Growing up, I remember my mom and aunts rolling up their sleeves for spring cleaning. We lived in the North where it snowed half the year. Houses needed to be aired out after being shut up for the long, cold winter.

Here in Texas, it’s winter for about three weeks, and chances are good we’re still opening windows and running ceiling fans when it’s cold outside.

I do feel the need to air things out and maybe do some spring cleaning when the humidity’s low for the first time in months and the sun is shining. It’s probably long-ago voices in my head telling me to air out the rugs, clean the drapes and wash down the walls.

I try to ignore them, but there’s always a wave of guilt if I ignore the voices. When I start to make a list, I rationalize my way out of almost every spring-cleaning item. Trying to be thorough, I found a list online, printed it, and took a hard look at what these experts suggested I do.

Washing throw rugs was at the top of that list. We have wall-to-wall carpeting in the bedrooms, and they’re not going anywhere. The throw rugs we do have get pitched thanks to our dog that sheds at least a half pound of fur a week.

One down, nine more to go.

They had cleaning the outsides of the kitchen cabinets on the list. That big job requires getting on a ladder, and with a bum knee, that maneuver is a few months away. So, we’ll live with the greasy build up along with the dust that clings to the grease until next spring.

Washing the windows has been on my spring-cleaning list for at least a decade. It’s hard to see out of some of the windows in the garage thanks to pollen and dust from the lawn mower.

Yep, they sure do need cleaning, but there’s one big problem. That chore also requires getting on a ladder, so cleaning the windows can go on the list for next year.

This “bum-knee” excuse is getting better and better when it comes to getting out of spring-cleaning chores.

“Stop being a wimp,” a voice in my head yells. I feel guilty, so I begin my own list of chores that qualify for spring cleaning.

These include cleaning off the top of the refrigerator, taking down all the pictures in the family room, removing and polishing the glass, dusting the frames, and hanging them all back up.

Just writing that to-do item is exhausting.

I should be outside enjoying the wonderful temperatures, but there’s a stack of goggles and swim toys on a shelf on the patio that requires a disinfecting from the winter months. I’ll get to that when I can get a swimsuit on, and that’s not for a few more weeks.

Move that chore to the summer to-do list.

Here’s two more jobs that come to mind:  clean out the pantry and throw away all expired foods. Same goes for the medicine cabinet. Straighten up the closets, especially the one in my office.

A half hour later, I’ve got a list of 20 items.

I look at the list.

I look around the house and make a decision.

Nobody’s coming to my office and giving me a grade on the condition of the closets. Besides, the last time I cleaned out a closet, I couldn’t find anything. When it was a wreck, I knew exactly where things were.

Spring cleaning for me gets a “not today” pass.

Who said rationalization wasn’t productive?

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Our daughter-in-law wasn’t feeling well, so the grandsons and I decided to pick up a few groceries. It was an after-school run, and the store was packed. As we headed to the check-out line, someone tapped me on the shoulder.

The woman’s lightly gray hair framed a friendly face, and a timid smile was on her face. She was holding something out to me.

“Here,” she said, extending a gift card closer to me. “I’d like to give you this.”

I looked and saw she had a gift card for the grocery store.

“Oh, I couldn’t take this,” I told her, indicating she should keep the card.

She smiled again and extended the card again.

“I’m paying it forward,” she said. “Somebody did something nice for me, and I’m putting good out into the universe.”

It was obvious she wasn’t going to let me get away. The kindness and sincerity in her eyes surprised me. I’d never met or seen this woman before, and here she was, offering us a gift.

I took the card, stammering a thanks. My grandsons looked at the two of us, not sure what was happening.

Before she walked away, she said something.

“Now it’s your turn,” she said. “Pay it forward.”

These kinds of encounters are things we read about in books or see in movies, not real life. People have been kind to me hundreds of times, but something about this woman touched me.

She wasn’t dressed like someone with money. More like a retiree who’d put in her years of service to the world. If anyone should be getting a gift card, it was her.

Before I could argue any more, she was lost in the crowd.

The boys couldn’t believe a total stranger would give us a gift card. The clerk said it was for $50, and I was even more amazed. That’s a lot of money to just give away to a stranger, and I kept hearing her voice – pay it forward.

When we got back to my daughter-in-law’s house, the boys were excited to tell their mom about the incident. I gave her the gift card so she could use it for a last-minute store run, an often occurrence with five children.

But simply giving the card to my daughter-in-law wasn’t enough. Over the next few days, I kept my eyes open for an opportunity to do something nice for someone.

The next time I was in the grocery store, a young family was two carts in front of me. The woman was holding a toddler, and the man was picking up and putting down items on the conveyer belt.

They were looking through their groceries, deciding what to put back. They had a government card, and the card only covered certain brands of food. Some of the items they picked up weren’t covered.

The items on the belt were staples for a young family – milk, bread, cereal, diapers. I waited for a second to see if the person in front of me was going to do anything, but he didn’t. When I saw the mom hand back the milk, I stepped around the guy in front of me.

“I’ll pay for whatever’s not covered by the card,” I quietly told the clerk.

The mom thanked me, and the family got all they’d picked out and left. The clerk thanked me for what I’d done, but I told her the thanks didn’t belong to me. The thanks belonged to a gray-haired lady who extended a kindness to me along with a promise to pay it forward.

I gave the same challenge to the clerk. Kindness doesn’t have to be money. It can be calling someone who’s home alone, letting someone merge into traffic in front of you or smiling at someone who’s having a tough day.

There’s no way that one act in the grocery store fulfills my obligation to the universe. I’m keeping my eyes open for opportunities, and perhaps that’s what the woman in the store meant.

Pay it forward isn’t a one-stop promise. It’s a lifelong commitment.

 

        This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

When I was young, I wanted to become a ballerina. I’d practice twirling and bowing in my bedroom for hours.

Never mind I didn’t have a graceful bone in my body. I believed I would one day dance in “Swan Lake.”

Before I had children, I remember watching a child throw a temper tantrum. I was with my grandmother, and I told her my children would never do that. I was going to be a patient, kind and intelligent parent. I wouldn’t rear children who would behave so poorly.

“Don’t spit up in the air,” she said with a smile.

Not only did my children throw temper tantrums in public, they threw fits in our house, friends’ houses and almost everywhere we went.

I thought I’d keep a neat and orderly house at all times.

There are days when making the bed is about the only neat chore I accomplish.

Over the years, all those pre-conceived notions about myself dissolved.

Recently, I’ve had to face another belief about myself.

I thought I had a high threshold for pain.

Turns out, I’m a wimp.

I had knee replacement surgery about three weeks ago. I went into the procedure, telling the doctor I’d be driving the second week. Unlike others who had trouble with pain and recovery, I’d be the one powering through, breezing through physical therapy.

I was smug, confident and convinced I’d sail right through the procedure.

Was I wrong.

Now with every little pang, I want to yell “Medic!”

A twinge in my knee has me on the recliner, the ice machine humming next to me, providing an icy reprieve.

Not bouncing back like I thought I’d do has me accepting some hard truths about myself.

I’ll never be able to pass up a slice of apple pie, especially if there’s a scoop of vanilla ice cream on top.

Forget learning to like turnips, beets or parsnips. When I see those veggies featured in a recipe, I’ll think they look appetizing.

The truth is, I’m a picky eater.

I’ll never ski down a mountain. To be fair, I couldn’t have done that when I was in my 20s. I dislike the cold and I especially dislike heights. Seeing myself riding in a ski lift hundreds of feet in the air and then skiing down a mountain with no brakes or safety net scares the heck out of me.

I’m much better suited to staying in the ski lodge, drinking hot chocolate and reading a book.

I’ll never learn to parallel park. I understood the concept – line up with an already parked car, turn the wheel and back in.

In all my years of driving, I’ve managed to avoid parallel parking. I tell myself pull-in parking is more available, thanks to living in an area two feet above sea level.

The hard truth – I cannot parallel park.

People say “never say never,” but with all honesty and frankness, there are things I will never do even though I thought some of them were a possibility in my 20s.

These activities include bungee jumping, sky diving, running a marathon, riding a bike down a hill, and driving a motorcycle.

The real truth is – I’m not made of steel.

I’m made of good traits and weak ones. Somehow, I’ll live with the fact I will never run with the bulls in Spain, will never climb Mt. Everest or scuba dive with sharks. I can barely keep up with our elderly dog, I’m out of breath walking up a hill and I don’t go in a body of water unless there’s cement at the bottom.

I’m okay with keeping my feet firmly on the ground and admitting I’m not Superman.

Being Denise, the ungraceful wimp, is okay with me.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Every year, my mom and I would settle in on the couch and watch the Oscars. We’d ooh and aah over the exquisite gowns the movie stars were wearing.

Some of the outfits were way over the top, like the year Cher wore a huge headdress. Elizabeth Taylor showed off her diamonds and her shoulders, and Audrey Hepburn always wore classy and tasteful gowns.

Usually, we’d seen all the movies nominated for awards, so we always had a film or star we were rooting for to take home the gold statue.

In the past few years as streaming services dominate the process, more than likely, I haven’t seen the nominated movies. From this year’s list, it looks like the most I’ve missed is misery and anguish.

That’s not what I look for in a movie. Yes, I know movies that shine the light on discrimination and true suffering are worthwhile and need to be made and seen. Movies also reflect what’s going on in society.

But when doom and gloom are mostly all that’s offered, and the news is nothing but bad to worse, having movies that uplift is even more important.

Back in the 50s, movie stars were America’s royalty. We knew little of their personal lives other than what their publicists wanted us to know. Feel-good movies like “Cheaper by the Dozen” and “Father of the Bride” made us smile and laugh.

We had stars like the swashbuckling Erroll Flynn and the gorgeous Grace Kelly. They lit up the screen with class and beauty. The movie “Imitation of Life” was one of the first films to introduce me to looking at life through the eyes of people of color.

The 1960s reflected turbulent times. Popular movies were “Easy Rider” and “Midnight Cowboy.” The stars were grungy guys, not good-looking stars like Gregory Peck, Sidney Poitier and Rock Hudson.

“To Kill a Mockingbird” opened the door to talks about how we look at people from different classes. The movie showed viewers that discrimination crosses both color and cultural barriers.

The 60s also gave us a break with fun musicals like “Mary Poppins” and “My Fair Lady.”

But then there’s “Psycho,” a movie that still scares the life out of me. The music alone is terrifying.

The 1970s weren’t much better. “Apocalypse Now” and “The Deer Hunter” reminded us of the futility of the war in Vietnam and its effects on the soldiers who served. “Deliverance” remains the only movie I’ve ever walked out of because of a few scenes that sickened me.

“All the President’s Men” was a reminder of the corruption in Washington, D.C., but “Rocky” reminded us that one person can overcome the odds and come out a champion, even if he or she doesn’t win the fight.

I guess we got tired of the dreadfulness in films, and in the 80s, hope and laughs returned to the cinemas. We still quote lines from the slapstick film “Airplane.” The beautifully acted and costumed “Moonstruck” remains one of my all-time favorite movies almost 40 years later.

“The Breakfast Club” allowed adults to see teens as young people trying to figure out life. “Field of Dreams” still makes me cry and is a movie most fathers and sons should watch together some time in their life.

Then we took a turn back to grim reality in the 1990’s. “Schindler’s List,” like “Saving Private Ryan,” is a film I could only watch once. The horrors people inflicted on others because of their culture and religion is still sickening.

The movie “Philadelphia” reminded us that it wasn’t just people of a different religion we feared. It was people whose lifestyle was different than ours.

The 2000s started off a bit more hopeful with “The Pursuit of Happyness” and “Slumdog Millionaire.” Both were stories of underdogs who beat the system to find they could achieve their dreams.

In the last 20 years, we’ve had some great fantasy films. Marvel gave us “Iron Man,” “The Hulk” and “The Avengers” to name a few, and “Spiderman” was a fun story that remains popular.

“Wicked” reminds us of the power of friendship between women and “Hidden Figures” reminded us that greatness comes from all genders and races.

Next year, even though I’ll probably miss most of the nominated films, I’ll still tune in to the Oscars. I want to see the gowns, the pageantry and the glitz and the glamor that American royalty, Hollywood, has to offer.

 

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

It’s 3:30 a.m.

My knee – well, what’s left of it – is throbbing.

The house is dark and I’m lying here wondering how I got myself into this situation.

Genetics is both a curse and a blessing. I don’t look my age, thanks to my mom’s genes. I also got her bad knees which, at this moment, are the curse.

A few years ago, I noticed pain down the front of my leg whenever I’d pick up something heavy. That slight pain increased so I finally made a medical appointment.

The orthopedic doctor diagnosed arthritis, one of the most common ailments for women over the age of 50. I got a cortisone shot in both knees and instantly felt relief.

I could finally walk without limping, and believed I was cured.

Or so I thought.

For almost two years, the injections were a Band-Aid over an underlying problem of bone-on-bone on both knees plus the arthritis.

When the shots stopped working, I knew it was time to do what my mom and my sister both had done – total knee replacement.

I remember watching my mom walk down the hall at the rehabilitation center, cheered on by all of us as she took those first steps. She told the physical therapist she would do whatever it took to get out of there, and she did.

A few years later, my sister had both of her knees replaced at the same time. I thought she was brave. Now I know she was battlefield, front-of-the-light-brigade brave. She urged me to get the surgery, and when all other options were gone, I went for it.

The surgeon, Dr. Brady Rogers, was reassuring and professional. His friendly demeanor went right along with his honest conversations with me. I chose a time after the winter holidays and family birthdays, and in I went.

I tried not to think about the fact that Dr. Rogers would slice open my knee, take part of the knee out, shave away the arthritis and then put in a titanium knee that will forever stop me at airport security.

The pain the first and second day was mild. The meds from the hospital were still working their magic, and I stupidly thought the rest of the recovery was going to be that easy.

I did the exercises, rode the stationary bike, walked, and even unloaded the dishwasher and ran a load of clothes. I took the least amount of painkillers, patting myself on the back for having a high threshold of pain.

When the meds wore off, life was a lot different.

It hurt, and the pain was real.

I tried to be brave but had a meltdown on the third day. My husband fixed the machine that caused the problem, and I thought I was done with the worst part.

I was wrong again.

I didn’t want to take the higher potency pain killers, but when it’s the middle of the night and you’re all alone in the dark, that bottle looked like a life saver.

I admitted I needed the stronger meds, and I took them.

A couple of days ago, my sons and their families came to visit. Seeing their loving faces and watching our grandchildren play and laugh was all the medicine I needed. That night, I turned a corner on the pain and saw improvement from that moment on.

What’s really made the recuperation easier is the love and support of family and friends. Meals, flowers and best wishes have been flooding in.

The people I love and who love me might not realize how important their support is, but their love has made recovery faster and easier to bear.

Maybe it’s a trite saying, but having family and friends are not only important but also lifesavers, especially when times are tough.

I don’t know what I’ve done – or if the universe is simply extending kindness — to deserve this much mercy and love, but I’m not going to question these blessings. I simply know I am one lucky and extremely grateful gal.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

“Go past this light…”

“In 200 feet…

“Turn left at the next intersection…”

This is the voice of both my savior and my nightmare.

Most of the time, the GPS – Global Positioning System – is my driving companion. Because the system is almost always on, I’ve started talking to the GPS like it’s a person.

We don’t always agree.

“I know you want me to go that way, but there’s road construction that way,” I told the GPS one afternoon. “So, we’re going to go this way.”

The GPS will pout, resign itself to going a different direction and give me updated instructions.

Sometimes the GPS is a little slow in telling me which lane to get into to make a quick turn.

That’s when I get frustrated.

“You could’ve told me earlier I was going to have to turn left,” I’ll yell as I make a Batman-style turn.

The GPS doesn’t care I had to dodge three cars to carry out the move.

I did what it said.

The electronic voice is pacified.

Sometimes the GPS is my road trip guardian angel.

“There’s traffic ahead. I’m rerouting you.”

“This route is the fastest.”

“Road construction ahead. Would you like to reroute?”

Those suggestions are gifts from the traffic gods, ones I’m always happy to accept.

There are times we disagree and both of us get a little testy.

Recently, I’d been following the GPS directions to a Houston hospital. Take 59 north, get off at Main Street, turn right and then follow the GPS directions through the medical center maze to find the building.

Usually, I follow the GPS directions turn for turn, but this day, I wanted to pick up barbecue sandwiches on Kirby Drive. I exited Highway 59, and that’s when the conversation became a little heated.

The GPS wanted me back on the route it had chosen. I didn’t want to get back in bumper-to-bumper traffic and I had barbecue to pick up.

“Take the feeder road toward I-69,” the GPS insisted.

The GPS calls Highway 59 I-69, but for those of us who’ve driven in Houston for years, 59 will always be 59.

I paid no attention to the GPS voice because I knew I was going to stop for those sandwiches. When I turned right onto Kirby, the GPS was unhappy.

“Take the feeder toward I-69.”

I talked back.

“I don’t want to stay on the feeder,” I said with a touch of annoyance. “I’m going to the barbecue place.”

When I turned into the parking lot, the GPS was really annoyed.

“Return to the feeder road toward I-69.”

I was fed up.

“Forget it,” I said to the dashboard. “I’m getting barbecue right now.”

I turned the car off and hurried into the restaurant. When I returned, you’d think the GPS would be happy as the smell of brisket and barbecue sauce filled the air. But no, the single-minded GPS system demanded that I go back to the feeder road.

I decided the ride down Bissonnet was a lot prettier, so I turned onto that street, leaving 59 in my rearview mirror.

“Make a U-turn.”

I ignored the voice.

“Make a U-turn.”

At every single stop sign and light for the next mile, the GPS wanted me to make a U-turn and get back on the freeway. The trip became a battle of wits – the GPS voice versus the human who had the keys to the vehicle.

Finally, the GPS gave up and got with my program. When we got to the hospital 15 minutes earlier than the original trip the GPS planned, I smiled.

“See there smarty pants,” I yelled at the dashboard. “Sometimes we humans know better than technology.”

I wasn’t so smug on the way home when I went the way I wanted instead of what the GPS suggested and ran smack dab into a huge traffic jam.

I could almost hear the gloating “I told you so” coming from the dashboard.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.   

I listened to a radio show on the way home, and the host was talking about spending the day with someone famous. People called in with Jesus being one of the top names.

Also mentioned were people from history, like Abraham Lincoln, sports personalities or influential politicians. All are top choices, but there are events in life I’d love to experience again.

The first time I saw the Grand Tetons in the early morning light.

Watching a golden sunset over the boulders of the Pacific Coast.

Floating in the waters of the Gulf of Mexico without a care in the world.

As pleasant as those events sound, spending time with people is what’s most intriguing. There are people in my family who are no longer here that I’d love to get to know better.

One of the top people on that list would be my grandfather, Henry Eade. He was a wonderful storyteller, and I’d love to hear more stories about his days growing up in Lebanon. His father left his family and came to America for a better life.

I’d treasure learning how my grandfather and his mother made enough to feed a family and keep a roof over their heads.

I’d love to hear him talk about how he got started in business and about all the opportunities he took and the ones he missed. Henry Eade was a spiritual man, and I’d love to hear his quiet explanations about destiny and following one’s dreams.

I’d love to spend the day with my dad. I used to think if I ever talked to him again, I’d ask him pointed questions about his struggles, and ultimate success, over alcohol abuse.

But that’s not how I’d waste my time with him.

I’d want to spend the day talking about the little things in his life.

I probably heard his daredevil stories at least a dozen times, but what I wouldn’t give to hear the story of his looking for buried treasure one more time. What I wouldn’t give to hear his voice, a voice that grows dimmer in my memory with each passing day.

My dad was a master joke teller, and I’d love to hear some of his top jokes. Then I’d ask him for advice about how to be a better grandparent. For all the faults he had as a parent, he was an incredible grandfather.

I’d love to learn how he endeared himself to each one of his grandchildren, leaving them with sweet memories.

But more than spending the day with someone who’s passed away, if I had the choice and the power, there’s a special request I’d make.

I wish I could go back and experience a day with my sons when they were young, before they were grown men with families of their own.

For one day, I’d love to be a mommy again.

I’d like to spend a day with each one of my sons beginning with when they were born. I’d spend time rocking and holding them. I wouldn’t worry about folding clothes or cleaning the house.

I’d cuddle and snuggle them until they’d fall asleep in my arms, lose myself in that sweet baby smell and hold their tiny little hands.

Then I’d spend time with them as toddlers. We’d play with toys, have tickle fests and eat ice cream cones and splash in water puddles.

We’d take slow walks, stopping to look at everything along the way – spiders, ants, the cracks in the sidewalk, flowers and dew on the grass. As the day progressed and they grew, I’d spend time talking to them about what they liked, who their friends were, what they thought about life in general.

I’d spend more time listening, hugging, smiling and savoring every minute of being with my children and the people who made me who I am.

Having the opportunity to go back and experience those days isn’t a wish that could come true. But I’ve been given a second chance.

I might not be able to hold my own babies again, but I can love, snuggle and enjoy every minute I can with our grandchildren who are extraordinary humans.

Being with them is a dream that can come true.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

 

Last year, Taylor Swift performed live to a crowd of 96,000 people in Australia. It’s amazing how anyone could conquer stage fright to sing in front of a huge audience.

Now imagine teenagers singing, dancing and performing in front of a theater packed with relatives, peers and teachers. That’s exactly what many of our thespians did over the past month through their live musicals.

Our granddaughter has been in theater since junior high, and she loves immersing herself in a production, whether it’s a dual role of nice and mean teacher in “Miss Nelson is Missing,” the hysterical Clairee Belcher in “Steel Magnolias” or funny Sister Mary Patrick in “Sister Act.”

I’ve watched Kylie grow in confidence as she auditioned for, and earned, starring roles on the stage. It’s amazing seeing her friends perform in costumes, wigs and make-up. We’re used to seeing them in T-shirts and jeans, but they are transformed once they step on that stage.

Unlike professional performers, these teens attend classes all day, writing essays, learning algebra and completing study packets, and then go to the theater.

They build sets, including painting and decorating. They assemble the costumes, many of them learning to sew on buttons and stitch rips. They comb and style wigs and make sure the make-up trays are filled and clean.

They learn lines and practice dances and songs. In after-school rehearsals, they learn where to stand, how to work the lights and how to play off another character.

The bonds they develop in theater run deep. Not only because they spend so much time together, but because they depend on each other to make the characters, play or musical come seamlessly to life.

Fine arts relationships start early. Our youngest granddaughter is in the sixth grade, and her junior high staged their first-ever musical concert this week. Families sat in folding chairs to watch these nervous pre-teens perform.

One duo seemed to struggle a bit. I glanced at the back where Katherine and the other performers were waiting. They were standing up, acting out the hand motions and mouthing the words to their friends on the stage. I could feel their encouragement, and I knew the singers on the stage could as well.

Two girls sang “Defying Gravity.” One of the girls was in a wheelchair, and she sang the main part of not letting anything hold her down. Seeing her growing confidence and how she moved her chair along with the music, her partner encouraging her as well as all the other singers in the back, brought the audience to tears.

Fine Arts brings out the best in people, especially our young people.

The performance is all about entertaining the audience and making sure they come along with the actors on a fantasy journey.

Many thanks to the directors who work tirelessly before, during and after school for ensuring these young actors and singers see their hours of rehearsal come alive on the stage.

The next time you see an advertisement for a high school musical or concert, do yourself a favor and go. Lose yourself in the magic of the stage and forget about the troubles of the real world.

You’ll laugh, you’ll cry and, most of all, you’ll be amazed at how these young people will melt your heart.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Birthday parties are fun occasions. For the little ones, they blow out the candles on the cake, play games and gobble cake and ice cream.

Adults either ignore the number of candles on the cake or go full tilt with drinks and food.

When someone turns 95 years of age, that’s cause for celebrating in a big way. That’s exactly what my cousins did for their mom, Mary Eade Bett. They invited me to her party, and relatives came from far and wide.

Many came from our hometown, Olean, New York. As we sat around the table at an elegant meal, the cousins spent most of the time reminiscing.

Many of us hadn’t seen each other in decades, but we found we had quite a few shared memories about our relatives in Olean.

The story of how our ancestors came to America was retold. Each one of us added a little bit more knowledge to the story, which is probably not exactly the truth, but suited us just fine.

One particular trip remains memorable, but my cousins didn’t know the whole story.

They knew my grandfather, Henry, had gone back to Lebanon to marry the girl he’d always admired. His uncle, Louie, accompanied him to marry another girl in their hometown.

What my cousins didn’t know is that an American girl who wanted to marry my grandfather found out he was sailing back with a new bride.

Infuriated, she told the authorities my grandfather was married to her, so Henry was arrested on the ship for being a bigamist. There were gasps and laughter and then the stories started to roll. Some family tales were still shrouded in mystery, others brought quite a few laughs.

We spent a good bit of the evening trying to decide how many childhood stories were true and which ones were embellished.

What came through loud and clear was how much we loved our heritage and our relatives, especially our aunts.

Aunt Vickie taught us organizational skills and how to bake banana bread. Aunt Souad always had a gentle smile and plenty of food.

Aunt Bev cherished traditions and taught us how to knit and collect antiques. Aunt Mary paved the way for the women in the family to go to college. My mom showed us it was possible to have a career and a family.

These women made time to be an important part of our lives, and all these years later, we remember their caring with fondness and love.

Getting together with family for special occasions is getting less common these days. Facebook has taken the place of phone calls and Sunday afternoon visits on the front porch. There’s still plenty of family gossip, but the mystery’s gone since we can verify everything with a quick internet search.

I often long for the days when we weren’t sure what was fact and what was fiction. We’ll never know for sure if Aunt Flip was married to a mobster, what our great-great grandmother did to earn money in the war, or what our aunt did when she worked for the CIA back in the 1950s.

In all honesty, it doesn’t really matter.

What I know to be true is how fortunate we are to have some of our relatives still with us, telling more stories and reminding us to cherish our roots.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Snowflakes are gently falling.

The grass and lawn furniture are covered in white.

From the comfort of my living room window, the scene reminds me of every sentimental Christmas movie I’ve ever seen.

But there’s a downside to the quiet covering. That fluffy white blanket covering our Southern lawns means it’s beyond cold outside. Phrases like “arctic air” and “bitter cold” are being used to describe Winter Storm Enzo.

I dread opening the door.

Having this much snow in these parts is unusual, and it’s great to see people having so much fun in this once-in-a-generation storm.

People are embracing the cold, building snowmen and having snowball fights.

They’re making snow angels and using kiddie swimming pools to sled down the sides of the ditch.

It’s a lot of fun, but what does that get them?

Wet clothes, cold faces and fingers so cold they feel like they’re going to break off.

I’ll take summer heat over winter cold any day of the week.

For starters, I’m washing twice as many clothes when it’s winter. One days’ worth of cold-weather clothes and accessories is enough for a super load.

Contrast that with summer.

I can wait a week to wash clothes because lightweight summer clothes don’t take up much room in the washer. No need for wool socks, long pants or jackets in the summer months.

There’s also the cost of clothes.

The winter jacket alone will set you back $80 and that’s if you can find a heavy one here. You also need gloves, a hat, boots and a heavy scarf. Summer shorts, a T-shirt and flip flops are a lot cheaper.

Also, Southerners are accustomed to the heat.

In the summer, we can cool off with snow cones or chew on ice in an air-conditioned spot.

But the cold? We’re ill-prepared. We panic. We stress about temperatures in the teens. We clear all the shelves in the grocery stores.

Does that mean we’re wimps? Not at all. Bring on a heat wave or a hurricane and we’ll show you Southern grit.

We can prepare for a tropical hurricane, a monsoon and a prolonged drought in a moment’s notice.

We own beach umbrellas, lawn chairs and sun visors, not snowplows, tire chains or snow shovels.

We don’t own heavy parkas lined with fake fur.

We don’t own snow boots, gloves or heavy hats.

Southerners own well-used beach bags filled with sunscreen, mosquito repellent and Adolph’s Meat Tenderizer for jellyfish bites.

Living in the North does require knowledge we don’t have. Deep South residents haven’t a clue how to defrost icy windshields, shovel snow from sidewalks or how to spot black ice.

But a cold-weather person doesn’t know shade is more important than location in a parking lot, cracking the windows a half inch is mandatory if your vehicle is in the sun and to never grab a metal car handle if the vehicle’s been exposed to the afternoon summer sun.

We’re built for the heat, and we’ll demonstrate a hundred different ways we’ve learned to live with scorching temperatures.

We’ll drag out our fans, both the big box ones and the cheap personal fans that spray air and water on your face and sit comfortably outside at a baseball game.

We’ll remind you that high humidity keeps your skin looking younger longer unlike dry cold air that dries your skin out and ages you prematurely.

I will admit there’s one major positive and one hopeful possibility about frigid cold weather.

The definite positive – no snakes.

The possibility – perhaps this layer of snow can do what we’ve been unable to do for the past 50 years – kill fire ants.

If that happens, then Winter Storm Enzo would’ve been worth it.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.