I stopped at a local stationery supply store, picked up what I needed and went to the check-out counter. I waited for a few minutes and then started searching for someone to run the register.

There were three employees behind the copy desk on the other side of the store, so I asked if somebody could open the check-out line. One said I had to come over to the copy center. So I went back, picked up all my items and walked to the other side of the store.

I was a little miffed. I was in a hurry and that’s why I went into the office supply store instead of a big box store. I mentioned to the teenager checking me out that perhaps they should put a sign at the check-out register for customers to walk over to the copy center.

The look she gave me could have withered steel.

As she was shoving my purchases into a bag, an elderly gentleman slowly shuffled up to the counter. He carried an old-fashioned briefcase with scuffed edges, and it took effort for him to lift the case up to the counter.

He pulled out a worn three-ring binder filled with papers and said he wanted to get a new binder. The girl checking me out totally ignored him, but another clerk told him to go to Aisle 5.

“Where?” he asked, obviously not able to hear her clearly.

She yelled “Aisle 5” at him and pointed across the store.

I leaned over and told the gentleman that as soon as I finished, I’d help him find Aisle 5.

The clerk checking me out rolled her eyes. The other clerk looked at me, and I mouthed the words “You should help this man. That’s your job.”

To her credit, she immediately told the man she’d walk with him and help him find the binder.

My clerk barked she was ready for me to pay.

Many of us buy our gifts and supplies online, so we seldom deal with a real human. It’s easy to get ticked off when encountering rude store clerks, but perhaps today’s workers aren’t trained in customer service.

So here’s a few guidelines: 

Smile. Even if you’re making minimum wage, you’re getting a paycheck to help customers. The reason that store is in business is because people come in and buy items. Your sour attitude means they won’t be back.

Know your establishment. If a customer comes in wanting 40-watt bulbs, you need to know where they are and if they’re in stock. Customers don’t expect you to know how to re-wire a house, but they do expect you to know your products.  

The customer is always right. That’s a tough one because more often than not, the customer is wrong. They misread the price, they misunderstood the sales flyer or they can’t get the coupon to come up on their phone. Agree with them, find the right answer, smile and reassure them mix ups happen all the time.

Don’t insult the customer. If someone takes the time to spend their dollars locally, don’t make them feel stupid. They won’t come back.

Customer service is more than learning how to run the computer. It’s more than using a headset or knowing the difference between a tablet and a laptop.

Customer service is when someone happily leaves the store where you work and then comes back another day because the employees made them feel important.

Perhaps solving the dilemma of poor customer service is simply a matter of teaching employees that customer satisfaction starts with them.
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

My siblings and I are a mixture of Lebanese and Cajun heritage. The cultures are on opposite ends of the world, but it’s uncanny the traits the two share. I don’t know what side my likes and dislikes come from, but they intersect more times than not.

Take hair. The hair on my head falls out in handfuls, clogging up the shower drain at least once a week. Using tweezers to remove hair from my upper lip, chin and on my eyebrows is like using a nail clipper to cut the lawn.

Both cultures share a love of food, which is a mixed blessing. My relatives taught me that food cures everything, both good and bad.

Feeling down? Drown your sorrows in Pepsi and some hummus. Having a bad day? Then it’s a full-course meal of rice and gravy with a side order of corn bread slathered in butter. Because nothing says “I love you” more effectively in both the Lebanese and Cajun cultures than a big helping of fattening food.

Or two helpings.

Or three.

The ability to swear. I know all the major profanities from both languages. Thank you, Uncle Vinny, for teaching me how to swear in Arabic.

Thank you, Grandma Hebert, for teaching me to swear in French. Throw in hand motions from both cultures, and there’s no doubt what I’m trying to say.

Nicknames. My Lebanese grandmother also had nicknames for her grandchildren. Because I was the oldest and bossiest grandchild, I was “The General,” and my take-charge sister was “Nikita,” after Khrushchev.

My Cajun grandmother had a boyfriend that wasn’t too bright. She called him “Eh La Ba,” which means “you over there.” He never knew what the term really meant.

How to treat elders. Our Aunt Domina was a borderline hoarder and showed up at the oddest times at my grandmother’s house. We still respected and accepted her.

It was the same with the odd relatives on my dad’s side. We overlooked their idiosyncrasies and chalked it up to being eccentric like all good Southerners.

How to eat odd foods. None of our Lebanese cousins think it’s odd to eat raw meat (kibbee) or to add pine cone nuts to ground meat and then bake it.

Likewise, none of our Cajun cousins thing we’re crazy when we order blood sausage (boudin) or slurp raw oysters. And from both cultures, everything tastes better when it’s either wrapped in bread or the remnants of what’s on the plate is sopped up with bread.

The value of money. From my Lebanese relatives, I learned how to pinch pennies. I remember watching my Lebanese grandmother wash aluminum foil so she could reuse it.  

From my Cajun relatives, I learned “laissez le bon temps rouler” – let the good times roll. I’ve learned to combine the two for a more satisfying way to handle life.  

The cultures crossed when it came to weddings. Both cultures invite every cousin and friend to the wedding, and they all come.  

And the booze. Lebanese weddings were swimming in wine as were all the Cajun weddings I ever attended.

Both cultures love dancing – the Lebanese people dance the “dubkee” at weddings and the Cajuns dance with anybody who’s in the room.  

I’m betting there are other cultures that mirror mine – there’s always that crazy aunt that dances like she’s on Bourbon Street, the uncle that performs magic tricks and the grandmother who pinches your cheeks and asks when you’re going to finally settle down, get married and have babies.

Oceans and continents may separate us but when it comes to food and having fun, I think most cultures would agree – live it up like your hairy Aunt Domina.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Tomorrow is Halloween and it’s one of my favorite days of the year. When I was young, the reason was simple – I loved candy, especially free candy, and Halloween was the one day of the year we could eat as much candy as possible before going to bed.

I have faint childhood memories of princess costumes and dressing up as a hobo. Only one childhood Halloween stands out vividly for me – it was the year a kid jumped out from behind a tree and tried to steal my candy.

My brother was with me, and we were both shocked when this kid attacked me, but I held on tight to my pillow case filled with Tootsie Rolls and chocolate bars.

I’d worked hard for that loot, and there was no way some hooligan was going to take it away from me. The attack lasted less than 30 seconds, but my brother and I still remember every detail exactly the same over 50 years later.

But that memory pales in comparison to the real reason Halloween is so memorable for me. My youngest son, Chris, was born on Oct. 31, 1987.

At the time, though, I wasn’t so sure having a third baby so close to the second one wasn’t God’s trick.

I found out I was expecting our third child while I was still nursing our second one. I couldn’t figure out why I was pregnant, but my mother, who’s a devout Catholic, believed there was a reason.

“Wait and you’ll see why this baby at this time,” she said.

I didn’t believe her, thinking I’d be wearing maternity clothes for the rest of my life.

Right before I went into labor, my grandfather was admitted to the hospital, and my mom flew back home to be with her family.

Henry Eade lived a good life, and he ran successful businesses. His most lucrative was the Standard Five and Dime Store that carried yarn, household goods, wallpaper and tools. The biggest calling card for me was the candy counter.

The Standard Store’s candy counter was a child’s paradise. The shelves were packed with boxes of black and red licorice strips, candy bars, suckers, candy necklaces, bubble gum and baseball trading cards. There were lollipops, Ice Cubes, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, Nestle’s Crunch bars and candy that’s no longer made.

My grandfather always gave us a paper bag when we came to the store and told us to fill it up. Perhaps that’s why I have such a sweet tooth as my candy memories are tied up with my grandfather’s generosity.

Henry ran that store until Oct. 30, 1987 when he passed away. His funeral was held at the same time I was in the hospital having my youngest son.

I talked to my mom right after Chris was safely in the nursery. She was still at the funeral home, and she reminded me of our conversation eight months earlier.

“You wondered why you were pregnant,” she said. “The answer is God doesn’t take away without giving us something in return.”

I believe a special angel watches over my son, and we joke that Henry’s doing double duty keeping up with Chris who’s an active father, husband and welder. 

Chris, I believe, is somehow comforted, knowing this man he never met has his back.

And even though Halloween is a mixed blessing for me, I’ve always been a little sorry Chris has to share his day with the biggest candy heist of the year.

Instead of complaining, though, he takes his children trick-or-treating on his birthday, passing up cake and ice cream for holding his children’s hands as they walk up and down the streets in their neighborhood.

I know there’s somebody else walking along with that family as they go from door to door.

I believe Henry’s watching his great-great grandchildren’s trick-or-treat bags fill up with candy laces and bubble gum, the same goodies he gave his grandchildren so many years ago.

Happy birthday, Chris. You’re the best treat I’ve ever gotten on Halloween.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

My car seems to be a magnet for garbage cans. Not that my car’s being used as a trash bin. It’s that my car has built-in radar for garbage cans on the side of the road.

The result is I keep knocking the side rear-view mirror off my car.

Let me address your “how-blind-is-she” questions right off the bat.

These were big garbage cans, the big-as-an-elephant ones.

These garbage cans were not camouflaged or hiding behind a big bush. One was bright blue and one was bright green.

I hit them. Plain and simple.

Now for the explanation.

I was coming home from Louisiana down Highway 64, a pretty stretch of road with houses set far back from the highway. I spotted a big plastic garbage can at the very end of someone’s driveway.

The can was sticking out into the road a little bit, but I figured I could get around it with no problem. Until a speeding F-150 truck came along in the opposite lane, a truck extremely close to the middle line.

I realized I had to take my chances with either the garbage can or the F-150. I chose the garbage can.

Bam! I thought for sure I’d knocked the entire rear-view mirror assembly off the car. Luckily, I saw the assembly was still there, but the mirror was gone.

As I’m a cheapskate, I turned around and found the mirror – intact – right next to that huge garbage can.

I stopped at my son’s house on the way home, and he shoved the mirror back on.

He then asked if I was going to tell his father about my encounter with the garbage can.

“Are you kidding,” I said. “Why in the world would I ever admit to such a stupid mistake?”

Truth is, that garbage can wasn’t the first thing I’d hit with my car. A mailbox comes to mind. The house. The lawnmower trailer. About 20 curbs. And the trash unit at the Chinese restaurant.

I’d never damaged my car or the things I hit, except the house, so I conveniently filed this garbage can incident away under the “let’s not mention this again” tab.

Until I was backing out of my son’s driveway last week.

Bam! I hit their garbage can. Their big, industrial-sized garbage can. In my defense, it was either hit the garbage can or go into the ditch. I chose the garbage can.

A few days later, I noticed the mirror was gone.

I called my son and daughter-in-law and asked them to look around to see if the mirror was in front of their place. No luck.

I looked in their ditch with a flashlight and drove up and down the roads by their house, looking for that mirror.

Gone.

I knew at this point I’d have to tell my husband what happened.

“So you didn’t tell me about the first run in you had with the garbage can,” he said when I finished my story.

“Why should I embarrass myself if I didn’t need to do so,” I said in return. “Only an idiot would do that. “

Immediately I thought “Only an idiot would run into a garbage can… twice.”

To his credit, my husband only said we’d order a new mirror and it wasn’t a big deal.

Forty-six dollars later, there’s a snug, new mirror on the side of my car. I now have my radar on full alert for any garbage cans loitering near the edge of the highway, their hungry handles set on my rear-view mirror.

I have two words for you, Mr. Garbage Can.

En garde.  

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I do not have the flu.

I’ve been running a fever of 102 for the past three days, and my back feels like Tony Soprano worked me over with a chain and a billy club.

I’ve got a sore throat that goes from the back of my throat to my chest and a cough that travels up and down my spine.

But I do not have the flu.

Before you ask, I did not get a flu shot.

But that’s a moot point because I don’t have the flu.

This situation is similar to the five years I put up with a cranky gall bladder.

I’d have gall bladder attacks that put me in bed for hours, but I didn’t need my gall bladder out.

It wasn’t until I had gall bladder surgery that I began to quietly admit that, yes, perhaps I did need to have that particular body part removed.

But the flu?

No way.

This denial could also be like the time I insisted on driving my aging mini-van to Louisiana even though I knew better. With 140,000 miles on her and a known cooling problem, I insisted on putting those last 650 miles on our old van, not a brand-new one.

My Aggie boy and I had to stop every 50 miles between Baton Rouge and Beaumont to put a gallon of water in the radiator and to let things cool down before we could keep driving.

He thought the trip was a great adventure and swore there was nothing better than greasy food that slid off the plate at the truck stops.  

I called my husband when we crossed the state line, parked the van in the shade, had him come rescue us and never looked back.

But back to this crud attack I’m having. It’s not the flu. The flu is an ailment other people get. Other people run high fevers, chew ibuprofen and aspirin every two hours and go to bed at 7:30 at night.

Oh wait. That’s what I’ve been doing for the past three nights.

But I don’t have the flu.

My eyelids feel like there’s bags of cement riding on them, but that has to be because I haven’t slept well the past few nights. Waking up repeatedly during the night to put on two or three blankets and then throw them off has to be the reason I’m so tired.

The lack of sleep also explains the reason I want to go to bed at 7 p.m. and why I slept 12 hours straight Saturday night. 

To be on the safe side, I check my temperature again.  

It’s 101.5.

I get a different thermometer because something must be wrong with the one I’ve been using.

It’s 101.7.

Two defective thermometers in the house. Just my luck.

Surely that means my allergies are acting up. After all, a cold front’s blowing in. That has to be the reason my head feels like a helium balloon about to explode and my legs feel like somebody hit them repeatedly with a baseball bat.

But the flu?

No way.

Even though I looked up “flu symptoms” on Google and I have 10 out of 10 symptoms.

Even though my husband is quietly spraying Lysol on everything in the house he thinks I’ve touched.

There is no way I have the flu.

I think I’ll just down two aspirin, rub some Vick’s Vapor Rub on my legs and call it a night.

The flu?

Fahgettaboudit.
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

A couple of years ago, my granddaughter was at a children’s play place having a great time with two other little girls. At one point, she came running up to our table without her two new friends.

“My friends keep losting me,” she said, tears filling her eyes.

We reassured her that they were in different parts of the maze and they’d catch up with her again. She got some hugs, we dried her eyes and she headed back into the play area to find them.

My granddaughter’s comments about “losting friends” came back this week when one of my mom’s two best friends passed away after fighting pancreatic cancer.

For over 30 years, Joy and Mona have been my mom’s best friends. The three met when they all worked for Exxon, and they have seen each other through marrying off children, welcoming grandchildren and spoiling great-grandchildren.

They helped each other make the crossover from full-time employment to retirement. Over time, they moved apart from each other, but they met for off-the-wall adventures at least once every other month.

The glue that held them together was a genuine love for each other, forged through getting through the rough times together.

When Mona’s husband was diagnosed with cancer, my mom and Joy rallied around their friend as her life changed to deal with his illness.

Joy was diagnosed with cancer, but in the middle of her treatments, her husband died unexpectedly. Mona and my mom were there with Joy as she continued her radiation treatments and sorted through the overwhelming sadness of sudden widowhood.

Last week, Joy’s condition deteriorated and she was placed in hospice. Two days later, she passed away.

So many of us have dear friends we keep “losting” along the way. Our lives get busy with responsibilities, family obligations and time on the computer.

We rationalize that clicking the like button on Facebook is enough to keep our friendships flourishing, but when we stop sharing the highs and lows in our lives, there’s not a strong enough foundation to support us when the roof caves in.

Long-time friends caution us when we’re about to make a bone-headed move but then forget to say “I told you so” when their predictions turn out to be right.

They’ll tell us if those pants make us look like a hippo wallowing in mud or when it’s time to touch up our gray roots. They’ll call us on the phone with a phrase from years ago that instantly connects us to a happy time in our lives.

I thought about all the well-meaning sentiments I’ve read in greeting cards and realized the only thing that really matters between long-time friends is making it a point to know what’s happening in each others’ lives.

So I looked online and found my best friend from high school. I sent Trudi a message, asking if we could be Facebook friends, thinking it strange we should be asking to be friends when we went through puberty, college and our first child together.

Just as my granddaughter did, I’m going to pull my shoulders back and make myself go look for my “losted” friends. Those relationships are a lot more important than what’s in my email box or making sure the furniture’s dusted.

To paraphrase a scene from the movie “Dance With Me,” friends, like spouses, are the ones who are a witness to our lives. They care what happens to us, the good and the bad.

And when they’re “losted,” we need to go out and find them.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

My husband’s out of town for a few days, and I’ve got sole responsibility for the house and dog. Thanks to modern technology, the house runs itself – the air conditioning comes on and off automatically, and a timer controls the lights.

But the dog?

That’s a different matter.

Our dog, Channell, is quite attached to my husband. Since he works out of the house, she has a charmed life. That pooch naps inside on rainy mornings and sleeps underneath the living room fan on scorcher afternoons.

I’m at school during the day, so Channell’s had to spend the past week all alone in the back yard. I’d love to give her free reign, but she’s a magician when it comes to jumping the fence.

We’d go to the movies and leave her in the back yard with a big doggie treat. When we came home, she’d be sitting in the driveway, wagging her tail, half-eaten dog treat in her mouth.

For her safety, we built a dog run that allows her to move around a secure area in the yard. Her house is back there along with plenty of food and water.

She’s got life pretty good and I told myself she’d be fine by herself all day long. After all, she’s just a dog.

But after the first day of coming home after dark, the guilt kicked in, and I promised her I’d get up early the next morning and take her for a walk.

When the alarm went off at 5:30 a.m., I got up, brushed my teeth, snapped the leash on Channell and off we went. She had a wonderful time, and I felt like a responsible pet owner.

Realizing I had some extra time, I loaded the dishwasher, paid some bills and folded a load of laundry. I left feeling pretty good about all I’d accomplished.

Until 3 p.m.

My eyelids felt like there were bricks holding them down, I had a tough time remembering my name and my legs felt like cement logs. I stumbled down to the Coke machine, and a can of caffeine later, I felt a bit more human.

That night, I went to bed early and promised myself I’d get up at 5:30 again and be a responsible dog owner. Channell and I got up, we had a walk and by lunch time, I was dragging.

Wanting to chew coffee grounds for the caffeine rush, I admitted the truth – I’m not a morning person.

In my early days, I could stay up late for nights on end and never miss a beat. When I became a mom, the biological clock went out the window. I was governed by colicky infants and childhood nightmares with only the sun and moon as timepieces.

When my boys were teens, my late-night biorhythms rejoiced. Teenagers go to bed late and get up late. Then the boys moved out but I was still answering to being at work at a specific time.   

Over the years, I grew accustomed to getting up early and going to bed early and habits are hard to break. Even on the weekends, I get up at the same time and go to bed at the same time as I do during the week.

As much as I hate to admit it, having a regular time to get up and go to bed is good practice. So when that alarm goes off at 5:30 tomorrow morning, I’ll drag myself out of bed and take that dog for a walk.

And hope the school’s Coke machine’s is well stocked.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.  

 

My mom’s birthday is tomorrow and I’ll be celebrating long distance with her as she lives in Louisiana. She said she wanted slippers, and so I sent those, but pink house shoes don’t quite fill the ticket for someone who’s added so much to our lives.

On this her 82nd birthday, I want to thank my mother for the little things she’s given to me and our family over the years.

A love of music.I remember listening to my mom sing in the kitchen while she was cooking dinner. She had a beautiful voice but I took her talent for granted.

Mom always sang songs from Broadway shows, and we all love the great musicals – “Seven Brides for Seven Brothers,” “West Side Story” and Mom’s favorite, “The Sound of Music.” I can’t hear a Herb Albert and the Tijuana Brass song in an elevator and not think of her.

A love of the movies. On Sunday afternoons, I remember snuggling with my mother and sisters on the couch and watching old black-and-white movies. Not only did I learn an appreciation for the 1950s tear jerkers, but I knew their back stories.

 A love for Elizabeth Taylor. Growing up, I thought we were related to Elizabeth Taylor because of the way my mom talked about the super star. “Oh, poor Liz is having back trouble,” she’d say and I’d think one of our cousins wasn’t feeling well.

Mom kept up with all of Liz’s divorces, clucking her tongue after each break up. The only time she was ever angry with Liz was after she married Eddie Fisher, believing Liz broke up Debbie Reynolds’ marriage.

She’s a fabulous grandparent. Mom, or Siti as she’s called, knows every one of her grandchildren and great-grandchildren personally and each one will tell you she doesn’t play favorites. Then quietly they’ll whisper that they’re secretly her favorite.

She’s a fair mother-in-law to all seven of her children’s spouses and quietly fulfills the role of mother for my in-laws whose parents have passed away.

A sense of humor gets you through a lot. My father was the joke teller in the family. He could set up a punch line and deliver the ka-pow to a joke better than anyone. But he didn’t have a sense of humor – that talent belongs to my Mom.

She sees the humor in life faster than anyone else, a reminder that a bit of laughter will get you through the toughest days.

She walks the talk. Mom goes to Mass every Sunday but loves those of her children who don’t follow that example. She taught us that nothing beats having family sit down together for a Sunday meal and no matter what, you always fix guests something to eat.

At Christmas, if an unexpected guest comes along, Mom goes into her closet, pulls out an appropriate gift and wraps it so our guests won’t feel awkward. All of us, in-laws included, now have guest gifts tucked away in our closets.

Kindness. My mother put up with quite a bit in her life – a bitter mother, a mother-in-law and husband who did their best to cut her to the quick with their criticisms and never having enough money to give her children the material things she wanted them to have.

But Mom, on your 82nd birthday, I want you to know you gave us everything and more we needed to be successful, kind, thoughtful and happy in life. You gave us your heart, and that gift is the best one any child can have.

So Happy Birthday, Mom. You’re da bomb.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

As a teenager in the 1970s, I thought I’d heard every Billy Joel song written. I snapped my fingers to “The Longest Time” and bristled with anger at his dig at Catholic girls in “Only The Good Die Young.”

But until I attended the recent Houston Symphony Pops concert, I’d never heard one Joel’s most poignant and heartbreaking songs, “And So It Goes.”

I have George Costanza to thank.

There’s no real George Costanza – he’s a fictional character on the old “Seinfeld” series, and Jason Alexander played Jerry Seinfeld’s neurotic friend, George. Alexander was the guest performer at the recent Pops performance, and he was surprisingly delightful.

I had no idea Alexander could sing so beautifully until my friend, Pat invited me to attend the concert.

I thought Alexander might ride on his popularity from the Seinfeld show, tell a few jokes and coast on the coat tails of the talented musicians in the orchestra.

But from the first minute he walked onto the stage, Alexander was fabulous. He instantly connected with the audience as a fellow lover of the theater and music.

He performed funny skits involving the audience and he told us about growing up loving theater music and singing.

In between making us laugh, he’d sing his favorite tunes from Broadway and other artists. All the songs were enjoyable, but he sang one by Billy Joel that struck a chord.

“And So It Goes” was one I’d never heard, but the honest way Alexander sang it caused me to stop in my tracks.  

I’ve always known Joel was a fun and gifted songwriter – “Uptown Girl” is one of my favorite pop songs from the 1980s and “Piano Man” paints a sad picture of people drowning their sorrows in a hotel bar room.

But I didn’t realize how exquisite a poet Joel is until one verse in the song:  “Every time I’ve held a rose, I’ve only felt the thorns.” When Alexander sang that line with a quiet violin section behind him, the world seemed to stop.

I found myself remembering the many times I’ve had something beautiful in my life but didn’t realize the wonder I was experiencing.

Taking my children to the park, I’d worry they’d get hurt so I was always calling out warnings.

Instead of pushing them on the swings until they’d feel like their toes were touching the sky, I’d say “that’s high enough,” and pull back.

There are times I want to sing out loud or dance but I don’t because I’m worried I’ll look a fool. But until I heard that line, I never realized I should take a chance.

Sure I might look stupid, but I’d be able to have the experience of knowing I got up and danced in life when the music called.

Sitting in that audience, I pushed away all the nibbling thoughts about the traffic I’d face going home, how much work I had to do the next day and that our bathrooms needed scrubbing.

Surrounded by the beautiful strings and woodwinds of the gifted musicians of the Houston Symphony, sitting next to my best friend who invited me because she knew I needed a little fun in my life, I realized I was holding a rose.

The thorns, Alexander and Joel reminded me, were not as important as the beauty of the rose, the wonder of life and the wisdom that comes from letting yourself experience both love and loss.

I don’t think George Costanza would’ve understood that line.

But thanks to Billy Joel, Jason Alexander and the Houston Pops, I got it. 
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I remember that morning 13 years ago as if it happened yesterday. My sister and I were chatting on the phone early in the morning when she paused and said a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center. I envisioned a small Cessna tourist plane, one where the pilot had accidentally gotten off course.

When I arrived at the newspaper, then Managing Editor Bob Haenel had the television on and a video of the burning tower was on the screen. We were all standing in his office, wondering how a pilot could miss seeing the country’s tallest skyscraper.

And then the second plane hit and we were stunned. Bob turned, looked and us and said “Call the police, the fire department and the hospitals. People, we’re at war.”

In disbelief, silence and shock, we ran to our desks and started calling local law enforcement agencies. All I could think about, though, was my family. My husband worked in downtown Houston and I was sick at my stomach, wondering if Houston was on the list to be hit.

My sons were in school, and I prayed their teachers were shielding them from the horror. As I talked to officials, it was obvious everybody was doing their job, even though our voices held a trace of a tremor. By 11 a.m., all the planes were out of the sky, but we still weren’t sure if more attacks were going to happen.

When the paper hit the press, I rushed out the door to pick my sons up from school. The drive there was eerie. No one honked their horns, people merged in politeness and there was a silence and respect on the roadways I’ve never experienced since that day.

 

Our Watershed Moments

Over the last dozen years, we’ve grown numb to shocks. Innocent villages are ransacked in the Middle East, and we barely look up at the television. Terrorist groups are growing, but we turn up our iPods and bury our heads in the sand.

Our military bases are attacked our own personnel, but we seem to take it all in stride. It’s as if we simply can’t take any more bad news because that news hurts too much.

But bad news isn’t new. My mother’s generation remembers where they were when Pearl Harbor was bombed, and how the country rallied together. She often talks about the paper drives and air raid drills and going to sleep scared at night.

My generation’s water-shed moment was when President John F. Kennedy was assassinated. I was in the second grade and remember distinctly the principal opening our door and telling us to pray for the president who’d just been killed.
I don’t think of that November day very often, but I do whenever I see any president exposed and out in the open.

This generation’s moment that changed their lives is, sadly, 9/11. Some will remember it as a day when cowards slaughtered innocent people. Others have an image of firemen raising the American flag in the rubble of the downed towers.

Perhaps, like those of us who’ve grown older in the years that follow tragedies, they will see bravery and solidarity and remember this can still be the greatest country on the planet.
From the Marines on Iwo Jima to a slain president’s draped casket to three New York City firefighters looking up at a dusty flag, the Stars and Stripes remains straight and true.

And that’s the image I choose to keep.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.