In the blink of an eye.

That’s how long it takes for life to change.

With one phone call, we went from a leisurely dinner to a white-knuckle drive across Houston to see our daughter-in-law and granddaughter in the hospital emergency room.

Later that week, we found ourselves back at the hospital to welcome our grandson. We thought his arrival would be a quiet affair; but in the blink of an eye, that home delivery turned into an unexpected, middle-of-the-night trip to the hospital.

But those worries were forgotten the minute we held young James in our arms, everybody safe and sound, and we knew we’d passed a significant milestone in our family.

Big events are tough to miss. They’re anticipated for weeks, circled on the calendar and then heralded with numerous emails and phone calls. But they’re over rather quickly, remembered through photos or videos.

It’s the filler days where life provides some of the most significant moments of our lives, and we often miss what’s happening because we’re busy waiting for the red-letter events.

We impatiently endured our teenage years because we were waiting for our 21st birthday. Adults were the ones having fun, we thought, so we hurried our way through those years, often forgetting to savor the firsts that only the teenage years bring – our first driver’s license, our first kiss and our first official paycheck.

Then we became young adults, and we spent so much time establishing ourselves in the work world that we often missed the nuances that formed us into adults.

We don’t remember the day we threw away our tie-dyed T-shirts in exchange for button-down Oxfords or cleared away the stuffed animals from our bed and replaced them with coordinating pillows.

But those were the significant moments when we crossed from one phase of our lives into another. Those phases often sneak up on us and are gone before we know it.

Parenthood especially provides so many memorable moments, and we can immediately recall the milestones of our children’s lives – their first step, their first day of school and their high school graduations.

But I forgot to take my time during some of the most significant days of my sons’ childhood – what their faces looked like while playing in the dirt or sleeping peacefully in their beds at night. I witnessed those events, but I didn’t appreciate the fleeting sweetness of parenthood.

In the blink of an eye, they were babies and then they were grown and on their own. Now I watch my grown sons as they talk with each other, not for what they’re saying but memorizing how they sound when they’re laughing and how their eyes sparkle when they’re having a good time.

I watch my granddaughter skip and listen to her sing so I’ll remember what her voice sounded like when she was a happy, carefree little girl. I’m watching my grandson as he adjusts to the outside world and committing to memory those first smiles.

For sure, I’ll remember the milestones in our family’s lives, but I want to make sure I’m paying attention to the seemingly mundane because those moments are the defining times.

In the blink of an eye, life can go from happy to tragic, confusing to clear or worried to reassured. We remember what happens after we blink, but often little of what happened before.

For the second half of my life, I’m going to try and not miss as much as I did the first half because life isn’t just about the red-letter days.

Life happens in the every-day moment, when we’re least prepared and changes in the blink of an eye.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Some inventions come about from sheer necessity – the wheel and pantyhose, for example. Others come about because people want a more convenient way to live – the electric light bulb and the Barcalounger.

Other inventions come along because somebody has a crazy idea – the Veg-O-Matic and a coffee frother. Both, however, were banished to the back of my kitchen cabinet after failing to deliver what the salesman promised.

But my favorite off-the-wall useful invention is the windshield sun shade.

They come in a variety of sizes and colors and cost less than 10 bucks. As a bonus, they block damaging ultraviolet rays from transforming a dark gray dashboard into the color of bones left in the desert sun.

The manufacturer promises that the shade “folds easily for compact storage.” If one has six arms and the skills of Houdini they fold easily. But for me, the shade refuses to cooperate.

I usually get so frustrated I just throw the whole contraption in the back seat, fully extended. One afternoon, my husband gave me a logical show-and-tell demonstration on how to fold the shade up in one easy-to-copy motion.

“Put your hands on either side of the panels,” he said, holding the sunshade up. I made a mental note to do just that.

“And then twist one side one way and the other side the opposite way,” he explained and, in a wink, that huge blue shade was the size of a dinner dish.

That maneuver looked pretty simple, and if I can manage parallel parking, I reasoned, folding up the sun shade should be a walk in the park.

The next day, I tried to duplicate my husband’s instructions. I twisted. The shade rebounded with a vengeance and knocked my sunglasses off.

I tried again. Instead of looking like a dinner plate, my attempt at refolding the sunshade resulted in a lop-sided rectangle the size of a suitcase. Frustrated and hot, I threw the unfolded shade in the back seat.

A few days later, my son spotted the uncooperative and still fully extended shade in the back seat.

“Mom, these are easy to fold up,” he said. “Let me show you.”

In three seconds, he had that shade folded and the elastic band firmly around the middle to keep it from exploding. I was amazed.

“Show me how to do that,” I said. “Explain it to me like I’m 5 years old. Make that 3 years old.”

Laughing, he went slowly through the steps again, and I actually managed to snap the shade into place.

That is until the next time I was in a hot parking lot by myself. I bent, I twisted, I folded – that shade did everything except what I wanted it to do.

“Fine,” I said in exasperation and banished it, fully extended, to the back seat.

The next passenger in my car was my daughter-in-law. I explained to her my frustration with that stupid car shade, and she patted me on the back.

“No problem,” she said. “My job when I was a teen was to fold my mom’s car shades for her. I’ll do the same for you.”

Finally someone who understood that not all of us have the flexibility of an acrobat to perform that magic folding trick.

Now if only she can show me how to use that Veg-O-Matic.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

One of the prettiest sights on a back country road is of horses galloping or quietly grazing in a wide open field. Truth be told, I’m afraid of horses, having ridden only a few times in my life.

I didn’t know how to control the powerful animal I was sitting on, so I just held on for dear life, palms sweating, heart pounding.

But I’ve always marveled at people who have a sixth sense about animals, and I was particularly drawn to a documentary, “Buck,” about cowboy Buck Brannaman who uses natural horsemanship to train horses.

His early life was traumatic. After Buck’s mother died, his father beat him and his brother so savagely and so often that Buck feared for his life every single day.

When he was 12 years old, his football coach saw welts and bruises on his back, and he and the sheriff removed Buck and his brother from their father’s home the very same day. Buck went to live with foster parents Forrest and Betsy Shirley who provided a safe home for the brothers.

Buck learned a lot from the Shirleys – respect does not mean fear, people need to feel wanted and productive and a family’s love does not include intimidation and fear.

Because the Shirleys came into their lives, the brothers were able to grow up in a home filled with strong family values and two foster parents who lovingly treated the dozens of boys who lived with them as their own sons.

Buck translated that understanding into the way he trains horses using natural horsemanship, the philosophy of working with horses by appealing to their instincts and building a partnership instead of intimidation.

For over 24 years, he’s built on the natural horsemanship methods he learned from Ray Hunt and Tom Dorrance and now gives four-day clinics all over the country.

Watching him as he rode alongside colts and their owners, constantly giving feedback, I realized Buck was also giving lessons in how to train children – be firm and quick with instruction. Give praise when a task is accomplished correctly.

Discipline does not mean cruelty. Give love freely when a task is accomplished and praise when it’s earned.

His dry sense of humor is evident throughout the film, and I found myself wondering how anyone with as violent a past as Buck lived could grow into such a funny and compassionate man and trainer.

I think it’s because Buck realized he had to understand why a horse did what it did before he could accept or change that temperament. And that same understanding applies to people – we must understand what motivates someone and then we can begin to communicate and change for the better.

In Buck’s clinics, people of all ages come to believe they can be better horsemen and women than they ever thought they could be. When the sessions are over, owners realize Buck didn’t just teach them about animals – he taught them about life.

Buck reminds us to be kinder to our fellow humans and understand we accomplish more through respect than through fear. We can experience quiet healing and unconditional love when we extend a trusting hand to both humans and animals.

This film stays with viewers long after the credits stop rolling. “Buck” is a reminder that people make free choices as to how they want to live their lives. Either live bravely in the moment or brood about and resent the past.

Listening to Buck Brannaman, I know what path I want to take.
 
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

My granddaughter loves going to the park. With the mercury hitting 100 during the day, we confine our visits to later in the evening when the mercury’s hovering at only 85 degrees, cool for Texas.

On a recent visit, my granddaughter made quick friends with two other children – Trey, who said he was 4, and Jaquisha, 5, a bright-eyed youngster filled with energy. The three quickly settled into a fast friendship, and their laughter filled the park.

After watching them for a while, I realized adults can learn a lot about how to treat people if we observe the little ones.

Rule No. 1: When playing a game, play fair so everybody enjoys the activity.

Pre-schoolers love playing chase, and that game started almost immediately. Trey and Jaquisha were cousins, so naturally my granddaughter was the one doing the chasing.

But they didn’t gang up on her. Instead, they ran slow enough for my granddaughter to run with them, instead of leaving her behind.

At one point, Trey lost a shoe and the two girls helped him put it back on, and the chase began again.

Lesson learned: If you’re smarter, faster or older, you can annihilate your opponents, but where’s the satisfaction in that. Play fair and everybody has fun.

Rule No. 2: Teach each other.

Trey taught our granddaughter how to lay on the seat of the swing, twist the chains and then let go so she could spin in quick circles. She laughed with delight , and the two spun for at least 10 minutes.

Lesson learned: Try something new. It might feel confusing at first, but stay the course and see what happens.

Rule No. 3: Help each other. At the age of 4, mastering the art of swinging is tricky. You have to lean back and reach to the sky with your toes and then, on the back swing, lean forward and pull your legs back underneath the seat.

Neither Trey nor Kylie knew exactly how to swing by themselves, but they knew enough to try and explain the basics to each other.

When that didn’t go as well as they thought – both of them were practically motionless after a few minutes – Trey jumped off his swing and pushed Kylie until she was going pretty well. Then he jumped back on the swing, and Kylie jumped off her swing and she pushed him.

Lesson learned: When you help someone else, often at the expense of your own fun, both people benefit.

Rule No. 4: Be willing to change direction. My husband found two pieces of chalk in the grass, and he handed a blue one to Kylie and a purple one to Trey. They immediately found an open sidewalk and began drawing.

After a few minutes, they exchanged chalk so they could draw with different colors. As they drew their masterpieces, they found a water spigot. They didn’t have cups, but my husband taught them how to cup their hands and get a drink.

Lesson learned: Let life unfold, go with the flow and improvise when needed.

Rule No. 5: Listen to your elders.

When Jaquisha – the eldest in the bunch at the age of 5 – told Kylie and Trey to avoid a hidden nest of ants, the two younger ones listened and avoided getting bit. She also told them not to run behind someone swinging as they’d get hurt.

Lesson learned: Experience is often the best teacher but, sometimes, it pays to listen to someone who’s been around the block.

As the sun began to set, we all headed home. Trey and Jaquisha waved until they were out of sight and Kylie did the same. In the course of an hour, these three youngsters established lines of communication, a teamwork philosophy and had fun along the way.

And they taught this adult that, sometimes, the best lessons in life can be found in the most unexpected places.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

This past weekend, my family held its annual reunion at my cousin Sam’s house in Lake Charles, La. I’ve missed the past couple of Hebert reunions due to work obligations, but I made it a point to be there this year.

Our parents always made it a point to get together, and we’re trying to keep that tradition going. This reunion was like all Hebert get togethers – loud and boisterous with music, lots of youngsters and plenty of food.

We licked the bowl clean of my sister Diane’s wonderfully delicious strawberry, angel food cake and whipped cream dessert, and Sam and his brothers barbecued slab after slab of ribs and dozens of links of hot sausage. Best of all, my Aunt Claudia made three pans of her sinfully delicious chocolate cake, all of which had disappeared by the end of the day.

The same familiar stories were told and retold, and cameras never stopped clicking. The day was bittersweet for some of my cousins as we lost my wonderful Aunt Kathy earlier this year.

She was taken from us much too soon, and her daughters soaked up the plentiful stories about their mom who loved family with all her heart.

Sam’s back door was in constant motion as the kids came in and out, checking with parents to see if they could fish off the dock or go for a ride in the boat with Uncle Mike. They’d always grab a slice of cake or a hunk of sausage before heading back out to the slip-and-slide or the outside pool.

After the reunion, my cousin, Mary, posted photos of her sister-in-law, Tara, and I knew the Hebert trait of surviving tough ordeals with laughter was still in place.

Tara is halfway through chemotherapy treatments for breast cancer, and she allowed the children to paint her now-bald head with pink and yellow hearts, smiley faces and bright blue flowers.

To top it off, the girls painted some purple and gold eyebrows on Tara’s face, a tribute to the LSU Tigers, my family’s favorite football team.

In every picture, Tara’s smiling, despite the tough road she’s on. That optimism is what’s always fueled my family and held us together.

When the going gets tough, we rustle up a pot of gumbo, throw some burgers or ribs on the barbecue pit and huddle together to figure out a solution. If we need time to think, we grab a fishing pole and sit on the end of the dock until we find inspiration.

Most of all, we’ve learned to take my grandmother’s advice to heart – remember to have fun along the way and never, ever let each other down.

I’m thankful I was there this year to watch my Aunt Claudia blow out her birthday candles, reconnect with my cousins and see my grandmother’s spirit in all of her grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

I wished my father and his siblings could’ve been there with us, but as I watched my brothers, my sister and my cousins swap stories, their mannerisms so reminiscent of our parents, I knew, somehow, they were right there with us, just as they’ve been from the very beginning.

We’ve already set the date for next year’s reunion – June 30, 2012, same time and place.

I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I grew up hearing stories about my mom’s driving abilities, especially how backing a car out of a driveway usually ended up with our car in the ditch.

At barely 5-feet tall, my mom has a tough time seeing over the steering wheel of most vehicles, and 1950s vehicles were not designed for short drivers. She also grew up in a small town where few people owned cars, and she didn’t learn how to drive until she was a young adult.

Mom drives only because she has to get somewhere, and her driving record is always fodder for family jokes. I can’t count the number of casualties she’s racked up – rain gutters, poles, bicycles, shopping carts – the list goes on and on.

So it was with great reluctance I watched her climb behind the wheel of a motorized scooter in the grocery store while she’s here for a visit.

She has trouble with her knees, but she wanted to go to the market with me. She’s never used a motorized cart back home in Louisiana, ah the price of vanity, so she avoids stores because of all the walking.

Because she doesn’t know anyone here, she decided to give one a try.

While I parked the car, she practiced backing up and going forward in the store lobby. By the time I got inside, she was smiling like Mario Andretti at the Indianapolis 500 starting line.

“Ready?” I said.

Her reply was to zip through the double doors, barely missing the strawberry shortcake display and then zooming past the free samples of coffee on her way to the produce department.

Skidding to a stop in front of the lettuce bin, she reached over and tossed a couple of heads into her basket and then wheeled the cart around, executing a perfect three-point turn.

“What else do you need?” she said. “I’ll get it.”

“Lemons and tomatoes,” I said slowly, still trying to believe this was my mother — the woman those right-rear fender has taken out more mail boxes than anyone else I know — wheeling around kumquats and cucumbers like she’s done it all her life.

Of course, she almost clipped three shoppers picking out grapes and two more at the melon counter. Thank goodness, I said to myself as I apologized profusely, for people with quick reflexes.

I followed her to the meat section where she raced around the case, looking at the chicken thighs and broilers instead of people, and once again, I thanked the stars for people who react quickly.

“Mom, there’s an olive bar over there,” I said, pointing to an area few people visit in the grocery store. “You should go pick some out. Take your time, and I’ll pick up the rest of what we need.”

She smiled, shifted that cart into first gear and took off like a seasoned pro. As soon as she was around the corner, I practically ran through the store so I could get everything on the list, and we could get out of there before she caused some serious damage.

But, the woman was fast. In less than five minutes, she was zooming up next to me on the bread aisle, her cart filled with things she knew we needed. The smile on her face went from ear to ear.

“Let’s check out,” she said over her shoulder as she headed for the check-out lane coming within inches of an end display of tortillas and barely missing a man coming around the corner.

She skidded to a stop in front of the checker and turned around.

“I’m gonna have to get one of these,” she said, a wicked smile on her face.

Winn-Dixie, look out.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The little boy was crouched at the edge of the sand, his short blond hair blowing in the breeze. His eyes were fixed on the water in front of him, and he seemed so small compared to the size of the waves crashing on the beach.

He was digging in the sand, throwing some from time to time, until his mother’s voice called out to him.

“Don’t throw the sand,” she said. “You’ll get some in your eyes. And don’t get too close to the water.”

The boy’s shoulders dropped a little, and he refocused his gaze out on the endless horizon. I could practically feel his wistfulness from 25 feet away.

We were in Gulf Shores, Ala., a popular summer getaway, for our annual vacation where my favorite pastime is sitting on the beach and watching people.

Over the course of a day, I see all kinds of people – pre-teenage girls wearing bikinis for the first time followed by admiring pre-teen boys whose voices have not quite changed to a deeper timber.

There’s the old timers – their skin’s tanned to a deep mahogany, their well-worn T-shirts supporting either the University of Alabama or Auburn University. They stroll down the beach, often stopping to pick up trash or a beautiful seashell.

There’s the power walkers – they come running down the beach, a Walk-man firmly attached to their ears, and they seldom look at the beauty of the gulf. Their eyes are affixed on their stride and getting around slow pokes.

But I’m always drawn to the families, especially those with rambunctious young boys, as they remind me of when we visited Gulf Shores as a family.

These boys, like mine, love nothing more than running into the waves, stopping when one threatens to come too near, and then trying to beat the crest back to the shore, their laughter carried on the wind.

That’s why I was watching that little boy at the edge of the water. He wanted to go out into the water, but the responsibility of listening to his mother outweighed his desire.

All of a sudden, his father scooped him up. The little boy’s face lit up, and he put his arm around his father’s neck. The dad hugged him close, and the two waded out into the water.

The first wave crashed over them, but the dad held his ground and the little boy’s grip grew tighter. When they turned around, that youngster was drenched, but I could see the smile on their faces from where I was sitting.

Another wave came by, and the two jumped into the white froth, both of them shaking off the water and howling with laughter.

After a while, the dad waded toward the shore where the waves were calm, but the little boy never loosened his grip on his dad’s neck.

His father put him down on the sand, and that youngster looked up at him, grinning from ear to ear.

“That sure was fun wasn’t it, Dad,” he said, his voice carrying on the wind.

The dad crouched down, looked his boy straight in the face and smiled.

“Want to go again?” he said, and his son jumped up into his dad’s arms and out they went.

When people go to the beach, they often find beauty in the shells lying on the sand.

Others find wonder in the reds and violets as the sun sets over the horizon or in the gracefulness of a seagull soaring over the waves.

I found trust in a little boy’s eyes as his father took him on an adventure.

That’s one for the memory books.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The gift was an afterthought, really. A small blue book, “All About Me,” was near the checkout lane, and I was shopping for a Father’s Day gift for my dad.

The year was 1998, and that spur-of-the-moment gift was quickly forgotten. Right after my dad passed away, I packed and sealed up a box with some knick-knacks from my dad’s room.

Last week, I unexpectedly came across the box in the back of my closet and decided to see what was in there. Underneath some knick-knacks, I found the book.

He’d filled in the pages.

Cautiously, I began reading the familiar, bold hand writing I hadn’t seen in over a decade, and it was as if my dad was sitting next to me again.

Like many young girls, my dad was my hero. My childhood memories are of a debonair man who loved to dance. It wasn’t unusual for my dad to take my mom’s hand and twirl her around the kitchen to a song only they could hear.

At family functions, I remember standing on his shoes as he led me around a dance floor, showing me how to anticipate if my dance partner would go to the left or to the right. We always finished our Cajun two-step with a dip and a bow.

As a teen, though, my dad was practically non-existent. His primary companions were his drinking buddies at the local VFW and Dixie beer. Over the years, my quiet resentment grew until I was barely speaking to him by the time I turned 18.

Seeing his eldest daughter leave home angry — and six more children seemingly ready to follow the same bitter path — my dad made the tough decision to stop drinking. He told me he was going to join Alcoholics Anonymous and live the rest of his life sober.

I didn’t believe him.

In fact, it was years before I accepted the reality that he did stop drinking. He stayed sober, and my bitterness slowly turned to admiration for someone who battled one of the toughest demons around and won the war.

Over the years, our relationship evolved into an honest friendship. I saw my father for the man he was, not the man I fantasized him to be; and by the end of his life, we were at peace with each other.

Two weeks before he died, after years of battling a cruel and debilitating lung disease, we had a frank talk about what he wanted at his wake and funeral.

That was a tough conversation, but the time for pretending was over. At that point, there were no illusions between us, the result of moving from a fantasy father to a flesh-and-blood dad and friend.

So when I began reading the book, I did so with curiosity as to what my dad thought, not looking for answers to life’s questions. As I flipped through the book, I smiled and sniffled.

I didn’t know my dad’s worst enemy as a teenager was someone named Frank, and I’d forgotten my father liked to cook.

On one page, my dad drew a self-portrait, and he did a pretty good job, down to his square wire-rimmed eyeglasses and his receding hair line.

Although my dad’s no longer here, this little blue book brought him back to me in richer hues and deeper colors.

For some, it might not matter what color their father considered his favorite. After all, that’s a minor detail when one considers what a father might believe about religion or politics.

But to me, those little things matter.

My dad’s favorite color was blue.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

A friend called me the other day with exciting news — she’s heading overseas. Because she’s a talented writer and an daring soul, she’s going to try and have some travel pieces published.

As I scrubbed the soap scum ring out of the bathtub, I thought about the adventures waiting for her in India and China —streets teeming with colors and the fragrances of incense, spices and perfumes overwhelming the senses.

A little envious, I wondered if I could ever write a travel stories to help travelers find their way safely through new places and discover treasures only those who live there know.

Then, I realized something —I’ve never been to exotic places like Madrid or Casablanca, but I have been to the grocery store.

Before you laugh, a trip to a suburban grocery store can often be filled with peril. Here’s how I might write this travel adventure:

“A trip to the market requires nerves of steel. Pacific Coast Highway drivers must watch for falling rocks, but travelers in the suburbs need to watch out for people texting while driving because avoiding their careless maneuvers is more dangerous than running with the bulls in Pamplona. Don’t park right next to the cart return area because teens love to stand 20 feet away from the metal bars and give shopping carts a shove to see if they can make it into the chute. They can’t. Your car will take the dent.”

Rinsing out the tub, I thought about going to an American mall. Maneuvering through freeway and highway traffic and then circling a crowded mall parking lot is a lot more intimidating than flying on an airplane.

Most of the time, once you slog your way through airport security, you get on a plane, sit in the same seat for hours watching back-to-back viewings of “Kung Fu Panda,” and then hop into a relative’s minivan or a taxi cab. The escapades of that chubby panda pale in comparison to driving to a mall here in Fort Bend County:

“Traveling safely to a mall is quite the adventure, especially when dodging orange construction cones, potholes the size of an elephant and bulldozers that unexpectedly back into traffic. Once you reach the mall parking lot, avoid the speed bumps as they will loosen the fillings from your teeth. Write down where you left your vehicle because Texas mall parking lots take up more space than the Aggies’ Kyle Field.”

Perhaps I could write a travel piece for people coming through this area. It’s not the same as sightseeing through the historic Charleston district, but we do have some noteworthy spots:

“Take Highway 90A from Houston into the city limits of Richmond, making sure one notices the historic Fort Bend County Courthouse. Stop for a quick lunch at one of the cozy eateries on Morton Street before heading into Rosenberg for a strawberry sno cone at Bob’s Taco Stand. Head south on Highway 36 and pull through at Schulze’s Restaurant for the sweetest Coke this side of the Brazos River.”

Okay, that’s nothing but food writing, but the highlight of most vacations is what and where we eat — that thick clam chowder in Boston, that fully dressed shrimp po boy down in the French Quarter or that spicy barbecue sandwich in Fort Worth.

I might not be able to write about dining on filet mignon in Paris or sampling a smooth gelato in Italy, but I do know some of the best joints to chow down right here in Fort Bend County.

Pass the barbecue sauce and some paper and a pen.

I think I’m at the start of something big.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Bob Haenel was my boss at The Fort Bend Herald for over 15 years. Today was his last day as the executive managing editor, and we presented him with a surprise front page in his honor. This is the story I wrote about him — I hope you see Bob for the great boss and friend we all know him to be. — Denise

He leans back in his creaky brown chair, pops open the top on a Diet Coke and looks around his cluttered office.

Bob Haenel, managing editor for the Fort Bend Herald, knows there’s at least a hundred unanswered emails in his box, a dozen voice messages blinking on the phone and an overflowing in-box on the corner of his desk.

Instead, he finds himself watching the activity in the newsroom right outside his door. Reporters are sitting at their desks, tapping out stories on their computers, interviewing softball coaches or hunched over a computer keyboard, looking for that just-right lead for a weekend feature story.

In his 35 years as a writer, reporter and editor, Haenel, 50, has seen and heard it all. He started out in 1979 as a sports editor for the Herald-Coaster, subsequently moved to the news side and was named news director in 1981.

A year later, he moved to The Katy Times but came back to The Mirror, a Fort Bend County newspaper, in 1983 as their editor and publisher. Four years later, he was named the managing editor of The Herald-Coaster, now The Fort Bend Herald, and is currently the paper’s executive managing editor.

Unlike the bigwigs at major publications, Haenel prefers to actively know the community and the people who live and work there. He’s on a first-name basis with the president of the chamber of commerce as well as the white-gloved ladies in the garden clubs.

In seconds, he can trace the lineage of the “Old 300” families back to the Stephen F. Austin days, and he knows to count the vowels in the Czech names for the Around the Bends before publishing the paper.

“Birthday call,” yells out the receptionist at the front desk. Haenel picks up the phone receiver and writes down the information, knowing for some people, seeing their child’s name in the “Happy Birthday” column will be the highlight of their day.

He also knows getting everyone’s name correct in an obituary is right up there with not misspelling the local superintendent’s name on the front page. An obituary, Haenel tells his staffers, might be the only time a person is mentioned in the local paper, and the writers better get it right.

One of his young reporters tentatively knocks on his door, and Haenel waves him in, despite the incessantly blinking light on his telephone. An elderly woman claims drug trafficking on her street is rampant, but the police can’t seem to catch the dealers.

This woman wants the newspaper to write about the crimes, but the reporter isn’t sure if the story is worth following up.

Haenel leans forward, put his elbows on his knees, and looks straight at this fresh-out-of-college writer.

“If we’re not there for people, who will be?” he says, the challenge evident in his voice. “Our job is to look out for the little guy and to give him a voice. Don’t forget that’s the reason you’re here. Call her back and stay over there all day if you have to, but make sure we report what’s going on in our own back yard.”

Journalism schools teach young writers the rules about style, formatting and inverted pyramids, but they can’t teach what Haenel instinctively possesses — an unerringly correct moral compass and a passion to uncover misdeeds and point out inequities in society.

As the reporter leaves his office, Haenel notices a sea of blue hats standing at his door. He’d forgotten it was time for the weekly Cub Scout tour through the office.

Haenel loves accompanying these youngsters as they visit the press room, their eyes wide at the giant machines that churn out newspapers around the clock. Haenel’s fingers are often stained with black ink, and the cuffs on his well-worn beige sweater are permanently gray, the result of brushing against fresh newsprint for the past three decades.

Walking into the newsroom, Haenel stops and offers encouragement to a struggling reporter, reminds another writer to find out if there’s adequate drinking water for people living in the colonias and sits to chat with the sports editor about whether or not this year’s Little Leaguers can swing their way to Williamsport.

Back in his office, Haenel pops open his fourth Diet Coke of the day and settles down in front of his computer. He’s spent many Friday nights in that cramped office on Fourth Street, battling ornery computers, reluctant witnesses to wrong-doings and, once, writing by candle-light on battery-operated laptops when an electrical storm blew out the power.

Although the pace in a newsroom is frenetic, Haenel is the calm in the storm. His reporters take their cue from the boss, and because he encourages, consoles and occasionally scolds, his staff gives 100 percent. His belief in their ability allows them to grow as reporters and writers.

Haenel, however, is unaware how much influence he has over so many people. Instead, he looks around his office again, the back credenza stacked high with old photographs and decades-old phone books, and leans back in the chair.

One of these days, he thinks, I’ll get around to clearing off that desk, write a novel and open that hot dog stand. Until then, there are stories to edit, monthly publications to review and emails to answer.

“Birthday call,” comes Annie’s voice again.

Haenel takes another sip of his Diet Coke and picks up the call. Clutter can keep, he figures. People, well, that’s a different matter.

“Hi there,” he says, cradling the receiver comfortably under his cheek. “Now how can I help you?”