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?”

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.