My phone stopped talking to me. I don’t know what I did to make that electronic device so angry, but angry it was.

Without warning, the phone’s navigation system clammed up on a recent trip, and I didn’t know how to reach my destination. That electronic hissy fit cost me an extra hour on the road.

In these days of cell phones that can do practically everything, I’d come to rely on talking Google Maps, and as a result, got a bit lazy when it came to planning a trip in advance.

But after this last silent treatment, I decided to give my paper maps another shot. There’s a half dozen in the glove compartment of my car and I hauled them out after turning off my phone.

I can handle a map because my dad taught me how to read one before he taught me how to drive a car. But I don’t think this current electronics-driven generation has a clue how to read a road map that doesn’t talk to them.

Using a paper map’s not as simple as typing in an address and letting a voice tell you where to turn. Map readers have to learn about grids and finding a street when it’s located at Q and 19 on the map. They have to know why one road’s colored red and why another one is yellow.

The hardest part about using a paper map is learning how to fold it back up the exact same way it came from the state’s visitor’s center.

Those who don’t know how to read a paper map are missing out on the adventure associated with a road trip. The challenge starts with spreading a paper road map out over the kitchen table and looking at an entire state or city in one glance.

Novice map readers have to figure out where they’re starting and where they want to end up and make decisions ahead of time about stops and alternate routes.

A friend told me to write the directions down on an index card and tape the card to the dashboard. That probably sounds ridiculously old fashioned to those accustomed to a voice telling you to turn left in 500 feet.

But there’s a sense of accomplishment when you take the big-picture view of personally figuring out how to get where you want to go and then getting there.

Even if you get lost, you can pull out the map – folded in a way so just your route shows – and find a different way. Nobody’s the wiser because a paper map never electronically sighs and tells you “rerouting.”

I’ll admit paper maps can become outdated, but major roads and freeways seldom move. Besides, there’s a lot of excitement in taking your finger and tracing routes from your house to your destination, dreaming about all the sights you’ll see along the way.

If you’re lucky enough to get your hands on Rand McNally road atlas, the sky’s the limit. You can trace a route all the way from Alaska to Texas and, best of all, plan to see all the natural attractions along the way. Your phone can do the same, but the cynical side of me says they only call out the sites that pay to advertise their location.

A map and your finger lets you choose your own adventures, and they’re there for you to discover if you know how to read a map and aren’t afraid of some old-school fun.

Happy paper trails.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

He’s been scaring the bejesus out of me since I was a teenager.

Not the boogie man.

Or the monster in the closet.

Those nightmares are run-of-the-mill.

The one who haunts my dreams is Stephen King.

And I love it.

The first King book I read was “’Salem’s Lot.” The story line is familiar for long-time “constant readers,” as King describes his fans. A flawed hero joins forces with a young person to combat evil.
But that’s like describing World War II as a back-yard snowball fight.

One of my favorite scenes in “’Salem’s Lot” is when a young vampire, Danny Glick, comes to one of the heroes in the book, Mark Petrie, and scratches at the window screen, wanting to come in.

King builds on Petrie’s curiosity and fear and his sadness over seeing his former friend floating outside his second-story room while never losing the terror about a hungry vampire scritch scratching at a screen, hungrily whispering to come in.

In all of his novels, King gets right to the point without wasting time with boring passages about spring meadows, unnecessary love triangles or people’s wardrobe.
With an economy of words, he quickly reaches into eye sockets, grabs the reader by the eyeballs and never lets go.

In “The Shining,” I remember being too afraid to turn the page when young Danny Torrance opened the door to Room 237. I didn’t want to turn the page because I was so scared, but I had to because my curiosity was stronger than my fear.

My curiosity was answered when Danny found a dead woman in the bathtub that comes after him.

Let’s not begin to mention those moving topiaries from “The Shining.”

The murdering clown from “It.”

Or, shudder, the return of toddler Gage from “Pet Sematary.”

By isolating those scenes, it’s easy to dismiss King as a shock writer. If a reader looks deeper, though, they’ll find King is the ultimate character writer.
Too often, I’ve read books where the main characters accomplish unbelievable feats. While wounded, they can kill the bad guy with one bullet while hanging onto a moving train.
The women are long legged with flowing hair who seduce a man in one scene and save the world in the next, all the while keeping their make up in perfect order.
King’s characters are fleshed out as real people, with flaws and virtues, and that includes the women. He artfully describes the battles they wage with inner demons, from alcoholism to cowardice to a lack of identity.

Some of my favorite King characters are from “The Stand,” his epic novel about the end of the world. Stu Redman is the main hero, and the constant reader pictures him as a regular guy in a flannel shirt who’s called on to save the world.

I also like the way Jack Torrance in “The Shining” is written. The movie, starring Jack Nicholson was awful. In the book, though, we see Torrance as a young father who wants to stop fighting his demons yet can’t overcome alcohol’s stranglehold on his life.

And in all of King’s writing, we eagerly go on a literary journey with him. We might find a dead body in “The Stand,” see a sadistic teenager get the tables switched in “Apt Pupil” or feel the anguish of John Coffee – “like the drink, only not spelled the same” in “The Green Mile.”

We come to understand hope when we read how Andy Dufresne survives in “Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption.”

When a writer makes us believe in redemption, that writer is a true American treasure. And for me, that person is the prolific and incredibly gifted novelist Stephen King.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

My wonderfully talented niece recently posted pictures of the birthday party she created for her 1-year-old daughter. Amber chose the theme of “Alice in Wonderland,” and every detail was covered.

She had green grapes strung through skewers to resemble centipedes. There were lacy sugar flowers and filigreed place cards featuring the whimsical sayings from the Lewis Carroll classic.

Our great-niece was outfitted in a dress worthy of any little girl wishing they were Alice, and everybody was clean at the end of the celebration.

Looking at the pictures, I found myself thinking back to the days when we had our sons’ birthday parties. I tried to talk my boys into having a party with activities for both girls and boys, but they practically threw themselves on top of their Transformers in horror.

First, no frilly dresses. Since most of our parties involved playing ninja on the swing set, party clothes were cut-off jeans and a T-shirt. I tried to slip a nice shirt over the birthday boy for the pictures, but that was soon covered with frosting, crushed Chee-tohs and spilled Hawaiian Punch.

Always the red Hawaiian Punch.

Instead of dainty sandwiches and confectionary roses, we had hot dogs roasted over a small campfire in the back yard.

We tried using skewers once, but metal skewers aren’t meant for food – they’re swords and the bearer of said skewer instantly turns into a dastardly pirate. That was the last time we tried that one.

No back-yard hot dog is complete unless it’s covered with lots of catsup and mustard that drips all over the fronts of their shirts or, in a really classy move, smears all over the sleeve of their T-shirt because shirt sleeves are handkerchiefs first, clothing second.

I tried using party hats as favors once, but that didn’t work. The boys punched the pointed end out and pushed the hats up onto their arms to form a gauntlet, aka Iron Man or Spider Man, who thinks he can jump off the top of the slide.

When it comes to cakes, we’ve had everything from a Superman cake to a Batman cake to a Spiderman cake. If you think red Hawaiian Punch is difficult to remove from a T-shirt, try removing red frosting from the front of that shirt.

Or blue.

Or red and blue frosting mixed with red Hawaiian Punch.

My niece had matching napkins for her daughter’s party, and the white tablecloth coordinated perfectly with the tiered plates and platters of finger foods. Both she and her daughter wore beautiful dresses and were clean throughout the whole event.

Forget napkins at a boy party. All we needed was a water hose and boys willing to hold their noses and cover their eyes while we hosed them down from their hair to their sneakers at the end of the shenanigans.

When it came to decorating our house for the boys’ birthday parties, all we had to do was make sure there was an ice chest on the patio filled with juice boxes and frozen ice pops.

Inside, breakable items went on top of the fridge, and we rolled up the rugs because red Hawaiian Punch and cupcakes that accidentally fall frosting side down into the rug leave their mark forever.
Especially red and blue Superman cupcakes that are then smashed into the rug by 5-year-old boys running through your kitchen on the way to the bathroom to fill balloons with water.

When it comes down to it, parents do the best they can to make milestone events special for their children.

No matter if it’s white petit-fours or red and blue Superman cupcakes.

And always the red Hawaiian Punch.

Always.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

We attended a family gathering this past weekend where everybody always brings a side dish or a dessert to share. I’m no different, but my dish usually gets pushed to the back behind the condiments and napkins.

It’s not like I’m bringing sauerkraut and onions, but my relatives are such fabulous cooks and bakers, my paltry offerings just can’t measure up.

I dream of offering the dish everyone raves about, like my Aunt Claudia’s chocolate sheet cake. When we see that cake, covered with shiny chocolate icing, everybody lines up to make sure they get a square.

The line is just as long for my sister Diane’s scrumptious banana pudding. She shared her recipe with everyone, but nobody comes close to making the dessert the exact way she does. It’s so popular, there’s not even a drop left in the bottom of the bowl.

It’s the same with  my sister-in-law’s desserts. Janet can take chocolate chips, flour, sugar and butter and create cookies Mrs. Fields would envy. Over the years, her desserts have always had center stage and rightly so.

My favorite Janet dessert is her “Striped Delight.” She combines Cool Whip, cream cheese, chocolate pudding and graham crackers together for a dessert I wanted to put into my purse and sneak out the back door with.

She also makes dynamite lemon squares – moist on the top and the crust is flaky and never soggy.
I’ve tried to recreate their desserts so I wouldn’t have to wait for them at Christmas or Easter. My sheet cake looked like Aunt Claudia’s but mine tasted like there was sand in the frosting.

Tried to make the lemon squares, but my crust was like cardboard and I spilled the confectionary sugar all over the floor and counter. That’s when I decided to just wait for Janet’s.

I used the same kind of bowl my sister used for her banana pudding, but all the bananas turned to mush and the vanilla wafers disintegrated. There was plenty left in the bottom of my bowl at the end of the meal. And the next day and the next.

But I saw a recipe for Butterfinger Cake and it looked delicious and easy. Start off by baking a yellow cake in a 13×9-inch pan. Let the cake cool for about 10 minutes and then poke holes in the top. Pour a can of sweetened condensed milk over the cake, making sure to fill the holes.
Next pour a jar of caramel ice cream topping on top of the cake, saturating the cake with fat and calories. Spread Cool Whip on top of that and then sprinkle the top with crushed Butterfinger candy bars.

What’s not to like?

Apparently  nothing because my cake was the hit of the afternoon.

I stood by my cake with a smile on my face as my cousins came back for seconds and thirds. I proudly declared that dessert to be mine as I watched a young child run his finger along the edges to get every last bit of that cake.

I came home and bragged to my husband that finally something I baked was praised by all.

“Was Janet there?” my husband asked.

Janet caught a stomach virus the night before the party and couldn’t come.

Ego balloon busted.

But the competitor in me says the next time there’s a family gathering and I know Janet and Diane’s desserts will be there, my Butterfinger Cake will take its place at the starting line.
Let the best fat and calorie count win.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

  I was leaving College Station at one of the heaviest traffic times of the day – straight up noon – and Texas Avenue was bumper to bumper as far as I could see.

I tried to think about the Aggie landmarks I’d seen over the weekend to get my mind off my growling stomach.
There was the newly renovated Kyle Field featuring a huge bronze statue salute to the 12^th Man tradition. The Memorial Student Center’s request to not walk on the grass honored those who’d lost their lives in battle and it was impossible to walk more than a few yards without seeing something Aggie maroon.
My brain was totally immersed in “howdys” and “gig-ems” but my stomach was yelling “forget looking at Rudder Tower – look for the Taco Bell tower.”
It seemed every fast-food joint was clogged with long lines of frustrated drivers, so I kept going, thinking I’d find something less crowded on my way home. I saw all the familiars, but I wanted something more than a soy patty with a pre-measured squirt of mustard and ketchup on a stale bun.
By the time I got to Navasota, my stomach was ready to mutiny, so I pulled off. I saw the fast food golden arches, but I decided to check out the downtown area.
Whenever we travel, we often bypass the chains and look for an in-town eatery, and so I decided to give Navasota a try.
I wasn’t disappointed.
Just minutes past the busy highway were stately homes surrounded by sweeping green lawns and shaded by giant trees.
Pretty soon I was in the downtown area on Washington Avenue, and I saw a sign on the left-hand side in front of The Filling Station advertising the “Hell Burger” and “The Dead Texan.” That looked interesting, so I pulled in, my stomach thanking me.
A happy teenager welcomed me and handed me a menu. While she finished checking out a customer, I looked around at the diner that had once been a gas station. There was a homey feel inside, a welcome relief from restaurants that all look the same.
A few microphone stands and a set of drums stood out of the way by one wall, and the scuffed concrete floors said there’d been quite a few Texas two-steps danced in here.
I looked at the people in the restaurant and noticed lots of cowboy hats and cammo hats. Two young boys wearing baseball hats and cleats, their feet not quite touching the floor, talked sports with their dad in one corner while a businessman read a newspaper – not his phone – over a basket of chicken tenders.
When it was my turn to order, I asked the waitress for a recommendation. She said I’d be happy with their 100-percent beef burger because they went to the butcher and market every day. I took her up on her offer and got my burger and fries to go since I had a long drive in front of me.
To say she was right about that burger is an understatement. After a weekend of same-old, same-old cafeteria food, that hot, well-seasoned hamburger hit the spot.
I know the difference between soy burgers and real burgers, and this one was genuine. The fries were crispy on the outside and soft on the inside, and the veggies on the burger were cold and crisp.
Something tells me I’ll be back to this quiet gem just south of Aggie Land. I just hope The Filling Station’s got a slice of from-scratch apple pie reserved for a weary traveler.
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Intrigued, I read a column from a writer who decided to stop hitting the “like” button on Facebook.
Elan Morgan said she didn’t want to help Facebook’s advertisers track her online life. She wanted to know what would happen if she stopped liking posts and instead added comments. In that way, she could reconnect with people through words.

There’s a lot of merit in what she wrote, but frankly, this world needs a lot more likes, and I don’t care if Facebook knows what I like.

This is what they’ll find – I love desserts. If somebody posts a recipe for a chocolate cake with chocolate filling and chocolate icing, I’m liking that bad boy from here to Tuesday.

Likewise with any dessert that includes crushed candy bars on top. I liked a recipe for one calling for a can of sweetened condensed milk, a whole jar of caramel topping and Butterfinger candy bars and my hips are still not speaking to me. I’m seeing a lot more recipes for desserts on my Facebook feed, and all I can say is “bring it on.”

I also “like” pictures people post of their family, and if your son or daughter loses a tooth, catches a huge fish or wins a trophy, I’ll immediately “like” that post because I know you’re a proud parent.
If you post a picture of your grandbaby, I’ll “like” that picture a dozen times over. That’s because I know what it’s like to be over-the-moon crazy about your grandchildren. I’ll take it further and comment that her smile is gorgeous, his rosy cheeks are adorable and she looks just like her mama.
And if Facebook wants to track that I love babies, then track away, social media giant.

If you post a YouTube video of the stupidest answers from “Family Feud,” I will immediately “like” that post. In a world of apocalypse endings, crooked politicians and global warming — oh, I’m sorry, climate change — a laugh from the question “name something that comes after the word pork” and the contestant’s answer is “cupine,” is exactly what I need. Track away.

I won’t “like” your obscene or vulgar links on Facebook, and I’ll admit to being a fuddy-duddy when I see photos of young girls in “hoochie-mama” clothes.
A word of advice girls – don’t debase yourself by posting half naked selfies to the world. Have more dignity and pride and remember that true beauty comes from the inside. Not your bosom.

I also won’t “like” stupid human trick videos because somebody’s always getting hurt, and I don’t find that humorous. I’ll watch your smart dog tricks videos all evening long but politely skip over any video of a cat.

I’ll “like” your vacation pictures but I wish there was a “green-with-envy” button. I laugh over the Maxine posers and the snarky e-cards with comments like “I just wanted to lose weight by staying in bed, watching TV and eating Girl Scout cookies. Is that really too much to ask?”  

For those with sad posts, such as the passing of a relative or the loss of a pet, “liking” the post is surface sympathetic. If I can, I’ll pull an old-fashioned move and give you a phone call because nothing beats human contact.  

While I think Morgan has valid points, I’ll not be stingy with my “likes.” If that means Facebook knows I like dogs, ice cream and clips from “The Office,” I’ll keep hitting that button and add to the positivity in this world.

Even if, sigh, you post a video of your cat.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

  With a milestone birthday looming at the end of the summer, I decided to follow the experts’ advice – eat healthier, get more sleep and exercise.

A good first step in eating healthier is avoiding the chips and salsa when we go to a restaurant. I tried asking our servers not to bring the chips to the table, but I thought my boys were going to string me up like a piñata.

I try to get more sleep, but between the dog and my allergies, I’m up at 3 a.m. and then fighting a losing battle to get more shut eye.

And that brings us to exercise. I know the health benefits of exercise, and I know I’ll feel so much better if I get moving, but I find all kinds of reasons to choose the couch over the cross trainers.

First, it’s too hot outside. When it’s 85 degrees before 7 in the morning and the humidity hovers at 99.9 percent, it’s tough for me to put on cheerleading pom poms and hit the pavement. At night, the gnats and mosquitoes are so vicious, not even Deep Woods Off does the job.
Not willing to pay $69.95 for an exercise video through Amazon, I jumped on YouTube – telling myself that was not exercise – thinking all I had to lose was a couple of chins.

I was amazed at the number of free exercise videos offered. I first clicked on an aerobics fanatic  in skin-tight cheetah leotards sweating, jumping and barking orders at the camera. I was terrified just watching her.

So I searched for “exercises for older women.” I found a strange lady with an exercise studio next to her hypnosis room. She pointed out the rolls of fat on her abdomen, gave sex advice and would break into an Irish jig from time to time.

Then there was the aerobics instructor with a ball cap on sideways showing the audience how to punch and jab to get in shape. After he viciously  lunged at the camera for the third time, I decided he was a bit too intense for me.

There was a video for those who simply want to walk. This instructor pretty much stayed in one place, stepping in place like a wooden soldier. The work out wasn’t too intense as judged by her dog that slept next to her the entire video.

I found one with two women who promised an easy-to-understand workout for beginners. I decided to jump in with these two, and I did all the arm waves, the jumps and winged my way through the dance steps.  

I thought I was doing quite well until I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The sight of my arms flailing and fat jiggling while trying to maintain straight posture wasn’t pretty and I was grateful nobody had a camera capturing my work-out moves.

Then I remembered years ago when I used to watch “Gilead – Bodies in Motion” exercise videos on television. I’d come home from work, fix my son a snack, and then I’d do the exercises that gorgeous hunk was showing his audience.

Thirty years later, Gil is still around, still gorgeous, and still for free but now he’s also on the Internet. I put on a pair of shorts, cranked up the computer speakers and started following along. After 10 minutes, I was out of breath and my legs were cramping.

My last stop is seeing if anybody’s come up with an exercise video to the hokey pokey. I believe I can master that one.

“You put your right foot in…”

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

  This Saturday is the Fourth of July, a day when we celebrate the freedoms we enjoy in America. Sometimes the real reason for the Fourth gets buried underneath watermelon rinds and hot dog buns, but the majority of Americans appreciate the high price so many men and women paid for liberty.

The list of those freedoms is long, but there are a few that jump to the top of the list. First, the right to disagree. Over the past few weeks, we’ve engaged in heated arguments about sensitive political topics.
No matter what side of the issue you’re on, the fact that you can freely voice that opinion is one of the building blocks of our country. And even though there are those who want to silence the voices that disagree with them, that’s not the way the hand is played in the United States.
I once worked for a man who’d immigrated to America from Hungary under mysterious circumstances. One day, I casually asked how he came to this country and he stated talking.
In his country, people could talk about politics in public places but they didn’t. If you were overheard disagreeing with the politicians in power, the police would come knocking at your door, and you’d be hauled off for questioning.

Wanting better, in the middle of the night, he went to an unfenced spot on the border and waited for the guard to pass. When the guard was far enough away, this guy took off running.

He said he could hear the guard yelling at him to stop, but he kept going with just the clothes on his back and the little money he’d saved. A week later, someone was shot crossing the border at that exact spot.

The right to speak your mind without worrying the police will come pounding at your door at three in the morning is something I’m extremely thankful for in this country. Sure we get hate emails or nasty looks when we do speak our mind, but with freedom comes the risk you’ll offend someone. 
I’m thankful we can travel all over this country’s 3 million square miles without anyone stopping us at the state line, demanding a passport or official papers.
Not only can we follow the wide-open roads, we can follow our dreams, from anchoring a set of bull horns to the front grill of our old caddy to starting our own business and watching our ideas become reality.
Take a look at NASA –engineers believed we could land on the moon, and they accomplished that feat. Because we dreamed we could explore the universe, we know what the surface of Mars looks like and our satellites continue to find new planets and stars.
More than anything, Americans are willing to take a chance. Here in Fort Bend County, we brought in community and technical colleges as well as a major university, hoping enough people would want to further their education.
Thousands have filled those classrooms, believing an education is their best shot at achieving the American dream.
That dream is different for all of us. Martin Luther King Jr. talked about his vision for America. So did Bobby Kennedy, Oscar De La Hoya, Steve Jobs, Oprah Winfrey and the family that runs the store on the corner. Thousands of people have followed their gut and made their dream a reality.
Americans put into action what we imagine in our heads because we have the freedom to pursue our dreams.
So when those fireworks go off this Fourth of July, I’ll be giving thanks for the freedoms we enjoy and to the brave people who paid the price for those freedoms.
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.