt Disney films often perpetuate the idea that women are weak and their only goal in life is to remain oblivious to their own beauty and marry a prince who’ll take them away from a life of drudgery.

One of the firsts was Snow White.

She knew how to take care of seven other people in a cramped little house without the benefit of electricity, running water or a paycheck.

In “Sleeping Beauty,” instead of hiding the truth from Aurora, the young princess should’ve been warned about the dangers she might face. She’d know to avoid needles and could head up an anti-drug campaign at the same time.

And if you’re asleep when your prince comes along, we need to have a talk about recognizing signs when choosing a suitable life partner.

In the original “Cinderella,” Disney’s female lead never questions why she, the owner of the castle, has to serve as a maid. She never complains, never talks back, never stands up for herself.

Let’s look at her resume. Cinderella knew how to run a household, keep a castle humming, sew, cook and complete all of that on a non-existent budget.

The movie “Tangled” is based on the tale of Rapunzel, a young maiden kept prisoner in a tower by an evil witch. The Disney princess was somewhat brave, I’ll give her that.

But if Rapunzel knew she could throw her hair down and help someone up into the tower, why didn’t she cut her own hair or sew all those sheets and drapes together and make her own escape rope? Nope, she had to wait for bad-boy Flynn Rider to come along and help her out.

In “Beauty and the Beast,” Belle has a bit more independence. She refused to marry Gaston, the manly hunk of the movie.

Belle complains about the “provincial town” she lives in but does nothing to improve the situation.

I wish we could’ve seen Belle open her own library and teach adults and children how to read.

Instead, she marries the prince and lives happily ever after, her life’s goal to read every book in that huge library. Not to anyone else. Just to herself.

In “The Little Mermaid,” Ariel trades her voice, her best asset, the one quality the guy remembers about her, for a chance to make a guy fall in love with her.

A guy she met once, and he was unconscious for most of that encounter.

If you’re going to trade your talent, trade it like most people do – for a job with a 401k and vacation time.

Which brings me back to the Cinderella movie.

Instead of accepting her role as servant in her own castle, let’s have Cinderella see an attorney right after her father’s death.

She would contest the will, claiming at least half the assets. Then she’d force the stepmother to sell the estate, sue her for back wages, invest all the money and live an independent life as a wealthy woman.

The next time we watch an animated princess movie, we’ll watch Moana sail the oceans, or “Encanto’s” Mirabel discover her special power was inside her all along.

Also on the watch list is “Brave’s” Merida chart her own course. Another good one is going along with young Tiana as she finds her way in “The Princess and The Frog.”

We need to teach our girls that finding true love requires more than a kiss when you’re asleep or a visit from a fairy godmother.

True love requires commitment and honesty.

Wearing a chiffon dress on that quest, however, would be acceptable.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

 

When we were kids, this was one of our favorite taunts: “you’re not the boss of me.”

As the eldest, I could claim superiority. But these days, I’m not in charge of anything or anybody, least of all myself.

That’s because so many things are now the boss of me, even in my own house.

When our boys were babies, they definitely ran the show. The baby cried, I got up no matter if it was 2 a.m. or 2 p.m.

He wanted to eat, I fed him. Diaper wet and they were miserable? They cried, I obeyed.

It was easier to be the boss when they were toddlers. Some days, though, they wore me down and I gave in. That’s when they realized an incredible truth – she can be conquered.

Our dog bosses me around, and she can’t even talk.

Whenever she wants to go outside, she stands at the back door until I let her out. If I don’t respond quickly enough, she barks until I get up to do as she commands.

She does the same to come back in. She stands at the door. She barks, I obey.

There’s lots of bosses in my kitchen. The microwave will ding without stopping until I open the door. The air fryer uses the same command except the tone’s a little friendlier.

If I open the dishwasher door before the cycle is finished, an alarm beeps until I reset the machine.

The first time the dishwasher chimed, it took me over an hour to run down the sound. Now I know better than to interrupt the machine before the cycle’s finished.

Our refrigerator also dings if I leave the door open too long. Let’s face it – sometimes you have to leave the door open when a snack attack hits and you’re rummaging round for something to eat.

The refrigerator, however, shows no mercy. It will ding and beep until I close the door.

Our dryer is probably the loudest boss in the house. The beep that machine puts out can be heard in the back bedroom. It’s also the easiest boss to ignore – the dryer gives up after beeping three times.

Even though my cell phone is relentless with its bells and beeps, at least I can silence it. Then again, if I ignore a phone call or text message, the prompt stays on the phone until I clear the app out.

The newest boss is my car. It’s equipped with all the latest safety features, and they look appealing on the website.

These features include a post-collision safety system, adaptive cruise control and lane tracing assistance as part of the basic package.

These are quite helpful, except when they actually kick into action. If I get too close to the white line on either side of the vehicle, the car beeps until I move over.

It does the same when I attempt to back up. I actually don’t mind this safety feature.

I wish I’d had it a few years ago when I backed out of a parking spot without seeing a car behind me and ended up with a dented back fender.

There’s one silent boss on my car that’s quite useful – the icon that shows up on the driver’s side mirror to let me know another vehicle is in my blind spot. I still find myself looking over my shoulder – old habits are hard to break.

There have to be some places, some appliances, something in my life where I rule the roost.

When I think of one of them, I’ll let you know.

That is, if they let me.

 

  This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

At my age, there are lots of things I wish. That I could read without glasses, the pants in my closet would still fit and I could walk up a flight of stairs and not feel like I was on fire by the time I got to the next floor.

More than anything, I wish I could tell new moms and dads what makes a good parent. The answer is – I don’t know.

Books and the internet are filled with advice, most of which sound great in theory but aren’t practical in real life.

Be patient, they recommend. That’s all fine and good until you realize children have no sense of time or urgency and you’re running late.

You can be hurrying out the door, and they think nothing of stopping to watch ants crawl by on the sidewalk.

Be fair, they recommend. That is impossible if you have more than one child. One of them will always think they’re getting cheated.

My neighbor’s two daughters were arguing over a stick – yes a stick – and each one claimed the stick belonged to them.

My neighbor had a solution – he broke the stick in half so each one would have a stick. One child was content, but the other sobbed because she had a broken stick.

Be calm, they recommend. Parents can usually keep their cool. However, when your toddler is running down the driveway as fast as they can, using a calm voice does not work.

Be wise, they recommend. That’s easy when they’re young. Be kind, eat your veggies, and brush your teeth.

Giving wise advice to teenagers is tough. The advice our parents and grandparents dispensed still applies – don’t talk to strangers and save money.

But today’s parents have to know what to say when a teenager is visiting online sites they’re not supposed to see and to not trust anyone because they could be a predator.

Be firm, experts recommend. But different situations and personalities call for different parenting techniques.

Some children are instantly sorry if they hit their brother or sister and will apologize. Others would rather rot in their rooms before admitting they did anything wrong.

Be encouraging, they recommend. That’s easy when your child wants to be a doctor when they grow up. When their life’s ambition is to live off the land in Alaska, encouragement is a little harder to whip up.

Roll with the punches. My nephew once held three adults at bay with the kitchen faucet sprayer.

He was standing on a chair at the sink and had the water on full force. Whenever we’d try to come close, he’d let us have it with the sprayer.

Not only were we sopping wet, so was the kitchen floor and the cabinets.

By the time we got close enough to grab the hose, we were all laughing.

You can’t be too loving, most experts say. I agree but I’d add a cautionary note – sometimes love means doing the hard thing.

Maybe that’s the definition of good parenting – doing the hard thing. Taking away privileges when they don’t live up to promises. Turning off the computer or television when it’s easy to let electronics occupy them.

Loving them when they’re throwing a tantrum, yelling that they can’t stand you or choosing to spend time with friends instead of you.

Out of all the recommendations given, the only trait I believe works year after year is keeping a sense of humor.

Even when your child tries to flush a big candle down the toilet.

Even when your child leaves his Legos on the carpet and you step on them in the middle of the night.

And, yes, even when your child is spraying you and the entire kitchen with the water hose at the sink.

Smile and remember… they’ll be grown and gone way too soon.

Enjoy the chaos while you can.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

I went grocery shopping over the weekend and sticker shock got me. Grapes used to be 79 cents a pound, and they were now $2.49 a pound. Shrimp was often $5.99 a pound, but those little crustaceans were now $8.99 a pound.

Our mom somehow made sure her seven children had cereal, lunch and dinner every day, and we weren’t rich. My sisters and I reminisce often about the things she did we resented as kids but appreciate as adults.

She usually went to the grocery store without us because kids are needy in the grocery store. Mom learned early that a trip without kids was a lot cheaper, so she’d stop at Winn-Dixie after working all day.

Her Saturdays were spent shopping for the week, but we usually went with her. We’d start out at Globe, a discount store similar to Wal-Mart, where we’d get what we absolutely had to have for clothes or shoes.

Then it was a trip to the day-old bakery store. We liked going there because there were usually doughnuts or some type of pastries on sale, and she’d let us pick those out.

The last stop with all of us was to the meat market, a place we hated. It was a bare-bones butcher shop where the prices were good and the meat cuts were usually the tougher ones.

But Mom was a good cook and we never complained about the roasts she made every Sunday for after-church dinner. She had a way to make them tender and we never thought we were eating on a shoestring.

Every day, I grow more in awe of how my mom managed to feed and take care of seven kids while working full time. None of us felt neglected and we were never hungry.

So during these inflationary times, I thought about the ways I learned to economize from her. Some lessons I mastered. Some I have not.

My grandmother taught me how to cut up a chicken, a skill I’m thankful to have. While looking in the meat section this weekend, four chicken thigh-and-leg sections were $9.50. A whole chicken was $6.

Now I’m a little rusty when it comes to slicing up that chicken, despite watching Gordon Ramsey do it before I hauled out the knives. The cuts aren’t clean, but you can tell which one’s is a leg and which one’s is a wing, so that’s a success.

I also learned how to make spaghetti sauce from scratch. For less than $10, I can make a big pot of spaghetti sauce that’ll feed all of my grandchildren a couple of times.

Cajun cooks know a pot of red beans and rice costs less than $10 and can feed a crowd for days. Some of us Cajun girls, however, never learned how to make red beans and rice, so it’s leftover spaghetti for us.

Teenage girls like clothes, and I didn’t have the money to buy what was in style when I was a teenager. So my Grandma Marguerite taught me how to sew. Back then a McCall’s pattern was 75 cents. I looked at patterns at the local fabric store and was flabbergasted to see patterns are now $20 to $15 and that’s a digital pattern, not even printed on tissue paper.

Fabric is $13 a yard, and that’s just basic, plain cotton fabric. A dress usually requires three yards of fabric, plus thread, zippers and buttons and we’re now up to over $60 for a dress.

I can bargain shop at the resale shops for less than that.

I have rationalized how to save money. If I don’t dust, I don’t have to buy Pledge. A bottle of Dawn dishwashing liquid replaces almost all of the cleaning products in my cabinet, and, as my Aunt Domina used to say, elbow grease doesn’t cost a dime.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Store aisles are crowded these days. Overwhelmed shoppers are blocking aisles, school-supply list in hand, while youngsters beg for glitter crayons or three-ring binders big enough to hold a copy of “War and Peace.”

The faces of the parents seemed to be wondering why they were piling their cart up with boxes of glue sticks, pencils and paper when they had to practically beg their child to write more than 25 words for a book report.

This question is legitimate, but parents need to understand just how kids use school supplies.

Children dispense enough hand sanitizer as if they’re going to clean their entire body. They don’t just clean their hands – they rub the sanitizer all over their arms, neck and sometimes their legs.

Most of them will taste the sanitizer at least once. When the teacher isn’t looking, they’ll fill up their hand with the goopy stuff, stick their tongue in the puddle and decide whether or not they like the taste.

Now you know why the teacher needs gallons of hand sanitizer.

When it comes to tissues, I’ve yet to see a child retrieve just one tissue out of the box – they’ll stand in front of the box and yank out tissue after tissue until someone stops them.

Now you know why teachers need extra boxes of Kleenex.

Children are taught to sneeze into the crook of their elbow.

None of them do that. They sneeze right onto the table and the teachers have to quickly wipe that up.

Now you know why the teacher needs a zillion bottles of Clorox wipes.

Highlighters and markers dry out when the tops aren’t put on tight. Children have a different idea about the tops of the markers. They on the end of their tongue, perfect when they want to pretend they’re a rattlesnake or cobra.

Now you know why their highlighters dry out in three weeks.

Here’s the reason you need 148 Ticonderoga pencils.

One year, pencil break was a favorite recess pastime. This is when kids hold pencils out like a board in a karate class. The others try and break the pencil. Most of the time, they’re successful.

Plus nothing’s more fun for a child than standing at the electric pencil sharpener and watching it eat their pencil right out of their hand.

A bottle of glue is the best excuse for creating a new layer of skin on a child’s hands. They’ll pour out as much glue as they can, smooth it out and wait for it to dry. They love nothing more than grossing out the other kids by pretending to peel off a layer of skin.

And now you know why teachers need a gallon of glue.

If a child makes a mistake on a piece of paper, they erase it. Of course, they will erase until the eraser is half gone and there’s a hole in the paper.

So they get a new piece of paper out of their backpack. This can go on at least five more times until the teacher tells them it’s okay to cross out a mistake.

Now you know why they go through notebook paper and erasers so fast.

Glue sticks are fun and children believe you need a lot of glue in art projects. You need lots and lots of glue, in fact, to make sure those construction-paper feathers stick to the cut-out of the turkey.

The tops will get knocked onto the floor and land right next to the tops to all the now dried-out markers and highlighters. Those forgotten tops will stay on the floor until the custodian sweeps them up and throws them away.

Now you know why they need 15 glue sticks and new markers.

So happy shopping, parents, and remember you’re not alone. Somewhere out there is another parent, wandering the school-supply aisle muttering “How many bottles of glue do I have to buy?”

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.