After an early morning and a full day, I went to photograph a soccer match.

I picked up a camera I seldom use because I wanted to see how well it would perform with fast action on a sunny day.

Pointing the camera toward the stands, I pressed the button, heard a click and checked the playback.

Black screen.

Pointed the camera at the field and pressed the shutter button a couple more times.

Still nothing in the camera’s playback screen.

I showed the camera to the teenager taking pictures next to me and asked if he knew what could be wrong.

“Well the camera takes better pictures if you take the lens cap off,” he said, reaching over and gently taking the lens cap off the end of the camera’s lens.

I haven’t done anything that stupid in years.

Wait a minute.

I did something equally stupid just two days earlier.

Most people do stupid things, I told myself. But most of us don’t say anything because we don’t want others to think we’re dumb.

But if my columns over the past 20 years have revealed anything about me, it’s that I do dumb and stupid things on a regular basis.

So I decided to share my stupidity for seven days on my very public Facebook account.

The first entry of seven was about leaving my wallet at home. I didn’t realize I’d left it until the grandchildren and I were at the check-out counter. We had to leave what we’d picked out, and I felt like I’d let the grandkids down.

They were quite understanding, even more so when I promised to get them double what we’d picked out because we had to come back.

The second entry was owning up to wearing mis-matched shoes to work.

When I find a pair of shoes that are comfortable, I’ll often an extra pair in a different color. I’ve grown weary of returning shoes or having a blister at the end of the day, so when I find a good shoe, I stick with it.

Until I’m getting dressed in the dark and, hours later, realize that I’m wearing one blue shoe and one brown shoe.

The third entry was owning up to wearing mismatched earrings or only putting mascara and eyeshadow on one eye, not two.

The fourth was about leaving the water running in the sink while I got distracted. It’s a good thing there’s a built-in overflow feature in the kitchen. Apologies to you, hubby, because the water bill might be a bit higher this month.

Fifth would be about the number of times I’m cooking something on the stove, forget about what’s on there and return to burnt pancakes or ebony-black French toast.

On the sixth day, I owned up to leaving things on the kitchen counter and walking out the door without them – my keys, my lunch, my water bottle. Or leaving for the day with the back door open. Or all the lights on. Or… well, you get it.

On the last day, I owned up about leaving the lens on the camera. What I didn’t expect was the number of people who commented that they’d done the same stupid things I’d done, and they shared smiley faces with their confessions.

We were all in the stupid ship together it seemed, and we weren’t embarrassed or ashamed to admit we were human.

And that’s how I ended the post on the seventh day.

We all make mistakes. We all do things wrong and we all do things right. We beat ourselves up when we do dumb things and we forget to congratulate ourselves for getting through the day.

Give yourself a break and remember – you are an incredible person. You’ll sometimes leave the house without your wallet, your lunch or your homework.

Just don’t forget — there’s one thing you’ll always have with you – a sense of humor.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

I spotted a newspaper cartoon where a grandmother was promoting her book. She told the audience “My book came out in the fall, so I insisted it have a jacket.”

We can laugh at the fuddy-duddy advice, but the guidance from a grandparent is usually right on the money.

My Grandma Marguerite had quite a few sayings, but my favorite was never turn down an opportunity to go out, even if you’re not overly fond of the person asking. You never know who’ll see you when you’re out and they’ll know you’re available.

“Remember to have fun along the way” was how she signed all of her letters and cards, and I am reminded of her wise words when the day ends on a happy note.

My mom has all kinds of subtle advice, and her grandchildren and great-grandchildren soak up what she says and doesn’t say.

Their “Siti” has taught them to always have food in the house, especially cookies, to offer a guest because nobody leaves her house hungry.

She’s taught them to make other people know they’re important without slighting anyone else.

That’s because she pays attention when her grandchildren talk to her and she’s overjoyed when they come to visit.

Grandmothers will usually insist you wear a sweater or socks when it’s cold outside. It doesn’t matter that the house is the same temperature in the winter as it is in the summer – cold weather outside means grandchildren must bundle up.

I think it’s in the grandmother manual.

Grandmothers and grandfathers dispense similar advice and most can do so without aggravating their grandchildren.

Parents can say the same thing, but grandparents have a way of softening the advice yet still getting the grandkids to pay attention.

To young children, some grandparents smell a little funny. Most of the time, it’s Old Spice or Mr. Clean but I like to think that smell is experience and there’s no way to get rid of life’s perfume.

Grandparents will also let their grandchildren stay up late because they know a little leniency goes a long way toward building a strong relationship.

And, like their grandchildren, grandparents sometimes like breaking the rules.

They’ll ask their grandchildren to eat their vegetables, but they don’t insist. Grandparents are honest – chocolate cake does taste better than lima beans.

Grandparents also remember the naughty things their now-grown children did when they were younger.

When they hear their son or daughter carrying on with the grandchildren about mistakes, they gently remind said parent that they did the exact same thing when they were that age and to maybe go a little easy on the kid.

We have a couple of extra dollars when the ice-cream truck is coming down the street or in the check-out line at the grocery store.

Grandparents always have extra hugs and, most of the time, we take our time because we know how fast little ones grow up.

We don’t want to straighten you out, we want to spend time with you, listen to you, talk with you, read to you, walk with you and enjoy every minute we get to spend with you.

We don’t need you to mow the grass, wash your clothes or sweep the floor. We just want you to be you.

So indulge us a bit if we insist you wear a sweater outside. Because of all the people you’ll meet in the world outside of your parents and siblings, you’ll never find anyone who adores you more than your grandparents.

So put on that sweater. It’s a little chilly outside.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

One of my favorite afghans is a red, blue and black Granny Square twin-size spread I’ve had since I was in high school. It was the bedspread in my college dorm room back in the 1970s.

The blanket was a gift from my boyfriend’s mother, Pat Fresina. She loved to crochet, and she made sure I had a blanket to take with me to school.

For over 50 years, she made sure quite a few people had what they needed in life from blankets to meals to a shoulder to cry on.

After a long and tiring battle with congenital heart failure and other ailments, Pat passed away peacefully last week.

But, oh, what a legacy she left.

Her house was a great place to visit. The small brick house on Nimitz Street always had somebody hanging out, usually in the back room that had my favorite thing in the house, a working Wurlitzer jukebox.

The kitchen counters were covered with stacks of books, magazines and other household items that nobody worried about, especially Pat.

She’d much rather play games like Jeopardy and Family Feud with her kids and their friends. Hours were spent in that orange and brown kitchen playing Spoon or Spades, and the games were always loud and lively.

She was a mom of three daughters and one son, and she also held down a full-time job as a teacher.

Pat was a legend in the science departments where she taught. She taught most of my friends as well as my younger brother, Joey. She made science fun because she made the lessons lively and engaging.

Her son, Chuck, told me they never knew what they’d find growing in the refrigerator because his mom was always trying out new experiments and testing theories.

Sundays were my favorite time to visit the Fresina household because it was spaghetti day.

Pat would start cooking the gravy early in the morning, and we’d all sit down in the evening for a bowl of pasta covered with a rich red spaghetti gravy and a boiled egg. Sounds pecuilar, but a boiled egg chopped up in pasta and sauce is delicious, she taught me.

When Pat wasn’t crocheting, conjuring up science plans or playing games, she was reading Harlequin Romance books. She had them stacked up on the table next to the couch, but would always put them away to talk with somebody.

One afternoon, my best friend, Trudi, and I stopped by the Fresina household on our way to work. Pat was showing us her latest crocheting project when her son came in and started yelling about where his sister had parked the car.

Sister started yelling back and then their dad, Dominick, got into the shouting match. Trudi was looking back and forth between the yellers, but Pat didn’t even seem to notice. She kept talking about the blanket she was making.

Trudi said she’d wait in the car, and Pat blinked and asked if anything was wrong. I told her it had gotten a little loud in there.

“Oh I never noticed,” she said with a smile and a twinkle in her eye.

For her, life was loud and noisy and messy and wonderful.

She dressed up in silly hats and outfits, was game for any outing or adventure and never had a mean word to say about anyone. She was a tremendous mother, mother-in-law, Nanny and great-grandmother.

A science teacher to the end, she stated in her will that after her death, she wanted her body to be donated to science to help students learn.

I’m going to sleep underneath that afghan tonight and think happy thoughts about a woman who lived life to the fullest.

Thank you for allowing me into your heart, Pat. You’ll always be in mine.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Our active and delightful grandchildren are visiting for part of the week. My washing machine and dishwasher are groaning as they’re running practically 24 hours a day with grass-stained jeans, bathing suits, towels and T-shirts that somehow got splashed with mud.

Within eyesight of our driveway is a grassy area that provides a perfect circle for our young bikers. The four-year-old learned how to ride without training wheels a few months ago, and he boldly rides around and around the circle, a huge smile on his face the whole time.

His brother and sisters can go a little further, and their dad has them practicing for a children’s triathlon. They’re taking the training routine well, and seeing them ride with unbridled joy reminds me of my childhood afternoons on my bike.

In Louisiana, we lived in a neighborhood where everybody rode their bikes to the pool and each other’s’ houses.

In New York, we lived in a small community and all the kids rode their banana-seat bikes everywhere – the school, the park and to our grandparent’s store for gum and candy.

Of all the places I visited, though, the library was my favorite. At that time, the library in Olean, N.Y. was located in an old three-story stone building, and it looked and smelled the way old-time movies would have you believe.

Because I had my own library card – my most treasured possession – I was free to come and go to the library whenever I wanted. The basket on the front of the bike allowed me to check out four or five books, and I’d read those as fast as possible and head back for more.

For my grandchildren, riding bikes to the library would be a dangerous journey, but reading is still a pleasure. Their dad took them to a bookstore this weekend, and they came home with dozens of comics, most of which they’ve already read.

Usually we head to the library and come home with new tales and a few beloved favorites. In fact, there’s been some books they loved so much, we bought them.

One of their favorites is “Epossumondas Saves the Day” by Colleen Sally. The story takes place in Louisiana, and the book is a delight to read aloud.

I enjoy putting on a Southern accent when I read the story of the little possum that saves his mama, auntie and friends from the “great, huge, ugly Louisiana snapping turtle.”

The grandchildren always drag out two “Martha” books where a little otter has to learn to share her toys and say “sorry.” With siblings, a book about sharing and apologizing hits home.

A series we all enjoy is the “Pout-Pout Fish.” With a continual frown, the poor little fish has to overcome a sad, timid nature to conquer his fears.

The best part of reading to children is when they snuggle up close as we turn the pages, laugh about the adventures of the hero or heroine in the book and, at the end, when they beg us for just one more book.

They know we’ll always read one more before bedtime, and they think they’re pulling a fast one over on us. The truth is – the reader is the one who benefits from the closeness and bond created when stories are shared.

The smell of their freshly shampooed hair, the softness of their well-worn pajamas, and the way our feet intermingle underneath the afghan my grandmother crocheted for me years ago are worth more than gold.

Spring break 2019 is almost over, but I’ll always remember it as a week of readin’ and ridin’ and having little ones snuggled close by as they whisper “read it again.”

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Today is the first day of Lent.

Technically Ash Wednesday marks the beginning because it’s when we make plans for what we’re going to give up or do for the next 40 days.

It’s the bridge between chocolate cake and no chocolate cake.

But as in all things, there are a couple of loopholes in the whole 40 days of fasting and prayer. According to catholiceducation.org., the faithful do not have to fast on Sundays during Lent.

I know this rule is true because my grandmother said so. She reminded us about the dispensation rule when we’d sit down to Sunday dinner.

My sister would practically grind her teeth because she always gave up potatoes during Lent. To think she could be getting a big spoonful of Mom’s home-made mashed potatoes with our Sunday roast-and-potatoes meal but couldn’t because my dad didn’t recognize the rule was almost criminal.

As a life-long Catholic, Lent is the part of the year I always dread. I’m not great at giving things up – except exercise – and I always knew that no matter what I gave up, I’d cave in before the 40 days were up.

One year it was gum, and that didn’t last because I was a teenage girl who was always aware of the pitfalls of being labeled with bad breath.

Another year I tried sweets, but that ended when birthdays rolled around. I found it impossible to give up chocolate birthday cake and ice cream.

When I got older, I found myself rationalizing why one had to give up something one liked in order to prove one was faithful. What did giving up candy do for my spiritual life, I told my brother one year.

It wasn’t the giving up, he reminded me. It was the knowledge of what life was like without something I loved. The hope was people could relate to what it would feel like to not have God in their lives.

I was pretty sure that God and chocolate were two permanent fixtures in my life, so I let that one slide.

Even though the reason for giving up something in order to gain an appreciation has been explained to me numerous times, I’m still not ready to jump on that band wagon with or without a bag of Hershey’s Kisses.

Instead, I think it’s better to add something positive to my life during Lent in the hopes that the practice lasts. A few years ago, my mom suggested I pray a rosary on my way to work in the morning as a Lenten sacrifice since I refused to give up Twix bars.

I took her up on the offer, and I found the reciting of all those Hail Marys and Our Fathers had a calming effect on my soul.

All these years later, a rosary is still what I pray for that morning commute. I still yell about moronic drivers, but it’s hard to roll down the window and yell “you idiot” with a rosary in my hand.

So on this first day of Lent, I’ve got an idea about what I can add to my life that won’t add inches to my hips.

First, say something genuinely nice to one person every day. That should be standard practice but there are days when complaining seems to be the main litany coming out of my mouth.

Second, personally acknowledge people for the affirmative vibes they contribute to the world. Texting or emailing doesn’t always have the same impact, but since the end result is what’s important, text away.

So that’s my Lenten challenge, and I challenge you to do the same.

With 40 days in front of us, that seems to be enough time to make sure you can make a few people feel good about themselves.

And since it’s the first real day of Lent, the time to start is right now.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

It’s strange to think I found inspiration at a wake, but that’s what happened.

One of the very first feature stories I wrote for this newspaper years ago was on Milt and Lil Polansky. We all lived in Pecan Grove, and I’d passed their house numerous times.

What caught my eye was the hundreds of baseball caps hanging from the inside roof of their garage. They were arranged in neat rows, and I thought the collection would make a nice story.

When I interviewed Milt and Lil, however, I found they were much more than a collection of hats.

Milt, with his ever-present pipe, was a highly decorated World War II veteran who flew numerous missions over Germany.

Lil, with her twinkling smile, was a stay-at-home grandmother, but her contributions as an untiring volunteer to her church and the community were legendary.

More than their generosity to their community and this country were their gracious hearts and the joy they spread through their family.

When I interviewed them, they told me about their son, Jeffrey, who’d been lost at sea. The pain was still evident years later, but they turned their grief into an appreciation for family and life.

In my naiveté, I neglected to double check the facts with Milt and Lil, and I got Jeffrey’s name wrong in the printed story. I felt awful and was beating myself up pretty bad about the mistake, but Milt and Lil were more than understanding – they consoled me.

It was years before I could look them in the face, but they never held that huge mistake against me. We became friends and I often sought them out after Mass at Sacred Heart Catholic Church where they were long-time parishioners.

A division in the parish pitted member against member, and I found myself on the same side as Milt and Lil. That’s when I knew I was doing the right thing because Milt and Lil always took the high road.

Years passed, and I kept up with the Polanskys through photos in the paper or through friends. Sadly Milt passed away in July, and Lil followed him last week.

At her wake, I reconnected with their son, Roger, his wife, Ellen and their sons, Stephen and Jake. Stephen and my youngest son had been in Cub Scouts together, and it was a joy to meet Stephen’s infant son, Lil’s first great-grandchild.

In catching up with what our sons have been up to the past few years, Ellen told me Jake was working in Louisiana as part of a national outreach program to teach in struggling schools. Being from Louisiana, I was curious as to where he was located, so she called Jake over.

He was teaching at East Feliciana High School and living in Zachary, La. My brother, sister-in-law and my mom all live in Zachary, and we laughed about the old saying:  it’s a small world.

I made sure to get Jake’s phone number and I passed it on to my brother, Joey. Jake in turn has Joey’s phone number and I assured Jake my mom would be more than happy to make him a home-cooked meal since he’s a bachelor.

Jake’s teaching at a low-income school to give back to society, and I know he learned that lesson from his grandparents and his parents.

Instead of leaving the wake sad, I left uplifted because the legacy of love, humbleness, generosity and kindness Lil and Milt created in their lives was definitely evident in their children, grandchildren and, one day I’m sure, their great-grandchildren.

The world is a better place because of the Polansky family and I’m inspired to live a better life because of them. Thank you, Milt and Lil, for letting me into your home and your hearts all those many years ago.

I’m the better for knowing you.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

On a dreary Saturday morning, we were channel surfing and came across a familiar face from years ago – Steve Irwin. Smiles broke out and we settled in to revisit Steve and his adventures.

Those of us over the age of 25 remember Australia’s favorite celebrity, the Crocodile Hunter. With his boundless energy and over-the-top enthusiasm toward crocodiles, snakes and reptiles, Irwin was a huge favorite, not only in our house but around the world.

More than just seeing if Steve was going to get bitten by a crocodile or a snake, Steve was constantly talking.

He introduced dozens of Australian terms to American audiences, including the famous “by Crikey” and his love of his home was evident in every show.

Our boys loved watching him lay down on the backs of crocodiles, jump into the water with 12-foot-long crocs and wave venomous snakes around like they were jump ropes.

His constant talking was more than nervous energy – he was educating the audience about the beauty, power and fragility of wildlife on this planet.

His partner was his wife, Terri. I remember watching the show when Irwin introduced her to the crocodile enclosure. He told her to go ahead and jump on the back of a crocodile to calm it down.

“I don’t think so, Steve,” she said as she backed away. But those two quickly became a conservation team, and their adventures throughout Australia were riveting.

When Steve was stung by a stingray in 2006 and died, the entire world mourned. No one could believe that someone who’d faced as many dangers as Steve had could’ve died in the first recorded death by a stingray.

Even though the whole world grieved with the Irwins, his family lost a beloved husband, a doting, hands-on father to then 8-year-old Bindi and 3-year-old Robert and their primary business partner in running the Australia Zoo started by Steve’s father.

Those children could’ve cratered or been completely destroyed. They had two major blows – they were in the public spotlight and they’d suffered a tremendous loss.

It’s unusual to come across children from any walk of life who have their life together after experiencing the sudden loss of a parent, much less the children of one of the world’s most beloved personalities.

Nobody would’ve blamed the Irwin children if they’d lashed out at the world, left Australia behind or hid in drugs or alcohol.

The world would’ve understood if they’d been spoiled brats. After all, they lost one of the most dynamic people the world’s ever seen, but to them, they lost the center of their universe.

Instead, their mother found the strength to continue Steve’s work of conservation and education. The children grew up around animals, just like their father, and embraced the message he believed in.

Today 16-year-old Robert and 21-year-old Bindi are conservation ambassadors who travel around the world, spreading their father’s conviction in protecting wildlife.

Lest we forget Steve, “Animal Planet” has compiled hours of footage from Steve’s earlier shows and added thoughts and remembrances from Terri and one of Steve’s best friends.

This new series gives viewers some insight into what was going on behind the camera. The footage and the commentary from those who knew and loved Steve remind the world that “the Crocodile Hunter” wasn’t just a showman or a daredevil.

Steve lived what he preached – get in there with the world, grab on with both hands and make sure passion is the main ingredient in everything you do. Long after his death, that’s a legacy worth embracing and passing on.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

Today is Valentine’s Day, a holiday where we celebrate the ones we love with chocolate, flowers, cards and sweet sentiments.

Financially, those tributes benefit Hallmark, Hershey’s and FTD, but traditions are traditions. If we can get past the protestations of those who think these types of holidays are nothing more than a marketing plan to take our money, then let’s take a look at holidays and why they’re worth more than retailers would have us believe.

New Year’s Day is more than champagne and horn blowers. It’s a day of renewal, a day to make changes and promises. Of course we don’t keep them, but that’s where Mardi Gras shines.

For those not born in Louisiana, Mardi Gras is the day before Lent begins. The Cajun holiday is more than catching beads, digging through a king cake for the plastic baby and going to parades.

It’s the day where we admit what foods we’ve been cheating with since our New Year’s resolutions fell through the cracks. Mardi Gras is a day to make good on a new set of self-imposed rules and regulations for the 40 days of Lent.

Instead of giving up cake, those 40 days are a great opportunity to give up the things that cause us the most harm – toxic relationships and not taking care of ourselves.

Just about the time our willpower is close to empty after walking past the Cadbury chocolate eggs and giant chocolate bunnies, Easter arrives. For Christians, it’s a day to celebrate Christ rising from the dead and the start of a new year.

It’s also a great time to let loose the inner child in us. No matter how old you are, dyeing Easter eggs is fun. Even though we don’t have young children, I still drag out a Paas kit, vinegar and coffee mugs and dye all the eggs in the fridge.

Likewise with Halloween. I still love seeing little ones dressed up as princesses and pirates. Best of all, Halloween is my son and niece’s birthday, so instead of griping about how much all those bags of candy cost, I’m thrilled two of my favorite people came into the world on Oct. 31.

Mother’s Day and Father’s Day are big-ticket items. Sure there’s the oversized $5.50 Hallmark cards that play music, but nothing beats a hand-made construction-paper card from the kids.

Parents deserve more than a new frying pan or oversized coffee mug. These are the women and men who changed diapers, cleaned up spit, worried about us every day of our lives and do the thousand little things that make life easier.

For those whose parents have passed away, the day is bittersweet, but it’s still an opportunity to think about how mom and dad shaped us into the people we are today.

Father’s Day is when I think about all the good qualities my dad had. It’s also a day to celebrate what a good father and grandfather my husband is and what a good dad my youngest son is.

Thanksgiving is about family and, let’s be honest, cornbread dressing and pecan pie. Christmas is a holy day, and yes it’s commercialized, but at midnight, when the children are dreaming about Santa, it’s the parents who understand the true meaning of Christmas – giving without expecting thanks.

So instead of whining about the money I have to spend for holidays, I try to concentrate on the intangibles they make me think about – the impact the people, holidays and traditions have on our lives.

Which brings us back to Valentine’s Day.

Cards and sentiments say we should praise the ones we love. That includes everyone – a significant other, aunts, uncles, cousins, neighbors, parents, friends and those who stepped in as family when we needed them.

People – that’s what all these holidays are really all about. So go ahead, get that cheesy box of Valentine’s Day candy tomorrow when they’re on sale and share it with your loved ones.

And try not to take a bite out of every square to make sure you didn’t get the orange cream chocolate.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

My freshman year at Baker High School was uneventful. The year was 1969 and most of us were in love with The Beatles, pet rocks and bell-bottom jeans.

Our parents weren’t rich, and few of us lived in fancy houses. Most of my classmates had grown up together and we seemed like one big family.

High school life was pretty good, I thought, but all that changed my sophomore year when our high school underwent forced integration.

Black students from a neighboring town had to come to our high school and some of our friends had to go to a different school.

Both black and white parents were outraged. There were protesters outside of the school those first few weeks with screaming angry parents marching back and forth.

Inside the school, things weren’t much better. I distinctly remember seeing our assistant principal walking down the hall carrying chains and brass knuckles he’d taken away from students.

It wasn’t unusual for girls to walk down the hall three and four abreast and knock down anybody in their way.

Tempers flared, fist fights happened every hour, and there was chaos. Our first pep rally, the students from Scotlandville sat together and the kids from Baker sat together.

They sang their school fight song and we screamed ours. Fights broke out, and that was the last of the pep rallies for the year.

I was scared a good bit of the time as well as angry about why politicians and prejudiced parents had to ruin life for us.

Then I got to know some of the kids from Scotlandville, and I found out a few things. They were proud of their school, proud of their school’s achievements and as angry as we were.

As the weeks rolled by, we realized a few uncomfortable truths. The teens from Scotlandville didn’t have the same level of textbooks that we had. Not that ours were great, but at least ours had all the pages and were printed in the last 20 years.

They didn’t have the same school supplies we had in the classrooms nor did they have the same level of musical instruments or football equipment. The classrooms at their old school were in sad shape, and that was unbelievable as ours weren’t that great.

By the time we were seniors, many of us had become friends. Some parents came around, but generations of hate are difficult to erase in one generation and almost impossible to forget.

Which brings us to the uproar over Virginia Gov. Ralph Northam’s black-face picture in a 1984 medical school yearbook page.

What he did is unconscionable. Not because he did it – there’s not a one of us who doesn’t regret something we said or did back when we were young. Who poses next to someone in a Ku Klux robe and thinks that’s funny?

What’s almost impossible to forgive is that Northam didn’t come forward and own his past transgressions. It’s not like he was a teenager whose hormones and immaturity ran ahead of common sense. This man was in medical school in the mid-1980s.

Surely his memory isn’t that shallow.

Still the question looms:  how far back do we go to punish someone? A picture from elementary school? High school? College? Do we examine that person’s life to see if they’ve outgrown those prejudices or do we immediately call for blood?

I admit freely that there were things I said and did in my youth I truly regret. There will probably be words I’ll utter today or next year I’ll wish I hadn’t said. I pray that anyone I’ve hurt will accept my apologies and forgive me, but I’m not sure that’s possible these days.

We are quick to judge and condemn but we should be slower to judge and faster to understand and learn.

We must never stop working to right wrongs, even if they happened five, 10, 20, 30 or 40 years ago. We must be willing to look inside and admit to prejudices and find ways to educate ourselves.

The words of Abraham Lincoln still ring true: “In times like the present, men should utter nothing for which they would not willingly be responsible through time and eternity.”

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

“Ain’t nobody got time for that” is part of American slang, thanks to Kimberly “Sweet Brown” Wilkins.

In 2012, she was being interviewed after escaping from an apartment fire. Her interview was bizarre, especially when describing her escape and her sum-it-up statement:  “ain’t nobody got time for that.”

The phrase caught fire and went viral on social media. I thought about Wilkins’ phrase when I was sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic with ice cream in the back seat of the car slowly but surely melting.

There’s a lot of things and situations we “ain’t got time for.”

Traffic. Ain’t nobody got time to sit in stopped traffic for no good reason.

If there’s a wreck, it’s logical that traffic would move slowly. I understand a slow down if there’s construction or debris in the roadway.

But to be sitting there because drivers aren’t paying attention to the traffic signals, people are texting on their phones and missing the green light or people can’t manage a left-hand turn, then my patience evaporates.

Waiting in line. Ain’t nobody got time to stand in an endless line in the grocery store, the post office or the return line. If I’m in the grocery store after work, I understand I’ll have to stand in a line.

But to wait in line for 30 minutes – which happened to me last week – with others who were picking up groceries at the end of the work day made me see red.

Grocers, people are tired when they hit your store at 5 p.m., and the last thing they want to do is stand in line for an extra 30 minutes because you’re unwilling to open additional grocery lanes to accommodate the flood of after-work shoppers.

So please think about getting customers out of the store in a timely manner when they’re already frazzled, tired and beat.

Likewise for the post office. I understand people have questions when they’re mailing a package or want to insure a box. But ain’t nobody got time for you to ask about a dozen different mailing methods to save 50 cents.

You’re going to send that letter first class or you’re not. You’re going to insure that package to your aunt or you’re not. And unless you’re a lawyer or a bill collector, you’re not going to use certified mail.

And, please, if you don’t know how to use the self-serve kiosk and there’s a lot of people in the post office lobby, go to the clerk. Ain’t nobody got time for you to stand there and try and figure out the self-service features.

The drive-through. Ain’t nobody got time for you to be indecisive in the McDonald’s drive-through line. Either you want a cheeseburger or you want a Big Mac. Fries are a definite yes but pass on the apple pie.

Ain’t nobody got time to wait for you to decide between a caramel macchiato or an iced caramel cappuccino to go with your burger without onions and extra pickles. Order a Diet Coke and get out of the line.

Another thing we ain’t got time for is punching in 10 numbers in a phone queue when we call a business or the doctor’s office. First, the caller has to decide whether or not it’s English or Spanish and then there’s at least five options for the office you want to speak to.

One for billing, two for consultations, three to talk to the nurse, four to talk to the physician’s assistant, five for directions… you get the drift. Pressing zero repeatedly only gets a “sorry, I didn’t get that, please listen to all the options again” recording.

When you’re not feeling good, ain’t nobody got time to sit in phone purgatory.

So there you have it. My rant is over because, frankly, ain’t nobody got time to listen to me complain.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.