I’m listening to a murder mystery novel, and the tale’s based in Nashville, Tenn. The author is quite familiar with that area as he describes the streets and neighborhoods with exact detail.

He cannot, however, be a native Southerner as he’s included every hackneyed, stereotypical phrase ever attributed to a backwoods southern hick in his book.

The narrator makes it worse by using the fakest Southern accent I’ve ever heard, and I’ve got a comparison. I grew up in New York state, and I quickly became aware of the vast differences in the way I talked versus the teens I was meeting in school.

I pronounced words like “car” and “bar” with a hard “a” sound — like “kar.” People in Louisiana, however, used a much softer accent on that “a,” and it was “cahr” and “bahr.” Soon I fell in love with the genteel way those words rolled off their tongues.

Northerners like to group everyone from the South into a broad category, where we all say “reckon” and “ya heah” and have a lower IQ just because we talk differently. But we’re not stupid because we have a drawl — we just pronounce words differently and take our time about saying them.

In the South, one shoe does not fit all. There are different accents across the region, starting with the distinct vowel sounds coming from those reared in Virginia. They pronounce words like “mouse” more like “moose” and “house” like “hoose.”

One of my favorite Southern accents hails from Georgia. The mother of one of my best friends in high school hailed from that beautiful state, and she pronounced Albert’s name as “Ahl-buh.” I’d ask Mrs. Bondurant questions all the time, just to hear her transform ordinary words into musical notes.

I’m from Louisiana, and I tend to put a French slant on the words. When we first moved to Houston, I pronounced “Bissonnet” as “Biss-a-nay,” just as they would in Louisiana.

However, I found out that in Houston, it’s “Biss-ah-net,” the Spanish pronunciation the preferred method. Same as with “bayou.” In Louisiana, it’s “by-you,” and in Texas it’s “buy-oh.”

The mysterious city at the end of the Mississippi River is often mispronounced. People not familiar with Louisiana words call the city “New Or-Leans,” but southerners know the real name is dragged out — “New Ah-Lins.”

People often talk about people from the Bronx having a distinct accent, but the people from Chalmette and Metairie, Louisiana have accents extremely similar to their Northern cousins. The two accents are almost interchangeable — things don’t “warp,” they “wop,” and it’s not “oil,” it’s “earl.”

Cajuns also have a distinct accent that’s charming and quite distinct. My dad could lay on a Cajun accent as thick as cane syrup in the winter. The “chers” and “ah biens” rolled off his tongue whenever he wanted to charm someone.

Here in the Lone Star state, there’s a variety of accents, and I thoroughly enjoy Texas country, especially the familiar sayings from people who were born and reared here.

People from other areas have sayings particular to their region, but you’d have to go a long way to beat the Southern explanation of stupidity: “he’s so dumb, he could throw himself on the ground and miss.”

The next time I’m ready for a story based in the South, I’m going to pick up the printed version so I can imagine the voices in my head. That way, I’ll have an old-fashioned, good-ole-gal voice in my head.

And honey, that’ll be finer ‘n frog’s hair.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I never noticed it before, but the clock on my desk is loud when the room is quiet. Tick, tock, tick, tock. Every time I look up, another minute has passed.

In the quiet, I find myself noticing little things — the fine layer of dust covering the books on the shelf and how the pictures on the wall are slightly crooked.

I’m not taking time to step back from life so I can notice the small details in life. I’m procrastinating, and if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s procrastinating.

Today, I’m putting off writing this column because the creative juices are not flowing. So I decide to distract myself and start with the load of towels I left in the dryer last night.

I thought I’d find some inspiration between the fabric softener sheets and the wash cloths, but, alas, there was none to be found.

So I looked inside the refrigerator because we all know inspiration lies somewhere between last night’s left-over pork chops and mashed potatoes.

I could write about the unknown contents of those two plastic bowls in the back of the fridge, but that’s only good for a paragraph or two. Besides, I really don’t want to know what’s developing underneath the Saran Wrap.

Hearing our dog’s collar jingle, I get up and play with her for a little bit. Perhaps throwing the ball to Channell might start those creative juices flowing.

The only thing that distraction accomplished was having our energetic pup tromp over the bushes my husband just planted.

Sometimes flipping through the television channels sparks a bit of creativity. With over 150 channels, there’s bound to be something interesting and captivating to watch and then write about.

I found myself glued to an episode of “Hoarders,” which led me to throw away those plastic bowls in the fridge sight unseen, and then clear all the clutter off the kitchen counter.

So, hours after I started, I’m still sitting here, tapping my index finger on the computer mouse, trying to find inspiration.

Instead, I find myself wondering why I have so many stacks of paper around my desk. In one stack, I find the invitation to my niece’s wedding and remember I never got around to making our hotel reservations.

Then I see the envelope inviting me to order a new women’s magazine. Wondering what future issues might offer, I fire up the Internet, read about the publication’s plans and find myself sidetracked into reading about the history of Earth Day.

Then I remember I meant to recycle the newspapers on the kitchen table. Before putting the stack into the recycling bin, though, I spot a few columns I meant to read, so I sit down and put on my glasses.

That’s when I remember that pork chop in the fridge, so I warm it up, fix a glass of iced tea and tell myself I’m just stoking the creative fires.

After that quick power snack, I once again sit down at the computer, ready to crank out a column, because the creative juices should be flowing.

The only thing I notice is how loud that clock is ticking.

So I move the clock to the back bedroom and notice my granddaughter has left out some toys from her Sunday visit.

While picking up the accessories to her princess doll collection, I remember all the ways she tried avoiding going to bed, including saying she was hungry, she needed to color one more page and could I pretty please read her just one more story.

Procrastination and distraction. Two tricks that often work or, in the case of the Adams’ women, can get us off the hot seat.

At least for a little while.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

We’re a society obsessed with time-saving devices. Microwaves cut cooking times from hours into seconds. Instant and frozen foods allow us to put a three-course meal on the table in less than 15 minutes.

Cell phones put us in touch with family and friends in seconds no matter where we are. We can pick up our cells and, while waiting at red lights, make an appointment with the dentist, call our kids or chat with a friend from out of state.

There are so many devices that save us time, we should be gliding along in auto pilot most of the time.

Then why do we always seem to be cruising through life in the fast lane, gripping the steering wheel, the gas pedal pushed all the way to the floor?

Because in our quest to hurry up and accomplish our to-do list, we’ve lost the ability to sit back and take it easy. There’s too many things to do and not enough time to do them.

Relaxation is a word many of us only know from seeing the concept on advertisements. We seldom live that state of mind, despite all of society’s inventions and catch phrases designed to give us more free time.

We multi-task to take care of all the items on our long “to-do” list. We listen to a podcast of a radio show while cleaning the kitchen. We fold clothes while watching a TiVo’d television show because we’re too impatient to sit through the 30-second commercials.

Going to the market was once an activity where people not only shopped for dinner, but neighbors took time to catch up on each others’ lives.

Now, most people talk on their hands-free cell phones while dashing up and down the grocery store aisles, their iPhones or Blackberries beeping off a grocery list. There’s no time to chat with friends in the store — we’re preoccupied doing two things at one time.

Sunday afternoons, once a sacred time for visiting with family, watching a football game on television or taking a nap on the couch, are now precious slices of time when we catch up on the laundry, pay bills, clean the house or run errands we’re too busy to do during the week.

In our quest to create more time for ourselves, the only thing we’ve made more time for is more work.

After falling into bed last Saturday night, exhausted yet knowing I had a long list of to-do items for Sunday afternoon, I found myself thinking of an episode from “The Andy Griffith Show.” Entitled “Man in a Hurry,” a businessman, Malcolm Tucker, comes through Mayberry on a Sunday afternoon and has car trouble.

No one’s available to repair his car, and Tucker is furious, wondering why the people in this hick town won’t repair his car on a Sunday afternoon. He belittles everyone because he believes his time is more important than relaxing.

But after seeing how the people of Mayberry protect and savor their unhurried Sunday afternoon, Tucker comes to realize that enjoying quiet time in a front-porch rocking chair, surrounded by friends and the Sunday newspaper, can be the best use of time.

Leisure time allows us to do what’s really important — spend time with our loved ones and, most importantly, spend time with ourselves doing absolutely nothing.

Because, sometimes doing nothing is when we accomplish everything.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

On our way back from Baton Rouge recently, we found ourselves getting hungry. There were dozens of signs along the interstate for fast-food joints, but my husband suggested stopping off in the historic district of Breaux Bridge, the city that bills itself as the crawfish capital of the world.
The district is small but filled with bustling antique shops and small restaurants featuring a variety of Creole and Cajun meals.

We spotted a cafe in the middle of Bridge Street, Chez Jacqueline, and when I saw the words “fried crawfish” on the menu, I was hooked. We walked through an old-screen door; and when that squeaky door slammed behind us, I felt as if we were home.

The wooden tables and chairs have seated diners for years. The condiment basket included hot sauce, a Louisiana staple, that Cajuns use to douse everything from boiled shrimp to scrambled eggs.

The walls were covered with local art as well as family photos of Jacqueline, her mother and her daughter — all of whom worked in the restaurant.

The menu features French and Cajun dishes, not uncommon as Cajuns are descendants of exiles from the French colony of Nova Scotia who settled in the bayous of Louisiana.

Jacqueline is from France, and her roots are evident in the menu choices of Coquille St. Jacques and baked oysters smothered in butter and cheese.

Soon a woman with corn rows and a beautiful smile sat down behind a keyboard and welcomed us to Cajun Country. When Donna Angelle started playing the “Zydeco Blues,” the joint came alive.

As she crooned “I was born on the bayou and there were times when I thought I couldn’t last too long,” the sincerity and wistfulness was evident in her mellow voice.

As we applauded, Angelle picked up an aged accordion, and she had that banged-up instrument wailing the blues in seconds. People’s feet were tapping and the walls were thumping as Angelle rocked and danced.

Louisiana’s Zydeco music captures people’s ears, but her food bewitches the rest of the senses. On the table next to us, a plastic serving platter was piled high with mounds of hot, boiled crawfish, accompanied by a roll of paper towels and a bowl of melted butter.

As in many restaurants in small towns, diners compared notes and talked about their favorite meals. The ladies next to us were from France, and Jacqueline had prepared special dishes for them, including escargot.

Jacqueline stopped by our table and asked if I’d like to try some escargot, and I declined. She reached back over the table, ripped off a piece of French bread and dipped the bread into that buttery-rich casserole dish. She brought up one snail covered with spinach, cheese and butter.

“Baby, you will love my escargot,” she said, holding the snail close to me. My mouth remained firmly closed.

“Open up,” she said and I hesitated.

“Cher, I promise, you will love it. Now open up,” she insisted. So, I did.

I never thought I’d eat escargot, but when that French delicacy is bathed in butter and cheese and cooked to perfection, it wasn’t half bad.

As Angelle continued singing, we found ourselves swaying back and forth in our seats, thrilled to step away from life and simply relax with crispy fried crawfish tails, lively Zydeco music and the comforting feeling we’d left the modern world far, far behind.

Walking back to our car, we promised ourselves we’d come back and immerse ourselves in the down-home hospitality Cajuns know how to bestow upon anyone who’s lucky enough to leave the concrete highway and step back into the land of accordions and crawfish.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Man, I’m getting old, I thought as my knees creaked and screamed at me while I was walking up a flight of stairs.

I’m no spring chicken, but my knees really don’t have to announce their years of wear and tear as loudly as they were doing this past weekend.

Thinking I might have to make a doctor’s appointment, I went to bed early and woke up with hardly any pain. The reason — earlier in the week, I’d slept on a different mattress.

Now I was back in my own bed and, miracle of miracles, I was cured.

Who’d have thought a good nights’ sleep could be a cure all for those aches and pains? To make things even more convenient, I now have a nearby culprit for any time things go wrong — I slept wrong.

That’s an excuse that goes back hundreds of years, probably to the cavemen.

“Honey, I couldn’t bring home a mastodon today because the cave floor was lumpy and I just didn’t get my beauty rest.”

Inability to concentrate? Must be the inner coils in the Serta are shot.

Forgetful and restless all day? The Beautyrest has lost its charm.

It’s not that researchers haven’t heard the moans from the sleepy, and they’ve made incredible strides in mattress technology. Manufacturers now have mattresses with memory foam that remember every bend and bulge in your body and react accordingly.

These mattresses are so smart that consumers can adjust the head rest, order the perfect tension in the box springs and even set levels for two sides of the bed, tailor made for each person.

They’re no longer referred to as a lowly mattress and box springs — they’re horizontal living spaces that support everything about you.

Children instinctively understand the philosophy that nothing beats sleeping in one’s own bed. Most of us want to sleep in our own bed because that’s our safe place. When children have to share their safe place, things can blow up rather quickly.

Growing up in a family with seven children, we all shared a room with a sibling, and I remember sharing a double bed with my sister, Diane.

Five years younger than me, we fought as all sisters do, especially ones forced to share their living space. Every single night, we followed the same script.

“Here’s the line,” I’d say, taking my hand and making a dent down the middle of the mattress.

“You can’t cross that line because then you’d be on my side.”

My sister, ever the protagonist, would wait until I was almost asleep and then slip her foot over the imaginary line.

“My foot’s over the line,” she’d whisper.

To which I’d kick her foot back over the line. She’d kick back and the battle raged until one of us ended up on the floor.

If we’d had a mattress with a memory, that imaginary line could’ve opened up automatically at 10 p.m. and then ejected the sister who crossed the line. No shoving or discussion required.

Perhaps the answer to a lot of life’s frustrations and arguments can be found in getting the right mattress. Just think — those Tempur-Pedic or King Koil mattresses might help us remember where we put the car keys or our cell phones and, in the case of fighting siblings, toss both out of the bed onto the floor to cool off.

After all, if a mattress can remember the shape of our hips and thighs, then handling the pesky details in life should be a cinch.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.