Oct. 31 is Halloween, a time when children put on their costumes and visit friendly houses looking for candy treats.

Growing up, I loved Halloween because chocolate was at the top of my favorites list. Add free and it’s a home run.

As we get older, we seem to have fewer treats and more tricks. But there are a few bonuses left for those of us too old to dress up as Superman and go door to door.

One of the best treats when you’re older is the senior discount. These are available at restaurants, movie theaters and stores. I always ask if there’s a senior discount and, most of the time, there’s some little perk.

We also have a wealth of knowledge gained from a lifetime of making mistakes. I know when the weather turns cold, the tire pressure signal on my car might go off.

The first time that happened, I spent three hours at the tire store so they could check my tires. When it happened last week, I ignored it and, sure enough, it went away when the weather warmed up.

I know our country will survive political elections. There were a few years when I’d look at the roster of leaders and think I should move to Iceland.

But we survived, not without a few bumps and bruises, but we made it.

One of the best perks of being older is seeing your children grow up into smart, self-assured adults. What’s even better is when you hear your words coming out of their mouths.

Not all children grow up into capable adults. We usually have the wisdom to accept that they’ll either come around or they won’t. The decision as to how they live their life is totally up to them. We can let go.

A big treat for me is not worrying about what anybody else says about how I dress, what I say or what I do. If I want to go to the grocery store in ratty shorts, no makeup and my 10-year-old sandals, I go.

If I want to poke along at a leisurely pace, I take my time. There’s no clock to punch, no boss to make happy and no quitting time. My time is my time.

There aren’t any more 2 a.m. feedings. There are, however, those middle-of-the-night bathroom visits. There’s also insomnia, but we have the luxury of taking a nap the next day.

There are some tricks that go along with the treats. I can’t read or drive without my prescriptive lenses – bifocals, for those of us who aren’t vain about calling it like it is.

It’s hard to bend over or squat, but that’s why we have the picker-upper tool. The knees aren’t what they used to be, but we now have the time to recuperate from knee replacements.

Because we don’t have kids raiding the fridge and pantry, we can put things where we can reach them instead of putting the good treats on top of the refrigerator.

For some of us, having grandchildren is the best treat of all. We can be ourselves with them because the burden of rearing capable, responsible people lies with their parents. We’re here for fun, snuggles and spoiling.

We remember the days when we’d come home from trick or treating with a bucket filled with candy and know we could eat every single piece without a care in the world.

These days, we settle for a bag of no-salt peanuts, a low-fat cup of ice cream and gluten-free chips, all of which we bought with a senior discount.

Happy trick or treating!

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

There’s lots of garbage on social media, but I found a couple of gems. Two sets of British guys on social media embarked on a road trip across America, and their take on the foods and sights around the country are funny and interesting.

First, there’s Josh and Ollie. “Jolly,” as they’ve labeled themselves, filled social media with feedback about American foods, grocery stores and their favorite, Buccee’s.

These two spend quite a bit of time eating and critiquing food and fast-food joints. They found Texas amazing. They were in Houston during the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo, and they fell in love.

Their mouths hung open during the calf scramble, and they were in awe of the youngsters who were mutton bustin’. They couldn’t believe corn dogs came in the foot-long size, and the turkey legs completely wowed them.

The other Brits who regularly post on social media are Josh and Jase. These two decided to take to the roads in America, and they’ve been to almost every state.

They believe American bacon should be considered a national treasure. Biscuits and gravy are heavenly, and Southern sweet tea is nectar from the gods.

All four spent quite a bit of time eating brisket at joints all over Texas, and now I’ve got a list of must-see diners to visit.

One of Josh and Jase’s must-sees was the original Café du Monde in New Orleans’ French Quarter.

Like everyone else who visits, they left Café du Monde overly satisfied, the front of their shirts covered with powdered sugar. They learned how to peel crawfish and topped their visit off with bowls of spicy seafood gumbo.

They discovered the unintended consequence of too much fast and high-calorie foods. Josh and Jase each gained almost 20 pounds while they were eating their way across the United States.

But diets went out the window because as they traveled the miles, they found treasures along the road.

They were respectful at The Alamo, and they were “gobstopped” by San Antonio’s Riverwalk at night. Josh and Ollie marveled at the size of the Texas Rangers stadium and couldn’t believe the great food served at a baseball game.

But more than their easy-going banter and willingness to try questionable foods, they made me see America through different eyes.

They saw the beauty in our people and our geography. Josh and Jase had tears in their eyes while watching the sun set over the Grand Canyon.

They found Palo Duro Canyon to be one of the most wonderful places they’d ever visited. An evening baseball game was an adventure as was tubing down the San Marcos River.

They marveled at the vastness and variety of the different states. They were awed by the majesty of our mountains and vibrant green pastures that go on for miles in America.

It wasn’t just the big places that they visited. They made a point to stop in small towns across America to eat where locals dine.

Mom-and-pop stores and restaurants run by our neighbors and friends are treasures we often take for granted. A back-yard barbecue with home-made ice cream and burgers from the grill are what make up so many American memories.

Simple, everyday experiences, and the people they met along their travels, are the real treasures these Brits discovered.

Watching these young men experience the beautiful sights and meet the incredible people we have in America made me want to get in my car and discover what’s right outside my front door.

All it takes is a willingness to explore both the known and the unknown, and that’s possible no matter where you are in the world.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

(We had an hour to conceive an idea, write it and polish it. The image I chose was a girl carrying a bag, walking across a wooden bridge.) 

 

Cynda listened to her boots as she walked along the wooden planks. Click, click, click. The bridge and the park were empty, understandable as it was close to sunset.

She shivered because the temperature was dropping. It could be hard to tell the time of day as the park boulders were covered with vines that stayed green year-round. But the chill in the air and her heavy coat and boots reminded her it was fall in the northeast.

She grunted as she lifted the heavy bag in her left hand. Cynda needed to get this package delivered and end her ties to Jerome. She shivered again, but not from the cold this time. It was fear deep in her soul, and it all tied to Jerome.

Cynda met the con man when she was a naïve newcomer to Ithaca, New York. She’d come with hopes and dreams of setting up an art studio in the old section of town that was being injected with creativity from artists, writers and musicians from all over the world.

Jerome was sitting under a table outside of a coffee shop on a side street. Jerome looked up as she came closer. Cynda noticed his piercing blue eyes, aquiline nose and rigid posture. He was sitting straight up and staring at her like she had two heads.

Cynda glanced over her shoulder, thinking something was behind her. But she was alone. She wasn’t sure why this man would be staring at her, and the words her mother told her before she left their small town was to watch out for strangers. Well, here was a stranger all right, and she hated to admit it but maybe her mother was right.

Instead, the man smiled as she came closer.

“Hi, you new to Ithaca?” he asked. Cynda noticed he’d leaned back in the chair, but those eyes didn’t waver from her face.

“Yeah, but I fit in really fast,” she said, trying to sound lighthearted. She was hoping she’d get past this man and on her way, but she noticed he was getting up.

“Oh no,” she thought. “This is all I need. Some stranger following me and then robbing me.”

Those were the words from her father. He was convinced every person in a new city was either a rapist, murderer or thief. Instinctively, Cynda pulled her purse closer to her side.

“My name is Jerome,” he said, a smile now on his face. “I’ve been here for about six years, and I absolutely adore this city. Would you join me for coffee?”

He sensed Cynda’s hesitation and laughed.

“This is a public street in a very public city,” he said, opening his arms and shrugging his shoulders. “Why don’t you go in, get a cup of coffee and come sit out here to chat. I promise, I don’t bite.”

Cynda hesitated. She had to admit – she was lonely. She didn’t know anyone except her landlady, and Mrs. Hallett was her mother’s friend, not hers. Cynda knew the old biddy was reporting her every move to Cynda’s mother every night.

“The girl eats alone, sleeps alone and washes her clothes alone at the laundromat,” was probably what old Hallett was telling her mother.

So Cynda considered the offer. She could see people starting to come down the street and, if she had to be honest, she was thirsty and lonely. One cup of coffee couldn’t be that bad. That was six months ago and so much had changed. If only she hadn’t stopped. If only she hadn’t met Jerome, her life would be so different.

Cynda shifted the bag in her left hand. It was heavy when she picked it up an hour ago and it was getting heavier every minute. She tried not to imagine what was in the bag. Jerome had asked her to pick something up for him and meet him at the Fall Creek Suspension Bridge. Six months ago when sitting in that coffee shop, Cynda would’ve never wondered why she had to meet this man in a park. But after everything that had happened in those 24 weeks, all she could think about was getting this package delivered and getting out of New York and back home to Texas.

Back to her parents.

Back to safety.

Back to where she didn’t sleep with a butcher knife under her bed, the nightmares waking her up.

She and Jerome seemed to hit it off immediately. They met a few more times at the coffee shop and he even asked her to stop by his shop in the what was known as the New Age district. People sold holistic medicines there as well as home-grown vegetables and fruit. It wasn’t unusual to find local honey, soaps and even goats and pigs on occasion. Jerome’s store was a butcher shop where he specialized in kosher meats.

Cynda was fascinated by all the rules he had to follow. One day, he’d invited her to watch him butcher a lamb, and she was both mesmerized and horrified as he systematically cut up the animal.

She shivered again, not from the cold this time but from the memory.

The bag in her left hand felt heavy, too heavy, but she was half way across the suspension bridge. Soon, she thought, soon, I’ll be done.

Cynda had gotten into trouble six weeks into her stay. She’d accidentally hit a bicycle rider one night when she’d had a few too many drinks. She’d only meant to drive to the 24-hour grocery store to pick up some aspirin when she hit the biker. She panicked.

“Jerome,” she screamed in her cell phone. She was sitting in her car, the motor idling, while the biker lay motionless in the street.

“I hit somebody with my car,” she sobbed into the phone. Her words seemed garbled, but Jerome understood her.

“Where are you?” he asked. She told him and he told her he’d be right there.

Jerome had shown up in minutes. Nobody had come by, and Cynda was terrified a police officer or someone would come around the corner. The man was still lying there, and Jerome opened his car door to go over to him.

“No,” screamed Cynda. “What if he’s dead? I can’t know.”

Jerome ignored her. He went to the man and, miraculously, the man sat up. Jerome talked to him although Cynda couldn’t hear what they were saying. Jerome helped the man get his bearings and back on the bike. After a few minutes, the man rode away and Jerome came back to the car. He got into the passenger seat and closed the door.

“He’ll be okay,” he said. “He doesn’t remember what happened.”

Cynda started crying, her cries turning into sobs so hard, she couldn’t catch her breath.

“I thought he was dead,” she kept saying. Jerome sat there silently.

Then he reached over and slapped her, hard, across her face.

“The only ones who know about this are you and me,” he said chilly. “I did you this favor. One day, you’re going to owe me.”

At that moment, Cynda knew she’d made a deal with the devil. For a while, she thought Jerome had forgotten about her, but then she’d gotten a phone call a few hours ago.

Jerome gave her an address and told her to go there and pick up a bag for him.

“Bring it to the tunnel at Chalk Ridge Falls Park,” he said. Cynda knew the site as she and Jerome had been there before.

“Don’t talk to anybody on the way,” he said. “Get the bag and get here. After you deliver this to me, we’ll be even. Is that clear?”

She said it was. And now here she was click, click, clicking across that wooden bridge, a heavy bag in her left hand. She entered the tunnel and stopped.

“Jerome?” she called out. “Are you here?”

No answer.

She took a few more steps inside.

“Jerome?” she called again.

A flashlight suddenly turned on and illuminated her face. She couldn’t see who was holding the light, but it could only be Jerome.

Or Satan, she thought.

“It’s me,” she said. “I have the bag.”

The flashlight went from her face to the bag and back. A man spoke, and Cynda knew it was Jerome.

“Yeah, it’s me,” he said. “Bring me the bag.”

Cynda came forward until she was a foot in front of the flashlight. She put the bag down on the floor of the wooden bridge.

“Here,” she said. “The man gave me the bag, just like you said. I didn’t look inside it. I just brought it here. This makes us even, right?”

Jerome walked over to her and knelt down in front of the bag. He carefully unzipped the top and opened the flaps. Cynda couldn’t help herself – she had to look. She had to see what in that bag was so important.

All she could see was the top of a man’s head and hair covered with blood. She’d been carrying someone’s head around in that bag for the past hour. She thought she was going to throw up.

Jerome smiled and stood up.

“Good job little girl,” he said. “We’re even, but if you ever tell anyone what happened here, I’ll find you. I’ll not only report your little accident but I’ll make sure your name is ruined. You’ll go to jail for hit and run and that’s a long prison term.”

Cynda was terrified, but she couldn’t help herself.

‘Nobody saw that accident but you and me,” she whispered. “There were no witnesses.”

Jerome smiled.

“Do you think I didn’t ask that guy his name and get his address? I’m a man who racks up favors, and I knew I’d need one from somebody. You fit the bill, Cynda,” he said and stood up. He continued talking.

“But, yes, we’re even. You hurt somebody with your car. In return you helped me collect on an overdue bill,” he said. “You rat me out. I rat you out. That means we both have to keep our mouths shut.”

Cynda started backing out of the dark tunnel, never taking her eyes off Jerome.

“As of right now, I don’t know you,” she said slowly. “You don’t know me and I don’t know what was in that bag I delivered to you. Debts have been paid.”

Jerome picked up the bag and turned to go.

“Yep,” he said. “Debts have been paid.”

Cynda turned and ran across the wooden planks, almost slipping on the moss-covered wood. She ran until she got to her car, her side aching from running so hard and fast.

In the back seat were all her belongings. She started up the VW bug and headed south. Home to where the phrase “an eye for an eye” was one her family had practically invented.

If Jerome came looking for her, there wouldn’t be some random head in a bag. Cynda knew exactly whose head would be in that bag.

For the first time in six months, she smiled.

 

It’s been a long time since I’ve packed a sack lunch. Recently, our granddaughter had an event where she needed one, and I found myself back in the lunch packing business.

When my eldest son was in elementary school, he said he didn’t like what the school cafeteria served.

That surprised me. I have great memories of the huge rolls our cafeteria served in high school. Our lunch ladies cooked a delicious chicken pot pie, and we enjoyed big pizza squares covered in cheese.

I was raised that food equals love, so there was no way my little boy was going hungry. I agreed to pack his lunch every day. Plus, I was already fixing lunches for my husband, so the procedure was familiar.

Husband was easy – two slices of turkey and a slice of cheese on whole-wheat bread, Oreo cookies, an apple, and a butterscotch candy. Son was a little harder as he wanted variety.

Some days, Nick found a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in his Thundercats lunch box. Other days cold pizza or chicken nuggets, two of his favorites. I kept a supply of McDonald’s sauces on hand for the nugget days.

When Nick was in the third grade, he said he was especially hungry at school and needed me to pack more food.

So, I added extras – more grapes, a Twinkie on occasion, an extra sandwich and more cookies. He was still coming home hungry. After a few days of his raiding the pantry when he got home, the interrogation began.

It seems my entrepreneurial third grader was selling his lunch and pocketing the money. He said he had food the other kids wanted. He was providing a service, he explained.

That enterprise came to an abrupt end.

When his brothers started elementary school, they had the same feelings about the cafeteria, so I found myself making four lunches every morning.

The assembly line was in motion at 6 a.m.

In addition to the food, I had three small plastic containers, and each one contained four quarters. Those were thrown in the bag in case the boys wanted an ice cream sandwich.

There were complaints from time to time. I was told in no uncertain terms to stop putting “mommy” notes in their lunchbox. The other kids made fun of them.

Crusts were to be cut off the sandwiches and apples were too hard to eat. And the always present request – more cookies.

In elementary school, they had their own lunch boxes – a Roger Rabbit for one and Star Wars for another boy. Lunch boxes often came home looking like they’d been in a war.

I found out that in a pinch, their lunch boxes substituted for second base or a set of drums.

Middle school meant bigger appetites, so the container changed. I upgraded to larger paper bags to accommodate growing appetites.

Lunches now required triple-decker PB&Js, half a sleeve of cookies, a quart-sized bag of chips and a drink to add to the milk they’d buy at school.

Were those lunches nutritious?

Borderline. The chips and cookies weren’t healthy, but their mother is a food pusher, and she wanted to be sure her babies were at least eating something.

Rationalization is a wonderful tool.

Making lunch for my granddaughter took me back to the days of drawing hearts on a piece of paper and tucking it into my child’s lunch box.

And, yes, my granddaughter found a note in her paper bag that day, decorated with hearts and smiley faces.

Lunch duty isn’t all bad.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

FIVE-MINUTE CHALLENGE: Our writer’s group had five minutes to see pictures or words and come up with a short story. These are my entries. Be kind! 

 

Character A – has the Nightmare Job

Character B – has the dream job

 

Verb:  Reunites

 

Nightmare job reunites with the character with the dream job

After having been apart (literally or figuratively) A reunites with B.

Sylvia sat down on the edge of the tub. If she had to clear one more hair clog out of a dirty bathtub, she was going to punch somebody in the face. She looked around the hotel’s bathroom. There was beige make up smeared on the counter and smudges of mascara on the hotel towel.

“People are pigs,” Sylvia thought. One day, she added to herself, one day she’d get out of this dump of a job. She’d be living the high life, shopping on Fifth Avenue, having a driver pick her up and drop her off at the high-end stores. She wouldn’t be shopping at the thrift stores any  more, no sir, not her.

Right then, she heard the doorknob turn. At first, she was scared. Nobody was supposed to come into this room. It was midafternoon, and check-out was at 11. Her heart started beating faster, and she looked around for a weapon. The toilet bowl brush in her cart was out in the bedroom area. Fat good it would do her here.

A blonde woman walked into the room. She was tall and her clothes reflected someone with outstanding taste. The woman glanced toward the bathroom and saw Sylvia now standing in the bathroom.

“Sylvia Tate, is that you?” the woman said in surprise.

Sylvia looked closer at this Amazon. She did look familiar, but she couldn’t place her.

“It’s me, Pat!” she said excitedly. “I haven’t seen you since high school! I remember the last time I saw you and you told me you were going to New York City to be an actress.”

That’s when Sylvia placed her. Pat Brown. Miss Perfect. Now here she was still Miss Perfect while Sylvia, the girl with the big mouth, big dreams and zero luck was cleaning toilets in a hotel room in New York City, the place she’d bragged she’d own one day.

“Oh, yes, I remember you,” Sylvia said. She admitted, Pat had been nice in high school, and she still seemed nice.

“What job do you have?” Sylvia said.

“High-end prostitute,” Pat replied.

—————————–

(The challenge – connect two pictures. The first picture is of of an older woman sitting down at a table with a book in front of her. A younger girl is covering the older lady’s eyes. The second picture is of a girl dipping her fingers into water.)

“Guess who,” the young girl said.

Her hands were covering her grandmother’s eyes. This was a silly game Brittany played with her Nan. The elderly woman had been blind for 20 years. Complications from diabetes had been the silent culprit. By the time Nan knew what was going on, she’d lost her right foot and eyesight to the disease her father called “the sugar.”

Nan smiled.

“Sam,” she said, knowing full well the cool, small hands belonged to her favorite granddaughter.

“Not Sam,” the girl said laughing. “Guess again.”

“Brittany, I’d know you anywhere,” Nan said.

Brittany glanced at the book her grandmother was reading.

“Grandma, I never have figured out how you can read with your fingers,” the young girl said. There were so many talents her grandmother had – singing and playing the piano came to mind.

“It’s memory, sweetie,” she said softly. Even though Nan couldn’t see with her eyes, she explained to Brittany how she saw with her fingers. The softness of a kitten’s fur was something she felt but knew instantly how that fur looked. Dipping her finger in water brought back memories of seeing ringlets radiating out from her finger, the water cool and green. Those memories were etched in her mind, and she didn’t need her eyes to bring them back. Just the touch of fingers – all she had to do was remember how calloused her late husband’s hands felt to recall how he smelled – Old Spice aftershave – and the low timber of his voice.

“Our hands have eyes, my dear,” she said. “You just have to figure out how to let one of your senses take over for the missing one.”

————————

(Challenge – connect two photos. The first photo is of a girl holding a small gift-wrapped box. The second picture is a gray kitten lunging at the camera.) 

 

“Kibble, kibble, kibble,” Big Eyes the cat thought greedily.

Her owner – well, let’s be clear here – the person she allowed to exist in her world – was holding a small box. The box was wrapped in burlap and tied with a pretty ribbon. Big Eyes knew this gift was for her. Burlap was her favorite material to mangle, and she loved clawing ribbon to shreds. The human – people called her Olivia – often showered Big Eyes with gifts. Of course she should, Big Eyes thought. She was the princess, the ruler of the domain.

“Give it, give it, give it,” Big Eyes thought she was saying but the only things coming out of her mouth were loud, demanding meows.

The human laughed.

“Okay, Big Eyes,” she said. “Go ahead and open it.”

The human put the box down on the table and Big Eyes immediately pounced on it.

“Mine, mine, mine,” she was thinking.

In seconds, the burlap and ribbon were destroyed. Big Eyes clawed the box open and inside was a collar with a silver tag.

Big Eyes was furious. There should’ve been kibble in there, catnip, a new toy, something she’d like. Not this stupid collar with a stupid tag.

The human picked up the collar and patted Big Eyes on the head.

“Now everyone will know your name and your medical history,” she said, scratching her cat behind her ears.

“Tomorrow’s the day for the vet – no kittens here,” she said. “You’ll forever be the queen of the castle.”

——————————–

(The challenge – connect two photos. The first photo is of an older brick mansion with a brick balcony. The second picture is a young man, tie loosened, with a portfolio on his lap, looking out to his left.) 

 

Jacob looked over the papers in his portfolio.

Will signed. Check.

Power of attorney signed. Check.

Deed to house signed. Check.

He turned and looked at the old house. The 200-year-old castle had been in his family for generations. At one time, it was the center of the county’s celebrations. Townspeople paid his great-grandparents for the privilege of getting married in the castle’s grand foyer. Hundreds of brides and grooms had stood behind the stone balcony in the front, waving to family and friends, waiting for the horse and carriage to take them off to faraway lands for their honeymoons.

Now the house was falling apart. Mold, rot and neglect had taken its toll. But the property and surrounding woods were worth a fortune, Jacob knew, because he’d had the property assessed when his father became ill. All he had to do was wait for the old bastard to die and the property would be his. He’d started a campaign years ago to dissuade his cousins from wanting the property. Alicia had been the last one he had to convince. The script he’d memorized was impeccable.

The taxes. Astronomical.

The upkeep. More than $20,000 a year.

The rats. That was it – Sylvia was the last one to relinquish ownership in the old place.

And now it was going to be his. All his.

Jacob smiled and loosened his tie a bit more.

All he had to do was wait for the old man to die.

That or kill him.

 

 

 

It’s difficult to define a “classy” person. Words like integrity and elegance come to mind. But that top label can’t be applied until the person shows who they are over the long haul.

Dolly Parton is the best definition of classy.

At first glance, that might seem preposterous.

Dolly wears tons of makeup, tight, sequined clothes, long, painted fingernails and her hair looks like something out of a drag queen’s specialty wardrobe. She jokes about the number of plastic surgery procedures she’s undergone and the size of her bust.

But that’s just what’s on the outside of this remarkable woman.

Dolly Parton is one of the most popular singers and performers in the world. She’s also a successful businesswoman, actor, song writer and generous philanthropist.

She was born in Tennessee in 1946. She grew up in a big family with little money.

Dolly wrote and sang songs until she was invited to appear on the Grand Ole Opry at the age of 13. She got her big break on “The Porter Wagoner Show,” and the audience loved her.

She learned to call the shots for herself and slowly won every award the Country Music Association had to offer.

She’s a generous collaborator, and her most famous hit was recorded by Whitney Houston. The song “I Will Always Love You” became a global hit and Dolly said Whitney’s version was better than hers. Dolly started her own record label in 2007 and has had her songs in movies and on Broadway.

She opened the theme park Dollywood in 1985 and it’s one of the South’s top tourist attractions. My sister visited there with her family, and she said everyone, from the youngest to the oldest, had a blast. The park was clean, the prices reasonable and there was something for everyone to do.

One of Dolly’s most generous contributions has been through the Dollywood Foundation. She gives a free book a month to children from birth to age 5. Over 170 million books have been mailed to children, with parents only having to ask.

With all these accolades, it would be easy to understand if Dolly was a prima donna, having no time for the little people. It would also be understandable if she put others down because being a “mean girl” is popular and she’s at the top of the popularity pyramid.

But she doesn’t live that way.

I’ve never read or listened to an interview by Dolly Parton where she criticized other musicians. There’s a YouTube series where popular singers listen to others record their songs. It’s called “covers,” and the well-known singers usually make fun of the amateurs recording their tunes.

Not Dolly.

No matter how outlandish or offbeat the singer, Dolly has a smile on her face and nothing but encouraging words. She compliments their take on the song and says she’s honored to have people record her songs.

Recently singer Beyonce wasn’t recognized by the Country Music Hall of Fame for the successful country album she released.

Reporters, looking for a snide comment, couldn’t wait to ask Dolly’s opinion of Beyonce trying to be accepted as a country singer. The sharks were hoping Dolly would crucify Beyonce.

Not a chance.

Dolly didn’t rise to the bait and shut down the stories with class and intelligence. She not only complimented Beyonce but praised her talent and influence. Dolly also reminded people that country music has its roots in the Black community.

Of all the talents I love about Dolly Parton, I adore the words of wisdom she’s given us.

“Never ignore your roots, your home, or your hair.”

“Dreams are of no value if they’re not equipped with wings.”

And my all-time favorite: “It costs a lot of money to look this cheap.”

Live your life how this living legend, song writer, author, philanthropist, singer, rock-and-roller, musician and queen of country music lives hers.

That’s to laugh at ourselves, never others.

To generously give credit and praise to others instead of criticisms. Most of all, don’t take life too seriously.

And to remember what Dolly advises: “Find out who you are and do it on purpose.”

 

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

In a family with seven children, the only day specifically for us was our birthday. Mom cooked our favorite dinner and cake. Gifts weren’t extravagant, but she always bought us something she knew we’d like.

Today, Sept. 26, is our mom’s 92^nd birthday, and it’s a day to celebrate her.

She claims she never thought she’d live this long, and she constantly questions why she’s here. I could name all the things we say to people when they utter those statements – “God has a plan” or “Don’t say things like that.”

You still have a lot to teach us, Mom, but here’s a few of the life lessons you’ve taught us so far:

Faith. You have a deep faith in your religion, and you live that faith. It wasn’t easy to get seven children to Mass every Sunday, but you did. We received all the sacraments and knew all the prayers out of the Baltimore Catechist.

In May, we picked flowers for an altar to honor the Blessed Virgin because you have a special relationship with the Blessed Mother. We know you always hoped one of your sons would become a priest, but you’re thankful they’re all good, decent, honorable men.

Perseverance. Over the years, life has thrown you a series of tragedies. Your younger brother passed away unexpectedly on your birthday. Your mother never celebrated your birthday after that, and it was difficult for everyone. We didn’t know if we should be happy or sad.

But you taught us that life goes on. We grieve, we mourn, but then we remember that others are still here and deserve our attention. It must’ve been hard every year on your birthday, but you made sure we understood that life is to be celebrated.

Humor. You have a great sense of humor, and the person you laugh at the most is yourself. When my sister retired a few weeks ago, she told Mom she’d be coming to see her more often. Mom’s reply was “Is that a threat?”

She’s notorious for being a food pusher, and she hounded my brother one day about eating. As he was leaving, she held up a bag and said, “We have pears!” We all ribbed her about trying to force feed Jimmy.

That year for Christmas, we all got a small plate with a pear painted on it. She said the plate would ensure we always had pears at our house. She might laugh at jokes, but she mostly laughs at herself.

Determination. When Mom graduated from high school, she desperately wanted to go to college. My grandparents told her that was ridiculous – her job was to marry a Lebanese boy and have lots of Lebanese babies.

She told my grandfather one of her female cousins was going off to business school.

“I guess we’re not as good as them,” she told him, and he instantly bristled. The result was Mom got to go to business school, a career that served her well all her life.

She worked outside the home when we were growing up, but I don’t remember that she was gone. I remember her cooking dinner for us every single night. We always had clean clothes, food, encouragement and support no matter what we wanted to do.

Traditions. Every single Sunday after Mass, we had roast, rice, gravy, salad, corn and rolls for dinner. Attendance was a requirement, not a request. On Christmas Eve, my dad would read the story of the Nativity, and then we’d take turns opening gifts.

After Dad passed, my brother took on the role of reading the story. Mom made sure that 65-year tradition still holds.

Wisdom. Mom would brush off this compliment, saying she’s simply doing the best she can. But whenever I need a kick in the pants, she gives it to me. When I need to cry it out, she lets me sob and then tells me to wash my face. Her words and actions have guided me my whole life, and she’s never steered me wrong.

She doesn’t play favorites, but we all think we’re her favorite. Her grandchildren and great-grandchildren think she hangs the moon, and they’re right.

Delores Hebert is my role model, the person I admire most in the world and my best friend. We are so fortunate Mom’s still with us, and none of us take that blessing for granted. Some mothers are toxic, and some are absentee parents.

We know we hit the jackpot when we got Delores for our mom, our children’s Siti and our grandchildren’s Sit-Siti.

We’re going to celebrate you today, Mom and every day we’re lucky enough to have you here with us.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

As a young parent, I wanted to make sure my boys had all the educational opportunities I could find.

We read books, visited the library and had conversations to increase their vocabulary.

Although, looking back, I’m not sure what “stop that,” “who did this” and “I said so” did much to improve their word banks.

There were toys the experts said would help children develop intellectually. Perhaps those gifts did increase their brain power, although it was hard to detect as I walked over dirty clothes and discarded bath towels strewn from the bathroom to their room.

While some were great, there are some that are the worst:

Toy Musical Instruments. These are at the top of the list. Your child might whine for a toy drum, and you could think for a nano second that an instrument could wake up their inner Mozart.

Resist at all costs to your hearing and sanity.

Play-Doh. Play-Doh will stimulate a child’s imagination. They can build anything they want out of this dough that’s safe for children.

Unless, of course, they eat the whole can of dough, thinking because it’s pink it must taste good.

Play-Doh is virtually impossible to remove from your carpet and clothes. This is especially true if the stuck-on Play-Doh makes it to the laundry pile. Play-Doh is sneaky and shares its dye with everything in the dryer.

Legos. These are so much fun for kids, but when you step on one in the middle of the night, you will scream in pain. The same goes for Matchbox cars. So much fun, but not for your bare feet.

Wooden blocks. These are advertised as incredible for a child’s imagination. Not only will they learn different shapes, but they can also build entire cities.

In reality, your child will dump the entire box of blocks on the floor, use them as weapons and then leave the three thousand blocks on the floor for you to pick up because their “city” was demolished by an earthquake.

A 2-year-old earthquake.

Tea sets. Most children love tea parties. But a pretend tea party requires liquid for those little cups.

You’ll watch your child fill every single cup and teapot with water for the party. They will then spill every cup all over the bathroom sink that will trickle down over your wooden cabinets, into the floor and carpet.

Markers and crayons. These are wonderful in helping children create what’s in their imagination. Sometimes those dreams make their way to paper, but most of the time, those artists draw on the walls and themselves.

There are washable markers, but they always leave a trace on shirts. And for walls, washable means most of the paint is coming off along with the fire-engine red color.

Kids also like to try and eat the crayons and color their faces and tongues with the markers. It’s lovely to ask your child to stick out their tongue and find they decided purple was a much better color to have in their mouth.

Make-up. Manufacturers sell play make-up, but they’re just as destructive. Lipstick ends up all over their face, not just the lips. As a bonus, they’ll write on the walls, mirrors and their siblings with the darkest shade of lipstick you own.

Children also think lipstick tastes good. It doesn’t, but they’ll try it anyway. Eyeshadow doubles as blush – all over their face – and liquid make up works best as paint on the wall.

Before you buy a supposed toy for the kids or grandkids, give a thought as to what your child sees in that item versus what you see.

You see something to stimulate their imaginations. They see something they can smear all over everything in the house and themselves.

Read them a book instead. At least you can put that back on the shelf with little chance of a two-foot-tall tornado rolling through your house.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

There’s a scene in “Back to the Future” where Marty McFly watches gas station attendants rushing out to pump the gas, check the tires and clean the windshield on a vehicle.

That’s known as customer service, and, these days, it’s in short supply.

I called a medical office to make an appointment to address some sunspots on my face. I checked references online, researched different clinics and decided on a place affiliated with a major hospital.

The first question the person answering the phone asked was if I had insurance. This was before she asked my name, age, or why I was coming in.

I said I did and then provided all the numbers and information she asked for.

Next, she asked if I had an appointment preference. When we agreed on a date and time, that’s when she asked for my name, email address and phone number.

There was never a question about whether the dermatologist could take care of my issue. Never a question about what I needed.

But lots of time spent on whether or not they’d get paid and filling out an electronic form.

My sister-in-law provided context in that she’d been to a doctor’s office that didn’t ask about the insurance.

When the visit was over, they informed her they didn’t take her insurance, and she was liable for the whole bill.

I’ll give the place I called the benefit of the doubt, but it’s the placement of the question that bothered me.

I went back and called the second place on my list. The person on the phone asked my name and why I was coming in.

When I told her, she said they could handle what I needed. That’s when she asked for my insurance information.

I provided the information, concluded the call and then called the first place back. I cancelled the first appointment and told the person who answered the phone, the same one I’d talked to earlier, why I was cancelling.

She didn’t care and hung up without an apology or an attempt to retain my business. That’s poor customer service.

I don’t shop in stores where the lines are long and there’s a shortage of cashiers.

I spend my money where the company hires people to make my wait in line – sometimes at 5 p.m. after working all day – as short as possible.

I’m not rude to the people who work in understaffed stores or businesses because they’re simply following the directives of the company.

Most of them will go the extra mile to make the customer or client feel comfortable.

Those are the places that get my money because customer satisfaction doesn’t cost a dime.

That intangible requires the owner of the company to ensure customers are treated with dignity and respect no matter if they spend one dollar or a thousand dollars.

Quality customer service requires the employee to remember without the customer’s money, they don’t have a job.

Small-town businesses remember that unwritten rule. So many local places know you by name.

In restaurants, a servicer will put an iced tea on the table when you sit down because they know that’s what you order.

They smile when talking to you, respect your time and thank you for making the decision to give them your business.

I had both ends of the spectrum today.

I chose the company that asked my name and what I needed before they asked for my money.

In my book, that’s quality customer service.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

An online article caught my eye – “Pinnacle Man, Found in Cave Nearly 50 Years Ago, Has Been Identified.”

Back in 1977, two hikers found a man’s frozen body in a cave in eastern Pennsylvania.

No one came forth to claim the young man’s body, so his paperwork moved to the cold case file. But thanks to Ian Keck, a trooper with the Pennsylvania State Police Department who used “old-fashioned police work,” the man was identified as Nicholas Paul Grubb.

These are the kinds of cases that fascinate me, and there’s plenty of these kinds of unsolved mysteries on crime podcasts.

My son Nick said he loves listening to “who-dun-it” podcasts while driving, so I tuned into one and listened to at least three of the shows. Full confession – I’m a long-time fan of crime shows.

Back in the 1970s, Peter Falk starred as Lt. Columbo, a homicide detective with the Los Angeles Police Department.

Columbo had a disarming way to lull the murderers into believing he was an inept, forgetful detective. I never missed an episode.

Similar to “Columbo” was “Quincy” with Jack Klugman as a medical examiner who couldn’t resist investigating mysterious deaths. His energy was contagious and fun.

My sister wouldn’t miss an episode “Starsky & Hutch,” mostly for the two gorgeous stars instead of the somewhat weak scripts they were assigned.

All of these shows had likeable main characters, interesting story lines and the cases wrapped up in a nice, neat package in 60 minutes.

That’s not always the case with true crime podcasts.

First, they’re all based on real cases. Many have been covered on television programs like “48 Hours” or newspaper stories, and the podcast hosts cite where they got their information.

I tuned into one of the most well-known podcasts from National Public Radio. “Serial” was a 12-part podcast about a young girl, Hae Min Lee, who was murdered. Police arrested her ex-boyfriend, Adnan Syed, for her murder.

Years later, Sarah Koenig’s detailed reporting was the reason the case was reopened and Syed, who’d been in jail, was released.

Over the next two weeks, I listened to all 12 hours of Koenig’s award-winning podcast. I was curious to hear more crime show podcasts, and was surprised to find there are quite a few choices out there.

The top-rated podcast is “My Favorite Murder.” Karen Kilgariff and Georgia Hardstark talk about true crimes that are compelling and cover a variety of cases. Warning – there’s a lot of profanity along with, of all things, laughter.

On two of my favorites, “Crime Junkie Radio” and “Southern Mysteries,” the hosts give their own impressions of what happened in the cases. Many times, they’re critical of law enforcement, but they usually give them credit for working with the resources they had at the time.

So much has changed over the years.

These days, there are cameras mounted outside almost every home, on every street corner and in and outside of most businesses. People can be tracked by cell phone tower pings, having their vehicle tagged on highway monitors or on individual cell phones.

But years ago, that wasn’t the case. Police cases were solved by detectives running down every clue in person or on the telephone, painstakingly trying to uncover “whodunnit.”

For some of the old cold cases, modern technology allows detectives to run DNA analysis. They can now examine fibers and hair that were found and preserved from the murder scene to help pinpoint the guilty parties.

Listening to how detectives follow leads, whether it was in the 1940s or last week, is fascinating and a different break from the same-old, same-old top 40 songs.

The next time you’re stuck in traffic, folding clothes or taking a car trip, find a crime podcast and become your own Columbo.

You’ll be hooked, just like me.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.