“We need your help.”

That was the frantic phone call I received while at a high school journalism camp in downtown Austin. Three of my broadcasting students needed someone to interview, and they were desperate.

Finding a quiet spot, we discussed what they needed. They were in an intensely competitive class, and all week, they’d been receiving scathing reviews. It was time for the final project, and they were adamant their video be the best.

We decided to search for a college student, perhaps working in a coffee or gift shop. While heading toward Sixth Street, we walked in front of the University Catholic Center, and we could see students talking with a priest in the foyer. My students decided to go in, anxious, but determined to get their video.

However, I was reluctant to enter the building. For the past few months, I’ve had difficulty attending church services. Not because of a lack of faith but because I felt someone I admire had been unfairly treated by my home church.

I know that in business – and running a church is a business – some decisions aren’t popular with the populace. Many of us spoke up but nothing was resolved. Weeks went by and my frustration turned to anger.

In some faiths, decisions are not supposed to be questioned, but reform and change doesn’t happen unless people stand for what they believe. Doctrine is seldom the issue – it’s the way people interpret the words and the way others are treated that causes rifts.

My faith in God was as strong as ever; my faith in people, however, was shattered. For six months, I avoided attending services and looked at other faiths and denominations. My heart was heavy because of the distance I was putting between myself and the church.

I hid my feelings as my students approached the group, nervous but hopeful. The young priest smiled and listened as we asked for an interview. He hesitated, saying he had quite a few things to do.

But when one of the teens explained how they were tired of getting picked on, The Rev. Jamie Baca immediately agreed to help them.

UT student Daniel Gonzalez works at the parish, and he also agreed to be on the video, even though his girlfriend was waiting and he’d been working since early in the morning.

Daniel helped the students set up their equipment and then Father Jamie came in, sat down and told them to ask away.

The interview took longer than five minutes, but the two weren’t in a hurry. They talked about their backgrounds and how much they enjoyed working with college students. Daniel told the students about struggling with coming to Mass once he arrived at the university.

Their words were honest, and as I watched my teens film, the smiles returned to their faces. We left the church with ample footage, and the teens eagerly headed off to edit their video.

That evening, the anger and disappointment I’d been feeling melted away as I sat in Mass for the first time in months. Instead of feeling distanced from a church, I felt immense gratitude for having met Father Jamie and Daniel.

People will always be motivated by greed and goodness, pride and piety. There will be those who do what they do for personal gain. But two strangers reminded me that people doing the right thing are usually right around the corner.

I need to remember to have faith that God will place them in my path.
 
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

“You beat everything, you know that,” is the exasperated phrase Deputy Barney Fife used whenever his boss, Sheriff Andy Taylor, played a joke on him. This week, one of America’s founding television fathers, Andy Griffith, passed away at the age of 86.

“The Andy Griffith Show” has played almost continuously on television since its beginning back in 1960. TAGS is the often-funny television show about Andy Taylor, the sheriff of friendly Mayberry and the people in his and the town’s life.

But the show is much more than a sit-com, and a large part of that is due to the excellent writers and the high standards set by Griffith.

Born in 1926 in North Carolina, Griffith began his acting career on Broadway and later in films. He was featured on “The Danny Thomas Show” as a small-town sheriff who gives Thomas a speeding ticket.

The character was well received, and “The Andy Griffith Show” became a reality. Originally, Griffith was to be the comic and fellow actor and friend Don Knotts would play the straight guy.

But Knotts’ comedic talents were quickly realized, and the two switched roles for the betterment of the show. Throughout its long run, Griffith allowed other characters to have the limelight but he remained the central, stable character of the show, and my generation loved him.

We baby boomers grew up with TV dads Andy Taylor, Jim Anderson and Ward Cleaver who dispensed sage advice. By today’s standards, these shows might seem hokey, portraying an America that existed only in Norman Rockwell paintings.

But the timeless lessons Andy Taylor taught his son, Opie, still ring true, such as the episode “Opie and the Bully.” Andy finds out his young son is being bullied for his milk money on the way to school every morning.

Instead of filing a lawsuit against the family, Andy tells Opie about the time he was bullied and how he had to stand up for himself against the bully, swinging like a “windmill in a tornado.”

There’s no way to stay dry eyed when young Opie looks up at his father, asking for reassurance that the fight really won’t hurt. That’s a tough situation almost every parent has faced.

Andy also taught us another life lesson when Opie claims to have a friend, Mr. McBeevee, who walks in the trees. Opie’s story is preposterous, and Andy thinks he’s lying. But when Opie asks his father to believe him, Andy finally does for only one reason – he trusts his son.

Andy taught us a lot about friendship. Even though the bumbling Barney deserved to lose his job dozens of times, Andy found ways to boost Barney’s self esteem and regain his faith in himself. Those timeless lessons cross racial, gender and cultural lines.

Many episodes ended with Andy, Barney, Opie and Aunt Bee relaxing on the Taylor’s front porch at the end of the day. Andy would be strumming his guitar as they quietly sat together, seemingly without worries or fears.

For the 1960’s, that scene was far from reality – protesting hippies, assassinations of political leaders, the turbulent Vietnam War, economic woes and fighting for civil rights filled the nightly news.

Perhaps we used Andy and Barney to escape, and many of us still use the show to hide from life. Whenever I’m having a tough day, I pop in one of my well-worn DVD or search for Andy Griffith on YouTube, sit back and escape to Mayberry for a half hour with these cherished friends from my childhood.

Andy, one day, we’ll see you down at the fishin’ hole.

Thank you for the memories.
 
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I’m a predictable person. I follow the same routine day after day, sometimes coasting along on autopilot. But this summer, I wanted to shake things up.

Nothing’s better than staying in town and spending my time and money here, but it was time to take a step into the unknown and unfamiliar.

Not a leap. Just a step.

I called a friend who’s willing to step out on the ledge with me, and Pat said to count her in.

I headed into Houston and stopped for breakfast at The French Riviera, a place I always drive past, knowing indulging in pastries isn’t good for my cholesterol level.

But this day, I pulled into the bakery on Chimney Rock and was greeted by the smell of freshly brewed coffee and hot croissants. I lingered over the display case and ordered two sinfully rich pastries and two small éclairs.

My friend and I split the pastries, licking our fingers, leisurely talking about life, politics and philosophy. After a bit, we headed down Westheimer, deciding we’d stop at a restaurant for lunch before starting our adventure.

When we saw the bright sign for Chuy’s, we knew we’d found the right spot. Sure enough, we walked into a bustling, loud restaurant, chuckling about the back part of a car embedded in the front wall of the dining section.

The bright pink walls, linoleum floors and diner-style tables fit our mood; and when we tasted the creamy jalapeno dip, we were in heaven. We had to practically shout to hear each other, but when you’re on an adventure, that’s simply part of the deal.

Our tummies full, we headed toward Montrose, parked and decided to walk around the central part of one of Houston’s most eclectic, and often bizarre, parts of town.

We wandered in and out of musty furniture stores and gift shops. At a antique jewelry shop, I tried on vintage hats, calling back memories of how my aunts and grandmother looked on Sunday mornings as they headed to church.

My friend knew about a resale shop in the area, so we maneuvered our way through the narrow streets of Montrose and parked next to The Guild Shop on Dunlavy. I’ve visited resale shops before, but this place is a resale shopper’s paradise.

Every inch of this giant building is filled with knick-knacks, lamps, furniture and kitchen items. Beautiful jewelry and crystal are available for reasonable prices, and there was no lack of lookers at the guild.

Art work – some original, some from the 1970s – covers almost every inch of wall space, and an outdoor section offers a variety of patio furniture and unusual items for a garden or yard.

The fun really begins when shoppers roll up their sleeves and take their time looking behind and underneath the layers of furniture. We climbed over chairs, looking at dressers and tables, and we had a blast wondering if we wanted to buy a piece that day or wait for the mark down a few days later.

Deciding we were being adventurous – and our trunk space was limited – we decided to come back another day.

Because any adventure involves food, we stopped for a snack at a small bistro. Despite being the middle of the afternoon, the place was hopping. College students were gulping down coffee and working on laptops, and business people were quietly conducting business deals over spinach salad.

Back home, I thought about our day and realized there’s nothing better than staying in one’s home town where the merchants and owners know us by name and routines allow us to feel safe and secure.

But, every once in a while, venturing into the unknown keeps life exciting. Adventures await those willing to step outside the comfort zone, and when éclairs and cheap furniture are part of the deal, then count me in.
 
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Sunday is a day we celebrate fathers, and advertisers have all kinds of ways for us to express our thanks. Walking down the greeting card aisle, there’s humorous cards, sentimental cards and some that simply acknowledge the day.

The Internet’s filled with sites allowing visitors to order gift baskets filled with all types of goodies, from chocolate tools to the standard shirt and tie.

The handyman big-box stores are filled with everything a man could want for Father’s Day – drills, screwdrivers, gas mowers and hedge clippers.

If guys are anything like the girls, though, nothing’s worse at saying “I appreciate you” than a gift that requires work or self improvement, so leaving the “how to build a new deck in three weekends” book in the store is probably a good idea.

Advertisements promise guys will love a new barbecue grill, but those babies require someone to put them together, refill the propane tank every few weeks or fill up the bottom with charcoal every time somebody wants to eat outside. Guess who’s the one stuck next to a hot barbecue grill on Father’s Day?

But no matter what gift is on the kitchen table Sunday morning, the idea of Father’s Day is to show fathers our appreciation for the people who take on the biggest responsibility in the world, a parent.

Many of us, however, have a tough time on this holiday because our dads are absent – overseas fighting in a war or away from home due to divorce or death, their memories all we have to remember them.

Then there are the fathers absent from the home by choice. I don’t think I’ll ever understand how a man could turn his back on his family, and my admiration for the people who fill that slot in a child’s life knows no bounds.

Different people accept that parenting role – a grandfather who steps in when his son or son-in-law is unable or unwilling to fulfill his duties to his children.

Stepparents and adoptive parents all take on the mother or father role, and there’s a place in heaven for those who willingly accept parenting duties from driving carpool for Little League to getting up in the middle of the night with a sick child.

There are moms who do double duty, and these handle-it-all parents deserve all the credit we can give them. But there’s a subtle difference between being a father and being a dad, and although both love their children, fathers and dads show that love in different ways.

Fathers let you drive their truck after you’ve made the first insurance payment.

Dads let you take the truck to go mudding.

Fathers write the check for your college tuition.

Dads haul all your dresses, shoes and stuffed animals up three flights of stairs to your dorm room.

Fathers buy you a fishing pole.

Dads whoop and holler when you haul in a six-inch trout, proclaiming it the biggest fish they ever saw.

Fathers pay the fee for you to play in a basketball league.

Dads go to every one of your games, even if you always sit the bench.

Fathers aren’t quite sure why girls need 20 different bottles of nail polish.

Dads let you paint their fingernails every shade of the rainbow.

Fathers are at a loss for words when you come home with a broken heart.

Dads put their arms around you, tell you everything will be all right, and you know, if your daddy says something is true, it is.

On this holiday that honors fathers, let’s remember it takes somebody special to be a father.

It takes a superhero to be a dad.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

A good friend recently posted photos online of the jars of salsa she’d created using fresh vegetables from a friend’s bountiful garden.

When I saw her, she said canning fruits and vegetables brought back memories of working alongside her mother in the kitchen, and those were fun times.

Looking at her photos, I found myself back in my grandmother’s kitchen, watching her fill Mason jars with tomatoes, sealing them and then putting the jars in a big pot of boiling water on the stove.

It’s been years since I thought about the old-fashioned ways of working around the house. Although many chores required a lot of elbow grease, some were actually fun, maybe because I was a kid.

I remember sitting on the back patio making home-made ice cream. Nobody wanted to turn that crank over and over, but the person who stayed with the crank got the first helping out of the bucket.

Electric ice cream makers came along and made the job easier, but most of the fun involved with home-made ice cream was sitting and waiting, just like I used to do in my grandparents’ kitchen.

The stove at their house always had a percolator on the back burner. I remember watching the coffee perk up through the small glass top, waiting for the liquid to turn dark enough so I could call out that the coffee was ready.

Listening to my friend talk about the fun she had making salsa for her family and friends, I realized my children and grandchildren will probably scratch their heads when presented with rituals such as canning vegetables.

Likewise with ironing a shirt. My grandmother taught me how to iron a dress shirt, and her way was to follow a system – start with the collar, then the yoke, sleeves and then the rest of the shirt. My boys haven’t a clue about ironing – they think shirts come out of the dryer wrinkle-free.

Hanging clothes on a clothesline is a skill few of our young people possess. They don’t realize hanging clothes requires an efficient system, including starting with a bag filled with wooden clothes pins, hanging the bag on the line and then sliding it along as you pull the clothes out of the laundry basket and clip them to the line.

Undergarments always went on the inside lines while sheets and towels went on the outside. Protects your family from the “nosy neighbors,” my grandmother always said.

Cleaning house is another old-fashioned way of life that’s quickly being forgotten. With robot vacuum cleaners and self-cleaning ovens, knowing how to clean a house is knowledge we pick up on the Internet or leave to a cleaning service.

Only those of us over a certain age remember taking scatter rugs outside once a year, hanging them over the clothes line and then beating them with a rug beater or the end of the broom to shake out the dust and dirt.

Some chores and routines I’m thrilled have disappeared – scraping Johnson’s wax off the linoleum floor and then reapplying a new coat on your hands and knees ranks right up there with taking down Venetian blinds and polishing silver.

Although it’s fun to reminisce about the past, as an adult, there’s no way I’d be without air conditioning, cruise control, permanent press shirts, computers, the microwave oven, frost-free freezers and about a thousand other modern conveniences.

The good ole days might’ve been pretty good, but as long as there’s a jar of Paul Newman’s salsa on Aisle 14, our Mr. Coffee can perk coffee in less than five minutes and my no-wax floors are shiny, I think I’ll happily remain right here in the present.
 
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Most high school seniors have already walked across that long stage, accepted their diploma with one hand and shaken hands with the school board president or superintendent with the other.

Lofty graduation speeches were presented to distracted fellow graduates, eager to get on with the task of living.

It’s a shame most commencement speeches are ignored because those speeches often present some of the best life lessons around.

An Internet search brings up lists of the top commencement speeches given, and it’s not a surprise the late Steve Jobs’ 2005 “Stay Hungry. Stay Foolish” speech to Stanford grads ranks as one of the best.

Jobs readily admits he didn’t go to college. He tells the audience the “only way to be truly satisfied is to do what you believe is great work. And the only way to do great work is to love what you do.”

That’s tough advice to accept in a world where graduates are encouraged to find a career that will make them a lot of money. That attitude often breeds apathy, cynicism and greed, three traits television personality Stephen Colbert advised graduates to avoid.

“Cynicism masquerades as wisdom but it is the farthest thing from it,” Colbert said, and that’s good advice for students who often pretend to be nonchalant about life or think life is all about them.

Graduates, it’s time to care about life and to fight inequality, greed and corruption. Those vices are rampant in today’s society, but there are quite a few people fighting that battle. Join them and never stop trying to make the world a better place.

Changing the world is a scary prospect for graduates. After high school, they’re expected to head off to college, bring home a 4.0 and follow a set career path. College graduates have it worse. They’re burdened with a staggering amount of college debt and bleak job prospects.

Talk of loyalty and peace, as President John F. Kennedy talked about with the graduates of American University in 1963, is seldom delivered from the graduation podium.

What kind of advice will graduates remember? In a world of quickly forgotten Twitter posts and frivolous text messages, graduates are often looking for practical advice delivered in less than 10 minutes. So here goes.

Be a responsible member of society. Work tirelessly for peace, justice and equality.

It’s okay to fail. As author J.K. Rowling told graduates at Harvard, failing and starting at rock bottom actually made her a better person. Michael Dell also said failure is an opportunity to learn for “there is very little learning in success.”

Have some fun. Life is filled with responsibilities and duties – don’t forget to laugh along the way.

Quit wasting time. As Jobs told those Stanford graduates: “Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life.”

Save for a rainy day but splurge on a banana split every once in a while.

Listen to good music, whether it’s jazz, opera, rap, rock or country. Nothing soothes the soul like a piano, guitar or a saxophone.

Be kind. Whether you stop to help a child, listen to an elder talk about the good old days or refrain from sending that nasty text message at 2 a.m., remember to be gentle as you travel through life.

Everybody has something to tell you, Class of 2012, so accept advice that means something to you, leave the flotsam behind and get busy.

Your time is now and it’s time to start living.

Don’t waste another minute.

We’re counting on you.
 
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

One of the perks of living in a southern state is the pride people take in their food. I grew up in the North where the food was secondary to the pomp and ceremony.

Here in the South, what’s on the plate is the star of the show, and it seems people south of the Mason-Dixon line have their own feelings about how to prepare the best Southern meal.

Growing up in Louisiana, knowing the proper way to cook Cajun food was much more important than knowing how to drive. It’s probably a requirement for anyone living in Louisiana to own a cast-iron pot as it’s the only cookware capable of turning out an acceptable roux, the backbone of almost every Cajun dish.

For those new to Southern cuisine, a roux is a mixture of flour and oil, cooked over a medium heat until it turns a caramel color. Ask any Cajun cook how to make something, and the first thing he or she will say is “make a roux.”

Right up there with mastering the art of making a roux is learning how to cook crawfish. In Yankee cooking magazines, they refer to these scrumptious crustaceans as “crayfish.” Use that word down South, and you’ll be tossed out along with your Schlitz beer.

Every Cajun cook worth his or her Tony Chachere’s has a secret recipe for cooking crawfish to perfection and all claim their way is the best way.

Some cooks cover the live crawfish with salt to purge them while others skip that step. Some add extra salt and red pepper to the crawfish seasoning packets right when the water starts to boil while others dump the seasonings in at the end.

There’s the debated method of throwing ice water on the crawfish when they’re finished boiling or just letting them steep in the seasoned water until they’re tender and juicy. Some cooks throw red potatoes and corn on the cob in with the crawfish, and there’s always heated arguments about the exact right time to add those ingredients.

But Louisiana doesn’t have the market cornered when it comes to heated debates around the pot. When we moved to Texas, we found Southern pride in preparing a barbecue dinner. All Texas chefs worth their own cooking rig guard the secret to their sauce more vigorously than guarding the secret to Coca Cola.

Some Texas chefs cook their brisket all night long while others use pecan wood or beer in the smoker to give the meat a sweet, moist taste.

Some add the barbecue sauce while the meat’s cooking while others wait until the last few minutes to completely smother the ribs and chicken while they’re on the pit. I’ve had barbecue cooked every kind of way, and it’s all fabulous.

The best part of any Southern meal – no matter if it’s cooked in Texas, Louisiana, Mississippi or Arkansas – is sitting down with friends and kinfolk to enjoy the fruits of one’s labor. Once the iced tea glasses are filled, many families bow their heads and say a blessing for the bounty on the table.

And right up there with enjoying the food is enjoying the conversation as Southerners love to argue politics, grumble about the high price of college football tickets and then go back for seconds.

Especially if seconds include another platter of barbecue ribs, a fresh mound of hot, spicy crawfish or that last sliver of pecan pie topped off with some homemade whipped cream.

Sweetie, when you’re lucky enough to be a Southerner, life doesn’t get much better.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

With windshield wipers waging a losing battle against the driving rain, I kept wondering why I hadn’t left for Louisiana the night before.

My theory was it would be easier to navigate across Houston traffic on a calm Saturday morning instead of a frantic Friday afternoon, but I hadn’t counted on a powerful rain system to come roaring along Interstate 10.

Still, I didn’t begrudge the trip as I was going to spend Mother’s Day with my mom in Baton Rouge. Driving across Houston, I found myself marveling at the city’s downtown skyscrapers, so majestic against that gray sky.

Once I left the crowded freeways, the fields between Houston and the state line were calming in spite of the miserable weather. The open rice fields along the interstate were filled with water, and hundreds of birds were swooping and diving, hoping to find breakfast.

Driving over the Atchafalaya Basin is one of my favorite parts of a trip to Baton Rouge because the area is truly unique.

The Basin is home to thousands of varieties of wildlife, from graceful herons to stealthy alligators. I saw dozens of boats out on the waters, and I thought about my dad and uncles and all the afternoons they spent in the Basin.

Those memories kept me company until I arrived at my mom’s, happy to be out of the rain. While in Baton Rouge, I was lucky to attend my great nephew’s graduation party, and familiar faces and people I’d never met before quickly blended together.

As an added bonus, Brennan’s family served up hot crawfish all afternoon. I can’t remember the last time I had fresh, boiled crawfish, and those little mudbugs were even more delicious than I’d remembered.

It wasn’t long before I had a nice mountain of empty crawfish shells in front of me, and I diligently worked to dig out the tender white meat from the claws.

Everybody has their own method for extracting crawfish meat from the shell, and I relied on my Cajun uncles’ brilliant suggestion to crack the shell and then use the sharp end of the claw to dig the meat out.

On the way back to Texas, I stopped at Pat’s in Henderson for some fried alligator for my daughter-in-law. Driving down the bayou road to Pat’s is a true slice of Louisiana as one passes quaint houses, people riding horses along the levee and boats and trailers in front yards.

Because it was Mother’s Day, the front hostess told me I couldn’t get a dinner to go, but the reservations clerk leaned over and told me to check in the bar. I went in and explained the order was for my daughter in law who’s expecting this winter, and the waitress looked at me for a long minute.

“Cher, don’t you worry. I’ll fix her right up,” she said. Ten minutes later, she returned with a heaping helping of fried alligator bits and wished me a safe trip.

When I stopped at Novrazsky’s in Orange, Texas for a late lunch, the server threw in a free drink, wishing me a happy Mother’s Day. The sandwich was stuffed with fresh meats and vegetables and I silently thanked the staff for going the extra mile for me.

No matter what state one lives in, there are beautiful sights to see – the majestic mountains in Colorado, the mysterious swamps of Louisiana, the wide open spaces of Texas.

While those are memorable, the people one meets while there and along the way are what makes a state unforgettable. I encountered wonderfully kind people on my journey, and for that, this was a Mother’s Day I’ll long remember.
 
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I settled down in my seat on the front row, waiting for the high school choir’s spring concert to begin. One of the perks of being the designated photographer for events is getting to sit up front and often tip-toeing around behind the scenes.

From that vantage point, one sees the preparation, nervousness and frantic activity that goes on before the curtain goes up, and it’s always amazing how poised young people appear when they’re on the stage performing.

As a parent in the audience, I think I was probably more nervous than my boys before a performance, starting with pre-school.

Over 20 years ago, I remember sitting in the audience at St. John’s School for Little Children, nervously waiting for a pre-school performance where our youngest boy was a ferocious, yet cuddly, lion.

All the parents were snapping away with their cameras as our boys and girls sang – a little off key – and growled and roared as jungle animals for their end-of-the-year performance. It wasn’t Shakespeare, but we thought they were absolutely wonderful.

Then we moved on to elementary school, and I’m still in awe of teachers who can take 25 first graders, somehow teach them speeches, songs and dance moves and then coax them onto a stage to perform for an audience.

In junior high, our middle son decided to try out for “Little Orphan Annie,” and he earned the role of the swaggering Daddy Warbucks, a little bit of a surprise as our son was a quiet, shy adolescent.

When he confidently marched out on to center stage, bellowing orders to the staff, I jumped back in my seat. I’d never seen this side of him, wondering how in the world his theater teacher, Ms. Wanda Harrell, coaxed that level of confidence out of him.

As he sang a solo to Annie, I quietly cried with pride, joy and appreciation for the wonderful opportunity he’d been given to express himself artistically and to be part of an ensemble that created magic on the stage.

Our youngest son was also interested in performing; and when my rebel landed the part of the conservative father in “Bye, Bye Birdie,” I laughed because he was definitely playing someone out of character. But when he sang to his stage children, I cried again, watching him push himself farther than he’d thought possible.

Both boys were active in theater at Austin High School, and although they didn’t have leads, they loved being part of the theater family, headed up by teachers Brad Cummons and Tress Kurzym. From there, they learned to love the behind-the-scenes aspect of a concert and live theater, connected to high school through the arts.

I remembered all those concerts and plays as I watched the teens on stage at Terry High. For this one night, they were part of a larger ensemble, expressing their feelings through song.

Choral director Rhonda Klutts coaxed music from the hearts of over 165 students at that concert, and their faces radiated with joy. Some will never sing on a stage again, but many will, either with a church, a community group or professionally.

For some, they’ll decide to add acting to singing, and their high school or college theater director will convince them to step into a fictional character’s shoes, just as fine arts teachers have been doing since the one-room schoolhouse days.

A love of music and the fine arts stays with youngsters their entire lives. That spark was ignited because a teacher encouraged them to step out in front of the lights and take a chance.

Dim the lights, please.

The magic’s about to begin.

This column originally appeared in The Fort Bend Herald.