Our granddaughter had a special “crossing over” Scouting ceremony this week. This is when Cub Scouts advance from a pack into a Scout troop.

Kat’s been working for months to finish all her requirements, and the big night finally arrived. The pack stated we could bring a shadow box filled with Kat’s badges and other memorabilia to display on a table, so I fixed one up.

I walked into the ceremony about 30 minutes early, and my heart dropped as I looked around. Six other Scouts were crossing over with Kat, and their displays looked gorgeous.

They had tri-fold poster boards covered with photos and colored paper. The parents had carefully laid all the Cub’s certificates, Pinewood Derby cars and belt loops from the time they were in kindergarten to this point.

One table had frames filled with photos and decorations, and every belt loop, badge and neckerchief earned since the day they joined Cub Scouts.

We had a shadow box.

That’s it.

There’s nothing worse than feeling like you’re the most unprepared person in the room. It’s like going to a birthday party when you’re told not to bring gifts but everyone else not only has a gift, but the big package is wrapped in beautiful paper with tons of ribbons and bows.

Kat’s mom and I whispered about what to do and quickly started to take things out of the shadow box.

If we uncurled the ribbons to Kat’s medals, we could create a bit more interest. We unpinned her neckerchief and used that to take up part of one side of the table.

We’d brought a gift for Kat’s den leader, decorated with tissue paper and ribbons. We placed that on the table to add a bit of flair.

Still, we were behind the other elaborate displays.

I turned to one of the moms in Kat’s group and told her we didn’t realize we needed to go all out for this ceremony.

She smiled and told me not to worry.

Michelle returned with a banner for us to put on the front of the table plus extra pennants. We all dug around in our purses and came up with a few things to add some color to Kat’s table.

In a matter of minutes, Michelle helped Kat’s mom and me transform our humble table into one that sparkled, just like Kat was sparkling with excitement.

Kat’s mom reassured me her daughter was fine with the plain table, and I believed her, but I wasn’t. I want my grandchildren to feel special and to believe they are shining stars.

Fortunately, Kat didn’t need the glitz and glamor I wanted her to have. She had her family around her plus the support of the Cub Scouts she’d camped with, earned belt loops with and had fun with. She left wonderful friends and leaders, but her new all-girl troop welcomed her that night with open arms.

I know women can sometimes be catty, mean and vindictive. But when the chips are down, women rally and help each other. We’ll take a bow from our hair, share our makeup, clothes and the jewelry we’re wearing to help another woman feel pretty.

At the crossing over ceremony, the emotions I felt were pride in my granddaughter and humble thankfulness for women who support other women.

The highlights of the night were the smiles of pride on Kat and her mom’s faces as she crossed over the bridge to an exciting new experience. That was what the night was really all about, not fancy displays.

I know Kat will learn about the bonds of sisterhood from the all-girl troop she’s joining. That’s a treasured lesson she’ll carry all her life.

As a side reward, I was reminded that the sisterhood of women is alive and sustained by feminine hearts that understand a true bond doesn’t come from ribbons and bows.

That bond comes from the heart.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

My grandson and I were pulling into a parking spot at the grocery store, casually chatting. I glanced over and a tall, muscular man was running through the lot. He was dressed in raggedy shorts and a ripped shirt.

His legs, neck, and arms were covered in tattoos. Without thinking, I made a derogatory remark about the man’s tattoos. My grandson looked at me in surprise since he hadn’t heard something like that come out of my mouth.

Instantly, I was ashamed.

I’d judged this man by his tattoos and the clothes he was wearing.

I had no way of knowing what line of work he was in, his background or who he was.

I made a judgmental decision based only on how he looked.

Shame on me.

Double shame on me for making a flippant remark like that in front of my grandson.

I apologized over and over for what I’d said, but the feeling of shame and guilt hasn’t gone away.

Over the years, I’ve made snap judgments based on surface facts. I remember looking at people when I was a young woman and admiring their bravery in dressing differently or when their hair was a rainbow of colors or they wore whatever they wanted.

Somewhere along the line, my tolerance faded.

I was at a funeral recently, and some people came in wearing blue jeans. My first impulse was to shake my head in disgust and wonder what happened to dressing appropriately for the occasion.

My second thought was a mental slap. Perhaps that’s the best clothes they could afford. Maybe to them, dressing up meant a nice pair of jeans and a shirt.

Who was I to judge them?

Apparently, I’d found myself qualified to be the judge, jury and executioner.

Before I had children, if I saw a parent lose his or her cool in the store, I’d haughtily say that would never be me.

After my third and wild child threw some Oscar-worthy tantrums in public, I was ashamed I’d judged those parents without having walked in their shoes.

Now when I see a frustrated parent, I tell them not to worry about other people judging them. Those of us who had children totally get it and these kids will grow up.

The first time I saw a woman with a cardboard sign asking for food, the sight tugged at my heart because she had a child with her. My granddaughter and I went to a fast-food place around the corner, picked up food and brought it back to them.

They didn’t want the food. They wanted money.

Now whenever I see a person and children at a corner, I’m angry and judgmental. How can a parent put their child out there while they beg strangers for money? There’s agencies that offer food, shelter, and clothing.

But wait a minute, I’m starting to think. Those people could honestly be so down on their luck, they’re reduced to begging on the streets. They could be shysters but they could be desperate.

I see someone dressed in expensive clothes in the store and I think they’re blissfully happy. They have it all – money, jewelry, clothes. Looks, I remind myself, are deceiving. Just because someone looks like they have it all doesn’t mean they have everything.

There was a woman in the mall recently, and I thought she was down on her luck. Then some children and another adult came running up to her, with hugs and laughter.

What she was wearing or the amount of money in her wallet didn’t matter. This woman was surrounded by love, and the happiness on her face was quite evident.

I like to think I’ve got my temper under control, but I lose my cool more than I’d like.

I want to think I’m calm and cool in tough situations, but I’ll often have a meltdown instead of thinking rationally through the problem.

I want to think I’m showing my grandson to look beyond the outside and, instead, pay close attention to what’s inside a person’s heart.

I want to believe I’m better than I really am.

The truth is, I’ve got a very long ways to go.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

March is Women’s History Month. This is an annual observance that highlights the many contributions and strides women have made to history and society.

Growing up, I don’t remember celebrating a Women’s History Month. We studied women male historians chose. The women I’d choose would include famous women, but the truly important are the everyday women.

There were hundreds of women of all races, cultures and religions who helped create history. They’re the unsung heroes. The women who made sure the food was cooked, fields were planted and wounds were tended. They invented and created without receiving credit.

Women, like men, worked from sunup to sundown, but they weren’t mentioned as being important. These women weren’t valued, but most of us can look to our female ancestors for inspiration.

My great-great grandparents lived in Lebanon. When the war started there, our great-grandmother, Labibee, did whatever it took to feed and keep her family together.

She worked long, hard hours in a quarry. Later, she found items people were throwing away, fixed or repurposed them and made a nice profit.

Labibee carried bags of sewing items from one town to another to sell. She inspired her daughters to open their own successful sewing shop.

She, and many other female trailblazers like her, aren’t in any history book.

My dad’s mother was unexpectedly widowed in her 40s. Marguerite and her husband were in the middle of selling the family newspaper when my grandfather passed away, and the deal fell through. They lost whatever assets they had.

Grandma had a teen-age daughter, no income and a high school education. She found she could be a house mother for a fraternity or sorority. Her daughter could live with her at the sorority house for free, so she took the job.

Marguerite worked as a house mother at the University of Alabama, Auburn University and Louisiana State University until she was 93 years young.

She’s not in any history book.

When I was in high school, one of my favorite friends was Marie Anderman. She was one of a dozen children, and her father unexpectedly passed away. The government wanted to take the Anderman children away because they didn’t think a widow could care for them.

Mrs. Anderman proved them wrong.

She started selling Amway, and she was the best Amway sales person in the whole parish. She kept her family together, made sure they were clothed, fed and educated.

She’s not in any history book either.

Many of us have strong matriarchs in our family, women who bucked the system and forged the best path they could. Many were denied a formal education, but they insisted their children go to school and have careers.

So many had to work as domestics because that was the only job they could get while still rearing their own children in a society that looked down on women, especially women of color. But they cleaned their way through those houses, changed the diapers on other women’s children, and did so six days a week for pennies.

Those women’s names aren’t in any history book.

But they are in our family histories, and that’s what makes these women more valuable than gold.

They were pioneers for us. They did the hard work so we could have a better life, a better place in society, and, best of all, a chance to reach the stars.

For Women’s History Month, I’m saluting the unsung female heroes. These are the women in our families and society who did what they had to do no matter the circumstances.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

I was listening to the news on my ride into Rosenberg early one morning. The top story was the presidential election where the mudslinging is hot and heavy.

Also in the news was a raging fire near Amarillo, and residents were urged to flee. The newscaster ended the segment talking about a looming government shutdown. Then there was the usual litany of accidents on the freeway, overnight murders and robberies.

And, before they go to a commercial break, beware of porch pirates, people robbing you when you go to the mall and purse snatchers as you put your groceries in your car.

What a way to start the morning, I thought. It’s no wonder there’s so much road rage out there, and why people are in grouchy moods before that first cup of coffee kicks in.

I neared the stop light on Avenue I in front of Lucky Rudy’s and saw the light was yellow. I applied the brakes, but out of the corner of my eye, I saw a young woman dashing across four lanes of traffic.

I looked to see what could be so important she’d risk getting hit. Then I saw where she was headed.

On the other side of the street was an elderly lady in a wheelchair. She was on the sidewalk, close to the road. She looked so small in that wheelchair, and I could see she was all alone.

But not for long. This young woman quickly made her way across the road and was rushing up to the lady. That’s when I noticed why the wheelchair was tilted a little bit.

The wheels of the chair had gotten caught in the broken concrete. I only realized that when I saw the young lady put her purse and bag down next to the wheelchair, smiling at the lady the whole time.

Then she pushed the wheelchair out of the rut, pulled the chair away from the road and back onto the smooth sidewalk.

In less than a minute, one young lady restored my faith in humanity. She’d noticed what none of the rest of us had seen, and she took immediate action without hesitating.

People must’ve noticed the lady in the wheelchair but nobody stopped. Someone could’ve rolled down their window and asked her or parked their car and gotten out to see if she was in trouble.

But on a chilly morning, nobody had taken the time to stop.

Except one young lady.

We hear about random acts of kindness all the time, and we remind ourselves we need to be better.

We need to pay attention and help others when the situation arises.

When something does happen and we’re either in a hurry or not close enough, we hope somebody else will take the time to lend a helping hand.

Selfishly, it’s hard to inconvenience ourselves, especially when we’re on the way to work, and often running late.

So many people kept driving right past that lady in the wheelchair, and I would’ve been one of them. I would’ve glanced at her quickly and told myself she was waiting for a ride or for the light to change.

I would’ve been wrong.

A feeling of guilt and happiness filled my heart as I drove off. Guilt that I hadn’t noticed the lady on the side of the road. Happiness that a young girl did something positive about the situation.

Despite the doom-and-gloom headlines, there are good, kind people right here in our midst.

They pay attention, get out of their comfort zone and lend a helping hand.

I’m glad that young lady did exactly that.

In less than two minutes, my dear, you restored my faith that this world isn’t going to the devil.

Thank you.

 

         This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

If you’re around a kid, you realize how technologically gifted they are and how woefully behind you are.

When I want to do something complicated on my phone, I hand it over to my 9-year-old grandson. He’s handy with technology and isn’t afraid to tap buttons until he finds an answer.

If he can’t figure it out, the task passes to his oldest sister. She’s 16 and whizzes around the phone screen like a speed skater at the Olympics.

There’s a new product on the market now, the Rabbit A-1. According to the company, the Rabbit A-1 is the simplest computer and does everything without having to find an app on the phone screen. They claim you don’t need to learn how to use it. Just talk to the Rabbit A-1 and it learns as it goes.

That would be something new for moms of teenage boys.

On the Rabbit A-1, there’s no balancing apps and logins – ask for what you want and let the device delivers. No scrolling around, trying to remember where you stashed that grocery store app.

The Rabbit A-1 does it all with no buttons and is billed as a companion.

Let’s see – a companion that doesn’t talk back, does what you want immediately with no questions asked and never wants to borrow your car keys.

I could get used to that.

We rely so much on technology, but we’re slowly losing the ability to think for ourselves. Instead of Googling what’s the capitol of Arkansas, I need to rack my brain to come up with the answer.

It’s Little Rock, by the way, and I didn’t need to look that up. Okay, I did double check my answer online.

But there’s lots of facts and tasks I want to do without the aid of a computer. I’d like to think I could get some of the answers on “Jeopardy” without the help of an online search engine.

I hope I can still name all four of The Beatles, remember the distance in a marathon is still a little over 26 miles and George Washington was the first president of the United States.

My son often calls me for advice when their toddler is sick. My remedies include Vick’s Vapor Rub and a humidifier. Ginger ale and crackers are a go-to for getting through a stomach virus.

I can still read a paper map – and fold it back up – and I know how to put windshield wiper fluid in the tank. I don’t have to check YouTube for how to set a table properly because my grandmother taught me how to do that years ago.

Text messages are fine if you want to pass on a quick message, but nothing beats a person-to-person visit, or if distance is an issue, a phone call. I could get the grocery store to deliver a bag of sugar if I run out, but if I go across the street to my neighbor’s house, I get to visit with them while borrowing what I need.

Technology does make a lot of things simpler. A calculator is a godsend for people like me who are math-challenged. YouTube has saved me money and time when something breaks, although I miss calling my dad or Uncle Jim for advice.

We can’t stop the wheels of progress, but we can decide to observe from the sidelines instead of jumping on the fast track for every shiny new gadget that comes along.

I believe that’s the stand I’ll take.

Every time, I’ll take human companions over a computer and, occasionally, trust my instincts. Besides, I’d much rather talk to my neighbor over a cup of sugar than I would have an app order it from the store.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

I was ready. I washed the sweaters I’d been wearing since October, hand washed the scarves I wore to keep my neck warm and rolled up the knee socks in my drawer.

The weather was warmer, and I had my fingers crossed we were on a roll. Seventy-degree days were happening, and my feet were finally starting to defrost.

But Mother Nature is fickle, especially here in Texas. One day, it’s 70 degrees and blue skies. The next, it’s cold with gray skies and gale-force winds.

Back in February of 2021, we thought we were finished with the cold. Then the big freeze hit and we were without power or heat for days. So we can’t count out another freeze until at least the first part of March.

For some people, the cold is welcome. They love nothing more than when the outside temperature hovers below 20 degrees. They look forward to drinking hot tea, wearing flannel shirts and heavy fur-lined boots.

Not me.

I’m a hot-weather fan. When it’s cold, I have to wear long sleeves and long pants, both of which make me itch.

My skin dries out, and at night, I’m bundled up in pajamas and a robe. To make sure I don’t wake up freezing in the middle of the night, I also sleep under three blankets.

My husband has patiently explained that the temperature in the house is the same as it is in the summer. That logic does not matter to my cold hands, my runny nose and my freezing feet.

It’s cold.

I’m cold.

And I complain.

A lot.

I whine how unhappy I am when it’s winter. There’s no leaves on the trees, the grass is a bland shade of brown, and there’s no flowers blooming. The sky is usually gray and, more times than not this year, it’s raining.

I understand science, and I try to stay positive. We need the cold weather to allow plants to rejuvenate. The different seasons allow us to see things we don’t see when it’s a jungle outside.

I can see more birds in the trees because they’re not hidden by all the leaves. Our grass doesn’t need cutting every week because it’s not growing.

But to my cold-adverse heart, those are feeble excuses.

The only thing good about cold weather is that snakes hibernate. It could be I’ve got some reptilian blood because I totally understand why something would want to curl up under a rock when the wind’s howling and the temperatures are below 40 degrees.

In the summer, especially in the South, the colors are spectacular. The flowers show off their reds, crimsons and yellows. Leaves are deep green, and there’s plenty of them.

The food is colorful – spicy green guacamole, juicy, deep red watermelons and vegetables in every color of the rainbow. Pitchers of iced tea take their rightful place in the fridge.

Produce prices are low, and that section of the store is overflowing with healthy, colorful choices.

In the winter, we’ve got butternut squash and bananas. Both are yellow and, when cut open, are either pale yellow or white.

In the summer, we can barbecue in the back yard, wear flip flops every single day, eat Popsicles, ride bikes, skateboard, or walk.

No denying that we sweat a lot in the heat, but I’ve rationalized that irritant away. The excess humidity keeps our skin looking younger longer.

Fitting in outside chores requires getting up early or working after dinner. That’s okay because it’s light outside until almost 9 p.m. in the summer.

The washer and dryer have an easier time with T-shirts and shorts instead of heavy jeans and jackets.

In the summer, we’re not washing blankets and comforters – a plain sheet works just fine at night.

Those who love the cold can have it, including my share. I’ll keep my sweaty July, hotter-n-blazes August and even a blistering September.

Just let me wear my shorts again.

And let my feet finally warm up.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

They start calling to me the minute I walk into the grocery store.

“I’m here… buy me…” they whisper.

They look innocent, but they’re the devil’s bait.

I’m talking about the delicious, sinful Cadbury Mini Eggs.

These candies are about the size of an almond. The inside is rich, creamy milk chocolate, and not cheap chocolate. The chocolate is then covered in a crisp sugar shell dyed in pastel colors.

So sweet. So innocent.

So addicting.

The package pulls you in, much like a Venus Fly Trap.

Looks pretty.

Deadly inside.

There’s a sweet little bunny on the front of the package. One ear is gently folded, and he has a bit of a smile on his face. Delicate flowers surround the pastel colored eggs.

Yes, these candies look innocent, but one serving of nine eggs – realistically, who can stop there – is 160 calories. It’s 44 percent sugar, but if you’re going to eat candy, the more sugar, the better.

Cadbury Mini Eggs are only available for a few weeks before and after Easter. Innocent buyers will pick up a bag, open it, pop two or three eggs in their mouth and then they’re hooked.

I’ve munched through an entire 9-ounce bag in one stressful day. Did the chocolate make me feel better? I hate to admit it, but yes, the Cadbury Mini Eggs made my mind feel better, but my hips screamed.

If you miss buying the Cadbury eggs when they’re on the shelf, and by this time you’re an addict, you’ll pay for not stocking up. You can only buy them around Easter.

I know this because during a stressful summer, I looked for them online. The Hershey’s site stated they were unavailable.

I looked on Amazon, and they were $40 for a bag that retails for less than $5 at Easter time. Even I couldn’t justify paying that much for them, even though a little, evil voice in my head whispered “you know they’re worth it, get them, get them, get them.”

 

I bought Dove chocolates which are more expensive than the Cadbury Mini Eggs. But even at the higher price and supposedly better chocolate, they were a poor substitute for the Cadbury treats.

For those not familiar with the mini eggs, you might say they’re not the only candies that are only for sale during holiday seasons. It’s impossible to find marshmallow Peeps in July. I like sugar, but even those little confections are too much for my taste buds.

The chocolate companies have caught on to offering their treats year round. M&Ms are available for every holiday. There’s red, white and blue ones in the summer months, brown, orange and yellow ones in the fall and red and green during December.

The Hershey Company changes the foil on their Kisses to reflect the season. Red, green and silver at Christmas and red and pink for Valentine’s Day. They also offer different flavors depending on the season.

But the Cadbury Mini Eggs remain the same. Always the purple bag. Always the little bunny on the front. Always delicious, always irresistible and always addicting.

Do yourself a favor. Buy at least 10 bags right now. If you’re a recovering chocolate addict like me, don’t go down the candy aisle until April 1. In fact, avoid the side of the grocery store where the candy aisle’s located if at all possible.

Your hips will thank you.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Yesterday, I watched a car zoom across four lanes of traffic on I-10 at 65 miles an hour. All the cars around this selfish driver were slamming on their brakes as he exited without slowing down.

Curious, I wondered if there was a law about that kind of aggressive driving. When I got home, I started investigating, went down a rabbit hole and got hooked.

According to the Neal Davis Law firm, Texas Penal Code Section 48.02, it is against the law to sell human organs. You are, however, free to sell blood and hair.

I wonder if it’s against the law to auction off cellulite, wrinkles, crow’s feet and varicose veins. I’d be a millionaire if that was true.

Eating your neighbor’s garbage without permission can land you in jail for trespassing and property theft. Someone needs to alert the dogs down the street because they’re up to no good.

When my neighbor puts his garbage at the street in a plastic bag, those dogs rip it open in minutes. I wonder if they’d think twice if they knew their behavior was against the law.

I have a feeling they won’t care.

Those planning to commit a crime in Texas are required by law to provide their victims with 24 hours written or verbal notice.

The next time someone breaks into my car, smashing the windows and taking my belongings, I hope they got permission to do that. I’d hate to think they were violating the law.

This law had to be written by drunk legislators – while you don’t legally need a windshield to drive a car in Texas, it is illegal to drive without windshield wipers.

In Galveston, you can be fined $500 for sitting on the sidewalk. Please tell that to all the Mardi Gras revelers who sit down and count their beads while waiting for the next float to pass by.

Some of the dumb laws make sense. Don’t milk someone else’s cow. You can get fined up to $10. Back when milk was hovering around $5 a gallon, it might’ve been tempting to grab a bucket and look for old Bessie.

It’s illegal to drive your horse and buggy through a town square. I wish it was illegal to drive a car with the radio blaring through the middle of town.

It’s illegal to own encyclopedias because they contain a recipe to make homemade beer. These lawmakers better not look at a teenager’s cell phone.

The recipe to making a nuclear bomb is online, but let’s outlaw Encyclopedia Britannica. It’s the gateway to world destruction.

You can’t make a u-turn at any intersection in Richardson, Texas. That law would cripple Houstonians. I see people making U-turns at intersections, through the median, and occasionally in someone’s front yard.

In all fairness, we’re not the only state with strange and unusual laws. In Louisiana, you can’t tie an alligator to a fire hydrant. I guess it’s okay to tie one to a fence or the bumper of your car, just not a fire hydrant.

Many Texans think California is a weird place. They have some strange laws that back up that claim. In L.A., it’s against the law to lick a toad or wear a Zoot suit. There goes all the weekend fun.

Peacocks have the right of way to cross any California street, including driveways. Here in Texas, Longhorns and Aggies have that right.

You wonder who had the time to think up these laws. Then you wonder who listened to the pros and cons in the legislature. Then, the final head scratcher is who and how many voted these kinds of motions into actual laws.

The next time I’m in Louisiana, I’ll be on the lookout for alligators tied to fire hydrants. If I’m ever in California, I’ll need to resist licking any toads. That, not crossing over six lanes of traffic, is sure to land me in jail.

Go figure.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

When Sirius Radio offered a low rate last year, I took advantage and signed up. I like listening to books when I’m in the car, but music is always a first choice on the road.

Our granddaughters quickly found the Disney Channel, and that button stays pushed when they’re in the car. I love listening to them sing Disney tunes while we’re running errands.

Some of the comedy channels are too raunchy, and the spa music channels put me to sleep. There are four channels that stand out and I visit those most frequently.

There’s a hits from the 60s, 70s, 80s and the 90s, and they’re a stroll down memory lane. They’re not labeled “oldies but goodies,” so I don’t feel like a dinosaur when Neil Diamond starts singing “Song Sung Blue.”

These are songs from our high school years, and those tunes are some of the most meaningful in our lives. The teen-age years are when we’re finding out about love, friendship and life.

I’d forgotten how popular artists like John Denver, Stevie Wonder and the Osmonds were back then. They were young and full of life and sunshine, just like we were.

Their music was pretty simple – “isn’t she lovely” and “poems, prayers and promises.” We thought The Partridge Family’s David Cassidy was the best looking guy around, and Donny Osmond was the boy you’d bring home to meet your mom.

Those of us from this era will remember hearing John Denver’s pure vocals and deciding we all had to go to Colorado at least once in our lives.

Every generation thinks their songs are the best, and I’m no different. There were some songs from that time with deep meaning because we came on the cusp of the 60s.

I don’t think any generation can come close to the powerful lyrics of the hippie age. The first time I heard “War” by Edwin Starr, I was blown away. His deep baritone called for justice. The song is as angry and raw as it was 50 years ago.

Credence Clearwater Revival also sang out against the Vietnam War. “Fortunate Son” reverberates as an anti-war and class struggle anthem, and the lyrics still apply.

For those overwhelmed from the protests and the hippie movement, Simon and Garfunkle provided a safe place to land, especially with “Sounds of Silence” and “The Boxer.”

Aretha reminded a generation of women to expect respect and not settle for anything less. Carole King came along and told females it was okay to be a natural woman, free to pursue the arts instead of the perfect apple pie.

My sister and I agree that the 80s were a blur. We were having children that decade, and we mostly listened to Sesame Street songs. I switched over to country music about that time because the songs from my teenage years were now on the “golden oldies” channel. I wasn’t ready for that slide into geezer-hood.

My eldest boy hit the teenage years in the 90s, and I couldn’t get into the music he liked. Parents don’t usually agree with the music their teenager likes, and I was no different.

So he listened to Eminem, Green Day and Rage Against the Machine while I played songs from my day in my head.

One song stands out for me. “Desiderada,” written by Max Ehrmann, seems simple and cotton-candy sweet, but the words from that song helped my generation become a bit kinder.

The words rang true then and now – “Go placidly amid the noise and haste and remember what peace there may be in silence.”

Except in my car when I’m stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic because the hits from the 70’s are rocking.

 

   This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Sabrina looked in the mirror.

“Smile,” she told herself and groaned.

She looked like a model for a toothpaste commercial.

Try again.

“Smile,” she repeated.

It was no use.

There was no way she could pull off a winning smile when meeting Joel.

Sabrina pushed away from the antique mirror. She looked around her apartment. The space was cramped, no surprise for New York City, but she didn’t mind the tiny living quarters. The three rooms were much smaller than the house she’d shared with Joel, but she much preferred her cozy new home with a few of the art pieces she’d bargained for at her new job.

She sat down on the bed, pulling the comforter her grandmother made around her shoulders. Sabrina could feel the tears starting to roll down her cheeks.

“Stop it,” she told herself. “Smile.”

That command made her feel worse.

Sabrina stood up and went over to the window. The apartment might be tiny, but there were perks. The morning sun was filtered, thanks to the high rises above her. But she had a fabulous view of the sunrise every day.

Her view wasn’t what she’d had in California. She remembered the day Joel took her to a trendy neighborhood just outside of Los Angeles.

“Look at his bungalow,” he’d said. Joel, tall and confident, stood in front of a pale blue house. There were roses blooming in the front yard, and a short, white picket fence framed the scene.

“Get out of the car and come see this closer,” he’d demanded. Sabrina got out of the car and walked up to the fence. She had to admit, she’d never seen anything so charming, especially in California where plastic seemed to be the common denominator for the people and places.

“I rented it,” he said, pride in his voice. “I’ve come a long way from that dump in New York.”

Sabrina looked at him sharply.

“Without talking to me first?” she said. They’d only been married six months, but she was beginning to notice things about Joel she hadn’t seen before. When he presented her with an engagement ring, she was thrilled. Still, there was a tiny voice in her head whispering he hadn’t asked what kind of ring she wanted. Sabrina, a practical, no-nonsense woman, would’ve asked for matching bands. Instead, she got a garish engagement ring. It was cubic zirconium, but Joel made her promise not to tell anyone.

“Let them think your boyfriend’s on fire,” he’d said.

Joel’s job with an investment firm had suddenly taken them to California. Sabrina had to leave her job at a Soho auction house behind. When she complained that she didn’t want to go to California – the prices were too high, the weather was always the same – Joel had yanked her hair to turn her face to him.

“Smile,” he’d said. There wasn’t any humor in his voice. Just a command.

“I’m handing you the moon, and this is a golden opportunity for me,” he said. “Stop complaining and whining about getting your way. If it’s good for me, it’s good for us.”

He let go of her hair and tried to soften his voice.

“You’ll find a job out there,” he said, the malice still there. “They auction junk off in California just like they do in Soho.”

So here they were, standing in front of a house she should’ve immediately fallen in love with.

“Smile,” she told herself. “Joel’s a good provider. You can relax and let him take care of everything.”

And that’s exactly what she’d done for two years.

Sabrina bought a bathing suit, had her dark blonde hair highlighted, and, with Joel’s insistence, traded in her bright red reading glasses for contacts. Those were adjustments on the surface. She had trouble making friends, conversation about Botox, marital infidelities and refinishing antique furniture not to her taste.

She yearned to find someone to talk with about the influence of French writers, the significance of Susan Sontag and the meaning behind Paul Simon’s songs. But she put on a smile day after day, ignored Joel’s growing bullying and told herself she should be happy. She had everything her mother told her a woman would want.

“But not Grandma Noelle,” she said softly. Sabrina looked back at the quilt, went over to the bed and sat down. She pulled the quilt around her again, the soft cotton fabric taking her back to her childhood. Sabrina had watched Grandma Noelle make the quilt when Sabrina and her mother lived with the older woman in Natchez, Mississippi.

Sabrina would listen to her grandmother’s stories as Noelle stitched. In with the tales of growing up in the Mississippi country, Grandma Noelle gave her advice.

“Be sure and keep the bacon fat in a tin container,” she’d told her. “That comes in handy when you’re cooking green beans out of the garden. And always make sure you have some cornbread in the pantry. Fresh baked cornbread goes with everything from red beans to pork chops.”

Grandma Noelle also gave her advice about life.

“When things get bad, find something else to do. Get rid of what’s ailing you, put your shoulders back and smile,” she’d told her granddaughter.

Sabrina wondered what her grandmother would think of her now. A wrecked marriage, an entry-level job at an auction house and no man in her life. But she was living with few regrets.

Sabrina remembered the moment she decided to leave Joel. She’d gone to the farmer’s market that morning and purchased fresh vegetables, chicken and a bottle of wine. Feeling homesick, she’d stopped at the grocery store and bought a big can of Crisco. She filled a frying pan with the white lard, got it hot and deep fried the seasoned chicken, just as Grandma Noelle had taught her. When it came to the green beans, she opened the jar of bacon fat she’d bought at the store – yes, they sell that she marveled – and the smells brought her back to her childhood.

When Joel came in and saw the green beans smothered in fat and the fried chicken draining on a paper towel, he flew into a rage.

“I make all this money and you want to act like some country hick, fresh off the farm?” he’d yelled. “I’ve told you before what kind of life I had before I got this job. I’m not going back to being some hick where there’s no indoor plumbing.”

Sabrina was afraid. He’d yelled before, but he’d never been threatening. Joel’s face was red, and he threw his laptop across the room. Then he took the pan of green beans, walked over to the back door and threw the pan and beans out into the yard.

“That’s what I think of that crap,” he said. He turned and came over to Sabrina. He stopped right in front of her face.

“If you ever disgrace me again by thinking I’d eat that cracker food, you’ve got another thing coming,” he said softly. “Now you get that crap out of my house. The next time I come home, there better be something worth eating in this kitchen.”

Sabrina started to cry.

Joel slapped her across the face. She was stunned. He’d come close to hitting her before, but had never actually followed through.

“Stop that sniveling,” he said. “Smile. Your life is pretty damned good.”

He’d stormed out of the kitchen, and Sabrina quickly got rid of all the food she’d bought that day. She slept on the couch that night while Joel took the bedroom. Her grandmother’s words kept coming back to her – “find something better.”

After a pouting and sullen Joel went to work, Sabrina packed her clothes, toiletries, a few childhood photos and her grandmother’s quilt. She knew Joel kept cash in his shaving kit, so she cleaned that out.

“A thousand dollars might get me out of this awful state,” she thought.

Some women might leave right then, but Sabrina wasn’t that naïve. She transferred $5,000 from her and Joel’s joint account into a personal account she’d had for years. Shaky but knowing she was doing the right thing, Sabrina booked a ticket on a train from Los Angeles to New York, charging it to her old MasterCard. The website stated the train would take three days.

“That should be long enough for me to figure things out,” she thought to herself. As the train sped through the plains, deserts and mountains, Sabrina came up with a plan. She got off the train in New Mexico, threw away her cell phone and bought a new one, paying in cash. Before throwing the old phone in a sidewalk trash can, she checked her voice messages. Fifteen were from Joel. Most were threatening to take her to court over the money she’d stolen. He’d also sent at least 100 text messages threatening to find her, get the money out of her somehow, that she wasn’t worth the dirt on his shoes. Sabrina didn’t reply to any of them. Instead, she spent the rest of the trip online finding an apartment in her price range.

After she got to New York, Sabrina wasted no time lining up job interviews. A week later, she had a new job at an art auction house and ate fried chicken at least once a week.

Here it was, six months later, and Joel had found her. It was almost impossible for people to stay hidden in the modern age, she’d realized. When she came to work yesterday, her boss handed her an envelope.

“Some guy with a fake tan left this for you,” he’d said. Sabrina’s hands started shaking the minute she saw the handwriting on the envelope. It was from Joel. She tore open the envelope and read the short note: “Meet me at the coffee shop on the corner tomorrow at noon. You owe me.”

She didn’t sleep all night, wondering if she should show up or disappear again. But she remembered the words of her grandmother – cowards run away. She’d face Joel and get this over, once and for all.

So here she was, practicing her smile in the mirror.

“You need to be practicing your defensive tactics when he tries to hit you,” she told herself.

At noon, Sabrina walked into the coffee shop and saw Joel sitting at a table in the back. He was a handsome man, she had to admit. The California sun suited him as did the expensive casual clothes he was wearing.

She sat down and looked at him, not saying a word. He had a laptop case on the floor next to his chair.

“You did a good job at trying to hide, but I found you,” he said. Sabrina stayed quiet.

“Look, I’m good at knowing when to give up and when to keep going,” he continued. He looked at her like she was the trash he’d put out the night before.

“You’re really not worth the chase,” he said. “In the beginning, I was pretty pissed off. But in the end, it was worth the five grand to get rid of you. I’ll make that much and more in a week.”

He reached in the case and took out a folder. He slid it across the table. When she didn’t move, he opened the folder and put a pen down on top of a stack of papers in the folder.

“These are divorce papers. Sign where the yellow post-it notes are,” he said. “California makes it easy and simple. I’ll be free after you sign these. We’ll just call this what it was – a big mistake. I gave you the world and you spit in my face.”

He put two stacks of paper in front of her.

“One’s for me, one’s for you,” he said.

Sabrina took the pen, never looking at him. She knew she should’ve had a lawyer look at the papers but she didn’t want to have anything more to do with Joel. She glanced quickly through them, remembering California was a no-fault state when it came to divorce. She was also entitled to half of their assets. Joel, cunningly, had rented their bungalow and the cars so, on paper, it looked like they only had cash and their personal belongings.

She signed where indicated on both copies and put the pen down. Joel picked it up and signed where his name was listed. Then he slid one copy across the table to her.

“Now I’m free,” he said. “Now that I know where you work, my lawyer will send a final judgment to you there. All I can say now is good riddance to white trash.”

Sabrina didn’t say a word. Instead, she smiled. A genuine, true and honest smile. She picked up her papers, slid back her chair and walked out of the coffee shop, the smile never leaving her face.

dhadams1955@yahoo.com