Not to sound like a 1950s suburbanite, but when it comes to my automobile, I haven’t a clue what really makes that vehicle run. I depend on the car to tell me if something’s wrong.

  It’s a sweet deal as dashboard lights come on whenever the tire pressure is low or I need gas. A bell chimes if I forget to turn off the lights or leave the keys in the ignition.

  Best of all, my husband keeps up with major maintenance issues, so I’m on autopilot most of the time.

  Recently, though, my car was due for an oil change, and I told my husband I’d take the car in because, I was thinking, how hard can it be to get the oil changed.

  Certainly easier than replacing the windshield wiper blades.

  When the rains started up earlier this year, the streaks on my windshield were a red flare that the wiper blades had dry rotted during the long drought. I was in front of the auto parts store, so I pulled in, thinking I’d run right in, get some replacements and be ready for the threatening thunderstorm.

  Forget about a less-than 10 minute errand for something as seemingly straight-forward as windshield wiper blade refills. The clerk had at least six questions about my car before we even got to the wiper issue.

  And, of course, his first question was one I didn’t know the answer to – what length blades did I need.   

  “They’re different sizes?” I said, puzzlement written all over my face, and I told him I’d text my husband to get the size of the wipers. The clerk looked at me, sighed, and then said he’d not only find the right wiper blades but he’d also put them on the car for me.

  Sweet.

  Which is why I felt empowered to take my car in for an oil change. My husband used to keep a case or two of motor oil in our garage for the numerous oil changes three teen-age drivers require.

  But with advances in engines and more computer-driven parts, a stop at one of the local quick oil-change business seemed the most economical path.

  I pulled into the bay, handed my keys over to the mechanic and sat down in the lobby to leaf through a “Motor Trend” magazine.

  A few minutes later, he returned and asked if I wanted petroleum-based oil or synthetic oil. My first thought was “there’s a difference in oil that comes out of the ground and goes into the car?” and my second one was “why does something that should be so easy require a master’s degree in engineering.”

  I didn’t have a clue what kind of oil to use, so I texted my husband. While I was waiting for a reply, the nice man behind the counter tried to explain the pros and cons of synthetic and petroleum-based  oil.

  I nodded and tried to sound like I was keeping up, but he lost me about the time the issues of oil weight and temperature under pressure came up.

  Then there were questions about the oil filter and how many miles I wanted to wait until my next oil change. I texted my husband again with those questions, and we finally agreed on a plan of action.

  Thirty minutes later, I left with fresh oil in the car, a new oil filter and a sticker on my windshield reminding me to take care of my car’s needs on a regular basis.

  My husband said whenever my car needs the tires rotated – because he only has so many text messages on his cell phone plan – he’ll be happy to take care of that maintenance item for me.

  Sweet.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

  When I was expecting my first child, I was convinced the baby was a girl. I was so convinced, in fact, I spent weeks making a pink blanket and tucked a pink coming-home outfit for the baby in my suitcase.

  I was shocked when the doctor announced “it’s a boy,” and I referred to the baby as a girl for about two weeks after we came home from the hospital.

  Knowing the sex of the baby 30 years ago was impossible. We guessed, of course, and I performed all the folklore remedies around. I held a needle over my tummy, watching which way it spun, and dangled my wedding ring to see if it swung back and forth or circled over the unborn baby.

  Both wives-tale procedures indicated a boy, but I said I’d wait until modern science came up with a sure-fire way to discover the sex of the baby before I’d believe predicting the sex was possible.

  We came close with my second child. I had an ultrasound early in the pregnancy as we weren’t sure when the baby was going to be born.

  I can still picture that black screen with a white form moving around, but comparing that picture to what’s out there today is like playing the early “pong” game versus today’s realistic “Call of Duty.”

  And what’s out there now is 4D Ultrasound technology.

  My son and daughter-in-law invited the grandmothers to go with them to see the ultrasound for their baby who’s due in December. I was expecting the old grainy black-and-white image.

  Instead, a 4D ultrasound allowed us to see facial features, a leg and a tiny fist curled up underneath a developing chin.

  We also found out grandchild number three is a girl, and it’s a mixed blessing because the wondering if it’s a boy or a girl is eliminated. Science has removed the waiting game.

  Today, it’s possible to know within minutes whether or not a woman is pregnant. As a baby boomer, most of us grew up listening to our moms and aunts talk about waiting for the rabbit to die.

  I didn’t have a clue what they were talking about, but I knew it had something to do with all the maternity and baby clothes my aunts were dropping off at our house.

  Over coffee, they’d toss around boy and girl names and it seemed everything in the nursery was either light green or a pale yellow. Once the baby got here, aunts came around with the right gender clothes, but not until the baby got here.

  Back then, there were two ways to feed a newborn – breast feeding or glass baby bottles my mom put in a big pot and boiled for 10 minutes. Today’s bottles are plastic, scientifically angled and come with an assortment of accessories.

  Baby shoes were easy years ago – kids went barefoot until they were big enough for the big white shoes with the hard tan soles. Today’s infants are wearing couture Mary Janes retailing for $31 a pair or Skechers black boots selling for $55 online, both for kids who can’t even walk yet.

  Even though technology allows us to know what sex the baby is going to be almost before the baby itself knows what path it’s heading down, I miss the old days of playing the guessing game and waiting for the doctor to say “it’s a girl” or “it’s a boy.”

  But now that I know, instead of stocking up on pale green Onesies™, it’s time to start buying some pink Mary Janes and frilly bows for Miss Katherine Elizabeth Adams.

  Baby girl, we can’t wait to meet you.

 This column originally appeared in The Fort Bend Herald.

  It’s the sounds that echo in my mind – water splashing in fountains, horns blaring from irate taxi drivers and horses’ hooves clopping along cobbled brick roads.

  Images play through my mind as though they’re on a revolving carousel – towering 15th century pillars standing next to modern office buildings. Walking into a neighborhood church and seeing life-sized statues on Egyptian marble floors and protected by solid gold ceilings.

  These are the memories I have of Rome, a once-in-a-lifetime trip my husband and I took last week. He was there for business, but I got to tag along and see the sights.

  Luckily, I joined up with two women, Kim and Karen, whose husbands were also on the trip, and we walked miles throughout Rome accompanied by Karen’s 6-year-old son, Will, who never once complained. Bribes of chocolate gelato and visits to Italian toy stores helped keep him in good humor.

  The guide books describe Rome as the eternal city, fitting as it was settled in 753 B.C. and has survived through invaders, floods, famine, bad times and good times.

  Wandering through ruins that were built hundreds of years before Christ was born seemed unreal, especially when examining the artistry and workmanship created without modern tools.

  We followed our tour books through the city and made sure we stopped at all the major tourist stops – the Pantheon, the Coliseum, the Trevi Fountain. We read descriptions at all the churches, looked at gorgeously painted ceilings until our necks ached and savored Italian pastas and freshly baked bread every evening.

  We walked miles and miles, it seemed, and priests, nuns, school children, tourists, natives, beggars and business people surrounded us. Buses and taxis roared through the streets, filled with people on their way to the Coliseum, the Pantheon and the many piazzas and fountains around the city.

  Although the well-known sights were astounding, Rome is filled with surprises around every corner, and those are the ones that stand out for me. There was the kind, elderly priest in a magnificent church who reminded Will to give his mother a kiss and tell her he loved her.

  There was the delicately baked eggplant-and-cheese dinner my husband and I dined on in a family-owned restaurant off the beaten path.

  Walking through numerous basilicas and churches, some historic and some off the beaten path, we were rewarded around every corner with huge tapestries, marble sculptures and Renaissance paintings. Although they were all beautiful, the crown jewel was the Vatican.

  As a Catholic, standing on the cobblestones in St. Peter’s Square was a dream come true. Even more incredible were the treasures inside the Vatican.

  We heeded good advice from my sister-in-law and purchased online tickets. Thanks to those passes, it only took us a couple of hours to wind our way past hundreds of gorgeous museum artifacts until we found ourselves at the heart of the Vatican, the Sistine Chapel.

  Standing underneath the stunning paintings of Michelangelo, we were surrounded by languages from around the world – Russian, French, English, Portuguese, Italian. All were speaking in hushed tones, their faces reflecting an appreciation for the masterpieces surrounding us.

  We didn’t need a common language to understand that talent and craftsmanship crosses all boundaries. The beauty of the art found in Roma, as they call her, speaks to all those who come to this historic and unique city.

  For those able to make the pilgrimage to Rome, this regal and grand signora will reward visitors with thousands of memories and sounds of a long-ago past to last a lifetime.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

  My brother, Joey, loves dogs. Growing up, he was the only one in our family who regularly brought home stray, bedraggled dogs. All my siblings have dogs, and my sister-in-law is an advocate for animal welfare.  

  I never felt the need to have a dog because, quite honestly, I’m a little afraid of them. Maybe I was spooked when I was young, but I’m always a bit skittish when a dog comes around, especially a big dog.

  As my boys grew up and asked for a dog, I talked them into having other pets – guinea pigs, hamsters and goldfish. We managed to avoid dogs until our neighbor’s dog had puppies.

  Our youngest boy fell in love with the puppies, and one look at our his tear-streaked face convinced us he had to have a dog of his own.

  We found a “Heinz 57” puppy, and Chris was instantly that puppy’s faithful owner. All through grade school, Sparky slept right next to Chris, keeping watch over him.

  In high school, Sparky waited by the back door for Chris to come home and seldom left his side once he arrived.

  When Chris went off to college, Sparky’s care fell to my husband, and he grew quite fond of that aging dog. I had to admit Sparky earned my admiration for taking such good care of my boy for so many years.  

  And when Sparky passed away, we cried for days.

  So when another dog came our way, I reluctantly let Channell into the house but I wasn’t going to get close to this dog because she was a pet. I wasn’t going to let her take advantage of the fact that she was a rescue dog.

  No lounging on the couch.

  No sleeping on the beds.

  No filching food off the kitchen table.

  Sure I patted her on the head and kept her food and water bowl filled, but I looked at Channell as my husband’s pet, not mine. She seemed to sense my unease, and she’s always kept a respectful distance.

  But all that changed this weekend.

  My granddaughter wanted to go swimming, so she and I changed into our swimsuits, grabbed some towels and headed to the back yard. Channell bounded out in front of us, raced to a spot behind the pool and began barking.

  This wasn’t a friendly bark – she was sounding the alarm. She was circling and jumping around something in the grass, barking frantically the entire time. I got a little closer and noticed it was a big, coiled-up snake.

  I quickly picked up my granddaughter, took her inside and called Channell back into the house. She didn’t want to leave her post, but when she saw my granddaughter, she came inside and stood next to her.

  When they were both safely indoors, I went back outside with my camera so we could identify what kind of snake was in the yard. But he was gone, scared off by the maniacal barking of our dog.  

  Never again will I gripe about Channell being a pain or a responsibility. That morning, she was our protector, and she saved us from possible harm.

  I went back inside, looked at Channell and she looked back at me with her trusting brown eyes. I scratched behind her ears, leaned down and hugged her neck.

  She wagged her tail, licked my hand and then plopped down by the back door, once again guarding us against any and all enemies.

  Channell has earned her keep for the long haul. And any time she wants it, a spot at the end of the bed.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

 

  Being a Catholic from south Louisiana, family get-togethers are anything but small, quiet affairs. So when we asked my mom what she wanted for her 80th birthday and she said for all of her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren to sit down together for a family meal, we should’ve realized the immediate guest list would number over 60.

  Her request didn’t surprise us. Dee Hebert, Siti to her grandchildren and Sit-Siti to her great-grandchildren, is a giving, loving person with a quick sense of humor. She’s well known for her off-the-cuff comments, including her infamous advice to my single brother.

  “Go to the family reunion,” she told him. “There’ll be girls there.” An unforgettable story about finding a parking spot at the airport is priceless as is the time she made a milkshake with my nephew and they forgot to put the lid on the blender.

  Then there were the afternoons when she encouraged her youngest granddaughter to make soup, and that little girl put everything in the pot but the salt shaker.

  She’s also the blueprint for being a fantastic grandmother because she never holds back her love. Every grandchild will tell you she doesn’t like one more than the other, but then, they’ll lean over and whisper “But I’m really her favorite.”

  She never asks for anything for herself, and nothing makes her happier than fixing somebody something to eat.

  The second-best way to make her happy is to have her seven children, 19 grandchildren and 16 great-grandchildren – there’s no “step” as far as Mom’s concerned – all together under her roof. Add in her nieces and nephews, and my mom is one happy camper.

  This year marks her 80th birthday, and we’ve been asking for months what she wanted. She always gave us the same answer – to have a nice meal with her children and their families.

  Finally accepting her simple request, we realized having that many people in one place was going to be difficult, but my sister-in-law found The Bennett House, a family-owned business, specializing in wedding receptions and family parties, less than two miles from Mom’s house.

  Everybody chipped in to make the day special. Siblings opened their homes and services to out-of-town guests. One granddaughter took care of designing and ordering the cake and another granddaughter picked up party favors for the great-grandchildren.

  Two granddaughters had a brilliant idea to make place cards bearing Mom’s zany sayings. One sister printed dozens of family photos to spell out a giant eight and a zero.

  My sister and niece surprised mom with a gift she didn’t expect. Weeks before the party, they sent out secret messages to relatives and Mom’s friends, asking them for their favorite story about her.

  The response to the secret Facebook site was overwhelming. Some stories we knew, others were surprises, yet the steady undercurrent was that Mom always made her friends and family feel special and loved.

  My sister created 80 envelopes, each one containing a separate memory, and she gave them to Mom at the party. Mom said she spent hours reading and re-reading the letters, and she was still on Cloud 9 days later.

  I’ve seen my mom happy, but I’ve never seen her happier than the afternoon we spent celebrating her 80th birthday. It wasn’t that she was the center of attention. It was that when she looked out over the room, she was surrounded by happy faces she loved and who loved her back.

  And each person in that room was thinking the same thing – “I’m so glad I’m her favorite.”

  I love you, Mom.

  Happy birthday.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Jane stirred her coffee, took a sip, and put the lid on her to-go cup. Strangers, we struck up a conversation in the hotel lobby as I was waiting for my sister.

As she laced up her sneakers, Jane continued naming all the places she’s been in the past couple of years – Guam, Haiti, Louisiana and Oklahoma. Those visits weren’t for pleasure, however.

Jane volunteers with the Red Cross and she was in south Louisiana, helping people whose homes had flooded in Plaquemines Parish due to heavy rains, courtesy of the slow-moving rain-maker, Hurricane Isaac.

In her mid-50’s, Jane said she was a therapist when she wasn’t working with the Red Cross, and she specialized in mental health services for people in the suburbs surrounding Washington D.C.

Jane never thought about working with people affected by disasters, but she heard the agency was in need of volunteers and she thought “why not.”

Working with the Red Cross had taken Jane to places she never dreamed she’d see, even though she was viewing them through the worst possible conditions. Floods, fires, tsunamis – you name it, she’s been there.

“The only disaster I haven’t worked is a volcano eruption,” she said.

Over the course of the morning, about a dozen weary Red Cross workers came through the hotel’s lobby, each one wearing a plastic workers’ vest, name badge and sensible work shoes. One group didn’t speak English, but their shirts reflected their affiliation with the Red Cross.

One gentleman, Ron, was from Arkansas; and as he checked his papers and cell phone, he told me he’d been all over the United States working disasters.

In fact, he and Jane had been in Louisiana together on two separate occasions, Hurricane Katrina and Hurricane Rita, and he said the stories they heard from people who lost everything they owned in raging flood waters were heartbreaking.

Reasons for going into such a demanding volunteer position varied. Ron was retired and wanted to stay physically active and help communities.

Jane said she also wanted to give back in some way. She’d known about the Red Cross, and she researched what volunteers would be asked to do before signing up.

She couldn’t build bridges or haul lumber, but she could listen and help people rebuild their lives. And that’s what she did, disaster after disaster.

I’ve always believed there’s a special place for volunteers who step up when there’s an emergency. They give of their time, something most of us guard like the secret to the sauce for a Big Mac, and they carry out the grungiest of duties with a smile.

They load sand bags and then, in the pouring rain, arrange them in front of stores and homes to keep the flood waters at bay. They sit in make-shift shelters, listening to people as they cry because they’ve lost their home or, worst of all, a loved one in the disaster.

These volunteers are drinking warm, weak coffee, eating cold cheese sandwiches and taking quick cat naps on cots so they’re refreshed and ready to go when the next wave of displaced people come through the tent.

No matter what they’re asked to do, these volunteers leave their homes with little warning and travel to far ends of the earth because somebody needs their help.

Most have a smile on their faces and spend their days helping people pick up the pieces of their shattered lives. The reward, Jane said, is seeing that first smile after the storm clears.

That’s a reward better than any paycheck.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

When my family first moved to Louisiana, the scariest folk tales we heard were about seeing alligators crawling in the street and mosquitoes the size of a Volkswagen.

Hurricanes were way down the list, and neighbors had hurricane parties when weather forecasters said a storm was coming through.

My dad would put masking tape on the windows, we’d put our Eveready flashlights on the kitchen table and fill a bathtub up with water, but that was about it.

That was until Hurricane Katrina.

That was before forecasting the weather became a science, not a guessing game.

That was before we saw the devastation a hurricane, even a Category 1 storm, can unleash.

Thanks to biting my nails through some terrifying storms, I’ve now become a weather junkie. I watch The Weather Channel and weather station Websites are bookmarked as favorites.

I’m a frequent visitor to the Weather Underground Website, and I know the difference between a tropical depression and a tropical storm.

I have some fellow weather junkie friends, and the minute we read about a tropical storm brewing, we’re emailing and texting each other.

“Gotta go,” one will abruptly say. “Steve’s on.”

Steve Lyons with The Weather Channel is the granddaddy of weather reporting. If Dr. Steve says get out, then people, get out.

Same goes with TWC’s Jim Cantore. Although he looks more like a body builder, meteorologist Cantore makes it look easy standing on a pier, pelted with wind and rain, while talking about 80-mile-per-hour winds.

Although Isaac isn’t slated to affect southeast Texas, forecasters on the Houston weather stations are going into overdrive, covering everything about the storm from hotel occupancy rates to the rising price of gasoline to what weather gurus Neil Frank, Frank Billingsley and Gene Norman think every hour on the hour.

As the storm makes landfall, thousands of Gulf Coast residents who haven’t lost power yet are glued to the television, watching Isaac bully his way up and over the Gulf Coast.

My family members in Louisiana were prepared – they’ve been stocking up on supplies and they made sure their generators were gassed up and running. One of my sisters lives in Alexandria, a good distance from the coast, but she and her family stocked up with everything they thought they’d need to wait out the storm.

They have good reason to be a bit skittish. After Katrina, my sister and hundreds of weary residents in northern Louisiana worked in the shelters as dazed evacuees from the New Orleans area poured into their cities. Volunteers rallied around those who’d lost everything, finding them food, clothing, toys, furniture and money to start over.

Neighbors in Houston and other parts of the country reached out, but people affected by the storm didn’t travel very far. They yearned to stay close to home where creamy white magnolias dot the country side in the spring and where Spanish moss hangs lazily from the limbs of centuries old oak trees.

Those who live in Louisiana and along the Gulf Coast know they take the good with the bad. Living close enough to the water so one can fish whenever one wants means those waters can occasionally turn ugly and mean.

We accept that contradiction, turn to our masterminds on The Weather Channel and weather-junkie Websites and wait for them to tell us when we can start cleaning up and get back to “laissez les bons temps rouler” – let those good times roll.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The sun’s beating down on the concrete marching band pad, and it’s only 9:30 in the morning. Scattered around the edges of the pad are red, blue and orange Igloo water coolers so the musicians can stay hydrated in the hot Texas heat.

Nearby, groups of young men wearing football pads, helmets and T-shirts are running drills, catching footballs and hitting the grass, making sure everybody understands what plays to run and how to protect each other during a game.

Rolling carts filled with water and Gatorade dot the sidelines, and trainers make sure the coolers stay full as well as watching for signs of heat exhaustion.

It’s summer, but these teens are rising above the heat and humidity. At least a month before school starts, band members spend the morning practicing their marching routines.

After they finish on the practice pad, they spend the afternoon in a classroom, sections playing together so they’ll have one unified sound.

The dance team and cheer squad are also practicing for hours every day, right alongside the flag twirlers who must match their movements with the band’s music. It looks easy, watching them throw their flags up in the air, but to choreograph those movements between a dozen teens and a 200-member marching band takes an incredible amount of practice.

Adults are out there every step of the way. Wearing oversized hats and sunglasses, they’re shouting directions into a bullhorn, redrawing patterns or looking for small mistakes so that when the time to perform arrives, they’ll be flawless.

Once school starts, dozens of teens will be staying after school practicing for the upcoming school musical, and teachers will be right there with them, singing songs, practicing lines and choreographing dance moves.

Athletes will be in the weight room, preparing for the upcoming winter and spring sports, knowing that if they work hard now, their chances of making the team are greatly enhanced. Nobody’s standing over them – they’re working hard because their hearts tell them that’s how champions behave.

I heard a speaker this week, Brad McCoy, father of legendary University of Texas and now Cleveland Browns’ quarterback Colt McCoy, speak about the importance of having passion and determination in life. It’s impossible to reach our dreams, he said, unless we have passion for what we’re doing and a willingness to go the distance to achieve our goals.

That passion is evident in these students who spend hours making sure they’re always giving their best. They’ve found a place to plug into the community, and the entire school is better because of these individuals.

So often in school, children become lost in the system. Either they feel as if they don’t fit in, they have a difficult time with routines or they’re overwhelmed with homework and the amount of class work required.

Schools are, after all, institutions where the primary directive is to learn – how to write a research paper, how to use the Pythagorean theory or how a chemical reaction works.

But schools are also places where young people learn that anything worth having means working extra hard for it and opportunities abound in our schools.

Passion is what separates people from those who sit back and let life pass them by and those who get up and actively engage in what life has to offer.

And for those who participate in the heat of the summer, after school or on Saturdays when they could be home playing video games or taking a nap, you’re learning an important, life-long lesson – anything is possible when you have a passionate determination to join the game.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I enjoy having people over for dinner. I love spending time with friends, chatting about politics or what’s going on in our lives . But I’ve had company for the past three weeks, and I’m ready for this visitor to move on.

This pesky guest butts into conversations, is loud and makes sleeping practically impossible. The culprit is a hacking cough, courtesy of a summer cold.

I seldom catch a cold, and when I do, it’s usually gone in a couple of days. But this cough is stubborn and refused to leave when the cold fled the premises. After two weeks of almost non-stop coughing, I broke down and paid a visit to the drug store.

The cold and flu aisle designate an entire section to coughs. Is it a cough due to allergies? A cough due to colds? How about a cough due to the flu? I have a nagging cough that’s due to an unwillingness to leave the building.

Not one bottle stated it was good for that kind of cough.

There’s cough suppressants and expectorants, and I had no desire to start spitting in addition to the coughing. So I read the labels on the suppressants. These meds are primarily used at night, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to sleep through the morning alarm, so I kept looking.

Finally, the tried-and-true methods won out, so I picked up a bottle of Robitussin as well as my mom’s remedy for colds – Vicks Vapo Rub. Many a night we went bed with Vick’s Vapo Rub all over our chests and a clean cloth diaper keeping the messy goop off our pajamas.

At 3 a.m., when the Robitussin wasn’t doing its job and I was desperate, I fired up the computer and started searching for cough remedies on the Internet.

Home remedies came up first, and dozens of people have their own cough cure – steamy, hot showers, hot teas and adding turmeric to hot milk. I haven’t a clue what turmeric is and no idea where to start looking for it in the store.

A little less confusing is the home remedy of boiling a stick of cinnamon in water and then drinking it. If that didn’t work, one person suggested crushing a clove of fresh raw garlic in a small bowl and mixing that with honey followed by a chaser of butter pickles.

I think I’d rather have the cough.

The home remedy of sipping Jack Daniels every time the cough came around sounded like a sure-fire way to get stumbling drunk and then we’d probably not care if we were coughing.

One site claimed that if you cover the bottoms of your feet with Vicks Vaporub, put on thick socks and go to sleep, the cough will magically disappear. Somehow I’m just not sure how covering my feet with menthol will do something for a cough, but when that cough got me out of bed at 3 a.m., I was willing to try anything.

So I glopped on the Vicks, pulled on some thick socks, went back to bed and was up at 6 a.m., still coughing but with feet that smelled like a eucalyptus tree.

I think I’ll go back to my sure-fire method for getting over a nasty cold or cough – wait it out – and see if I can find a cure for coughing that includes Blue Bell ice cream and Dove chocolates. Those might not cure the cough but that cure sounds a lot more appetizing than butter pickles and garlic.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.