In less than a month, my niece and her husband will be welcoming home a third son. Chrisy and Blair are the parents of two wonderfully behaved 3-year-old twin boys, and they’re looking at their expected third boy as a genuine blessing.

Chrisy smiles when people say “three boys, oh my” and claims she’s happy as long as the baby’s healthy. But Chrisy loved dressing up in gowns for Mardi Gras balls, has a beautiful collection of Barbie dolls and taught dance classes for years. She was probably hoping to pass those loves on to a daughter.

I know how she feels. Many years ago, before parents could find out the sex of their unborn baby, I assumed my babies would be girls because I wanted a daughter so badly.

When I found out I was expecting, I made a soft pink blanket to wrap around my baby when she finally arrived. Just to be on the safe side, I stopped in a baby boutique and bought a beautiful lacy white newborn bonnet and carefully tucked it in my suitcase.

Surprise. My first-born was a boy, and I reluctantly returned the bonnet and traded it for a kid’s LSU baseball cap.

I was thankful I had a healthy baby, but secretly, I wanted a daughter who would share her hopes about becoming a woman with me, a daughter who would grow into my friend, just as I have with my mother.

When I found out I was expecting a second child, I instinctively knew he was a boy. Still, there was a 50/50 chance for a girl, so I quietly crept back to the baby section in a department store, bought another white, frilly bonnet and tucked it into my suitcase.

And, a few months later, I traded the bonnet for a baseball cap.

With my third pregnancy, my mom said she was hoping I’d finally get that girl, but I knew better than to think pink.

Still, I went back to the same store, a 2-year-old toddler and squirmy 7-year-old in tow, and nonchalantly bought another white, lacy bonnet.

Once again, I tucked that bonnet in the back part of my suitcase.

And, once again, traded the lace for sturdy denim.

Thankfully, my three boys are healthy, intelligent young men, and they’ve brought us great happiness. Chrisy’s third boy will bring her the same amount of joy. However, the joy that comes from rambunctious young sons is served up a bit differently.

We want pink ballerina shoes. We get muddy boots.

We hope for pink bubble baths. We get rings of brown dirt in the bathtub.

We want lacy nightgowns. We settle for camouflage underwear.

The mothers of girls will say they get the same mud, sass and sweat as the boys, but as I watch my granddaughter, I’m amazed at the different way she approaches life as compared to my sons.

My granddaughter snuggles with her favorite baby doll, cooing and singing her to sleep.

My boys slept with their Ninja Turtles and He-Man swords, but they beheaded Michelangelo and Splinter before dawn.

My granddaughter says “excuse me” when she burps. My sons belched as loud as possible and believed putting their cupped hands underneath their armpits and pumping their elbows up and down like greased lightning was great fun.

But my sons are my friends and they’ve brought wonderful women into my life who’ve become the daughters I didn’t have.

So, my dear niece, you might not get the pink perks that go along with rearing a daughter, but the joys of being the mother of boys are just as rewarding.

They’re simply buried underneath a mountain of smelly socks, bright red Matchbook cars and dried-out pizza crusts.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The set was minimal — a plain Formica kitchen table in center stage, two matching chairs and an old Frigidaire in the back corner next to a kitchen sink.
When Traci Lyn Thomas stepped out from the wings, dressed in a cowgirl outfit, complete with fringe, sequins and cowboy boots, and began to sing, it was as if the legendary country singer Patsy Cline had come to life.

The event was the stage production of “Always, Patsy Cline” at the Durango Arts Center in Colorado. The play is based on a true story regarding Patsy, as she was called, and a friendship she had with a sassy Houston hairdresser, Louise Seger.

According to legend, Louise and Patsy enjoyed a friendship that lasted from the beginning of Cline’s career until a plane crash in 1963 took her life.

The play is told from Louise’s point of view and opens with a bodacious performance by Mary Ellen Cerroni who brings the spunky Louise to life.

When Patsy came to Houston to perform, Louise happened to arrive early, befriended the singer and then invited Patsy to spend the night at her house. The singer accepted, and it seems odd that a performer would go home with a fan.

But back in the early days of country music, singers and musicians didn’t allow self-indulgent egos to alienate them from their fans, unlike modern singers who stay in expensive hotels and use stretch limousines and private jets to avoid their fans.

Patsy and Louise found they were more alike than different. Through letters over the years, these two women from different walks of life found they shared quite a bit — loneliness, struggles with money, a love of music and the bonds that only women forge.

Numerous songs were featured in the play, which delighted me as Patsy Cline’s one of my favorite singers. It’s impossible to stay dry eyed through “Crazy” and “Sweet Dreams,” and I found myself tapping my foot in rhythm when Thomas sang “Lovesick Blues” and “Walkin’ After Midnight.”

The audience loved the show, perhaps because Patsy’s life reflects struggles many experience — a hard-scrabble life, a rocky marriage and poverty.

My brother, sister-in-law and I loved the show, and we talked all the way home about the singers we admire and the ones whose songs have touched our lives.

The next day, I found myself humming some of Patsy’s songs, reflecting on beauty and true talent. It’s not in the movie star packaging of today’s entertainers, and beauty’s not necessarily in the skyscrapers of a bustling downtown.

Beauty is simple — a freshly picked bunch of bright red radishes, a yellow daisy growing tall in a field of green grass, a crystal-clear stream bubbling over rocks and boulders and a strong, simple voice reminding us of love, cheatin’ hearts and the blues.

And make no mistake — Colorado is a gorgeous state. The Rocky Mountains are faithful sentries on the horizon, the humidity is low and there’s a gorgeous surprise around every corner. The people are friendly, there are four distinct seasons and it seems there’s a stunning site around every corner.

That beauty’s also evident in a field of bluebonnets, the sun setting over the Comal River and days when country music’s playing on the jukebox and you’re dancing cheek to cheek with a special someone.

Like Patsy sang and Willie Nelson penned, we’re crazy about lots of things, and living in Texas — enduring the heat, humidity and more heat — might be hard to understand from time to time, but because it’s home, it’s wonderful.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Some people love to shop for jewelry. Other love shoe shopping. But there’s no way those jaunts compare to back-to-school shopping extravaganzas.

Perhaps it’s because I’m a writer, but I cannot resist the siren’s call of the spiral notebook or a thick, three-subject composition notebook.

My love of back-to-school supply shopping dates back to my elementary days. Long before the first day of school, I had my book sack packed with a Big Chief tablet, a few No. 2 pencils and a wooden ruler with inches, not centimeters.

Everyone had the eight-pack package of crayons as those were the affordable choice at the downtown Kresge’s. I could only dream about having the box with 64-colors featuring a built-in sharpener.

Glue came in a dark, brown bottle, not a tube or stick, and I spent quite a few hours keeping myself amused by smearing glue over my hand and then peeling it off like skin, my imagination running away as I dreamed I was a secret agent like James Bond and being tortured by the Communists.

Inevitably, Sister Adrian noticed what I was doing and took away the glue, rapped the back of my hand with my wooden ruler and my daydreaming came to an abrupt end.

But there were other treasures in my sack, including a big, pink eraser and fancy Bic pens. When Bic pens first entered the market, we were mesmerized by the inexpensive ball-point pens. Best of all, we learned to take the ink cartridge out and turn the plastic barrel into a spitball launcher.

Today’s student can still write in plain composition books, the ones with the white specks on a black background. We had to be quite careful with those books as the teacher could tell if we ripped a page out, usually to make a spitball.

Instead of plain, vanilla folders and three-ring binders covered with a blue material-type substance, modern fancy portfolios, as they’re called, have pockets, zippers and hidden compartments where one can hide lunch money and all the passwords for school accounts.

Treasures abound in the school supply aisle. Highlighters come in a variety of bold or pastel colors. Need loose-leaf paper? I’m still drawn to the the wide-ruled style because we quickly learned we could jot down fewer words yet still look like we’d written the Great American Novel.

Then there are all the fun extras on the school shopping aisle. There are Post-It Notes in every color of the rainbow and backpacks in all styles, designs and shapes.

No more gray metal lunch pails to carry our bologna sandwiches wrapped in wax paper. These new plastic lunch boxes are durable enough to serve as a stepping stool, a tool to whack your brother or an impromptu third base.

And although it’s hard to improve on a pink eraser or a plastic protractor, modern supplies dazzle the mind. Plain school supplies now share shelf space with external hard drives, memory sticks, blank CD’s, mirrors and shelves for school lockers and tape dispensers in all colors and shapes.

There’s no end to the wonders and marvels on the school supply list, and my writer’s heart rejoices when I find a highlighter in a fluorescent green, a new ink pen that glides across the paper and an inexpensive device that can record voices and seamlessly play them back.

You can keep the electronics and home-goods aisles. I’m happy testing the purple and aqua blue pens, so until the sales are over, I’ll be loading up until next August.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The sun’s shining, the sand is sparkling and the jade-green waves are gently rolling into the shore. All the makings for a booming summer tourist season are in place except for one key ingredient – people.

For over 20 years, we’ve spent a week on the beach in Gulf Shores, Ala. Long known for its relaxed atmosphere and sugary white sand, the city has become a paradise for families looking for leisure time at the beach without the often-rowdy college crowd.

We’ve watched the area grow from a few mom-and-pop establishments to major chains and dozens of outlet mall stores.

Over the years, Gulf Shores, like many Gulf Coast cities, has weathered numerous hardships — hurricanes, floods, droughts and economic recessions.

And then came April 20, 2010.

The Deepwater Horizon drilling rig exploded, killing 11 workers and setting off an uninhibited oil gusher that released millions of barrels of oil into the Gulf of Mexico, the worst spill in America’s history.

The Gulf Coast community watched, agonized, screamed, protested and howled at the political winds about the inability of the oil giant, BP, to stop the gusher.

Photos of oil washing up on the once-pristine beaches and helpless animals covered with sticky oil were splashed across the fronts of newspapers and Websites, branding this area as practically uninhabitable.

Three months later, the well is capped.

The waters are clear, and the sands are clean.

But the tourists are gone.

Eerily gone.

Normally during the tourist season in Gulf Shores, there’s bumper-to-bumper traffic, a 45-minute wait at all the restaurants, and umbrellas practically touch along the shore.

This week, we’ve cruised through the city with ease, been seated immediately at restaurants, and there’s less than 50 people on the beach as far as I can see in both directions.

Beach Patrol workers, driving brand-new 4×4 utility vehicles, motor up and down the beaches all day while Coast Guard helicopters fly overhead, dutifully checking for contaminants in the water and on the sand.

Souvenir boutiques have few shoppers, and the most popular items are “Save Our Gulf” T-shirts with a spewing oil well design on the front. When we ask where the catch of the day comes from, our waitress answers “Texas.”

Seeing once bustling restaurants boarded up, brand-new “for sale” signs in dozens of store windows and parking lots that are normally overflowing with mini-vans and family sedans practically deserted, the economic impact of that oil spill becomes painfully real and personal.

Our first evening, we visited one of our favorite restaurants, and I noticed an elderly gentleman clearing off the tables. Often the wait staff in a tourist area is filled with teens looking to make money for the summer.

From the deep tan lines on his face, his lean physique and his weathered knuckles, it appeared this man had spent a lifetime in the outdoors, perhaps hauling in fishing nets or piloting charter fishing trips. Now he was folding napkins, refilling salt shakers and cleaning up crumbs.

That’s where the devastating effects of any economic disaster can be seen – in the eyes of those who’ve lost their livelihood, their dignity and their connection to the land or the sea.

But people are resilient. They’ll hitch up their britches, roll up their sleeves and do whatever it takes to restore their way of life.

Along the Gulf Coast, however, they need people. So come back. Have some fun building sand castles, splashing in the waves and fishing in the Gulf.

The water’s beautiful, the sand sparkles, and laughter, especially laughter, is sorely needed in these parts.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

It was 1 a.m. Footsteps reverberated up and down the halls, laughter seeped through the thin walls and my reconstituted mashed potato dinner was weighing heavily on my tummy.

I was spending a long weekend at Texas A&M University for a student workshop, and I’d forgotten all about life in a dorm.

When I left home for college, I thought I’d hit the big time. Although there was cracked linoleum on the floor and cinder-block walls, I embraced that cramped room like it was the Taj Mahal.

So when it was time for my eldest son to attend college, I insisted he live in a dorm because I wanted him to experience university life in all its glory.

After four nights on a college campus, I came to realize I was sadly mistaken in making my sons endure the dorm experience.

For example, bathrooms. Sharing shower facilities with 50 strangers was a lot of fun when I was 18 years old. Trotting down to the showers carrying a bottle of VO-5 shampoo and soap on a rope was an adventure.

Now, I’ve come to enjoy my quiet bathtub soak time. There’s no one warbling “Rocky Mountain High” in the shower next to me, and I don’t have to worry about athlete’s foot.

College Food. For two years, I mostly existed on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, Ramen noodles and tuna fish because they were the cheapest eats around.

Occasionally I’d splurge on a cafeteria breakfast of reconstituted eggs, a few slices of bacon and buttered toast. I thought I was at a Renaissance feast.

Now, butter is a thing of the past. Likewise with full-fat cream cheese. We health-conscious baby boomers have meekly accepted we can only have imitation eggs, spray margarine and turkey bacon.

Walking. When I was a young girl, trekking across campus was a piece of cake. I simply slipped on my 20-pound backpack and practically jogged to my classes.

Now, a walk across campus felt like lumbering across the Sahara Desert wearing lead shoes. As agile Aggies whizzed by me on their sleek bikes, I was making deals with the heavens above if I could instantly transport my hot, tired body into an air-conditioned sedan.

Noise. Growing up in a house of nine, I was accustomed to commotion. In my youthful John Denver days, living in a noisy dormitory where girls were playing music so loud it seeped through the walls was no big deal.

Now hearing music at 2 a.m. isn’t a time for me to rhapsodize about the mountains and eagles. It’s a time to bang on the wall and crankily tell them to turn it off.

Beds. I never remembered tossing and turning on the mattress on the top bunk back in 1973. My roommate and I lounged there for hours, playing cards, talking about boys and eating chocolates and chips until the wee hours of the morning.

Now I need my therapeutic pillow, a heating pad and a full eight hours of sleep or I’m worthless the next day.

The dorm life. It’s not the wonderful escape I remembered from my past, so the first thing I’m going to do when I get back to my quiet, air-conditioned life is apologize to my sons for making them live on campus instead of allowing them to live in a comfortable, quiet apartment.

The second is fix them a meal of real scrambled eggs, hot, bold coffee and fresh New York bagels with real butter and cream cheese.

Now that’s the life.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.