America has its share of weird places. One of the top ones is Roswell, N.M., the place where the military supposedly recovered a “flying disc” in 1947. Ever since that event, those who believe in aliens and Unidentified Flying Objects, UFOs, have flocked to this desert spot.

The fascination with UFO’s has grown every year. Now that the Pentagon has released documents that seem to validate that flying objects are here, the debate is on fire.

The files are descriptions and videos of people sighting what they claim are UFOs. These aren’t from crackpots wearing aluminum foil over their heads. The reports come from pilots and astronauts.

In reports from 1948-1950, witnesses reported over 200 sightings of orbs and other strange objects in the sky.

The objects were a variety of shapes, and people said they maneuvered, flew away at rapid speeds and disappeared. One senior U.S. intelligence officer said he saw oval-shaped objects in the west that swarmed and emitted light in all directions.

Those who don’t believe in UFOs claim these objects are highly classified military drones or high-tech machinery foreign countries are building to one day take over the world.

Much like aliens.

We’ve reinforced that idea with movies featuring extra-terrestrials. “Independence Day” has alien locusts coming here to devour living thing on the planet before moving on.

Then there are movies that have us adoring aliens, like “batteries not included” and “Starman.” “E.T.” is the top movie that had us embracing aliens visiting our planet.

Most UFO and alien theories have grains of believability. The 1968 book “Chariots of the Gods?” was a huge hit and sparked years of debate about how long aliens have been visiting Earth. Author Erich von Daniken posed that extraterrestrials were here and influenced early humans.

How else, believers ask, could ancient civilizations in Mexico and Egypt build huge structures with precise measurements with their rudimentary tools?

Debunkers say humans have a deep understanding of geometry and, despite having crude tools, could build precise pyramids.

Some people think the ancient Greek and Roman gods were extraterrestrials. They point to how early people said the gods lived in the clouds – that’s where spaceships would be. Plus, both the Greek and Roman gods are similar in abilities if not names.

The theories are fascinating, but most people scoff at them. It wasn’t until I saw a UFO that I became a believer.

Some long-time readers might remember my story from six years ago. My husband and I were on the Atchafalaya Basin bridge at night, almost to Baton Rouge, La. To the left of the car, I saw two lights in the distance. As we drove along, I wondered about the lights.

They were too far apart to be an approaching car. They also weren’t the right configuration for an airplane or helicopter. Plus, I didn’t hear anything like an engine approaching.

Then I realized the lights were heading toward us at an angle. The only road out in the middle of the swamp was I-10, and we were on that. As the lights got closer, I asked my husband if he saw what I was seeing.

He said he’d been watching them for a while, just as I had. The object got close enough for me to see a panel of lights in between the two headlights. Suddenly, the lights took a right-turn and disappeared.

“We just saw a UFO,” I said slowly. My husband – a practical, intelligent engineer – agreed. I searched online for any reports of weather aircraft, drones or airplanes being used over the swamp or of anyone else reporting sightings.

I didn’t find anything.

After considering all types of reasons for a big object to be flying in the middle of a swamp during the night, I came to a logical conclusion:  if the government wanted to conduct secret missions close to civilization where few people would see them, the millions of uninhabited miles in the Atchafalaya Swamp was the perfect place.

Or aliens are living with the gators and snakes in the swamp.

Now I know I’m not alone in seeing strange objects in the sky.

We might all need tin-foil hats.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Now that the graduation ceremonies are over, parents are getting a son or daughter ready for college.

If you thought back-to-school shopping when they were in elementary school was expensive, you have no idea what’s ahead of you now.

When I went to college oh so many years ago, everything I needed fit in the back of my mom’s Vega station wagon. My roommate’s mom repainted an old table and two chairs. We were perfectly content with a mini-fridge and bunk bed with matching blue ribcord bedspreads from Penney’s.

By the time our eldest son went to Texas A&M University, things had changed.

We helped him move in, but he and his roommates took it from there, and they were proud of their improvements.

There was marble contact paper on the floor, so their room looked like a marble palace.

A couch, rescued from the dumpsters outside the dorm, was one of their best finds. It seems when students move out at the end of the summer, they throw away perfectly good furniture because they don’t want to hassle with taking it home.

Hence the couch.

When our second son went to college, I was better prepared. He’s a no-frills person, and I had an idea that we could outfit his dorm room for $50 or less if we went thrifting. We found everything he needed in one store.

Granted, none of the items matched, everything needed a thorough cleaning, but the price was right. We patted ourselves on the back for our thriftiness.

That was then.

This is now.

No more putting a mini fridge on the floor and stacking boxes of Frosted Flakes and Cap’n Crunch on top. Now rooms require modular shelves that fit over the fridge so you can store a microwave, matching dishes and healthy snacks.

Forget bunk beds. They’re “lofted” beds with a special shelf so you can put a $60 WooZoo fan right next to your teen’s head while they sleep.

Today’s dorm room furnishings look like they came from Pottery Barn, or a professional decorator was turned loose with a blank check.

Everything matches, from the full-size rug to the curtains and the blotter on the desk. The bed requires a $100 mattress pad, extenders, and enough throw pillows to choke a horse.

The most over-the-top pillow I saw was one with a picture of the family pet on it so teens could cuddle Fido at night.

I don’t think Taylor Swift lives this good.

Another must-have is a vacuum cleaner. I don’t think I ever vacuumed my dorm room. Or swept. Or mopped. We used napkins we swiped from the cafeteria to clean up.

Tool kits are deemed essential with the college student’s initials embossed on the front in, you guessed it, colors that match the rug, curtains, bedspread, and blotter.

We had a plastic percolator from TG&Y. Today’s college kids need espresso machines. They also need a rolling laundry kit with room for detergent pods, fabric softener and stain removal pens, not a $2 plastic laundry basket.

A memory foam mattress pad will set you back $90, and some dorm rooms have a big-screen television on the wall.

One of the items I agree with is a medicine kit. One mom had enough supplies to treat a village. I suppose she doesn’t believe there’s a drug store in her daughter’s college town.

One thing that hasn’t changed is that dormitories are a smelly around-the-clock beehive of activity. Living in one is an experience one can only survive when young.

Good luck shopping over the summer, parents.

You and your wallet are going to need it.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

While on a visit to Baton Rouge, I was hoping to sample some mudbugs as March through May is prime crawfish season.

A crawfish boil in Louisiana is much like a backyard barbecue in Texas with a few exceptions.

Texans need a barbecue pit, cold beverages, and charcoal.

Cajuns need a propane burner, a large pot, cold beverages, and lots of seasoning.

Both celebrations are best when held in someone’s back yard where there’s a wooden picnic table, and kids can run through a sprinkler.

We had quite a few crawfish boils in the Hebert family. Cousins and friends would throw a party whenever the mudbugs were inexpensive and plentiful.

Getting ready for a crawfish boil means covering the picnic tables with layers of newspaper. The reason for the layers is that after the first batch of crawfish is dumped on the table, you roll up the top two layers of newspaper with the crawfish shells and throw that away. Then the table is ready for the next round.

Dump, eat, and repeat.

When the crawfish boils were at our house, Dad would arrive a few hours before we started with big mesh bags filled with crawling, snapping crawfish.

I remember spraying the snapping crustaceans with the hose every few minutes to keep them alive while my dad seasoned the water in the big pot. Just like cooking brisket, crawfish cooking recipes are often passed down from generation to generation.

Each cook has his or her own secret to cooking tender, well-seasoned crawfish. Some people use pre-measured boxes of seasoning created for shrimp, crab and crawfish.

Others use their own heavily guarded recipe of salt, cayenne pepper, paprika, garlic and liquid crawfish boil concentrate. Some cooks add other spices, but hot seasoning is a must-have.

Next comes what to boil with the crawfish. Savvy cooks never let that seasoned water go to waste.

Growing up, the only extra foods thrown in the big pot were small red potatoes and corn-on-the-cob. These extras soaked up the seasoning and were often spicier than the crawfish.

Cajun cooks these days fill mesh bags with green beans or asparagus, brussels sprouts and carrots.

My nephew was in charge of the crawfish for Mother’s Day, and he uses his father’s award-winning recipe. He added links of hot sausage and cocktail links, and both were a big hit. The crawfish were perfectly cooked.

As usual, we debated about how long to cook the crawfish and how to cool them down.

There’s those who believe one adds ice directly to the water at the end of the boiling period and those who let the crawfish cool down naturally.

No matter who’s doing the cooking, crawfish boils follow the same script.

After the agreed-upon time for soaking and cooling, it’s time to dump those now red, steaming crawfish and extras out onto the newspaper-covered picnic table.

Guests stand around the table, peeling, sucking the heads, dipping potatoes in butter and chasing all that down with a cold beer with either an LSU baseball game or Zydeco music on the radio.

There’s usually a wise relative around the table showing the young ones how to snap and twist off the tail, suck the heads and then clean the meat out of the claws.

They teach them not to eat the ones where the tails are flat because they weren’t alive before they were cooked.

In Texas, nothing beats backyard barbecues. In Louisiana, nothing comes close to a spring afternoon and peeling crawfish until your fingers sting.

Mais oui, cher, dat’s a good time.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

Growing up in a small town has its advantages. Every Sunday, my family would attend Mass followed by lunch with our aunts, uncles and cousins at our grandparents’ house.

At the time, I didn’t think much about who was cooking all that food. That chore fell to my grandmother, Albedia, who cooked enough Lebanese food to feed at least 20 people every single Sunday.

She never asked for help nor did she complain. I took her hours in the kitchen for granted all those Sundays.

I carried that oversight with my mother. She worked outside the home when we moved to Louisiana. There were seven children in our house, but Mom never made us feel like we were second to her job.

She left the office promptly at 4:15 p.m., was home no later than 4:35 p.m. and had a hot dinner on the table by 6 p.m. No fast-food pizzas or burgers.

We had home-cooked meals every night, including a dessert. Plus, she did all the shopping, from food to shoes, for everyone in the family.

On Sundays, Mom would pop a roast into the oven before we left for Mass. Dinner after church was mandatory – we did not miss sitting down as a family on Sundays.

It never occurred to me that Mom might be tired or need a break. A few years ago, I asked how she managed everything, and she said she didn’t think about it.

“I did what needed to be done,” she said.

Moms are some of the most underappreciated and least thanked people on the planet.

It’s not just at home where we take moms for granted. We expect women to leave their personal life behind when they enter the work force.

They’re supposed to give 100 percent at work and 100 percent at home. Sooner or later, something has to give, and that’s usually personal time for mom.

There’s so much that goes on in a child’s life that it’s a constant balancing act to keep all those plates in motion.

Because of social media, women often compare themselves to mothers whose homes look like something out of “House Beautiful.”

They see women exercising while cooking natural foods, turning trash into treasures and painting murals on their child’s walls.

My house was messy, the closest natural foods I had were apples from the grocery store and the only murals on the walls were when the boys found the markers.

Once children enter school, the workload doubles. There’s notes to teachers, forms to fill out, field trips that need chaperones, summer activities that require deposits and ensuring you have all the pre-requisites completed.

With social media, moms have to constantly monitor their child’s online activities.

Throw in schools with dress-up days requiring parents to make sure they have cowboy hats and boots, sequins, crazy socks, T-shirts in every color of the Crayola box and let’s not forget pajama day at least once a month.

Enough already.

Here’s a salute to all those moms who are driving carpool and creating dioramas out of pipe cleaners and castles out of empty toilet paper rolls.

Here’s to the mom who’s running to the store at 9 p.m. because her child forgot to tell her it’s “anything-but-a-backpack” day and she has to find something for her child to take his books to school in the next day.

Here’s to the mom who loves with all her heart, worries with all her soul and beams with pride when her child shines.

If no one’s told you this recently, Mom, you are appreciated.

You are loved.

Happy Mother’s Day!

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

The Class of 2026 is waving goodbye to research papers, standardized testing and restroom passes. Graduation is here, and most seniors can’t wait for their big day.

When a teen graduates from high school, we hope they’ve been taught the academic basics. Those skills include algebra, the history of the world and the difference between bring and take.

In between academics, we hope they know how to wash clothes, watch out for credit card scams and what to do in case of a fender bender.

Practical knowledge is out there on the Internet. There’s no need to guess how to fold a fitted sheet or how to build a bookshelf. YouTube, Google and Chat GPT have the answers.

But life is more than practicality. Here’s a few examples of the intangibles we hope you take with you on this next phase of your life.

Know when to leave the laundry and homework for a walk outside. Listen to your emotions and your body and escape digital noise for a few minutes. Put the phone away and listen to the birds sing and feel the breeze on your skin.

Remember what’s important and what’s not. Going out with friends is important. Some memories stay with you throughout your life while others fade. Some of those friends will be with you for life. Most you’ll never see again. Learn to tell the two apart.

Not to sound like a cranky oldster, before texting, we actually talked to each other. Young people might call that the “old ways,” but they’re useful, even when you’re surrounded by technology.

So much information is available at the touch of a button. But when knowledge is gleaned from a computer screen and keyboard, there’s a loss of human connection. Some things are best learned person to person.

Teaching these intangible skills to someone you love, or having someone you love to explain them, often leaves a loving or funny memory. Those experiences are something artificial intelligence hasn’t been able to capture.

Listen to the stories from your grandparents and parents. So often, the events that made them who they are aren’t written down. You only get that information when you talk to them.

Knowing how your parents met, who their friends were in high school and their favorite movie growing up is priceless information.

There are a few more worthwhile intangibles, Class of 2026. Your parents or teachers might’ve been hard on you over the past four years. They had so much to teach you and so little time left. Understand they were coming from a position of love.

Practice chatting with another person. Before cell phones, we’d strike up a conversation with the person sitting next to us in the doctor’s office, on a slow elevator, or in a long line.

You will gain knowledge from strangers. Sometimes you’ll hear worthless information, but often, strangers that come across your path will create a wonderful memory. Put down the phone and have a real face-to-face conversation.

Along with talking to someone, remember to listen. Stop talking or figuring out what your response is going to be when someone’s talking to you.

Pay attention with your ears and your heart to what someone is trying to tell you. Before you answer, make sure you’re validating what the other person is saying and then state your point. All the knowledge in the world won’t help if you can’t listen.

People have memories, experiences and knowledge you can’t find anywhere else. Soak it all up before you head out into the world and practice all your life. The old ways are more useful now than ever before.

Best of luck, graduates! Make us proud.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

 

 

 

There’s an old belief that trouble comes in clusters of three. Today, I would swear that superstition is true.

Trouble Number 1: My credit card statement arrived, and I checked the charges. I saw one I didn’t recognize so I called the credit card company. After pressing at least 12 digits, I finally talked to a real person.

She gave me the phone number of the company on the statement. I called their 800-number, and the recorded message stated they were a funeral home and life insurance company. I called the credit card company back, and a real person told me I had one option.

Cancel the card and they will dispute the charge. A new card would arrive in 5-7 business days.

Later, my husband said the charge could be insurance for the theater tickets I’d purchased. It was like a bolt of lightning – I had ordered the insurance because the flu was making its way through our family.

Not only did I not have a credit card for an evening out with my granddaughter, but I have a list of about 12 businesses to call and change my billing information.

Trouble Number 2: I was still upset about cancelling my credit card when I stopped at a restaurant on the way to pick up my granddaughter. I accidentally dropped my phone in the commode, thankful I’d already flushed it.

I quickly fished the phone out, grateful I’d put it in a protective shell. I took the cover apart, separated all the parts and made sure everything was dry.

Trouble Number 3:  My next stop was at the post office to mail a package. The sweet lady behind the counter pointed out I’d written six numbers for the ZIP code.

“There’s only supposed to be five,” she said nicely. We looked up the right number and taped a piece of paper with the right information over my mistake.

Since this was the third misfortune I’d experienced, I figured the rest of the evening would go as planned.

I was wrong.

Trouble Number 4:  We found a great parking spot at The Hobby Center, and I was convinced my troubles were over. Until I showed my tickets to a volunteer.

Her device didn’t recognize the QR code, and we’d have to go to the window. The ticket taker said my tickets were for the following evening’s performance.

This couldn’t be happening. We’d driven two hours in the rain to see this performance, and now we might not even get in because of my stupidity. Without a shred of pride, I begged the manager to let us in.

He reassured me we’d see the show that night, and they gave us new seats with a great view.

I could look at the day as a total loss, but that’s not how I decided to file the events away.

For Trouble Number 1: I learned it pays to write down odd credit card purchases so when those charges come in, they won’t cause alarm bells to go off. My brother and son also gave me some useful tips to keep track of my credit card purchases in real time.

For Trouble Number 2: It pays to get a heavy-duty protective cover for a telephone. That’s money well spent.

For Trouble Number 3:  There will always be people looking out for others. When a mistake is made, they kindly help fix the mistake without judgment.

For Trouble Number 4:  Even though I made a huge mistake in not checking the ticket dates, I was reminded that there are kind and generous people who show compassion when someone makes a genuine mistake.

Perhaps trouble isn’t always bad.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

 

She held up the shard of mirror and stared at the reflection. The eyes staring back at her seemed cold and distant. Maybe it was because the eyes were a light shade of blue. She’d always heard blue eyes masked a personality of someone with ice in their veins.

Was that true?

Maybe.

But she had reason to think cold thoughts.

She looked down at her thumb that was holding the shard by the edge. A small trickle of blood had formed from the jagged edge of the glass.

She hadn’t meant to break the mirror with that much force. But that’s exactly what happened when Madge finished reading their last bank statement. She’d found the statement hidden underneath the cufflinks in Stan’s jewelry box. The balance? Not the $350,000 she thought was in there. The balance, as of last Monday, was $5,000.

She put the shard down carefully on top of the lace doily on the dresser, hoping there wasn’t blood on the back of the broken piece. Madge told herself she should’ve been more careful.

“You should’ve been more careful about a lot of things, old girl,” she said to herself.

“I was too busy to notice,” Madge said, not realizing she was talking out loud. She was the only person in the house she’d shared with Stan for the last 40 years. The wallpaper was original to the old house, Stan hating the cabbage rose print, Madge thinking the pattern matched the 100-year-old house.

“Maybe you should’ve noticed how I felt about a lot of things,” a voice whispered in her head, a voice she’d heard and felt all her life. “Then maybe you wouldn’t be in the situation you’re in right now.”

Madge saw the cut on her thumb needed more than spit. She turned and went into the bathroom, looking around for the box of Band-Aids she kept in the medicine cabinet. While rummaging, she found bottles of prescription meds for Stan – here was one for his high blood pressure, and one for the time he had the beginnings of an ulcer. Madge moved the bottles, looking for the dark brown bottle of mercurochrome she’d had for years. That’s when she saw the small bottle with the blue diagonal shaped pills.

Viagra.

A prescription for her late husband who hadn’t touched her in years.

Madge picked up the bottle and noticed it was almost empty. She checked the number of pills prescribed – 20. There were only five tablets left.

“One more thing you weren’t careful about,” the voice in her head said, triumph in its tone.

“Shut up,” Madge said out loud. “Just shut up.”

She threw the bottle against the bathroom wall, causing the top to pop off and the pills to scatter on the faded green linoleum floor.

Madge was oblivious to the slow trickle of blood running down her thumb.

“You better do something about that or it’ll stain the grout,” the voice said. Madge had heard that nagging voice all her life and, she hated to admit, so had Stan.

“You’d better take care of the oil change in the car or the engine will freeze up.”

“You’d better change the air conditioning filters in the house or we’ll develop allergies.”

“You’d better stop paying fees to be on that stupid bowling team. Taxes are going up.”

Madge heard her cell phone ding. She unrolled a foot of toilet paper and used it to stop the bleeding on her thumb, temporarily giving up the search for a bandage. She picked up the phone and saw it was a message from the funeral home.

“Visitation is set for 10 a.m. to noon tomorrow,” the text stated. “Payment in full for our services will be due at the end of the service.”

Madge put the phone down, closed her eyes, and then opened them. Shards of the mirror were scattered around the dresser. She wasn’t surprised. She’d slammed that mirror so hard against the wood that she was surprised she hadn’t damaged the dresser as well.

“What do you expect?” the voice said. “You just found out your supposedly faithful husband of 45 years had gambling debts that wiped out your 401k.”

Madge felt her knees go weak again. All the money she’d given freely to Stan, thinking her husband with a degree in banking was taking care of them. All the while, he’d been involved in online poker games, losing hundreds and then thousands of dollars. Right now, she had less than $5,000 to her name.

“You have this house,” the voice said. “Sell it.”

Madge looked around. What could she get for this old place. The roof leaked – Stan always too busy to fix it. The plumbing was shot as was the furnace, and everything needed updating. Now she realized she didn’t have the money for those fix-it chores. America’s Cardroom had their money.

Madge had no idea her husband had that big secret. It wasn’t until she’d checked their banking account a few hours ago that she saw huge chunks of money gone. She called Stan’s co-worker at the bank and confronted him.

“Madge, I begged Stan to come clean to you, but he didn’t want to,” Ron told her in a whispered voice. “He knew he was in over his head, but by the time he told me what was going on, he’d cleaned out your savings account.”

Madge had grabbed onto the edge of the dresser, her head spinning. Thousands of dollars gone, all right underneath her nose. And where had she been?

“You were busy grading papers and complaining about the educational system, your fellow teachers and the slacker kids, that’s where you were,” the voice said. “And when you weren’t griping about them, you were busy with your crossword puzzle books.”

The voice was right. She’d been too wrapped up in herself, her problems and her insecurities to pay attention to her husband or her personal life.

The gambling was bad enough. But the Viagra pills? What were those for?

Madge went back into the bathroom and, this time, found the bandages. She wrapped her thumb and returned to Stan’s laptop. It was on a desk in the room. She and Stan had slept in separate bedrooms for the past 10 years, her snoring keeping him awake and his snoring keeping her awake.

“You never considered the man might be lonely, did you?” the voice asked.

Madge was silent.

“Did you?”

“No,” she whispered. “But then again, he never considered that I might be lonely.”

She opened Stan’s email – the man never closed his G-Mail account – and glanced through the in box. There were typical advertisements for storm windows and tax help. She went through the folders and found one marked “Cadillac.” They’d never owned a Cadillac, she thought. A Cadillac was a car Stan always dreamed of having but she always told him that was a ridiculous purchase. A Buick, now that was a trusty, sturdy car.

Inside the Cadillac file were emails from a woman named Dolly. Madge read two of them and knew instantly Stan had been having an affair with her.

Madge scrolled down to the bottom of the folder. Apparently, Stan and Dolly had been lovers for five years.

Her thumb was beginning to throb, just like her head. In a matter of two days, her husband had dropped dead from a stroke, she found out her life savings were gone, she discovered her husband had been having an affair and here she was sitting in a shabby bedroom with decades old wallpaper and shards of glass all over the faded rug.

She sat in the silence, watching as the shadows deepened in the room and then remained sitting until the room was dark except for the now dim light from Stan’s computer screen.

“You gonna just sit there and let life happen to you or are you going to do something about it?” the voice asked. The voice still nagged, but the nagging had a different tone now. It challenged instead of criticized.

Madge walked over to the shard of glass she’d held earlier and looked at herself in the reflection. This time, she accepted that the blue eyes looking back were icy cold.

“I’m gonna kick ass,” Madge said. She picked up her phone again and found the number of her friend, Marissa.

“I’m so sorry about Stan,” Marissa said.

Madge interrupted her.

“Yeah, that’s fine, thanks, but I need you to list my house. While you’re at it, help me find a company to sell all my furniture as well,” Madge said.

It’s time to stop ignoring what’s happening around me, she thought.

“About time,” the voice said.

And for once, Madge agreed with the voice. And, she thought bitterly, so would Stan.

 

 

Growing up, we loved board games. “Jeopardy” and “Family Feud” were family favorites, and knowing facts and trivia always helped clinch a win.

A few years ago, I found a website, IMDB – the Internet Movie Database – that listed all kinds of media information, from plot summaries to cast members to my favorite category, trivia.

While watching something on either television or my computer, I usually search IMDB trivia, and all kinds of useless information fills my phone screen.

One rainy afternoon when going down memory lane, I decided to see what I could find out about some of my favorite television shows from the 1970s and 1980s. If you wonder what happens behind the scenes, keep reading.

Credit goes where credit is due – facts here are courtesy of the IMDB website.

“Little House on the Prairie.” This was my weekly cry show. This little family always found a way to tug at my heartstrings. Fun fact – when the Ingall family sat down to eat, the stars had Kentucky Fried chicken, definitely not a delicacy in Minnesota’s pioneer days.

“Happy Days.” Richie, Fonzie and the crew were always there for a feel-good show about growing up. Little-known fact – a teenage boy was contemplating suicide and wanted to talk to Fonzie. Winkler took the call and convinced the boy to give life another chance.

“WKRP in Cincinnati.” Not a Thanksgiving goes by that I don’t watch the clip – “As God is my witness, I thought turkeys could fly.” I’m not alone. Every November, thousands of people watch that video on YouTube.

“All in the Family.”  Bigot Archie has a full-fledged liberal for a son-in-law. Archie and Meathead allowed us to open the door to uncomfortable conversations. Fun fact about Edith: The show made fun of Jean Stapleton’s singing, but in reality, she was a professionally trained singer who’d performed in musical theatre.

“The Jeffersons.”  A spin off from “All in the Family,” George Jefferson (Sherman Hemsley) was a successful, vain Black man who carried the show. Fun fact:  Isabel Sanford was the first Black actress to win the Outstanding Lead Actress in a comedy Emmy award.

“The Munsters.” To say it was a stretch of the imagination to have a Frankenstein-style man and a Bride of Frankenstein woman living in a creepy mansion appear normal makes me laugh now. That doesn’t include the strange Uncle Fester. Fun fact:  Fred Gwynne (Herman Munster) was 6’5” in real life. But he needed to be even taller, so he wore shoes that elevated him by four inches.

“Taxi.” A sitcom about life in a New York City taxi-cab office. I have lots of favorite scenes, but when Jim takes the driving test and asks what a yellow light means, the result still cracks me up. And nobody can down a beer in one gulp like the despicable Louie DePalma.

“Dallas.”  Like 83 million other people, I had to tune in to see who shot J.R. Fun fact: The house used as the “Southfork Ranch” house was a real Texas residence called “Duncan Acres.” Years later, the Duncan family was forced to sell the house, and it is now a museum devoted to the show.

“Gilligan’s Island.”  I had to stop watching this sitcom because I was frustrated about people being trapped on that island. Fun fact: the show’s crew could only make props that would’ve been found on the island. They loved the challenge.

The next time you sit down to watch a movie or TV show and wonder about the back story, check out the IMDB website. Then you’ll know useless facts that somehow make you feel smart.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Library. 

 

There’s a scene in the sitcom “Schitt’s Creek” where mom Moira is trying to share a family recipe with her son David.

Moira hasn’t a clue how real people function, but she claims she can cook her mother’s enchilada recipe. She asks David to help.

When the instructions call to fold in the cheese, David asks what that means.

Moira tells him to just fold in the cheese. He asks for directions again. David finally realizes she hasn’t a clue about cooking, especially how to fold in cheese.

I felt a little like Moira when my grandson, Alex, and I were out for one of our last driving lessons – parking.

Over the past few years, I’ve gotten lazy about parking. I usually turn left into a parking spot because it seems easier, but either the front of the car is over the line or the rear end of the car is sticking out too far.

Then there’s the problem of getting inside the lines.

If I’m somewhat in the middle, it’s a success. If not, I park further out where sloppy parking doesn’t matter as much.

Alex said parking was on the driving test, so we set off on a Sunday afternoon to tackle this last lesson. We found an empty parking lot, and pulled in. Knowing I’m not great at parking, we decided to watch a few YouTube videos for some expert advice.

I learned a few things – there’s right-hand parking and left-hand parking. The reason I prefer left-hand parking is because the driver sits on that side and can see how close they are to the car on the left.

We set out two home-made cones for Alex to drive around – one of his younger brother’s toys and an empty laundry detergent container. Not top-of-the-line tools, but the make-shift cones would serve their purpose.

Then it was time for Alex to park. He asked what to do before turning into the spot. I hesitated, knowing my parking weakness. I took the easy way out.

“You park the car,” I told him.

He looked at me.

I motioned with my hand toward the empty spot.

“You just park it,” I said again. “Remember what we saw on the videos. Just park the car.”

Being a wonderful grandson, he tried to follow that useless advice.

But he was too close to the line on the driver’s side.

“How do I fix it?” he asked.

I thought about it.

“Just try again,” I replied.

He tried again and was on the line on the right-hand side of the car.

“Got any advice?” he asked.

“Let’s watch the videos again,” I replied.

We watched two different ones, and Alex patiently backed the car out of the spot. He turned the vehicle around and stopped.

“What should I do now?” he asked.

My advice was sound.

“Just park the car,” I said. That’s when I thought about that scene from “Schitt’s Creek.”

We moved to another empty parking lot, but this one had plate glass windows where Alex could see what he was doing. In just a few tries, he figured out how to turn and then straighten out the car.

Luckily, when it came to parallel parking, Alex got it on the first try without any useful advice from me. That was a stroke of good luck because my advice would’ve been the same – “You just park it.”

Later, I asked my 18-year-old granddaughter for advice about how to park a car. She looked at me and smiled.

“You just park it,” she said.

Vindication.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

One sleepless night, I was mindlessly scrolling on my computer and came across a video of a little monkey named Punch.

I wasn’t the only one captivated by this adorable monkey whose life is anything but easy.

Over 90 million people around the world have watched videos of Punch.

The reason?

Punch reminds us of ourselves.

A little background.

In July, a macaque monkey was born at the small Ichikawa City Zoo in Japan and was abandoned by his mother shortly after birth.

The zookeepers had no idea why the mother abandoned the infant. All they knew was they had a tiny motherless monkey, starving for attention.

To help, the zookeepers gave Punch an IKEA stuffed toy that resembled an orangutan. Instantly, Punch hung on to that comfort plushie much as a needy child hugs a stuffed animal.

When Punch was old enough, the zookeepers released him to the troop, making sure the little monkey had his stuffed animal/surrogate mother.

The experience was brutal.

The monkeys attacked Punch, chasing, pushing, and hitting the young monkey. Punch would run away to his stuffed animal, crying in fear.

He dragged the stuffed toy everywhere he went, huddle up with it, sometimes hiding, sometimes crying, whenever other monkeys would come around.

The only times Punch would venture out alone were when his two favorite zookeepers would enter the barren enclosure.

Punch would jump up on their legs, scurry up their backs and ride around on the zookeepers’ shoulders while they fed the other monkeys.

Sometimes, the zookeepers kept Punch with them. Other times, they’d gently put Punch down, hoping he’d connect with the others. According to experts, there’s a social hierarchy and Punch needed to fit in.

News of Punch’s rough life spread on social media. Soon, the zoo was seeing hundreds of visitors a day, with lines stretching outside the zoo’s gates to see Baby Punch.

Millions have watched videos of him, frustrated when he was being bullied and cheering when his favorite zookeepers carry him around.

Feelings are so strong for Punch that a fund with Change.org has been established to relocate Punch from the concrete mountain in Japan to a nurturing sanctuary where he can socialize in a more natural setting.

But, despite the somewhat stark conditions at the Ichikawa City Zoo, Punch appears to be improving. He’s spending less time alone, and he seems more confident.

After weeks of being ostracized, Punch isn’t being picked on as much, and he’s bonded with a female macaque in the troop.

There’s a reason this little monkey has captured so many hearts. He’s all of us who’ve been bullied in life. He reminds us how important it is to have someone hold us and comfort us.

He’s us when life treats us harshly and we feel we don’t have a friend in the world. But Punch has something special – he never gave up. Despite the hits and slaps and rejections, Punch kept hoping to find someone to love him.

Punch taught us to keep trying. Even if we’re the smallest one in the room, the face that’s rejected because it’s new or pushed away, we can’t give up.

We need to believe someone will see us for the special being we are.

Thanks, Punch, for reminding us that having a little hope and to always keep trying are the best qualities we can possess.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.