One of the positives about going to the used bookstore is there’s so much more than book bargains. In addition to great prices on used paperbacks, bookstores have games, toys and nostalgic items.

I was in such an establishment this past Saturday on a hunt for bargain comic books. While sorting through excess issues of Superman, Wolverine and Batman, I saw a crowd of young people browsing through the vinyl records.

With music available for free on streaming services like Pandora and Spotify, it never occurred to me that young people would want to purchase old vinyl records. But that section of the store had the biggest crowd, and they weren’t baby boomers like me.

A story on CNBC last year states that vinyl record companies can’t keep up with the demand for vinyl records. The biggest buyers are the millennials because they feel the quality of the music on a digital file can’t come close to the depth of the tones on a vinyl record.

I thought I’d kept my old vinyl records, and I was so disappointed when I came home and realized I’d sold them years ago when we were downsizing. At the time, I thought digital was so much easier and we didn’t have a way to play vinyl records.

Now I’m wishing I still had them.

My first memory of vinyl records came courtesy of my Uncle Vinny. He was a teenager when we were growing up, and he had a stack of 45-rpm records he’d let us play.

I remember stacking the 45’s on a tube in the center of the record player and listening to Leslie Gore sing “It’s My Party” over and over again.

My mom got a stereo for Christmas one year; and if I listened to Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass belt out “A Taste of Honey” once, I heard that song a thousand times. Luckily Mom was generous, and she’d let us borrow the Philco and play records in our rooms.

My favorites back then were The Beatles, the Dave Clark Five and The Monkees. Before judging, remember, a 14-year-old girl can have eclectic tastes. I didn’t say good taste, I said eclectic. Still the albums not only had the dinner-sized plate records, there was a lot of information about the band on the back cover.

Part of the nostalgia with vinyl records also involves the beautiful art work on record album covers. My favorite cover was the ornate and quite colorful “In a Gadda Da Vida” from Iron Butterfly. Carol King reminded us that talent doesn’t always come in a glitzy package as shown on her folksy “Tapestry” album cover.

Nothing will ever beat James Taylor’s “Mud Slide Slim” album cover with Sweet Baby James sporting a slick smile and wide suspenders.

For simplicity, I loved the black-and-white “James Gang Rides Again” cover. Those first few notes from Joe Walsh on “Funk 49,” the first track on the album, are classic rock. Those guitar licks take baby boomers back to the days of platform shoes, wild hair and bell-bottom jeans.

As I walked toward the check-out line, I smiled at the millennials crowded around the vinyl record section because, despite a generation gap, they were searching for the same thing we boomers were looking for in music – to live in the moment when we believe we can be anything.

Instead of auto-tuned voices and micro-managed mega stars, let that music fill the air around us with strong, if not always in-tune voices, rockin’ guitar solos and thundering drums sets. Because that’s real and every generation seeks out the truth, even if it’s not perfect.

And maybe that gap between the generations isn’t as wide as we once believed.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

 

On early morning drives, I find myself marveling at the gorgeous colors in the sunrise. It’s as if the Good Lord took a paintbrush, dipped it in vivid scarlets and pinks and painted the skies, just to create a beautiful start to the day.

It’s unbelievable how quickly nature can go from majestic to malevolent.

That’s exactly what happened in Fort Bend County when over 20 inches of rain drenched our area in less than two days, bringing havoc, apprehension and devastation.

Yet in 2010 and 2011, Texas was in the midst of one of the worst droughts in the state’s history. I remember walking around our yard and seeing gaping ruts where the ground had separated due to a lack of water.

I never checked the weather report when planning something outside because it hadn’t rained in over three years. When the rains came back, I opened the umbrella I kept in my car, and it had dry rotted.

Now we flinch at the sound of thunder, and we keep our thumbs on our phone’s weather app, not because we’re secretly meteorologists. We know first-hand the blows Mother Nature can deliver when we least expect it.

No matter where you live, there’s issues with the weather. Growing up in New York State, I think about bundling up in a snow suit, snow boots, a scarf and gloves from November to April.

I can still picture my dad with a snow shovel, making a path to get the family car out of the driveway.

A Southern boy through and through, my dad finally decided he’d had enough, and he moved us all to Louisiana.

Welcome to hurricane season.

I remember riding in the back seat with my family through Gulfport, Miss. and seeing a line of palm trees slanted to the side. Dad said Hurricane Betsy had caused that damage, and I was awed at the power Mother Nature possessed.

Still because there wasn’t a major hurricane when I was in my teens, I didn’t take the storms as seriously as I should have. It wasn’t until Hurricane Allison slammed into Houston that I saw exactly how a few days of violent, unrelenting rain could turn peoples’ lives upside down.

My aunt and her family were flooded out of their house one year, and I can still picture her in her driveway, tears streaming down her face, as she watched her family photos, furniture and belongings floating in the flood waters of the Comite River.

So when Hurricane Katrina hit the New Orleans area and people came to Texas, I saw that same lost look in their eyes that I’d seen in my aunt’s.

Desolation. Hopelessness. Fear.

I hoped I’d never see those emotions again as communities made strides after Allison and Katrina to put in bigger and better pumping stations, and the weather models became more and more sophisticated. We’re usually not surprised by huge storms, but Mother Nature can be a crafty witch.

We saw this rain storm coming, but few of us realized just how powerful the system was and how hard it would affect families here in our area.

But we’ll dry out, rebuild and start over. As they always do, firefighters, police officers, EMS personnel and community and Red Cross volunteers will rally, take care of those affected by the storm and make sure no one’s left without food or shelter.

People whose homes are dry will take in neighbors and relatives until they can return to their houses. The gumbo, enchiladas, kolaches and chili will flow and the best in people will be revealed.

That’s what we do, as many times as it takes for as many people who need help.

And one morning, when I see clear skies and a beautiful sunrise, I’ll stay positive that we’ll overcome and be stronger than ever. All the proof I need is in the faces of the survivors.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

For almost 20 years, we were known as the two Denises that lived on Copperwood Lane. We had a lot in common – our eldest boys were the same age, and my boys adored her daughter. The four of them, along with neighbor Ashley, grew up together, through good times and sad times.

Angie lived a few blocks over and connected with us through her younger son. Our three boys were part of a large ensemble that hung out throughout elementary, middle school, high school and college. Even though their life journeys took them on different roads, the three boys have never lost track of each other.

Denise, Angie and I didn’t keep up as well as the boys.

Sure we exchanged notes on Facebook and the occasional email, but it took the passing of Denise’s mom to make us acutely aware we needed each other’s company, and time wasn’t on our side.

Denise invited us to her home in Blanco for the city’s annual Wild Woman Weekend. I went back and forth about whether to go, thinking I should stay home and catch up on household chores. But Angie asked if we could ride together, and I decided a car ride with a friend I’ve known almost 30 years and haven’t seen in almost 15 was something I needed to do. House chores, I reasoned, would be there when I returned.

So Angie and I set out early Saturday morning and found our way to Denise’s beautiful home in Blanco. When we pulled up, hugs and smiles enveloped us, and we agreed we hadn’t changed a bit.

Of course we had, but being together again was too special to ruin with reality. Denise had signed us up for a cooking event that morning, so we hurried into Blanco for our first Wild Woman excursion. I figured we’d sit in the audience and watch a chef cook.

Not wild women, it seems.

Angie and I teamed up with Lindsey, Denise’s daughter, and we clicked like clockwork. Our dish of baked salmon with orange dill sauce, baked asparagus and pan-fried potatoes won first place and earned all of us an apron. Denise was our biggest fan in the audience, taking pictures and encouraging us every step of the way. She did the same thing for me years ago when I accidentally put a perm in my hair instead of a body wave.

Afterwards, we strolled around the courthouse lawn, visiting with vendors selling everything from lavender plants to original pottery.

We made our way to the bowling alley, and relaxed while listening to the sounds of bowling balls hitting the wood, people laughing and beer bottles clinking.

We left there, walked the town square and ended up having burgers at the Redbud Café, listening to a singer who sounded just like Patsy Cline.

The best part of the weekend, though, was Sunday morning. We talked for hours over bacon and eggs about where we are in our lives right now and acknowledging the choices we made in the past got us to where we are today. And for all of us, that place is a satisfying one.

We compared our bone density readings, the books we’ve read, religion and politics. We laughed, shed a few tears over parents who’ve passed and bragged unashamedly on our grandchildren.

Mostly, we’re thankful our boys, now grown men, have remained friends. Their friendship drew us together years ago and once again this past weekend. I have a feeling we three wild women won’t wait another 10 years to get together again.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

I watched a short YouTube video of the late Etta Baker playing the Piedmont blues on an acoustic guitar. The smile never left the 85-year-old’s face as she strummed and picked at the strings.

Her hands reflected a lifetime of hard work and plucking at a guitar in her scant spare time. Late in life, she was recognized and heralded as one of the blues greats. Ms. Baker played all of her life until she passed away in 2006 at the age of 93.

Listening to her, I was swept back to the days when my youngest boy was a teenager and played an acoustic guitar constantly. I’d sit at the bottom of the stairs and listen to him play tunes over and over until he had the finger picking just right.

Today, he’s a husband and father of four. He and his wife have a busy home life that includes plenty of time with the children and tending to the barnyard animals. Throw in a day job and commute along with renovating an old farm house, and their days are packed.

The guitars that were in his hands constantly are now put to the side as parenting and home-owner responsibilities take the front burners.

I wonder how many people have musical instruments tucked away in the tops of their closets, waiting for when they tell themselves life will slow down and they can start playing again.

There’s probably hundreds of us with a half-finished project stuck in the back of the laundry room. Maybe it’s a blanket we started to crochet or box of dried-up paint and a half-painted canvas.

Eventually we forget about those projects because we don’t have time for activities that don’t get the floor mopped or earn us overtime at work.

There’s also bills to pay, grass to mow, homework to check and the dog begging for an evening walk.

We need our jobs so we can put food on the table, and that means not only buying the food but cooking it, serving it and then cleaning up afterwards.

By the time most people finish with their “have-to” list, there’s little time for the “I wanna” list.

Life, we say, gets in the way.

Where we’d once sing the entire “Rubber Soul” album in our rooms – rewinding over and over to listen to “I’m Looking Through You” at least five times in a row – we now might put some earphones on and listen to John, Paul, George and Ringo while folding clothes or loading the dishwasher.

We hide away the things that once gave us immense satisfaction and pleasure because, as an adult, there’s never a right time and there will never be enough time.

Every once in a while, though, we can think back on a time when we did have enough time and little inhibitions. I’ll admit to dancing in my room as a teenager to “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction” like I was Mick Jagger on the stage.

I’d be shaking my shoulders, trying my best to master the Mick swagger, snapping my fingers and head back and forth as if the whole world was my stage.

Now the only dancing I do is if I get in the shower and the water’s too cold. But maybe it’s time to dance whenever the music’s poppin’.

As Ms. Baker got to the end of the song, I made a quiet wish that my son finds his guitar, heads out to their front porch and plays a chorus or two of “Blackbird” so his children can hear and know the musical talent that lies in the strong hands that tuck them into bed at night.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

One of my favorite shows on television is “Black-Ish.” The comedy features a wealthy black family living in Los Angeles and the way they handle life with four children and quirky in-laws.

“The Cosby Show” was the first to break that 1970s “moving-on-up” stereotype with the father as a doctor and his wife as a lawyer. There was humor in the show, but seldom did the writers venture into uncomfortable subject areas like “Black-Ish” does most weeks.

A recent episode was entitled “Hope,” and it caused quite a bit of reaction from viewers. The show opens with Andre and his family watching a riot in Los Angeles after a white policeman is acquitted of shooting a young black man.

The real question the show brings up is “how do we explain bigotry and hate to our children?” In light of the bombing in Brussels this week, the question is one all of us, no matter our skin color, find ourselves asking.

Bigotry isn’t new nor is killing in a deity’s name. In many religions, like the Aztecs and the Mayans, historians have found numerous accounts of human sacrifices to the gods because people believed a human sacrifice and a good crop went hand in hand.

Time hasn’t brought enlightenment because here we are in 2016 with extremists sacrificing innocent women and children to appease some god or to fulfill some expectation of their beliefs. Thousands of us are at a loss as to how to explain these extremists’ motives.

The “Hope” episode of “Black-Ish” took this situation on with the parents coming face to face with having to explain ugly truths to their children.

Sooner or later, all parents face this dilemma, whether it’s explaining why we can’t afford new cars like other families or why a family member’s actions seem odd. The hardest is explaining death to a young child.

It was in that self-examination where I realized perhaps I didn’t believe the same things I believed when I was young, and that time and life experiences changed my naïve view of the world.

I remember taking my middle son to see “A River Runs Through It” because I wanted to see the mountains and rivers of Montana. I didn’t expect to see a story line about a son dealing with the effects his drinking would have on his family.

On the way home, my son and I talked about alcoholism, and I explained what it was like growing up in a home where a father has a problem with alcohol.

Having to explain how my father came to abuse alcohol wasn’t easy, but I found myself understanding why the more my son and I talked.

We went from what it was like to see a father drunk to how proud I was of my dad when he stopped drinking for good.

And I saw my son’s innocence slip away.

But, curiously, not in a bad way. He came to understand that all people have their faults, but they can overcome them if they are willing to walk the hard road. The talk benefitted us both and allowed us to understand human frailty a little more.

And so it was with the writers on “Black-ish” as they crafted a script that did its best to help parents explain to their children why people do bad things to others, just because of the color of their skin.

If only they could write a script explaining why people killed innocent men, women and children, all in the name of religion, then that would truly be hopeful.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

 

My cousin posted a picture on her Facebook page from a family reunion a few years ago. A group of us were on my Cousin Sam’s boat, ready to take a ride around Lake Charles.

The day was beautiful, the waves calm and we were all taking advantage of the reunion to catch up on each other’s’ lives.

Looking at the picture, I saw my youngest son standing in the middle of the boat surrounded by his cousins. I “shared” the picture online, but he wasn’t too happy. When Chris saw the photo, all he noticed was his thinning hair in the back.

“Thanks Mom; I didn’t think my day could get worse,” was his reply.

Truth be told, I never noticed his hair.

When I looked at the picture, I flashed back to that day and that particular boat ride. Our cousin Mike was the designated boat driver, and all afternoon, he’d been pulling a raft along the back of the boat, kids and adults having a grand time in the water.

My eldest granddaughter had fallen in love with riding on the raft and had gone on every boat ride that day, jumping on the raft every chance she got.

After much coaxing, my son convinced his 4-year-old son to ride on the raft, reassuring him he’d be right next to him. Chris rode between his two eldest children, his arms around their waists, holding them securely on the raft.

My granddaughter, who’s a bit of a daredevil just like her father and her great grandfather, tried to stand up and ended up in the water. She came up laughing, begging to go again to which Mike happily obliged.

I’m sorry that my son saw that picture and was critical of himself because that picture was a reminder of how much fun we all had that day. I was reminded of how much I enjoyed sitting next to my aunt from Florida, listening to stories of when she, my dad and my mom were young and starting their lives.

Earlier that day, I visited with my cousins, swapping stories of when we were young and comparing them to the antics of our own children and, for some of us, our grandchildren.

We were no longer the carefree Cajun cousins who spent our summers crawfishing and crabbing in the shallow waters by my uncle’s house.

Nor were we the daredevils who learned to water ski together and dared each other to suck the heads of the crawfish at loud, wonderful get togethers. We were older, some of us a bit more cautious, while some still had that limitless love of life our parents instilled in all of us.

My son’s reaction to how he looked wasn’t that far away from my reaction when I look at photos of myself. My first thought is “I need to start that diet yesterday” and a wistfulness at the older person I see in the photographs because she doesn’t reflect the way I feel on the inside.

Reading his comment and looking at the picture, I realized I need to take my own advice and stop looking at myself so critically. Instead I need to look at pictures and remember the fun we’re having and the memories we’re making, memories that last all our lives.

I hope my son goes back and looks at that photo again and can visualize the picture I have in my mind – that of a father, his strong arms around his two young children, all three basking in unabashed joy and happiness.

That’s what I see in that picture.

And, oh, so much more.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I wore my shirt backwards all day. It wasn’t until late in the afternoon when I looked down and saw the shirt’s tag that should’ve been on my back underneath my neck.

“I’ve had my shirt on backwards all day long and nobody told me,” I said to no one in particular.

“Well none of us noticed,” someone said.

I’m not quite sure how to take that comment.

On the one hand, the baseball-style shirt had printing on the front and the back and had a rounded collar. So it could be easily worn backwards and no one would think twice.

On the other hand, maybe my friends think it would be perfectly natural for me to wear my clothes backwards.

That’s an even scarier thought.

I’ve made embarrassing clothing mistakes in the past, but I usually had my kids to blame the goof on. When the boys were young, I remember walking out of church with a big crowd.

I looked over my shoulder to say “hi” to a friend, and I noticed the seam of my sweater was on the outside instead of on the inside.

“Oh my gosh,” I told my friend. “My shirt was on inside out and nobody told me.”

She looked at me with a sympathetic glance.

“I thought you meant to wear your shirt like that,” she said, the embarrassment of having such a dumb friend evident in her eyes.

“Only crazy people wear their clothes inside out,” I snapped and then ran into the bathroom to turn my sweater right side out.

That incident stands out as much as the time I forgot to take the plastic stick-on tag off the front of a new sweater. I bought an extra-large size because I don’t like tight sweaters and, frankly, that size was the one that fit best.

I bought the sweater for a very special occasion – my eldest son was in the homecoming court for Stephen F. Austin High School, and the court was being presented to the football crowd that evening.

Nick and I walked out to the middle of the field, waiting to see if his name would be called. When they said his name as the homecoming king, I was one proud mother as dozens of cameras took pictures.

Standing on the sidelines after all the celebrating, I looked down and realized I’d never removed the plastic see-through stick-on tag with a big XL down the front of my sweater.

Maybe nobody noticed, I thought. I’d know for sure when I saw the photos our newspaper’s photographer, Russell Autrey, had taken.

I went into the newspaper office early the next morning and pounded on the dark room door, begging Russell to show me those pictures.

He pulled the image up on the screen and there, the lights reflecting on that plastic strip on the front of my sweater, were two big letters – “X” and “L.”

I fell to my knees and begged Russell to help me. Thanks to Russell’s wizardry with Photoshop, he removed the embarrassing faux pas.

I consoled myself with knowing the only ones who might have noticed the tag were my family. And maybe the homecoming court. And maybe the hundreds of people in the stands.

If there’d been a hole nearby, I’d have crawled in it and never come out.

As I turned my shirt around in the ladies room, I had to admit being oblivious to my clothes wasn’t new behavior for me.

So maybe when the guys in the white suits come to take me away, I’ll feel right at home in that straitjacket that buckles in the back.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

A couple of years ago, my husband and I took a winter trip to Rockport with the Coastal Prairie Chapter of the Texas Master Naturalists to see the whooping cranes.

These men and women work to educate the public about the importance of protecting Texas’ natural resources.

They also work at local parks, especially Seabourne Creek Park, so residents and visitors will have a positive encounter with nature.

On the last visit, I spent the time visiting historical sites. I learned a lot about the area’s background and enjoyed driving around Rockport.

This time, however, I concentrated more on the journey instead of the destination. Most of our trip found us on Highway 59. They should rename this section of highway the “Smokehouse Strip” because the stretch was filled with barbecue joints.

I wish we could’ve stopped at all of them, but we decided to have lunch in Victoria. On road trips, we shy away from the chains and look for a local place to eat.

When we saw a sign advertising Ramsey’s home cooking, something told us to pull into the lot.

Ramsey’s wasn’t anything special on the outside, but the inside was like a favorite diner found in rustic Texas towns where the blue-plate special is always a sure-fire winner.

The restaurant opened in 1948 by the Ramseys. Even though there’s a new owner, he kept the name and many of the original menu items, wait staff and cooks.

There was a table of regulars in the back that seemed to know everybody who came in the door. They were friendly to us and even asked what we were thinking about ordering.

I asked about the soup, and a silver-haired lady at the table next to me suggested the special for the day. That choice sounded tempting, but I went for the cheeseburger and onion rings.

For me, those two workhorses are the hallmark of a great restaurant. It’s easy to overcook the burger and really easy to serve up a greasy pile of onion rings.

The cook did neither. My burger was juicy and cooked just right, and the onion rings were crisp and fresh. I wished I’d saved room for a slice of pie in the display case because that coconut cream confection looked to be about six inches high and was surely calling my name.

But we left, happy with our lunches and change in our pockets.

Our next stop was at the Aransas National Wildlife Refuge center. The refuge is the winter nesting grounds for whooping cranes, and thousands of people flock to this area in the chilly months to catch a glimpse of the tall birds.

We stopped in the Visitor’s Center, and friendly volunteers directed us to spots where cranes had been spotted that day.

At the two-story tall observation tower, we were able to look out over what seemed like a hundred acres of pristine marshland and waterways. People talked in quiet voices, and the sounds of birds singing and leaves rustling were the loudest sounds we heard all afternoon.

We met up with the Master Naturalists late in the afternoon near the docks in Rockport. As they compared notes on the birds they’d seen on the trip, I watched the shrimp boats come in from their day out on the gulf and marveled at the elegant ballet pelicans performed as they swooped over the waters.

Sometimes education comes from a visitor’s center or a nature book. We can also learn from taking guided tours and checking Google for the local history of a town or city.

Other times, knowledge comes from quietly watching the sun set over an endless sea, the perfect way to end a weekend journey.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

 

One of the perks of being a newspaper reporter is one has the opportunity to meet some pretty terrific people. A question often asked is “who’s the most famous person you’ve ever interviewed?”

For me, fame isn’t just measured by the number of times someone’s name has been in the headlines, the political office they hold or the amount of money they have.

Importance is what that person means to their community and how they spread kindness and knowledge to make their corner of the world better.

One of the most famous and most humble in our midst is Ms. Virginia Scarborough. A few years ago, I had the good fortune to interview Virginia, as she asked me to call her, for a story about the burial site of Deaf Smith. Legend had it that Smith was buried in Richmond but nobody knew exactly where he was buried.

Immediately, I wanted to track the story down. I started at the Fort Bend Museum, and a volunteer told me if I really wanted to know, I’d talk to Virginia Scarborough.

When the third person I asked about Deaf Smith told me to ask Virginia, I knew I’d better call, and she invited me to come by her home and visit.

She greeted me at the door with a smile and we sat down at her kitchen table and chatted over cookies.

Virginia believes Smith is buried somewhere in the middle of the street near the museum in downtown Richmond. She also thinks he might’ve been buried upside down, going out of the world in the same direction the Texas pioneer entered it.

I remember laughing at the way her eyes twinkled when she told the story. We also chatted about her involvement in Fort Bend County history, and I was amazed at the lengths to which Virginia went to searching for lost cemeteries.

She’s traipsed through meadows in mud boots, tracking down long-forgotten headstones. She said she once got chased out of a field by an angry bull, and she had to climb a fence in a hurry to get away from the angry bovine.

Virginia was past retirement age when she pulled off that trick.

It’s not often one comes across someone who’s thought of so highly, but after meeting Virginia, I know why. It’s not just her soft way of speaking that’s never condescending yet filled with information.

It’s not that she’s quoted in numerous history books.

It’s not even that Virginia’s family can trace their roots back to the Old 300, settlers who came to Fort Bend County with Stephen F. Austin or that a school is named after her late sister and educator, Antoinette Reading.

Perhaps it’s because Virginia’s been an instrumental source of knowledge for the Fort Bend Historical Commission and helped oversee the preservation of Morton Cemetery, the burial site of Jane Long and Mirabeau Lamar.

She has the credentials — she’s a member of the Daughters of the Confederacy, the Daughters of the American Revolution and the Daughters of the Republic of Texas.

Although those are all stellar reasons for being respected, the reason Virginia is such a treasure to Richmond and Fort Bend County is because she’s a genteel, gracious, humble and giving person whose intelligence and dedication to preserving the facts benefits all of us.

I’m extremely fortunate I’ve had the pleasure of visiting with Virginia. I hope one day she’ll invite me back and we can sit together at her kitchen table where I can once again fall under the enchantment of this gracious lady.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.