Finally the Internet got something right.

We’ve all skimmed through dozens of online “facts”– there are reptilian humanoids in high government positions running the world, Elvis and Tupac have been spotted in a washateria eating peanut-butter-and-banana sandwiches and time travelers can be seen in old photos using cell phones.

There’s one I can say actually happened to me:  if you leave your clothes in a dark closet for three months, like say during a pandemic, they shrink.

At least three sizes.

The last time I put on a pair of dress slacks was Friday, March 8. In those 13 weeks, those jeans shrank. I can’t button or zip them. Same goes for the skirts in my closet. All my shirts refuse to button and even my shoes are pretty darned snug.

It has to be because they haven’t seen daylight.

The reason couldn’t be that I’ve been stress eating for the past three months. There’s no way that a steady diet of the comfort foods from my childhood — Cocoa Krispies, meat loaf and Kraft macaroni and cheese — caused me to put on a few pounds.

As an experiment, I tried on all the shorts in my closet, and the only ones that fit were the ones with an elastic waistband. I think elastic has some magical properties that lack of sunlight causes the material to relax and stretch more.

There are a few superheroes in my wardrobe. Socks are immune to any effects of daylight. They all fit the same way they did before they were stuck in my drawer for three months. Same goes for towels and washcloths.

My mascara and eye shadow are in the same spot they were three months ago. Ditto for my lipstick. I haven’t had to take the cover off my deodorant for at least three months. There are a lot more gray hairs in my brush, though, so that’s an oddity that needs investigating.

I think the batteries in our house have been affected, especially the batteries in the television remote control. We’ve had to change those a couple of times during the pandemic when we normally only change those once a year.

Although how sunlight got to the remote when it’s been either in my hand or on the couch underneath an empty bag of Doritos is a mystery.

The internet says a lack of sunshine can cause the human body to adjust in strange ways. Somehow the pandemic affected my grocery-store buying routine, and bags of Oreos and Doritos jumped into my basket when I was adjusting my face mask.

They brought along some friends. There’s two bags of Hershey’s Kisses and a huge box of instant mashed potatoes on the top shelf of the pantry that were mysteriously in my grocery bag when I got home.

Something strange is going on in our freezer because I always have ice cream for the grandchildren. They haven’t visited for weeks, yet a whole gallon of Blue Bell Cookies and Cream ice cream has vanished.

Even I have to admit I’m stretching this theory when claiming lack of sunlight affects ice cream in a dark freezer.

It couldn’t be that someone is like a fish out of water now that there’s no routine, and food seems to be the only constant.

It couldn’t be that the best companion when watching four back-to-back seasons of “30 Rock” is a jar of peanut butter.

It couldn’t be that someone gets bored at night and sneaks vanilla ice cream and chocolate syrup for a pick-me-up snack.

Or a mid-morning snack.

Or a mid-afternoon snack.

I wonder if the reptilians are behind this…

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

I’m starting a new chapter in life – retirement.

Where did the years go?

My first grown-up job was as a secretary at the Baton Rouge Exxon plant. I loved new technology and was eager to put what I’d learned in school to use. I was also ready to start getting a paycheck.

I remember looking at the older secretaries and wondering why they were still there. I arrogantly thought they should retire and make room for the young ones. After all, we knew everything and they were dinosaurs.

We young ones would gripe about them at lunch and claim if we could retire, we’d do it in a minute. Walk away from the grind and spend our days doing what we wanted to do. Forget work.

Now I’m at the other end of the spectrum, and I know why older folks are reluctant to leave their jobs.

Retirement is scary. For many, work defined us, gave us a purpose.

All that changes when we clean out our desks and leave.

But even though our daily routine is changing, most of us still have some fire in our belly. That doesn’t change because we’re no longer punching the clock.

Young people think they have a corner on the market when it comes to passion for changing the world.

That’s a trait embracing each and every age group, from my mom’s generation that taught us how to recycle, value democracy and to fight for what we believed in to my generation that learned presidents weren’t to be trusted.

Those old secretaries might not have known how to use a word processor, but they taught me how to be professional in a world where women were second-class citizens.

What goes around comes around. I had to smile when I overheard two millennials talking about the quality of vinyl records. Those of us who owned Santana’s “Black Magic Woman” 45-record could’ve told them that.

The world still grieves for injustices. My generation remembers being saddened when The Beatles broke up and heartsick when John Lennon was killed. We grieved through the assassinations of John F. Kennedy, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and Bobby Kennedy.

We survived hip-huggers, go-go boots and pet rocks. We were lucky enough to see an astronaut walk on the moon and watch a young Luke Skywalker harness the power of The Force.

Now we’re wondering why a younger generation pays big bucks for Spanx when we threw those miserable girdles out back in the 70’s.

Those of us calculating our Social Security numbers can bring some old-fashioned common sense to the world, just as our grandparents and parents did.

The back-yard garden, the one our great-grandparents tended, has made a huge come back in the past few months. Young families are learning the satisfaction of growing their own cucumbers, tomatoes and squash.

We old folks have a Mr. Coffee or percolator in the kitchen, and we chuckle every time we spot someone with an expensive throwaway coffee cup. We’re enjoying home-brewed coffee the exact strength we want for about 20 cents a cup.

The peaceful protest marches of the 1960s actually brought about change. Integration in the 1970s taught us we could only learn acceptance when we got to know people of a different race or culture.

And a comfortable, well-worn flannel shirt is worth hanging on to season after season.

Maybe the old ways aren’t so bad after all.

 

    This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Bad things happen.

They always have.

They always will.

I wanted life to be a smooth ride. I knew bad things would happen, but I didn’t want there to be tragedy.

I found out early that’s not how life happens.

When we’re young, bad things are the monsters hiding under the bed or in the closet. But then a divorce, an ill parents or financial troubles shatter our young worlds. We learn early that life isn’t fair, but we move on, a little less innocent.

In our teen years, we learn first-hand how cruel and vindictive our peers can be. We endured notes passed around the classroom and whispers in the cafeteria.

Our peers ridiculed us for our hair, our teeth, the way we talked, our clothes, where we lived – the list was endless.

The internet changed everything. Now there’s vicious bullying that’s belittling and cruel. The comments these anonymous trolls post are unfair, but somehow, teens lick their wounds and move on.

In the past, we learned we had to take off the rose-colored glasses.

These days, those lenses are shattered.

The coronavirus has changed our perception of what’s safe. I watch movies and see people in food courts, at concerts and walking down a crowded city street and think those days will never happen again.

And now racism and hatred have reared their heads again and torn our country apart. We tell ourselves this outrage over the brutal assault and murder of George Floyd is something new, but it’s not.

Brutality against people of color has been with us since the beginning of mankind.

But now, we can see what happened – there’s no denying. The footage of Mr. Floyd being smothered by a stone-faced police officer is excruciatingly painful.

I watched, thinking the officer would realize what was happening and stop. I thought his fellow officers would listen to the bystanders yelling for someone to help their friend and one of them would step in and stop their co-worker.

I hoped the bystanders would rush the officer and rescue their friend. But I realized they were probably terrified the same would happen to them. It must’ve been agonizing to watch their friend suffocate and they were powerless to do anything.

That must be how minorities feel when people in power pick on others, whether that’s on the playground or on a city street where the stakes are literally life and death.

Bad happens.

Those who lived through the Depression never wanted to go back to rationing, living in fear and sending their boys off to fight in a war.

Those who lived through the Civil Rights movement never wanted things to go back to how they were before leaders demanded equal treatment and dignity.

The black-and-white photos of lynchings are beyond horrific, and it’s the faces of the men and women who are watching young men of color hanging from a tree that make you believe in evil.

Somehow, we find ways to live with the bad.

We avoid the bullies on the playground, learn that gossip fades and we can live without social media.

Educators teach tolerance and acceptance in school, and leaders like Malala who advocate for children to be taught so they don’t repeat the intolerance invasive in their midst.

We listen to the words of leaders who advocated peaceful solutions.

“Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere,” stated Dr. King in his “Letter from a Birmingham Jail” which should be required reading for everyone.

The late Nelson Mandela said peace is an environment where all can flourish and John Lennon asked us to imagine a world where we all live in peace.

I’d like to imagine a world where we all live together in understanding, safety and equality.

I just pray it’s not a child’s dream any more.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

Snakes terrify me.

But they seek me out.

Which terrifies me even more.

On the other hand, my neighbor loves snakes. Arthur knows everything about them, from their coloration, to their habitat to whether or not they’re venomous or non-venomous.

It’s ironic that between the two of us, the magnet for snakes is me, the chicken, lily-livered screamer.

Last year, I went outside to check the pool skimmer baskets. But as I got closer to the pool, I spotted something – a long, black snake gliding along the top of the water.

I froze. My husband was gone and it was just the dog and me against the viper.

My sweet coward looked at me, lowered her head and slunk away to the back door.

So I called Arthur.

I hadn’t hung up the phone before he was running into my back yard, his twin boys behind him, yelling “Where’s the snake!”

“The creature’s in the water – kill it, kill it, kill it,” I said. Okay, I screamed.

“It’s a harmless water snake,” he said gently snagging the snake as it got close to the side of the pool.

He explained how harmless snakes are beneficial, especially as they eat vermin, such as rats and mice.

Blah, blah, blah.

Just kill it, Arthur.

His wife, Courtney, came over and we became a choir – “kill it, kill it, kill it.”

Now I know snake lovers and those who understand nature better than I do are cringing at this moment.

They’re the ones who agree with Arthur – snakes are an integral and important link in nature’s chain.

I understand that.

It doesn’t mean I want those important links of nature slithering around my house.

Or in my yard.

Or in my driveway.

Two weeks ago, I went down to get the afternoon paper. There, curled up by the mailbox was my living nightmare – a big, fat snake.

After I could breathe again, I hauled out my best snake weapon – my phone.

“Arthur, there’s a snake in the road,” I whispered.

In a flash, he was standing over the snake, and proclaimed it an innocent child of nature. He picked it up and asked if I wanted to touch the snake.

I’d rather touch lava.

He laughed and said he’d relocate the snake in the woods.

I watched to make sure he relocated that snake in the deepest part of the woods.

Last week, I was out for an evening walk. The weather was cool, the humidity non-existent, and the birds were singing in the trees.

I started down the driveway and there, right in my path, was a snake.

In reality, it was probably only two feet long. What I saw, though, was a viper 10 feet long with venom dripping from its gigantic fangs. I did the first thing that popped into my mind – I called Arthur.

“There’s a snake in my driveway, and I almost stepped on it,” I said, my voice quivering.

I’d barely hung up before he was riding his bike through the ditch into my driveway, his son right behind him.

“That’s a rat snake,” Arthur said. “They’re good to have around the house.”

“The only good snake to have around my house is a dead one,” I replied.

To which he laughed, reached down and picked up the snake.

At that moment, he became a god.

He proceeded to tell me all the good qualities about the snake, but all I could think was he better stay 10 feet away from me and not drop that slithering reptile.

“What are you going to do with that thing,” I asked, keeping my eye on him all the time.

“Put him or her in a safe place,” he said as we both said “far away from this house.”

I think those who aren’t afraid of snakes are the bravest people in the world.

I’m not one of them.

Instead, I’m a snake magnet.

As long as King Arthur’s around, I won’t be afraid.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

With Texas governor Greg Abbott opening the state back up, most of us can see our world turning from a shelter-in-place to a getting-back-to-normal world.

Because everything should be a learning experience, there’s a few things I picked up during this Covid-19 event.

I like my house.

Usually I’m gone from 6:30 a.m. until about 6 p.m. Monday through Friday, and I’m running errands on Saturdays.

Sundays were spent getting ready for the week, so my house was a stopping-off place.

I haven’t left the house much for the past six weeks. I’ve come to appreciate the comforts of home.  Our old corduroy couch is a quiet place to sit and watch television, read a book or just relax.

The back porch has become a serene spot to ponder life, especially in the morning. I love listening to the birds and the quiet before getting started on the day. I don’t know what bird is making what sound, but it’s a symphony that’s quite enjoyable.

Gray hair isn’t so bad.

I’ve spent years covering up the gray, but having the gray peeking through – okay storming through – hasn’t been as bad as I thought it would be.

This virus has me appreciating that getting older doesn’t necessarily mean I’m out of touch and old. I can still get out and walk, ride a bike and listen to loud rock and roll music.

I’ve learned I can stay out of my car.

From the time I started driving, I’ve always racked up miles. I love going places, and even though I’ve had a driver’s license longer than the internet’s been around, leaving the car in the garage has been a refreshing change of pace.

Families are fun.

It’s just my husband and me at the house, but I’ve been watching my nieces, nephews and cousins online as they recreate family time. My cousin Mike and his wife Katie hosted nightly Quarantine Olympics with their boys with hysterical results.

They had a whipped cream challenge where someone puts a mound of whipped cream on the back of their hand. Then they took their other hand, slapped at their wrist to make the whipped cream fly up in the air and then see who could catch it in their mouth.

We learned video games and Netflix series get old so we hauled out our bikes and rode around our neighborhoods. We had sing-a-longs, played Monopoly and Clue and realized our family members are pretty cool people.

I like cooking.

Okay, that might be a stretch, but I actually enjoyed the smell of home cooking – meatloaf in the oven, chocolate-chip cookies cooling on the counter and bacon frying in the morning.

Soon enough, it’ll be the smell of salad dressing and baked fish but, for now, I’m enjoying the comfort smells of my childhood.

We learned critical situations bring out the best and the worst in people. Neighbors helped neighbors, teachers learned a new way to connect with their students and we understood how invaluable grocery and pharmacy store workers, nurses, doctors, EMTs, police officers, fire fighters, Post Office clerks and sanitation workers are.

Politicians are wrong. Doctors are wrong. Newscasters are wrong. And, the biggest shock of all, the internet has false information. On the same note, politicians, doctors and newscasters are occasionally right. I’m still not sure I believe the things I read on the internet.

We lost beloved relatives and friends through this illness. So many lost opportunities and there’s no way to get them back.

But we learned to regroup, stand up straight and keep moving forward.

Family and friends are what’s most important – not shopping, eating out or running the roads.

Life is fickle and fleeting and often the best moments and aspects of life are right underneath our noses.

Soon roads will be congested and the lessons we’ve learned over the past six weeks will fade. Try to remember – out of all this chaos, you probably discovered what was most important in your life.

Don’t let it go.

 

  This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Hair salons and barber shops opened their doors last week, and for most, not a moment too soon.

Without the benefit of professional hair stylists for the past six weeks, most of us were showing our true colors. In my case, that hair color is not chestnut brown.

Some decided to take matters into their own hands and turn their kitchens into a beauty salon. That made me remember when my dad cut my brothers’ hair.

He’d get a stool and start with the oldest. Usually Dad had a couple of beers before he cut their hair, so he was feeling pretty confident about his abilities.

My brothers – not so much.

Dad’s hair styling consisted of three styles.

One was putting a bowl over the boys’ heads to use as a guide. They ended up looking like Moe from The Three Stooges.

His next style was to put his hand on top of their heads, hold them still and then drag the electric razor up the sides of their heads and finish it off with an attempt to get their bangs even.

His main style was to shave the sides of their heads and the tops and they’d walk away with a crooked crew cut. There was no trying to get out of the haircut – my dad wasn’t about to pay a barber for what he could do with that electric razor in the comfort of our own kitchen.

My youngest sister tried her hand at cutting our neighbor’s little girl’s hair. When they were 4 years old, my sister decided Lisa needed her bangs trimmed.

When Lisa’s mom came home, she was mortified. I remember standing back and saying “Well, for a 4-year-old, she did a good job with the scissors.”

I’ve never been brave enough to cut my own hair. Years ago, I tried a home perm. I thought I was buying a body-wave kit, but I accidentally bought a Lilt Home Permanent kit.

When I took the rollers out of my hair, I thought the curls would wash out.

I was wrong.

I washed my hair 20 times that night, used half a bottle of conditioner and still I looked like Harpo Marx.

There are success stories. Some friends decided since they were married and a team most of the time, they might as well beauty salon together.

With a cell phone set up as a camera, they showed each other giving the other a facial. Then they moved on to haircuts.

Coy and Liza did a fabulous job with the trims and facials and provided a hysterical cut-by-cut chronicle of their actions, complete with cotton balls between their toes while they toasted each success with a fresh glass of wine.

The most recent home haircut didn’t turn out quite as successful. My oldest grandson was tired of his hair always getting in his eyes. He asked his dad to trim up his hair since dad has a haircutting kit.

Chris warned James he wasn’t skillful with cutting someone else’s hair, but James felt confident his dad could at least trim his hair in the front.

Chris called later that night. The home haircut had been a disaster. Apparently, it’s not so easy to cut and trim hair as it is to shave your whole head. They found a friend who’s a hairdresser and she agreed to fix the haircut.

They socially distanced and James loved being able to see.

His father has vowed to never try and cut his sons’ hair again.

He’s off the hook for a while as, thankfully, the hair salons and barber shops are taking customers.

Businesses are reopening slowly, and we can stop pretending we’re chefs, home-school teachers and flower-power “make-love, not-war” children from the 1960s.

Although those love beads have been a lot of fun to wear around the house.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Sunday is Mother’s Day, and this year, we have a whole new column to add to the reasons why we love our mothers.

The Quarantine Parent.

Over the past few weeks, moms and dads have learned a whole new level of parenting they never dreamed existed.

Not only are we handling a disrupted reality and looming bills, there’s also the uncertainty of whether or not we’ll have jobs when this is all over. For many, the parenting job is a solitary one and those parents are doing a super-human job.

Still, there is some venting moms need to do with other moms.

“Are there ever times you don’t like your child?”

“Can I just go to the bathroom without little fingers waving at me from underneath the closed door?”

At the park or playground, we do a lot of comparing. Why is our kid the only one trying to hang from the money bars without his pants on?

Why is our kid the only one eating sand, and why is our kid the only one afraid to go down the slide?

While you’re thinking you’re a failure, a life-saving mom will come sit by you and tell you her kid still picks his nose and eats what he finds.

Moms with elementary-aged children are finding out what their child does all day long. It’s not singing and finger painting. That’s just what you see in the Friday take-home folder.

The real lessons are hard.

Kids are using iPads to create digital posters and presentations. Most of us feel like magic markers and a 20-cent poster board from the corner drug store should be more than good enough for the life cycle of a butterfly.

This major detour wasn’t in the mom handbook that’s supposedly out there, but parents are getting with the program and finding out a few important facts.

One, their child is not the angel they thought. Their child fidgets, whines, refuses to work, wants frequent Popsicle breaks and has to go to the bathroom every 10 minutes.

For moms of teens, you still badger them to get his or her work done and they tell you they’re handling everything and to stop nagging them. Then you get an email from their teacher saying they haven’t logged on to their class in two weeks.

Thanks to technology and the steep learning curve we’re now on, you know how to check their grades. You know how to see if they’ve been on the computer and, for the first time in years, you can play the “got-cha” card and win.

In the midst of the computer storm, we’ve gotten some perks.

We’ve learned to appreciate our children. We’ve been given time to really get to know our offspring.

Our squirmy 8-year-old is that way because she doesn’t understand the lesson. You now have time to talk one on one with your little one to explain the Constitution the best way you can.

Your toddler is quite the gymnast as you’ve discovered when they maneuver their way through the living room that’s littered with toys, the cat, the dog, Legos, Barbie shoes and everyone’s slippers.

Your disinterested teenager is that way because he has trouble reading. You weren’t able to catch it because he managed to hide his struggle behind video games and false reassurances.

You’ve rediscovered the joys of sitting next to your son or daughter while cooking, playing in the back yard or just talking because there’s no soccer or baseball practice, no martial arts class, no dental appointments.

And best of all? They’ve watched their parents adjust to a new reality, learn to handle their fears by not giving into them and to believe the future has to be better.

This virus has been a curse to so many of us, but there’s usually a silver lining in every situation. Getting to know your kids in a leisurely way just might be the lining we’ve been looking for.

Happy Mother’s Day to all our moms out there. Of all the years, this is the one where you really deserve that big Mom trophy.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

I’m not someone who enjoys cooking. I’d much rather wash and dry the dishes, pots and pans.

But in this time of staying home, I’ve found myself looking through cookbooks and the internet for easy meals.

I told myself that this was a great time to branch out and try something different. Most of the recipes I saw included some foreign spice or ingredient I wasn’t sure how to find during my usual shopping trips.

So it was back to turning on the oven for the tried-and-true recipes of my youth.

Mostly, there’s meatloaf with mashed potatoes and corn, baked chicken with peas and macaroni and cheese and spaghetti and meatballs.

It’s hard to come close to my mom’s home cooking, but what ties me to her in the kitchen are potholders made by her mother and my grandmother.

My Siti, as we called her, had many talents, but one that still amazes me is her crocheting skills.

She crocheted afghans for most of us, and I still use them. One of my favorites is a blue, beige and white afghan she made almost 50 years ago, and it’s still in great shape, despite being washed and used every winter.

For me, her most artistic creations are the potholders she made out of crochet string. They’re circular and feature a widening circle in the middle with matching colors blending into each other. I have them in gold, purple, blue and red.

Outside of the main circle are designs that look like leaves or a six-sided star.

The backs are simpler, but they’re the same colors as the front. She inserted layers of cotton batting in the middle, and then crocheted the two circles together and formed a lacy edging.

Even wearing glasses, I have a hard time seeing the stitches as they’re so small and delicate, yet these pot holders have kept my hands from burning no matter how big the pan or pot.

I have thicker “store-bought” potholders in the drawer, but they don’t do as good a job as the ones my grandmother made all those years ago.

I use the potholders every day, and they’re showing their wear – there’s food spots on most of them, a couple have a little burn on the edge where I got it too close to the fire, and some have frayed in spots. I’ve done my best to stitch them up as soon as I notice a hole because I’d never throw any of them away.

My mom has some of the pot holders as well, but she keeps them in a drawer, wrapped in tissue paper. When I found them at her house, I asked her why she didn’t use them. She said she was afraid she’d catch them on fire or ruin them.

My sentiments are different. These potholders aren’t meant to stay hidden in a drawer no matter how beautiful they are.

They’re meant to be used because whenever I use them, I remember my grandmother.

I picture her sitting at the end of their gold couch, crochet needle in hand, moving that needle in and out of the yarn so quickly, I thought she was in double time.

I remember sitting close to her, patting the soft skin on her arm, loving the way she smelled and the warmth she gave off.

My sons reach for the same potholders when they’re here cooking, and, one day, I hope those potholders will be theirs. They will mean something to them because they saw me using them, but they also know the rich history behind these family heirlooms.

When I find myself repairing one of the frays on the potholders, I wish one of my grandchildren were sitting next to me so I could tell them the story of their great-great grandmother who wove beautiful potholders and spun mesmerizing tales of her childhood in Lebanon.

There’s not a lot to be grateful for during this pandemic, but slowing down and remembering why the things I use are important has been a blessing.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

We live in a crazy world.

People are hoarding toilet paper, not silver or gold.

The top television show isn’t something intellectual – it’s a series about an egomaniac who breeds big cats, has three husbands and is in jail on a murder-for-hire judgment.

The president of the United States gets into verbal bashings with members of the press who go on to bash him and we’re headed into a world-wide recession.

It’s easy to lose hope, and that’s what I was feeling.

Until I saw what two young men are doing to make the world a better place through a servant’s heart.

These two young men are my nephews, Jason Hebert and Randall McGarry.

Jason is the manager for a number of Waffle Houses in Louisiana and became concerned when stores started closing their doors.

He and a friend put together a program “Waffle House Adopt a Meal” that serves a free breakfast to those on the front lines – first responders, government officials and other essential workers.

With his sister, Tara, handling the media blitz, including social media and television, the drive has been extremely successful.

Jason’s reason for pushing the program is simple. He has a purpose.

“I’m doing my part of being part of a bigger picture,” he said. “It makes me feel good to give back.”

In Richmond, Va., Randall is the manager at a local restaurant and became concerned when the coronavirus started shuttering eateries. Restaurant servers and wait staff are notoriously underpaid, and many live paycheck to paycheck.

Randall and three friends organized an online fund, “Support Richmond Restaurant Workers” with money going directly to restaurant workers who need money to make ends meet.

Not only that, the friends are working to establish a union to have employers provide better working conditions for servers, including equitable pay and improved benefits.

To say our family is proud of these young men is an understatement. Giving back to the community is a commitment that runs deep in our family and that’s done without ever asking for publicity or thanks.

Great-grandfather Herbie Hebert ran a newspaper in Vidor and was a huge supporter of unions.

When he died prematurely, the church overflowed into the parking lot with working-class people who believed Herbie to be their hero.

On my mom’s side, great-grandfather Henry Eade was an immigrant who came to this country with only the money in his pocket and big dreams.

He made a solid living for his family and served on the school board. Although dangerous, he established and funded a clinic in his hometown back in Lebanon for both Muslims and Christians.

Randall’s father has volunteered with the Kiwanis Club in Martinsville, Va., is a years-long volunteer with the Boy Scouts of America and is currently a judge in Martinsville when he’s not volunteering in his church parish.

Jason’s dad regularly goes to Central America to provide free dental care for locals and has provided free dental care to prisoners. He’s also a decades-long religious education teacher.

Our mom volunteered at the local hospital in her 70’s and 80s, and my sister volunteered on the Child Advocates’ board, CASA, for years in her hometown and served on the United Way board.

Youngest sister is a church youth leader and catechist and volunteers with the community storehouse board that provides food and backpacks for school-age children.

Our brothers have taught religious education for years, worked with prison ministries and were working with the governor’s wife on a prison-education program in Louisiana.

The in-laws donate their talents by coordinating events and supplies with their spouses, including providing meals for school kids, a parish program to prevent child abuse and neglect and help with online support groups for kids, animals and those with chronic illnesses. One has sewn and donated hundreds of face masks in the past two weeks.

Our cousins volunteer in schools, civic groups and in their cities.

Service to community is how they live their lives, and that generosity is sprinkled with laughter and a reluctance to stand in the limelight.

Whenever I see the madness and sorrow in the world, all I have to do is look at this wonderfully endearing family that quietly serves to know I’m as incredibly blessed as the communities where they live.

Our grandfathers would be quite proud.

 

    This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

My son gave me a fabulous Christmas gift – a gift certificate to get my vehicle detailed at the local car wash.

The weeks after Christmas were too cold and we had company, so I didn’t make it to the car wash place. One late afternoon, I went, but they didn’t have enough workers there to fulfill the intent of the certificate.

So I left, saying I’d be back.

January turned extremely busy, February even busier, and my car got dirtier and dirtier.

“As long as I can see out the back window, I’ll be fine,” I told myself.

Spring break was looming, and I thought I’d be able to take my vehicle to the car wash.

And then the coronavirus scare hit.

Getting prepared for a shutdown and helping out with the grandkids trumped getting my vehicle washed, and then businesses shut their doors.

This week, I couldn’t stand the grime any longer and dragged out the hose, water bucket and sponges.

It’s been a while since I’ve washed my own vehicle. I told myself I was doing my part for the economy by supporting a local business.

But now it was time to stop waiting for the quarantine to pass and wash my car myself.

I filled a bucket with soapy water, dipped an oversized washcloth in the suds and started on the hood.

It took a bit of time to scrape the love bugs off. As I scrubbed, I realized love bug season was months ago. Had it really been that long since I’d washed my car?

Apparently so.

I’d forgotten the license plate was white with black letters – it had been dirty for so long, I thought the license was gray – and what a pain the hubcaps were to clean.

I gave the outside a thorough scrubbing, stopping twice to change the water. With sweat pouring down my face, I stepped back, expecting to see a gleaming vehicle.

The car looked like it had stripes of dirt.

Apparently I was rusty when it came to washing cars.

So I went back over the exterior twice and was finally satisfied I’d gotten most of the grime off.

Then it was time for the interior.

I took inventory.

Toys and books were strewn all over the floor mats, in addition to empty juice packets and Legos stashed underneath the seats.

There was mud on the backs of every seat and door, on the carpet and even on the seat belts.

In addition, the youngest grandchild had opened a box of M&M’s so there was melted chocolate in the seat and even down in the seat-belt holder.

I pretended not to see that.

Underneath the seat, I raked out a pile of candy and fast-food wrappers. I was okay with that until I realized the candy wrappers were from Christmas. Had it really been that long since I’d cleaned out my car?

And that’s only the mess the youngsters left. I had my own fair share of fast-food wrappers, CDs, gum wrappers, letters and gas receipts stuffed in the shelf underneath the dashboard.

The trash filled a garbage bag, and the toys filled another one.

A half hour later, I stopped vacuuming because I was worried the motor was going to overheat.

It took another hour and half a bottle of Windex to clean the seats, windows and dashboard.

When I finished, my car looked like it had just come off the show room floor, well except for those dings on the side of the car I put there banging the door against the wheelbarrow in the garage, the dent from parking too close to a trailer and the missing paint, courtesy of the love bugs.

That car’s been in the garage for a week now. I told myself it’s because I don’t have any business going anywhere during the coronavirus quarantine.

The reality is — I don’t have the heart to take that car anywhere and dirty it up again.

I think I’ll wait for the car wash to reopen and tell myself I’m helping support local business.

Maybe they’ll have more luck with the love bug carcasses than I did.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.