I grew up hearing stories about my mom’s driving abilities, especially how backing a car out of a driveway usually ended up with our car in the ditch.

At barely 5-feet tall, my mom has a tough time seeing over the steering wheel of most vehicles, and 1950s vehicles were not designed for short drivers. She also grew up in a small town where few people owned cars, and she didn’t learn how to drive until she was a young adult.

Mom drives only because she has to get somewhere, and her driving record is always fodder for family jokes. I can’t count the number of casualties she’s racked up – rain gutters, poles, bicycles, shopping carts – the list goes on and on.

So it was with great reluctance I watched her climb behind the wheel of a motorized scooter in the grocery store while she’s here for a visit.

She has trouble with her knees, but she wanted to go to the market with me. She’s never used a motorized cart back home in Louisiana, ah the price of vanity, so she avoids stores because of all the walking.

Because she doesn’t know anyone here, she decided to give one a try.

While I parked the car, she practiced backing up and going forward in the store lobby. By the time I got inside, she was smiling like Mario Andretti at the Indianapolis 500 starting line.

“Ready?” I said.

Her reply was to zip through the double doors, barely missing the strawberry shortcake display and then zooming past the free samples of coffee on her way to the produce department.

Skidding to a stop in front of the lettuce bin, she reached over and tossed a couple of heads into her basket and then wheeled the cart around, executing a perfect three-point turn.

“What else do you need?” she said. “I’ll get it.”

“Lemons and tomatoes,” I said slowly, still trying to believe this was my mother — the woman those right-rear fender has taken out more mail boxes than anyone else I know — wheeling around kumquats and cucumbers like she’s done it all her life.

Of course, she almost clipped three shoppers picking out grapes and two more at the melon counter. Thank goodness, I said to myself as I apologized profusely, for people with quick reflexes.

I followed her to the meat section where she raced around the case, looking at the chicken thighs and broilers instead of people, and once again, I thanked the stars for people who react quickly.

“Mom, there’s an olive bar over there,” I said, pointing to an area few people visit in the grocery store. “You should go pick some out. Take your time, and I’ll pick up the rest of what we need.”

She smiled, shifted that cart into first gear and took off like a seasoned pro. As soon as she was around the corner, I practically ran through the store so I could get everything on the list, and we could get out of there before she caused some serious damage.

But, the woman was fast. In less than five minutes, she was zooming up next to me on the bread aisle, her cart filled with things she knew we needed. The smile on her face went from ear to ear.

“Let’s check out,” she said over her shoulder as she headed for the check-out lane coming within inches of an end display of tortillas and barely missing a man coming around the corner.

She skidded to a stop in front of the checker and turned around.

“I’m gonna have to get one of these,” she said, a wicked smile on her face.

Winn-Dixie, look out.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The little boy was crouched at the edge of the sand, his short blond hair blowing in the breeze. His eyes were fixed on the water in front of him, and he seemed so small compared to the size of the waves crashing on the beach.

He was digging in the sand, throwing some from time to time, until his mother’s voice called out to him.

“Don’t throw the sand,” she said. “You’ll get some in your eyes. And don’t get too close to the water.”

The boy’s shoulders dropped a little, and he refocused his gaze out on the endless horizon. I could practically feel his wistfulness from 25 feet away.

We were in Gulf Shores, Ala., a popular summer getaway, for our annual vacation where my favorite pastime is sitting on the beach and watching people.

Over the course of a day, I see all kinds of people – pre-teenage girls wearing bikinis for the first time followed by admiring pre-teen boys whose voices have not quite changed to a deeper timber.

There’s the old timers – their skin’s tanned to a deep mahogany, their well-worn T-shirts supporting either the University of Alabama or Auburn University. They stroll down the beach, often stopping to pick up trash or a beautiful seashell.

There’s the power walkers – they come running down the beach, a Walk-man firmly attached to their ears, and they seldom look at the beauty of the gulf. Their eyes are affixed on their stride and getting around slow pokes.

But I’m always drawn to the families, especially those with rambunctious young boys, as they remind me of when we visited Gulf Shores as a family.

These boys, like mine, love nothing more than running into the waves, stopping when one threatens to come too near, and then trying to beat the crest back to the shore, their laughter carried on the wind.

That’s why I was watching that little boy at the edge of the water. He wanted to go out into the water, but the responsibility of listening to his mother outweighed his desire.

All of a sudden, his father scooped him up. The little boy’s face lit up, and he put his arm around his father’s neck. The dad hugged him close, and the two waded out into the water.

The first wave crashed over them, but the dad held his ground and the little boy’s grip grew tighter. When they turned around, that youngster was drenched, but I could see the smile on their faces from where I was sitting.

Another wave came by, and the two jumped into the white froth, both of them shaking off the water and howling with laughter.

After a while, the dad waded toward the shore where the waves were calm, but the little boy never loosened his grip on his dad’s neck.

His father put him down on the sand, and that youngster looked up at him, grinning from ear to ear.

“That sure was fun wasn’t it, Dad,” he said, his voice carrying on the wind.

The dad crouched down, looked his boy straight in the face and smiled.

“Want to go again?” he said, and his son jumped up into his dad’s arms and out they went.

When people go to the beach, they often find beauty in the shells lying on the sand.

Others find wonder in the reds and violets as the sun sets over the horizon or in the gracefulness of a seagull soaring over the waves.

I found trust in a little boy’s eyes as his father took him on an adventure.

That’s one for the memory books.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The gift was an afterthought, really. A small blue book, “All About Me,” was near the checkout lane, and I was shopping for a Father’s Day gift for my dad.

The year was 1998, and that spur-of-the-moment gift was quickly forgotten. Right after my dad passed away, I packed and sealed up a box with some knick-knacks from my dad’s room.

Last week, I unexpectedly came across the box in the back of my closet and decided to see what was in there. Underneath some knick-knacks, I found the book.

He’d filled in the pages.

Cautiously, I began reading the familiar, bold hand writing I hadn’t seen in over a decade, and it was as if my dad was sitting next to me again.

Like many young girls, my dad was my hero. My childhood memories are of a debonair man who loved to dance. It wasn’t unusual for my dad to take my mom’s hand and twirl her around the kitchen to a song only they could hear.

At family functions, I remember standing on his shoes as he led me around a dance floor, showing me how to anticipate if my dance partner would go to the left or to the right. We always finished our Cajun two-step with a dip and a bow.

As a teen, though, my dad was practically non-existent. His primary companions were his drinking buddies at the local VFW and Dixie beer. Over the years, my quiet resentment grew until I was barely speaking to him by the time I turned 18.

Seeing his eldest daughter leave home angry — and six more children seemingly ready to follow the same bitter path — my dad made the tough decision to stop drinking. He told me he was going to join Alcoholics Anonymous and live the rest of his life sober.

I didn’t believe him.

In fact, it was years before I accepted the reality that he did stop drinking. He stayed sober, and my bitterness slowly turned to admiration for someone who battled one of the toughest demons around and won the war.

Over the years, our relationship evolved into an honest friendship. I saw my father for the man he was, not the man I fantasized him to be; and by the end of his life, we were at peace with each other.

Two weeks before he died, after years of battling a cruel and debilitating lung disease, we had a frank talk about what he wanted at his wake and funeral.

That was a tough conversation, but the time for pretending was over. At that point, there were no illusions between us, the result of moving from a fantasy father to a flesh-and-blood dad and friend.

So when I began reading the book, I did so with curiosity as to what my dad thought, not looking for answers to life’s questions. As I flipped through the book, I smiled and sniffled.

I didn’t know my dad’s worst enemy as a teenager was someone named Frank, and I’d forgotten my father liked to cook.

On one page, my dad drew a self-portrait, and he did a pretty good job, down to his square wire-rimmed eyeglasses and his receding hair line.

Although my dad’s no longer here, this little blue book brought him back to me in richer hues and deeper colors.

For some, it might not matter what color their father considered his favorite. After all, that’s a minor detail when one considers what a father might believe about religion or politics.

But to me, those little things matter.

My dad’s favorite color was blue.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

A friend called me the other day with exciting news — she’s heading overseas. Because she’s a talented writer and an daring soul, she’s going to try and have some travel pieces published.

As I scrubbed the soap scum ring out of the bathtub, I thought about the adventures waiting for her in India and China —streets teeming with colors and the fragrances of incense, spices and perfumes overwhelming the senses.

A little envious, I wondered if I could ever write a travel stories to help travelers find their way safely through new places and discover treasures only those who live there know.

Then, I realized something —I’ve never been to exotic places like Madrid or Casablanca, but I have been to the grocery store.

Before you laugh, a trip to a suburban grocery store can often be filled with peril. Here’s how I might write this travel adventure:

“A trip to the market requires nerves of steel. Pacific Coast Highway drivers must watch for falling rocks, but travelers in the suburbs need to watch out for people texting while driving because avoiding their careless maneuvers is more dangerous than running with the bulls in Pamplona. Don’t park right next to the cart return area because teens love to stand 20 feet away from the metal bars and give shopping carts a shove to see if they can make it into the chute. They can’t. Your car will take the dent.”

Rinsing out the tub, I thought about going to an American mall. Maneuvering through freeway and highway traffic and then circling a crowded mall parking lot is a lot more intimidating than flying on an airplane.

Most of the time, once you slog your way through airport security, you get on a plane, sit in the same seat for hours watching back-to-back viewings of “Kung Fu Panda,” and then hop into a relative’s minivan or a taxi cab. The escapades of that chubby panda pale in comparison to driving to a mall here in Fort Bend County:

“Traveling safely to a mall is quite the adventure, especially when dodging orange construction cones, potholes the size of an elephant and bulldozers that unexpectedly back into traffic. Once you reach the mall parking lot, avoid the speed bumps as they will loosen the fillings from your teeth. Write down where you left your vehicle because Texas mall parking lots take up more space than the Aggies’ Kyle Field.”

Perhaps I could write a travel piece for people coming through this area. It’s not the same as sightseeing through the historic Charleston district, but we do have some noteworthy spots:

“Take Highway 90A from Houston into the city limits of Richmond, making sure one notices the historic Fort Bend County Courthouse. Stop for a quick lunch at one of the cozy eateries on Morton Street before heading into Rosenberg for a strawberry sno cone at Bob’s Taco Stand. Head south on Highway 36 and pull through at Schulze’s Restaurant for the sweetest Coke this side of the Brazos River.”

Okay, that’s nothing but food writing, but the highlight of most vacations is what and where we eat — that thick clam chowder in Boston, that fully dressed shrimp po boy down in the French Quarter or that spicy barbecue sandwich in Fort Worth.

I might not be able to write about dining on filet mignon in Paris or sampling a smooth gelato in Italy, but I do know some of the best joints to chow down right here in Fort Bend County.

Pass the barbecue sauce and some paper and a pen.

I think I’m at the start of something big.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Bob Haenel was my boss at The Fort Bend Herald for over 15 years. Today was his last day as the executive managing editor, and we presented him with a surprise front page in his honor. This is the story I wrote about him — I hope you see Bob for the great boss and friend we all know him to be. — Denise

He leans back in his creaky brown chair, pops open the top on a Diet Coke and looks around his cluttered office.

Bob Haenel, managing editor for the Fort Bend Herald, knows there’s at least a hundred unanswered emails in his box, a dozen voice messages blinking on the phone and an overflowing in-box on the corner of his desk.

Instead, he finds himself watching the activity in the newsroom right outside his door. Reporters are sitting at their desks, tapping out stories on their computers, interviewing softball coaches or hunched over a computer keyboard, looking for that just-right lead for a weekend feature story.

In his 35 years as a writer, reporter and editor, Haenel, 50, has seen and heard it all. He started out in 1979 as a sports editor for the Herald-Coaster, subsequently moved to the news side and was named news director in 1981.

A year later, he moved to The Katy Times but came back to The Mirror, a Fort Bend County newspaper, in 1983 as their editor and publisher. Four years later, he was named the managing editor of The Herald-Coaster, now The Fort Bend Herald, and is currently the paper’s executive managing editor.

Unlike the bigwigs at major publications, Haenel prefers to actively know the community and the people who live and work there. He’s on a first-name basis with the president of the chamber of commerce as well as the white-gloved ladies in the garden clubs.

In seconds, he can trace the lineage of the “Old 300” families back to the Stephen F. Austin days, and he knows to count the vowels in the Czech names for the Around the Bends before publishing the paper.

“Birthday call,” yells out the receptionist at the front desk. Haenel picks up the phone receiver and writes down the information, knowing for some people, seeing their child’s name in the “Happy Birthday” column will be the highlight of their day.

He also knows getting everyone’s name correct in an obituary is right up there with not misspelling the local superintendent’s name on the front page. An obituary, Haenel tells his staffers, might be the only time a person is mentioned in the local paper, and the writers better get it right.

One of his young reporters tentatively knocks on his door, and Haenel waves him in, despite the incessantly blinking light on his telephone. An elderly woman claims drug trafficking on her street is rampant, but the police can’t seem to catch the dealers.

This woman wants the newspaper to write about the crimes, but the reporter isn’t sure if the story is worth following up.

Haenel leans forward, put his elbows on his knees, and looks straight at this fresh-out-of-college writer.

“If we’re not there for people, who will be?” he says, the challenge evident in his voice. “Our job is to look out for the little guy and to give him a voice. Don’t forget that’s the reason you’re here. Call her back and stay over there all day if you have to, but make sure we report what’s going on in our own back yard.”

Journalism schools teach young writers the rules about style, formatting and inverted pyramids, but they can’t teach what Haenel instinctively possesses — an unerringly correct moral compass and a passion to uncover misdeeds and point out inequities in society.

As the reporter leaves his office, Haenel notices a sea of blue hats standing at his door. He’d forgotten it was time for the weekly Cub Scout tour through the office.

Haenel loves accompanying these youngsters as they visit the press room, their eyes wide at the giant machines that churn out newspapers around the clock. Haenel’s fingers are often stained with black ink, and the cuffs on his well-worn beige sweater are permanently gray, the result of brushing against fresh newsprint for the past three decades.

Walking into the newsroom, Haenel stops and offers encouragement to a struggling reporter, reminds another writer to find out if there’s adequate drinking water for people living in the colonias and sits to chat with the sports editor about whether or not this year’s Little Leaguers can swing their way to Williamsport.

Back in his office, Haenel pops open his fourth Diet Coke of the day and settles down in front of his computer. He’s spent many Friday nights in that cramped office on Fourth Street, battling ornery computers, reluctant witnesses to wrong-doings and, once, writing by candle-light on battery-operated laptops when an electrical storm blew out the power.

Although the pace in a newsroom is frenetic, Haenel is the calm in the storm. His reporters take their cue from the boss, and because he encourages, consoles and occasionally scolds, his staff gives 100 percent. His belief in their ability allows them to grow as reporters and writers.

Haenel, however, is unaware how much influence he has over so many people. Instead, he looks around his office again, the back credenza stacked high with old photographs and decades-old phone books, and leans back in the chair.

One of these days, he thinks, I’ll get around to clearing off that desk, write a novel and open that hot dog stand. Until then, there are stories to edit, monthly publications to review and emails to answer.

“Birthday call,” comes Annie’s voice again.

Haenel takes another sip of his Diet Coke and picks up the call. Clutter can keep, he figures. People, well, that’s a different matter.

“Hi there,” he says, cradling the receiver comfortably under his cheek. “Now how can I help you?”

When people get together, the conversation often turns to work and the boss. Some supervisors resemble Fezziwig from “A Christmas Carol” while others deserve the nasty names their employees call them behind their backs.

At the age of 12, I entered the work force as a babysitter. It was a nice gig — 50 cents an hour, free pizza and free television.

But I wanted to make real money, so I put in an application at the closest movie theater, The Robert E. Lee in north Baton Rouge. The theater promised all the free popcorn I could eat and paid a princely sum of $1.25 an hour.

This was my first time to work for someone I didn’t know, and Miss Joyce remains one of the most eccentric people I’ve ever met. Every night, she stormed into the theater wearing leather riding boots and a full-length fur coat. She was always accompanied by two rambunctious Doberman Pinschers.

She was also bossy and demanding but she took care of her employees. If we needed the night off, she was accommodating. If a customer was rude to us, she refused to take his side. She might’ve looked like a character from a dime novel, but she made a huge impression on me.

Over the years, I’ve had a variety of bosses, especially as a temporary office worker. After all these years, one assignment remains one of the oddest places I’ve ever worked.

Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, the employees wore purple to work. Every Tuesday and Thursday, they wore gold, all in honor of the LSU Tigers.

At 10 a.m. and 2 p.m., a harsh whistle sounded in the building, and everyone filed outside for a 15-minute smoking break, even if you didn’t smoke.

The supervisor begged me to come back after my original assignment was over. I politely declined and got out of there as fast as I could.

As a secretary in an oil company, I worked for all kinds of men and women. Some were ruthless snakes who’d stop at nothing to get ahead while others were easy going and fair.

Probably the oddest request I ever had in my 10 year-career was when my ultra-conservative boss stuck his head out of his office door and asked me to sew up his pants because he’d ripped them while bending over.

But Dave was attentive to his employees’ needs and never yelled or belittled them. And after all these years in the business world, those are two traits I look for in a good supervisor. I also look for fairness, no matter what his or her personal preferences might be.

A good boss also has a keen sense of humor and isn’t afraid to laugh at him or herself when things are tough. The better bosses compliment their employees for a good job and make sure mistakes are handled so their employees grow, not wither. Great bosses do all that plus they inspire and teach through example.

Bob Haenel is one of those great bosses. Whenever I’m down, he’s encourages me to keep going.

When I think I’ve run out of steam, he assures me I have what it takes to get the job done. Every time I’ve made a mistake, Bob laughingly relates his mistakes and then the matter’s closed.

Bob taught me that ethics aren’t pages in the Associated Press Stylebook. They’re a way of life, and that’s how Bob lives every day.

He honestly believes we’re here to look out for “the little guy.” He loves his family, his dog, his beige sweater, Arby’s roast beef sandwiches and this community.

He’s also taught me a thing or two in the last 15 years — the proper way to eat a tamale, the difference between a stallion and a steer, how to cook a tender pot roast and how to creatively use profanity.

Bob knows the answer to every trivia question about “It’s a Wonderful Life,” the second song on the “James Gang Rides Again” album and he’s the only person I know who worked in a graveyard.

Thank you, Bob, for your down-home, practical advice, your gentle guidance during turbulent and calm times and your unconditional friendship to me and hundreds others.

You’re one in a million, boss. One in a million.

Bob Haenel is a friend to me, my sons, my family and everybody I know. He’s mentored me and taught me more about the newspaper business than anybody else I know. He loves his wife, his sons and his community and he’s one of the good guys. This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.