Due to an email glitch, my column didn’t appear in the Fort Bend Herald this evening. Maybe it’ll be in tomorrow, not sure, but Happy Easter!

Easter is right around the corner, a holiday that’s one of my favorites. After all, there’s chocolate Easter bunnies, chocolate Easter eggs, chocolate Kisses and chocolate candy bars, all courtesy of a little bunny that hops around early Easter morning delivering all that for free.

Not a bad deal when you’re a kid.

Although I became the major underwriter for the Easter Bunny once I became a mom, the Easters from my childhood were carefree and filled with tradition.

Easter egg preparation began the Saturday before Easter. My mom boiled the eggs right before Saturday night dinner, and it seemed like forever between the time she’d put those eggs on the stove and when we could all sit down and dye the eggs.

Somebody always had to run to a neighbor’s house for vinegar because we never seemed to have that key Easter egg dye ingredient to pour over the Paas tablets.

We’d fight over the white wax crayon so we could write our names on our egg, but all of us cracked the shells, despite warnings from my mom.

Eventually, we’d carefully lower our egg into the color and then the real fun began – transforming dull white eggs into works of art.

Some of us gave our egg a two-toned look, while others thought if we left the egg in the same color dye for 10 minutes, ours would be the most beautiful in the carton.

Hours later, with our eggs tucked into the fridge, we’d head off to bed, dreaming of giant chocolate bunnies and red jelly beans the size of a Buick.

On Easter morning, we’d run to the living room before dawn to see what the Easter Bunny brought. We always knew which basket was ours because the Easter Bunny used the same baskets year after year, including the same shiny green polyester grass.

Our bunny was generous, covering the grass with a liberal sprinkling of jelly beans and M&Ms.  We all got a tall chocolate bunny in our baskets and the order of eating said bunny was set in stone:  the white candy eyes were the first to go.  Next we’d snap off the ears and then we’d snap off chocolate body parts until he disappeared.

Easter Mass we simply endured.

Not because we had to dress up in stiff clothes and even stiffer shoes.

Not because we knew the service would take forever.

Not even because we were wearing Easter hats with a rubber band under our chins that cut off the circulation to our lips.

The real reason was because for the two hours spent sitting through Sunday Mass, all we could visualize was our Easter basket, filled with half-eaten jelly beans and a dismembered chocolate bunny, calling our names from across town.

Once we became adults with children of our own, we continued to hide eggs in my parents’ back yard every Easter Sunday. After we moved to Texas, we did the same for our boys until the last one left for college.

Of course, by that time, the Easter Bunny had to replace the chocolate candy in the plastic eggs with dollar bills, but the tradition remained.

Although I’m no longer helping the Easter Bunny assemble baskets of jelly beans and Teenage Ninja Mutant Turtles, I am keeping the bunny’s traditions alive – there’s green polyester grass in the bottom of an old Easter basket on the counter, waiting for someone to add jelly beans, M&M’s and dyed, cracked eggs early Easter Sunday morning.

Not a bad deal for the Bunny’s underwriter

 

I looked in the closet the other day and spotted our old board game “Monopoly” on the top shelf. The Scotch tape on the corners was yellowed and cracked, and money and game pieces were scattered in the box, but the game brings back memories.

As kids, we loved playing “Monopoly,” but over the years, we amended the Parker Brothers rules and played by the Hebert rules.

First, a $500 bill goes in the middle and all fines go in the middle. The first person to land on Free Parking gets all the money. Anybody who rolled “snake eyes” – two 1’s on the die – got $500.

By the book? Nope. But it sure was fun.

In Scrabble, players could switch out tiles if the word still made sense. That way, we could use the high-ranking letters like “J” and “Z” more than once. Best of all, we could brag we racked up over 300 in Scrabble, conveniently leaving out that lagniappe Hebert rule.

We played board games for years, mostly on Sunday afternoons where we’d all settle around the kitchen table and decide we could play a friendly game to pass the time.

We were lying.

When Heberts play board games, we play for blood.

“Jeopardy” was our favorite because we all thought we knew more than anybody else in the room. Since we broke the plastic clickers the first time we played – repeated, heavy clicking will not ensure you are heard – every player had to find something to bang on the table to indicate they were ready to answer.

That worked fine until my brother-in-law – as competitive as the rest of us – dragged in something that weighed five pounds and we all screamed foul.

Usually it was the guys against the girls, but mostly it was who didn’t want Dad on their team. He was a compulsive but fun cheater and would always try to con his way out of a wrong answer.

Partial answers were dismissed as wrong by the opposing team; and no matter who won the argument, the loser would mutter that only people who didn’t have a life would know the answer to the question.

We also knew each others’ strengths and weaknesses. My mother knew movie trivia as if she’d written every word about Hollywood glamour. My father remembered everything about the 1950s and 1960s.  My brothers were good at science, my sisters at literature and my brother Jeff at everything.

Most of our Jeopardy games were evenly matched until we got to the Final Jeopardy question and each team had to decide how much to wager on the final question.

We girls were conservative and would only bet half of our winnings. The guys, my maverick dad overriding everyone else’s objections on his team, always bet the whole pile of money and yelled out an answer before they could discuss the question.

When they got it wrong – which was most of the time – no amount of protest on their side would get us to let them give a second, group answer.  We’d walk away, high fiving each other, leaving the boys to pick up and vow revenge the next week.

As I put all the faded Monopoly money back in the right holders, I thought about those Sunday afternoons. Before I grew too nostalgic, though, I remembered my sister’s favorite trick at the end of a Monopoly game after she’d win.  

She’d pick up the game board by both ends and flip all the money, hotels and playing pieces into the air proclaiming “Loser picks up.”  

Gotta love those Hebert rules.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

  I was listening to National Public Radio, choking down some tasteless fiber cereal with fat-free milk, when the clouds parted and the sun came through. A new study claims a low-fat approach to life might not be all that great.

Walter Willett, chairman of the department of nutrition at the Harvard School of Public Health, stated that when people replaced saturated fat with carbohydrates, there was no reduction in heart disease.

I looked at the cardboard cereal floating in pale milk, put it in the sink and hauled out the Frosted Flakes and whole milk, all the while wondering why I totally revise my life based on what so-called experts tell me is the best thing to do only to find out later they might’ve been mistaken.

For instance, I found an reputable article stating that fruits and vegetables cause 46 percent of all food poisoning, and leafy greens, like spinach and lettuce, are the biggest culprits because we tend to eat them raw.

Just as I was shaking my head in disbelief, I saw a headline for an article that exercise might not be all that good for you.

For years, we’ve been told to get off the couch, lace up those expensive $150 running shoes and get out the door. But a new scientific study claims that when it comes to rigorous exercise, more isn’t always better.

As someone whose DNA is infused with guilt, these revelations should be cause for celebration, but I’ve got to face the truth. People who exercise, even just a little, have a lot firmer backsides and thighs than I do.

I started thinking of some other health myths I’ve heard over the years. My dad used to tell us that if we watched television for too long, our eyes would grow together until we looked like a Cyclops.

Untrue, Dad. I watched Saturday morning cartoons for years with no ill effects except I still judge people by which character they think is funnier:  Bugs Bunny or Daffy Duck.

I’ve seen every episode of “The Andy Griffith Show” at least three times and I still have two eyes.

We were told chocolate would make our faces break out and one bite – yes one bite – of a chocolate bar would be our doom.

Not true.  

Eating an entire package of candy bars will put on the pounds, but a few Hershey’s Kisses will not send you into an immediate heart attack. Nor will a night curled up with the boxed set of “Cheers” DVDs.

I’m not a doctor, dietician or expert. I’m just sitting at my computer, slurping up the last few soggy flakes at the bottom of my Bugs Bunny cereal bowl, aggravated at all the scientific gobble-de-gook I’ve accepted at face value over the years.

I’m mad at myself for drinking weak no-fat milk when I could’ve had a cup of rich hot chocolate made with whole milk.

I’m aggravated I gave up double-stuff Oreos for ginger snaps I could use to tile our roof and recently considered buying tofu instead of steak.

Moderation, I believe is the key. If you want that bowl of ice cream, do so but perhaps after you’ve ridden on the stationary bike for 20 minutes.

If you want to watch back-to-back episodes of “Gilligan’s Island,” do so without worrying about your eyesight.

Worry about your IQ, but not your eyesight.

And if you want to jog around the block when you finally drag yourself off the couch, go for it.

Tony the Tiger would think that’s great.
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

One of my favorite movies is “Mary Poppins,” and I’ve watched Julie Andrews glide over the houses on Cherry Tree Lane at least a dozen times.

I’m also a huge Tom Hanks fan, and I own more of his movies than any other actor. So when the movie “Saving Mr. Banks” came out, I was one of the first ones in line.

I was looking forward to seeing how movie producers coaxed Pamela Travers, the prim author of “Mary Poppins,” into allowing Walt Disney to make a singing-and-dancing movie about her beloved nanny.

As the story unfolded, I became more and more uncomfortable because the movie wasn’t what I expected.

The film wasn’t about a nanny; “Saving Mr. Banks” was about Ms. Travers’ life and that life was eerily similar to my childhood, a time I usually visit only on the outskirts.

I’ve seen movies about alcoholic fathers and their daughters, but none resonated as deeply and as painfully as this movie because my father was so much like Travers’ father and I was like Pamela.

Just like the father in the movie, my dad spun tales of magic that delighted everyone.

He danced on air like Fred Astaire, told jokes like the best comedian on television and, to me, was as handsome as any movie star. I loved him with all my heart and soul.

Over time, the booze alienated most people and I realized this bigger-than-life person was the most damaged person in my life and his as well.

 

Acceptance

My siblings and I have accepted that our father did the best he could. He stumbled a lot, hurt his children deeply, but he finally put away the booze and promised to stay sober.

For the first few years of his sobriety, I didn’t believe that he’d stopped for good. But as he stayed clean for almost 25 years, I came to understand how difficult that decision was to make and how much harder it was to keep that promise to himself and to us.

When my dad was dying, I felt I’d forgiven him for not being the magical prince I thought him to be.

But I never lost the anger and I didn’t realize that until the closing credits of “Saving Mr. Banks” when I couldn’t stop sobbing on my brother’s shoulder.

Over the next few weeks, I accepted the wounds are still there, but more importantly, I realized I was wrong.

For so many years, I thought I’d risen above the harsh reality I had to face about my Dad and I thought I needed to forgive him.

What I really needed was for him to forgive me for not being more accepting of his weaknesses, more supportive of his recovery and happier in his redemption.

I cannot forget the stumbling man who came in smelling like beer nor can I forget the man who built up so many dreams for himself and then, one by one, watched them crumble to dust.

But I can forgive, and it’s about time.

So if my father was here, I’d ask him to come with me on an adventure. Not as magical as the tales he spun for me when I was a child, but something a little more practical.  

Let’s go fly a kite, Dad, up where the air is clear and there are no recriminations, anger or blame.

Just unconditional love and acceptance for the flawed yet unforgettable man who made me believe in the importance of two intangibles – magic and make believe.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

As impersonal chain stores dot almost every retail corner, finding mom-and-pop businesses is becoming harder and harder. I had the pleasant opportunity recently to speak with Vernon Brian, an 80-year-old who still gets up at 6 a.m. to milk cows on his family-owned dairy, Feliciana’s Best Creamery, a family-owned dairy in Louisiana.  

I heard about the dairy through my youngest son. He’s a big fan of the dairy’s Cream Line Whole Milk. The difference between this milk and what’s sold in supermarkets is the Cream Line milks are hormone free and pasteurized, not homogenized.

That means the milk is safe, but the milk needs to be shaken so the cream floating at the top incorporates into the milk mixture. On a recent trip to Louisiana, I decided to visit the dairy myself and see if what I’d read about the Creamery was true.

I maneuvered through winding back roads in Feliciana Parish to where the dairy is located. A cow dog accompanied me down a gravel road past tan and white cows, lazily grazing on green grass.

The road ended at a small shed with a sign on the door – “Come on in.” Inside there were two small refrigerators, and a wooden table had a metal cash box with a hand-written note taped to the top.

The paper instructed customers to pick out what they needed from the fridge and put the money in the box.

I was pleasantly surprised to see there are still people in this world who not only trust the customer but that there was money in the cash box from people who’d gotten there before me.

A cardboard sign was tacked to the wall with prices for the dairy’s offerings – fresh, churned butter, heavy cream, whole milk, chocolate milk and low-fat milk. I loaded six gallons into an ice chest and put my money in the cash box.

About that time, an elderly gentleman, wearing faded overalls, a straw hat and a big smile, came my way.

“Hi there, I’m Vernon Brian, the one who started this dairy,” he said.
The Patriarch

Vernon told me his great-grandfather bought 500 acres back in 1908 in Slaughter, La. Vernon decided he wanted to have his own dairy, and he slowly built a reputable business on the family land. In 1990, his son, Mike, decided to work the dairy full time with his family.

Over the years, the Brians bought all the equipment to process and bottle their own milk on their property. Four years ago, the Brians cut back the herd to only 37 milk cows – mostly raised by their children through 4H – so they could continue to run the dairy the old-fashioned way.

That includes having all members of the family involved in the business. Photos on the dairy’s website show three generations working together in the dairy and on the land. They’re working to create a product they believe is healthier and a reflection of an honest days’ work.  

It’s refreshing to come across a family-owned business that doesn’t take shortcuts and believes in hard work. These types of businesses are the backbone of our country, and they constantly fight against impersonal conglomerates that often sacrifice customer service for lower prices.

Those old-fashioned values of a family sticking together to create a product they’re proud to call theirs is as satisfying as a slice of hot apple pie accompanied by a glass of ice-cold milk.

And if that milk has a layer of thick cream at the top, then that’s some good livin’.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I just finished watching the well-written and well-acted HBO mini-series “True Detective.” Matthew McConaughey and Woody Harrelson were the stars and executive producers, and the story slowly unfolded, surprising viewers each and every episode.

By the end, we were rooting for these two flawed detectives and, at the same time, left with images that the back roads and towns of Louisiana were filled smoke-spewing oil refineries and ignorant, evil people.

Not true.

It’s easy to think Louisiana is nothing more than a concrete highway dotted with Popeye’s Fried Chicken franchises. Beyond the interstates and main highways, though, lies a beautiful state with a generous people.

On recent trips to Baton Rouge, we’ve taken detours up highways west of the capitol city to avoid the traffic backups over the Mississippi River. The diversions are a satisfying choice as the landscape is a welcome relief from rushing casino-bound traffic.

On quiet roads, we’ve traveled past densely-packed sugar cane fields as far as the eye could see. Majestic oak trees, their Spanish moss swaying in the branches like a woman’s silk scarf, line up like sentries through these small towns.

Houses are located away from the highway, and most feature an inviting wrap-around Acadian-style front porch. That style of architecture dates back dozens of years to early settlers who spent evenings gathered on the porches to enjoy the breezes, courtesy of the state’s many rivers and bayous.

We’ve stopped at small antique shops, and the shopkeepers couldn’t have been nicer. People milled through the stores, and their Cajun-accented conversations were delightful to the ear. The air was filled with laughter and exchanges with us and other people in the store. 

A trip over Spring Break took me past parks and baseball diamonds filled with youngsters ready for spring ball. No voodoo or backwoods people here – the parking lots were filled with Suburbans and mini-vans, just as they are in every other state. 

The state’s tried to make a name for herself with shows like “Swamp People” that draws thousands of visitors, but they leave people with the impression all Louisianans walk around muttering “choot-em.”

While the former governor, Edwin Edwards, humiliated himself with a show about him and his young wife, most people cringed knowing this charlatan was once again milking somebody for money at the expense of his own dignity and, ultimately, that of a state that put her trust in him and had it betrayed time and time again by those who sacrificed a good people for a quick buck. 

While I applaud the producers of “True Detective” for bringing their money to the state, I’m saddened thinking those not familiar with the South would believe those dark, dingy bars, crooks and backwoods people are all that make up the Bayou State.

It’s the same with those who think Texas is nothing more than braggarts and women with big hair who spend every other day in the nail salon or that people from New York are rude or people from Wisconsin walk around with a fake block of cheese on their head.

We need to stop judging states by what’s on the surface and take a look at the lifeblood of each and every state – the people and families quietly going about their business.

The next time you head east through Louisiana, take a side trip off the concrete chute and leisurely tour the back roads. Take time to savor a cup of café-au-lait and beignets and visit with the owners. Find the beauty that’s shyly hiding in a state that’s often painted with a narrow brush.

You won’t be disappointed, cher.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I’m tired of cold weather.

I’m tired of icy roads.

I’m tired of wearing a jacket.

I want Southern weather to return.

My family grew up in the North, about 60 miles southeast of Buffalo,  N.Y. I’ll sound like some old goat rocking on the front porch when I say I remember walking to school in the snow.

Uphill.

Both ways.

We lived in an older house, common in Olean, N.Y., and we used to get dressed standing over the floor heater. My mom would lay our scarves, mittens, snow boots, hats and jackets over the heavy metal grate. Our clothes would be warm when we put them on, and that was a treat because that old house was drafty and cold.

Once outside, what I remember most is walking down the street through a tunnel carved out of snow.

There was an eerie hush walking in that snow tunnel, and I thought the world had turned silent except for the crunching of my boots on the fresh snow.

I remember watching my dad shovel a path from the back door to the driveway, the puffs of white smoke coming out of his mouth reminding me of a locomotive.

There were afternoons making snow angels and snowmen and chasing each other with snowballs.

Before this childhood scene turns into something out of a Norman Rockwell painting, there’s another side to those delicate snowflakes and rooftops covered in a blanket of glistening white.

When the snow melts, backyards turn into a brown wasteland of muddy snow and ice patches surrounded by islands of dead grass.

Northern swing sets rust a lot earlier than their cousins in the South because they’re covered with snow nine months out of the year. Our swing sets fade, but our young-uns are on the teeter-totter in December.

And January.

And February.

In the cold, there’s no getting in the car, starting it right up and driving off. When there’s two feet of snow outside, chains have to go on the tires and then drivers scrape ice and snow off the windshields before they free all four tires from impacted snow.

Ear muffs provide little protection from Jack Frost, and all one can dream about on those days is laying in a hammock under the warm sun, a pitcher of lemonade close by.

For my father, who was born and reared in the hot humid swamps around Lake Charles, La., 10 years of scraping snow was enough. He moved all of us to Louisiana, and we came to look at winter in a totally different light.

Winters didn’t always involve sub-freezing temperatures and busted water pipes. Southern winters meant keeping shorts and sandals close by because it’s not unusual for 70-degree days to show up in February and March.

Southern winters meant there might be a few days with temperatures in the 20s, but those were few and far between.

 Because we’re not accustomed to driving on icy roads, we call school off when the roads are frozen and stay home and drink hot chocolate. In true Scarlett O’Hara tradition, we then tell ourselves we’ll think about making up those snow days tomorrow.

So when it gets here, I’m going to embrace the hot weather.

I’m going to take pleasure in driving on roads that shimmer in the summer heat.

I’m going to enjoy wearing shorts and sandals 10 months out of the year.

And when the bluebonnets bloom, I shall raise a glass of iced tea and a slice of pecan pie to the warm weather gods.

And thank the heavens I’m a Southern girl.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I was at a seminar with a co-worker and we decided to head to another part of the building. She put her hands in her pocket and I grabbed my bulging camera bag, stuffed tote bag and my 10-pound purse.

“Where’s your stuff?” I asked.

Smiling, she showed me a pouch the size of a business card. Inside was her driver’s license, a credit card and a few dollar bills. She said she’s a minimalist and only carries what she needs.

I visualized all the “stuff” in my purse, and I could make a case that I, too, was a minimalist. Like her, I was carrying only the things I needed.

Well, perhaps I’m taking liberties with the word “minimalism” when describing my purse. There’s about 25 Bics in my purse, but that overkill comes from a hard-learned lesson.

On one of my first interviews for the newspaper, my pen ran out of ink. When I had to ask the person I was interviewing for a pen, I felt like an idiot. I vowed to never be without a working ballpoint again. Hence the reason for two dozen Bics in my purse.  

Hey, a reporter can’t be too careful or ill-prepared.

There’s the travel size packets of Kleenex. With allergies that stick around most of the year, having tissues I can grab in a hurry is a necessity.

Plus I’m clumsy. My Kleenex buddies have helped me mop up spilled drinks, melting ice cream and squished ketchup packets more times than I care to count.

Then there’s the added weight of all the coins jingling around in my purse. I’ve never gotten into the habit of putting coins in my wallet. I simply toss them into my purse after a transaction so there’s always a river of coins in the bottom. In a pinch, I can always rustle up $1.06 in dimes, nickels and pennies for something off the dollar menu at the drive through.

Which brings me to the camera bag. Sure I could use my cell phone to take pictures, but I love old-fashioned photography so I seldom venture out without my trusty Canon.

And no photojournalist’s going out without a notebook to write down people’s names, extra memory cards and at least five pens because, well, you know.

The tote bag is when I’m on a field trip. Inside are blank permission forms, filled-out permission forms, paper, notebooks, a map of the building and, of course, pens, pencils, highlighters and Kleenex. I don’t think of myself as having too much stuff. Instead, I consider myself the Boy Scout in the group – always prepared.   

Watching me shift the bags around on my shoulders, my friend said her desk was also spotless – not a paper or folder on the desktop at the end of the day. I didn’t say anything because my desk looks like a tornado touched down at the top, waltzed across the center and then did a swan dive off the “in” box.

There’s the stack of address labels and stamps because I lose them if they’re not sitting right in front of my face, extra memory cards, a box of Kleenex, two back scratchers, two address books and a typing stand with really important stuff.

All of which is required. None of which could be thrown away. So technically, I meet the standards of simple living.

Minimalism has its fine points but there’s one thing I’ll have that my travel-light friend will always have to borrow from me – a working Bic pen.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

 

It’s one of those nights. You’re feeling a little blue because you spilled soy sauce on your new shirt, you didn’t get a joke one of the young people in the office was laughing about or you find gray hair in your eyebrows.

Those are the times I’m grateful for comfort foods. Although your hips remember long after your lips have forgotten, if you don’t over-indulge, a little munchable comfort goes a long way. 

First on the list, peanut butter. Yes it’s fattening and high in calories, but peanut butter on a spoon sticks to the roof of my mouth and takes me back to my childhood days when a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich was the perfect companion when hunkering down on a nasty, wet day.

Next on the list is chocolate. Not any chocolate, mind you, but delicious yet affordable chocolate – Hershey’s Kisses. While feeling a little blue, unwrapping those kisses and letting them melt on my tongue is almost like getting a real kiss on my chubby cheek from my mom while she tells me everything will be okay.

Right up there with chocolate is almost anything crunchy.  I’m not talking about healthy crunchy foods like celery and carrots. I’m talking about Doritos, Cheetohs and Cheez Balls. Of those three, the Doritos are the top dog because you can take three bites out of each Dorito versus two bites out of a puffy Cheetoh.

And then there’s ice cream. For the usual quick pick-me-up, any cheap brand will do. But for those nights when the world’s crashing, only Blue Bell vanilla ice cream with chocolate syrup, whipped cream and peanuts on top is a bona-fide mood elevator.

I’m almost convincing myself that comfort foods have a scientific basis.

In these days of healthy eating, I have to find a way to rationalize choosing peanut butter over tofu.  So to justify that bowl of Blue Bell, I have the comfort foods categorized.

At DEFCON 4, there’s the soft comfort foods – Twinkies and Little Debbie Cakes. Because these two snacks are gone in a couple of bites, I only use those when I’m a little down. They’re light-weights in the “feelin’ the blues” mood.

For times when I can see a blue horizon for the evening, DEFCON 3, I have to pull in a little heavier artillery – namely, Oreos and milk. Each dunk of the Oreo cookie in the ice-cold milk is dunking away a little bit more of the problem.

When we’re up to DEFCON 2 — flashing red lights signaling the blues are hanging around until the sun comes up again — I roll out the big dogs – pancakes. First, beating up the batter gets out a little bit of frustration. Then pouring those perfect circles on a hot grill makes me feel somehow in control of life.

When I’ve got a stack of light brown cakes ready, I smother them with slabs of butter accompanied by real maple syrup. Every bite takes me back to the days of making pancakes on leisurely Saturday mornings for my boys and laughing around the breakfast table.  

Life seemed easier back then, and if I survived stomach viruses that hit all three boys at the same time, back-to-back outbreaks of chicken pox and watching each one of my boys drive away from home to start their own lives, then I can survive whatever minor problem is coming my way.

And if the blues start washing over me, if I listen hard enough, I’ll hear the Blue Bell carton calling out salvation.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Over a lifetime of church services, I’ve noticed people seem to sit in the same place week after week. But there’s drawbacks.

The front row seldom sees what happens in the back and the people in the vestibule seldom see what happens in the front. I’ve sat in both places and neither one fits me.

Growing up, we were always late for Sunday Mass. My family of nine would squeeze into the last two rows where my dad usually nodded off and my mom spent her time breaking up elbow arguments.

Until my father found religion. Then we had to sit on the front row every single Sunday.

We were always late, and it was embarrassing to walk to the front row. I vowed to never make my children sit in the front, and we never did.

When they were young, we sat in the cry room. It’s loud in there and one always leaves thinking “At least my kid’s not as bad as that other one.”

Or maybe the other moms thought that about my sons.

But then my boys grew up and we settled into sitting in the middle of the church – not too close to the front and not too close to the back.

After the boys went off to college, I continued to sit in the same middle pew. But over the past three years, I’ve struggled with organized religion, not my faith, after being bitterly disappointed by the petty lay people who were supposed to be leading by example.

I left the church for a while, but I’ve been trying to return lately. At the small parish closest to our new house, I approached a woman who was in charge of the religious education department and said I’d taught teen classes at my former parish for over 25 years. She smiled weakly, said that was nice, and walked away.

Despite the slap in the face, I still go to Sunday services but I stay in the back, feeling like I don’t belong. But a few events have me wondering if the Lord needs people in the back.

One week, a mom was struggling with her older boy. It was obvious he had emotional problems, and she was trying to juggle an infant, two young children and control him.

I impulsively asked if I could hold the baby while she worked with her son, and she gratefully handed the little angel to me. She decided to leave, and I told her I’d carry the baby to the car. As we walked, she thanked me, but I told her thanks were not needed.

From what I remembered from all those sermons sitting in the middle of the church, I thought that was what people are supposed to do, not ignore those in need.

Another week, a  young dad walked in the door with his three children, his 4-year-old sobbing on his shoulder. He abruptly left, two other children in tow, and I figured it wasn’t going to be pretty out there.

I impulsively followed them and asked if I could help. Exasperated, he explained that his daughter said her pants were too hard and she didn’t want to wear them.

My granddaughter feels the same way about some of her pants, I told the little girl. In fact, I told her, I felt the same way about my hard pants. She smiled, her siblings smiled and then Dad smiled.

I’m no saint. Far from it. But I’m thinking my place isn’t on the front row, in a classroom or in the middle of the church. Perhaps my place is in the back with the crying babies, frustrated parents and those, like me, praying we’ll find a home.
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.