When people get together, the conversation often turns to work and the boss. Some supervisors resemble Fezziwig from “A Christmas Carol” while others deserve the nasty names their employees call them behind their backs.

At the age of 12, I entered the work force as a babysitter. It was a nice gig — 50 cents an hour, free pizza and free television.

But I wanted to make real money, so I put in an application at the closest movie theater, The Robert E. Lee in north Baton Rouge. The theater promised all the free popcorn I could eat and paid a princely sum of $1.25 an hour.

This was my first time to work for someone I didn’t know, and Miss Joyce remains one of the most eccentric people I’ve ever met. Every night, she stormed into the theater wearing leather riding boots and a full-length fur coat. She was always accompanied by two rambunctious Doberman Pinschers.

She was also bossy and demanding but she took care of her employees. If we needed the night off, she was accommodating. If a customer was rude to us, she refused to take his side. She might’ve looked like a character from a dime novel, but she made a huge impression on me.

Over the years, I’ve had a variety of bosses, especially as a temporary office worker. After all these years, one assignment remains one of the oddest places I’ve ever worked.

Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, the employees wore purple to work. Every Tuesday and Thursday, they wore gold, all in honor of the LSU Tigers.

At 10 a.m. and 2 p.m., a harsh whistle sounded in the building, and everyone filed outside for a 15-minute smoking break, even if you didn’t smoke.

The supervisor begged me to come back after my original assignment was over. I politely declined and got out of there as fast as I could.

As a secretary in an oil company, I worked for all kinds of men and women. Some were ruthless snakes who’d stop at nothing to get ahead while others were easy going and fair.

Probably the oddest request I ever had in my 10 year-career was when my ultra-conservative boss stuck his head out of his office door and asked me to sew up his pants because he’d ripped them while bending over.

But Dave was attentive to his employees’ needs and never yelled or belittled them. And after all these years in the business world, those are two traits I look for in a good supervisor. I also look for fairness, no matter what his or her personal preferences might be.

A good boss also has a keen sense of humor and isn’t afraid to laugh at him or herself when things are tough. The better bosses compliment their employees for a good job and make sure mistakes are handled so their employees grow, not wither. Great bosses do all that plus they inspire and teach through example.

Bob Haenel is one of those great bosses. Whenever I’m down, he’s encourages me to keep going.

When I think I’ve run out of steam, he assures me I have what it takes to get the job done. Every time I’ve made a mistake, Bob laughingly relates his mistakes and then the matter’s closed.

Bob taught me that ethics aren’t pages in the Associated Press Stylebook. They’re a way of life, and that’s how Bob lives every day.

He honestly believes we’re here to look out for “the little guy.” He loves his family, his dog, his beige sweater, Arby’s roast beef sandwiches and this community.

He’s also taught me a thing or two in the last 15 years — the proper way to eat a tamale, the difference between a stallion and a steer, how to cook a tender pot roast and how to creatively use profanity.

Bob knows the answer to every trivia question about “It’s a Wonderful Life,” the second song on the “James Gang Rides Again” album and he’s the only person I know who worked in a graveyard.

Thank you, Bob, for your down-home, practical advice, your gentle guidance during turbulent and calm times and your unconditional friendship to me and hundreds others.

You’re one in a million, boss. One in a million.

Bob Haenel is a friend to me, my sons, my family and everybody I know. He’s mentored me and taught me more about the newspaper business than anybody else I know. He loves his wife, his sons and his community and he’s one of the good guys. This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

At this time of the year, hundreds of teenagers will take a walk across a stage, shake the superintendent’s hand and wave to relatives up in the nose-bleed section who came to watch them graduate from high school.

These young men and women are finally on their way. They can’t wait to leave high school behind, move off to an exciting new place and finally begin to live their lives as adults. They’re ready to shake the small-town dust from their shoes and forge a bold new path for themselves.

For some, however, that dream will stay a dream. Many don’t have enough money to travel the world or they can’t pay astronomically high college tuition prices. Completing that path will take place inch by inch, not yard by yard.

Worse, we didn’t hand them a gold-plated world. There’s a war across the ocean, a tough recession, unemployment rates in the double digits and lunatics running around proclaiming it’s end of the world.

If that’s what it means to be an adult, perhaps staying a kid a bit longer isn’t such a bad choice.

But many of them don’t have that option. They became adults years ago, whether it’s because they went to work to help pay the family bills or were forced to punch the clock to pay their own way.

So in this world of gathering storm clouds and bleak skies, what can the Class of 2011 look forward to?

Plenty.

First of all, hope. Throughout the history of the world, hope that things will get better has brought people out of the doldrums and allowed them to believe they can rebuild a better world for themselves and the people around them.

They can also look forward to the benefits of personal hard work. For some young people, their parents made sure they avoided difficulties. These “helicopter parents” tried to do everything for their children except let them stumble and regroup.

These parents unwittingly robbed their children. Undertaking something difficult and not giving up until one finds success is the only true path to long lasting self-confidence and self-achievement. Sugar coating a mediocre job doesn’t do a teen any good.

As adults, they’ll face difficulties and they’ll be on their own. When they take on a hard job, struggle and grit their teeth to finish, that teen has personally discovered the key to true self actualization.

If they wish, the Class of 2011 can become the movers and the shakers instead of the shoved and the stepped on. This class can take up the gauntlet of cleaning up government, making sure schools and charities have enough funds to keep running and refuse to accept “that’s the way we’ve always done it” as the law of the land.

Class of 2011, when you shake the superintendent’s hand, don’t think of it as a farewell gesture. Think of it as the hand of the older generation infusing you with a mission to go out and right wrongs. Believe you’re a positive force in the universe, someone who’s actually going to change the world for the better.

Ladies and gentlemen, that journey begins in earnest the moment you flip that tassel on your graduation cap from the right side to the left, over your heart where belief, hope and optimism reside.

The challenge is yours. Now go on out there and change the world.
 
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

“Mom, I hate to tell you this, but your dog’s looking a little chunky,” my youngest son said on his last visit to the house.

“She’s not at all chunky,” I said in defense of our “Heinz 57” dog. “That’s muscle and baby fat.”

Channell is only three years old, a young adult in dog years. She’s barely had time to get out of her teens, so naturally she’s carrying a bit more padding around the middle.

Besides, Channell is a busy pup. When she’s out on her evening walk, she pulls at the leash like she’s at a monster truck rally.

If she sees a squirrel, it’s as if the officials sounded the bell to start the Kentucky Derby. She goes from sniffing the ground to barking and straining at the leash in less than 15 seconds.

On the flip side, she does spend a great part of the day sleeping on her pillow in the dining room.

And sleeping on the floor in our bedroom.

And sleeping under the shade tree in the back yard.

As my son pointed at Channell’s rounded tummy, she looked at me with her sad brown eyes, so I pulled a dog snack out of the treat jar.

She gobbled it up and, still feeling guilty because someone was calling her chunky and hurting her feelings, I gave her another snack.

Gee, maybe there is a reason why Channell’s got that spare tire around her middle.

And maybe that reason is me.

Using food as a reward goes back to my childhood. Whenever my grandmother wanted to know what was happening in our family, she’d bake a huge pan of chicken and rice and simmer stuffed squash on the stove.

She’d subtly wave a plate filled with food under my nose, and then interrogate me for information about our family, the neighbors and my friends. If I spilled the beans, she refilled the plate.

No news — that yummy Lebanese food remained in the pot for a more willing informant.

My family also used food as an excuse to take a vacation. We’d hear about a great pizza place somewhere, and we’d pack up and head out. If we did any sort of walking or sight-seeing, we figured we also earned a trip to the ice cream parlor.

In fact, my family involves food in every aspect of life, and my mom’s the expert at weaving food into every activity, including stopping by for a visit. The minute we walk into her house, she starts hauling groceries out of the refrigerator.

If we look tired or down, this petite woman can whip up a three-course meal in under 10 minutes, complete with garnishes and freshly ironed cloth napkins.

She taught me well as I find myself pushing food the minute someone walks into our house.

“You look thin,” I’ll tell my sons’ friends. “Have something to eat.”

“I’m not hungry, Mrs. Adams,” they’ll say.

“Nonsense,” I reply as I whip out the griddle. ” I’ll make you a sandwich while you tell me all the news about your family.”

So, as I refill Channell’s food bowl because she worked up an appetite chasing birds and I know her feelings are still a bit sore from being called “chunky,” I figure since she’s part of the family, I might as well treat her like part of the family.

Now if only she could talk and tell me what the neighbors are up to…

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

When people find out I write for a newspaper, the first question they ask is if I’ve ever interviewed someone famous — a movie star or a well-known politician, they’ll say.

The answer is I’ve never interviewed someone famous, but I’ve interviewed quite a few important people.

My definition of important is someone who gives of themselves to make the world a better place. They instinctively know to give of one’s heart and soul leaves a longer lasting impact on society than simply showing up on a movie screen or making lots of money.

Over the past few weeks, this community lost two respected citizens, Mason Briscoe and Arthur Mahlmann.

I first met Mr. Briscoe when I stopped into the Fort Bend Feed and Farm Supply many years ago. I’d heard they had rawhide bones for our dog, but I found out the-visited store on Highway 90A had much more than pet supplies and tomato plants.

They had Mr. Briscoe.

With his slow Texas drawl and ready smile, I immediately felt at home with him, and so did everyone who came into the store.

He hid his accomplishments, preferring to talk about current events, the weather or what was happening with someone else. Over the years, I visited the store under the pretext of picking up dog food, but I really came to visit with Mr. Briscoe.

One year, the newspaper decided to profile World War II veterans, and Mr. Briscoe’s name came up. We sat down in his cozy office in the back of the store, the desks filled with papers accumulated over years of working in the same place.

In his unhurried way, Mr. Briscoe described being a carefree young boy and shipping off to war in Europe. He was debonair, dashing and full of mischief, but the war forced him to grow up.

While in Europe, he earned medals and commendations for bravery. He came home a man, settled down and quietly made this part of the world a better place.

Many young people at St. John’s United Methodist Church credit Mr. Briscoe with setting them on the right path to becoming a man, and he did so with gentle guidance, sound advice and a twinkle in his eye.

Mr. Briscoe was life-long friends with Arthur Mahlmann. Like Briscoe, Mr. Mahlmann shipped out to Europe as an idealistic young man, prepared to fight for freedom. He came under gunfire, earned medals and commendations, yet never hesitated to step forward when duty required his bravery.

When he returned to Rosenberg, he married a lovely home-town girl, Lydia, and worked his entire life in Rosenberg to create homes and neighborhoods.

A devout Catholic, Mr. Mahlmann made sure his church received updates and renovations, and his commitment to his faith was unshakable. I was fortunate to spend time with Mr. Mahlmann because he wanted to dictate his biography so his children and grandchildren would know their heritage.

Once a week for four months, we sat together, and, in his deep, baritone voice, Mr. Mahlmann described his beliefs, his commitment to Rosenberg and his unwavering love for his family, especially his still-beautiful bride, Lydia.

Not only did he leave a wonderful history for his family, Mr. Mahlmann unknowingly taught me to stay true to my convictions, especially when times were difficult, believe I could make the world a better place and to always cherish my family.

I could never bring myself to call these two gentlemen by their first names, even though they would’ve been comfortable with being greeted that way. They deserved respect because they lived what they believed every single day of their lives.

So whenever I’m asked if I’ve ever interviewed someone important, I think about Mr. Mahlmann and Mr. Briscoe.

And the answer is “yes.”

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I stood in the card aisle, looking at all the different Mother’s Day cards. I’m fortunate my mother is in good health. She spends her retirement days volunteering at her church, bowling on Wednesdays with a league and keeping up with her seven children, 26 grandchildren and almost as many great-grandchildren.

Most of the cards were sentimental, and those words do reflect how I think about my mom. But they weren’t personal enough. I kept looking, the flowery cards getting increasingly sappy.

Not that I don’t like corny, but those cards just didn’t seem right for my mom who, in her late 70’s, is sassy and still runs circles around me.

So I headed to the humorous card section. There were cards for children to present to their mothers, complete with pictures of youngsters covered in mud and dirt. Sending my mom a humorous card didn’t seem right either, even though she’s the first one to laugh at a joke.

I thought about making her a card on our home computer, but it’s a long standing joke in our family that when someone receives a “store-bought” card, complete with an envelope, that person rules.

I could send her a bouquet of flowers, and she’d love that, but that gesture didn’t seem like the right move for my mom this year.

When trying to think of how to honor my mom, I thought about the ways our society pays homage to mothers. Songwriters have composed hundreds of songs for mothers, both saintly mothers and rotten mothers and writers have penned thousands of poems and stories about motherhood.

It’s difficult to put into four rhyming stanzas or five epic chapters exactly what mothers do that makes them worthy of praise.

They go through childbirth, a terrifying journey they and only they can travel. While they’re still catching their breath, an infant is placed into their arms.

In that one heart-stopping moment, a new mother realizes she is connected to another human in an unbreakable bond for the rest of her life.

Mothers walk miles in an infant’s lifetime, soothing a colicky cry or heading off to the playground. They have room on their laps for as many children as will fit, and nothing cures a bruised knee or busted knuckle quite like a kiss from mommy.

They celebrate the first tooth, first step and first words out of their baby’s mouth. They hover over a toddler as they make their way into the world and then, in a gesture that is quite remarkable, they let go of their child’s hand when the time is right.

Moms endure the torturous teen-age years, understanding tantrums and pouting are all part of separation because that’s a child’s destiny – – to go out in the world and make a life for themselves.

When those teenagers turn into young adults, mothers smile as they give away their daughters and sons to another to love, her heart breaking a little because her baby is truly grown up.

Although we honor moms on Sunday, they deserve respect every day for they have a difficult role to play in life.

They make sure their children have their feet solidly on the ground and then help them find their wings so they can fly away.

Happy Mother’s Day to all mothers and, to my mom, thank you for helping me finally find my wings.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I’m listening to a murder mystery novel, and the tale’s based in Nashville, Tenn. The author is quite familiar with that area as he describes the streets and neighborhoods with exact detail.

He cannot, however, be a native Southerner as he’s included every hackneyed, stereotypical phrase ever attributed to a backwoods southern hick in his book.

The narrator makes it worse by using the fakest Southern accent I’ve ever heard, and I’ve got a comparison. I grew up in New York state, and I quickly became aware of the vast differences in the way I talked versus the teens I was meeting in school.

I pronounced words like “car” and “bar” with a hard “a” sound — like “kar.” People in Louisiana, however, used a much softer accent on that “a,” and it was “cahr” and “bahr.” Soon I fell in love with the genteel way those words rolled off their tongues.

Northerners like to group everyone from the South into a broad category, where we all say “reckon” and “ya heah” and have a lower IQ just because we talk differently. But we’re not stupid because we have a drawl — we just pronounce words differently and take our time about saying them.

In the South, one shoe does not fit all. There are different accents across the region, starting with the distinct vowel sounds coming from those reared in Virginia. They pronounce words like “mouse” more like “moose” and “house” like “hoose.”

One of my favorite Southern accents hails from Georgia. The mother of one of my best friends in high school hailed from that beautiful state, and she pronounced Albert’s name as “Ahl-buh.” I’d ask Mrs. Bondurant questions all the time, just to hear her transform ordinary words into musical notes.

I’m from Louisiana, and I tend to put a French slant on the words. When we first moved to Houston, I pronounced “Bissonnet” as “Biss-a-nay,” just as they would in Louisiana.

However, I found out that in Houston, it’s “Biss-ah-net,” the Spanish pronunciation the preferred method. Same as with “bayou.” In Louisiana, it’s “by-you,” and in Texas it’s “buy-oh.”

The mysterious city at the end of the Mississippi River is often mispronounced. People not familiar with Louisiana words call the city “New Or-Leans,” but southerners know the real name is dragged out — “New Ah-Lins.”

People often talk about people from the Bronx having a distinct accent, but the people from Chalmette and Metairie, Louisiana have accents extremely similar to their Northern cousins. The two accents are almost interchangeable — things don’t “warp,” they “wop,” and it’s not “oil,” it’s “earl.”

Cajuns also have a distinct accent that’s charming and quite distinct. My dad could lay on a Cajun accent as thick as cane syrup in the winter. The “chers” and “ah biens” rolled off his tongue whenever he wanted to charm someone.

Here in the Lone Star state, there’s a variety of accents, and I thoroughly enjoy Texas country, especially the familiar sayings from people who were born and reared here.

People from other areas have sayings particular to their region, but you’d have to go a long way to beat the Southern explanation of stupidity: “he’s so dumb, he could throw himself on the ground and miss.”

The next time I’m ready for a story based in the South, I’m going to pick up the printed version so I can imagine the voices in my head. That way, I’ll have an old-fashioned, good-ole-gal voice in my head.

And honey, that’ll be finer ‘n frog’s hair.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I never noticed it before, but the clock on my desk is loud when the room is quiet. Tick, tock, tick, tock. Every time I look up, another minute has passed.

In the quiet, I find myself noticing little things — the fine layer of dust covering the books on the shelf and how the pictures on the wall are slightly crooked.

I’m not taking time to step back from life so I can notice the small details in life. I’m procrastinating, and if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s procrastinating.

Today, I’m putting off writing this column because the creative juices are not flowing. So I decide to distract myself and start with the load of towels I left in the dryer last night.

I thought I’d find some inspiration between the fabric softener sheets and the wash cloths, but, alas, there was none to be found.

So I looked inside the refrigerator because we all know inspiration lies somewhere between last night’s left-over pork chops and mashed potatoes.

I could write about the unknown contents of those two plastic bowls in the back of the fridge, but that’s only good for a paragraph or two. Besides, I really don’t want to know what’s developing underneath the Saran Wrap.

Hearing our dog’s collar jingle, I get up and play with her for a little bit. Perhaps throwing the ball to Channell might start those creative juices flowing.

The only thing that distraction accomplished was having our energetic pup tromp over the bushes my husband just planted.

Sometimes flipping through the television channels sparks a bit of creativity. With over 150 channels, there’s bound to be something interesting and captivating to watch and then write about.

I found myself glued to an episode of “Hoarders,” which led me to throw away those plastic bowls in the fridge sight unseen, and then clear all the clutter off the kitchen counter.

So, hours after I started, I’m still sitting here, tapping my index finger on the computer mouse, trying to find inspiration.

Instead, I find myself wondering why I have so many stacks of paper around my desk. In one stack, I find the invitation to my niece’s wedding and remember I never got around to making our hotel reservations.

Then I see the envelope inviting me to order a new women’s magazine. Wondering what future issues might offer, I fire up the Internet, read about the publication’s plans and find myself sidetracked into reading about the history of Earth Day.

Then I remember I meant to recycle the newspapers on the kitchen table. Before putting the stack into the recycling bin, though, I spot a few columns I meant to read, so I sit down and put on my glasses.

That’s when I remember that pork chop in the fridge, so I warm it up, fix a glass of iced tea and tell myself I’m just stoking the creative fires.

After that quick power snack, I once again sit down at the computer, ready to crank out a column, because the creative juices should be flowing.

The only thing I notice is how loud that clock is ticking.

So I move the clock to the back bedroom and notice my granddaughter has left out some toys from her Sunday visit.

While picking up the accessories to her princess doll collection, I remember all the ways she tried avoiding going to bed, including saying she was hungry, she needed to color one more page and could I pretty please read her just one more story.

Procrastination and distraction. Two tricks that often work or, in the case of the Adams’ women, can get us off the hot seat.

At least for a little while.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

We’re a society obsessed with time-saving devices. Microwaves cut cooking times from hours into seconds. Instant and frozen foods allow us to put a three-course meal on the table in less than 15 minutes.

Cell phones put us in touch with family and friends in seconds no matter where we are. We can pick up our cells and, while waiting at red lights, make an appointment with the dentist, call our kids or chat with a friend from out of state.

There are so many devices that save us time, we should be gliding along in auto pilot most of the time.

Then why do we always seem to be cruising through life in the fast lane, gripping the steering wheel, the gas pedal pushed all the way to the floor?

Because in our quest to hurry up and accomplish our to-do list, we’ve lost the ability to sit back and take it easy. There’s too many things to do and not enough time to do them.

Relaxation is a word many of us only know from seeing the concept on advertisements. We seldom live that state of mind, despite all of society’s inventions and catch phrases designed to give us more free time.

We multi-task to take care of all the items on our long “to-do” list. We listen to a podcast of a radio show while cleaning the kitchen. We fold clothes while watching a TiVo’d television show because we’re too impatient to sit through the 30-second commercials.

Going to the market was once an activity where people not only shopped for dinner, but neighbors took time to catch up on each others’ lives.

Now, most people talk on their hands-free cell phones while dashing up and down the grocery store aisles, their iPhones or Blackberries beeping off a grocery list. There’s no time to chat with friends in the store — we’re preoccupied doing two things at one time.

Sunday afternoons, once a sacred time for visiting with family, watching a football game on television or taking a nap on the couch, are now precious slices of time when we catch up on the laundry, pay bills, clean the house or run errands we’re too busy to do during the week.

In our quest to create more time for ourselves, the only thing we’ve made more time for is more work.

After falling into bed last Saturday night, exhausted yet knowing I had a long list of to-do items for Sunday afternoon, I found myself thinking of an episode from “The Andy Griffith Show.” Entitled “Man in a Hurry,” a businessman, Malcolm Tucker, comes through Mayberry on a Sunday afternoon and has car trouble.

No one’s available to repair his car, and Tucker is furious, wondering why the people in this hick town won’t repair his car on a Sunday afternoon. He belittles everyone because he believes his time is more important than relaxing.

But after seeing how the people of Mayberry protect and savor their unhurried Sunday afternoon, Tucker comes to realize that enjoying quiet time in a front-porch rocking chair, surrounded by friends and the Sunday newspaper, can be the best use of time.

Leisure time allows us to do what’s really important — spend time with our loved ones and, most importantly, spend time with ourselves doing absolutely nothing.

Because, sometimes doing nothing is when we accomplish everything.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

On our way back from Baton Rouge recently, we found ourselves getting hungry. There were dozens of signs along the interstate for fast-food joints, but my husband suggested stopping off in the historic district of Breaux Bridge, the city that bills itself as the crawfish capital of the world.
The district is small but filled with bustling antique shops and small restaurants featuring a variety of Creole and Cajun meals.

We spotted a cafe in the middle of Bridge Street, Chez Jacqueline, and when I saw the words “fried crawfish” on the menu, I was hooked. We walked through an old-screen door; and when that squeaky door slammed behind us, I felt as if we were home.

The wooden tables and chairs have seated diners for years. The condiment basket included hot sauce, a Louisiana staple, that Cajuns use to douse everything from boiled shrimp to scrambled eggs.

The walls were covered with local art as well as family photos of Jacqueline, her mother and her daughter — all of whom worked in the restaurant.

The menu features French and Cajun dishes, not uncommon as Cajuns are descendants of exiles from the French colony of Nova Scotia who settled in the bayous of Louisiana.

Jacqueline is from France, and her roots are evident in the menu choices of Coquille St. Jacques and baked oysters smothered in butter and cheese.

Soon a woman with corn rows and a beautiful smile sat down behind a keyboard and welcomed us to Cajun Country. When Donna Angelle started playing the “Zydeco Blues,” the joint came alive.

As she crooned “I was born on the bayou and there were times when I thought I couldn’t last too long,” the sincerity and wistfulness was evident in her mellow voice.

As we applauded, Angelle picked up an aged accordion, and she had that banged-up instrument wailing the blues in seconds. People’s feet were tapping and the walls were thumping as Angelle rocked and danced.

Louisiana’s Zydeco music captures people’s ears, but her food bewitches the rest of the senses. On the table next to us, a plastic serving platter was piled high with mounds of hot, boiled crawfish, accompanied by a roll of paper towels and a bowl of melted butter.

As in many restaurants in small towns, diners compared notes and talked about their favorite meals. The ladies next to us were from France, and Jacqueline had prepared special dishes for them, including escargot.

Jacqueline stopped by our table and asked if I’d like to try some escargot, and I declined. She reached back over the table, ripped off a piece of French bread and dipped the bread into that buttery-rich casserole dish. She brought up one snail covered with spinach, cheese and butter.

“Baby, you will love my escargot,” she said, holding the snail close to me. My mouth remained firmly closed.

“Open up,” she said and I hesitated.

“Cher, I promise, you will love it. Now open up,” she insisted. So, I did.

I never thought I’d eat escargot, but when that French delicacy is bathed in butter and cheese and cooked to perfection, it wasn’t half bad.

As Angelle continued singing, we found ourselves swaying back and forth in our seats, thrilled to step away from life and simply relax with crispy fried crawfish tails, lively Zydeco music and the comforting feeling we’d left the modern world far, far behind.

Walking back to our car, we promised ourselves we’d come back and immerse ourselves in the down-home hospitality Cajuns know how to bestow upon anyone who’s lucky enough to leave the concrete highway and step back into the land of accordions and crawfish.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Man, I’m getting old, I thought as my knees creaked and screamed at me while I was walking up a flight of stairs.

I’m no spring chicken, but my knees really don’t have to announce their years of wear and tear as loudly as they were doing this past weekend.

Thinking I might have to make a doctor’s appointment, I went to bed early and woke up with hardly any pain. The reason — earlier in the week, I’d slept on a different mattress.

Now I was back in my own bed and, miracle of miracles, I was cured.

Who’d have thought a good nights’ sleep could be a cure all for those aches and pains? To make things even more convenient, I now have a nearby culprit for any time things go wrong — I slept wrong.

That’s an excuse that goes back hundreds of years, probably to the cavemen.

“Honey, I couldn’t bring home a mastodon today because the cave floor was lumpy and I just didn’t get my beauty rest.”

Inability to concentrate? Must be the inner coils in the Serta are shot.

Forgetful and restless all day? The Beautyrest has lost its charm.

It’s not that researchers haven’t heard the moans from the sleepy, and they’ve made incredible strides in mattress technology. Manufacturers now have mattresses with memory foam that remember every bend and bulge in your body and react accordingly.

These mattresses are so smart that consumers can adjust the head rest, order the perfect tension in the box springs and even set levels for two sides of the bed, tailor made for each person.

They’re no longer referred to as a lowly mattress and box springs — they’re horizontal living spaces that support everything about you.

Children instinctively understand the philosophy that nothing beats sleeping in one’s own bed. Most of us want to sleep in our own bed because that’s our safe place. When children have to share their safe place, things can blow up rather quickly.

Growing up in a family with seven children, we all shared a room with a sibling, and I remember sharing a double bed with my sister, Diane.

Five years younger than me, we fought as all sisters do, especially ones forced to share their living space. Every single night, we followed the same script.

“Here’s the line,” I’d say, taking my hand and making a dent down the middle of the mattress.

“You can’t cross that line because then you’d be on my side.”

My sister, ever the protagonist, would wait until I was almost asleep and then slip her foot over the imaginary line.

“My foot’s over the line,” she’d whisper.

To which I’d kick her foot back over the line. She’d kick back and the battle raged until one of us ended up on the floor.

If we’d had a mattress with a memory, that imaginary line could’ve opened up automatically at 10 p.m. and then ejected the sister who crossed the line. No shoving or discussion required.

Perhaps the answer to a lot of life’s frustrations and arguments can be found in getting the right mattress. Just think — those Tempur-Pedic or King Koil mattresses might help us remember where we put the car keys or our cell phones and, in the case of fighting siblings, toss both out of the bed onto the floor to cool off.

After all, if a mattress can remember the shape of our hips and thighs, then handling the pesky details in life should be a cinch.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.