For months, I’ve been watching fun Houston events pass me by, thinking I couldn’t navigate my way to some of the activities I’d read about or thinking I should stay home and catch up on chores. I came across an old needle-point picture that reminded me that cleaning and scrubbing can wait until tomorrow.

And so I found myself maneuvering through the one-way streets of downtown Houston Saturday night to hear the Houston Symphony and one of my favorite singing groups, Pink Martini, live in concert.

For the first time in my life, I was going to hear a big-city symphony orchestra, and I really didn’t know what to expect. I’ve heard high school orchestras perform, and I’ve listened to countless symphony recordings courtesy of YouTube.

But I’ve never heard a full-fledged orchestra of professional musicians perform at a live concert. After finding my seat, I uncomfortably knew I was in the minority.

My Capri slacks and comfortable sandals didn’t quite measure up to the $200 designer dresses and $500 shoes all around me. Feeling like I wanted to crawl under the seat, I was rescued by a genteel lady in her late 70s sitting next to me. Her warm smile made me feel comfortable, and she answered my questions about the orchestra and the hall.

I found out the Houston Symphony is preparing to celebrate their 100th year in 2014, and they offer a variety of concerts throughout the year. After almost 20 years in Houston, I was a bit ashamed that I’d never taken the time to attend a single performance.

As the lights dimmed and the musicians sat upright and still in their chairs, I found myself holding my breath. Then Michael Krajewski, the principal pops conductor of the Houston Symphony, raised his baton, and the violins, violas, trombones, trumpets and clarinets began weaving their magic.

All my prior expectations about a symphony concert quickly fell away. I thought I’d hear only classical music, but I recognized the Gershwin songs they played.

I expected symphony musicians to be mostly older people. But I was quite surprised as the orchestra is comprised of people of all ages and nationalities.

A female flute player with corn rows was seated next to a young man who looked like he’d just finished his senior year in high school. A musician, who seemed to be in his 80’s, was playing alongside a serious young girl with straight black hair.

These musicians could be people in the grocery store, squeezing the lettuce or examining the labels on the mayonnaise. They could be the girl working in the college book store or the young man parking cars at the Astros game.

Seemingly ordinary people with extraordinary skills and talent were delighting hundreds of music aficionados and people like me who weren’t quite sure what to expect. The music brought me to tears, made me smile and made me think about the beauty people can create when they pick up a musical instrument.

When the orchestra played their last song, I realized the symphony isn’t just for River Oaks residents or grand dames with diamonds on every finger. The symphony is for everyone who wants to experience the joy of hearing notes that artfully weave around each other to create music that transports the listener to a world of harmony and acoustic beauty.

I’d originally gone to hear Pink Martini perform, a group my friends Bob and Denise Haenel introduced me to, but I reaped much more than hearing this talented group perform.

I was able to hear beauty.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The young man shook my hand, smiled and sat down, a notebook and pen in his hand.

“I’d like to ask you what you remember about the Vietnam War,” Carlos said. He was working on a history project and needed to interview someone who remembered the Vietnam War.

What I remember most about the war comes from my teenage years in the late 1960s, the height of the conflict. I started high school in 1969, and my freshman year was smooth sailing.

During my sophomore year, racial turmoil boiled over in our small Louisiana town. Integration had arrived, and two high schools in our area – one predominantly white and the other predominantly black – merged.

Those years were terrifying for everyone. Parents were picketing on the school sidewalks, and students were either scared or enraged.

I remember seeing our assistant principal with brass knuckles he’d confiscated from a student. The war halfway around the world didn’t scare me as much as the war inside the school walls.

“Did you have any family members serve in the war?”

The question brought me out of my reverie. None of my family members went overseas, but my friends’ older brothers and sisters were staging their own war.

Every day, it seemed, one would suddenly appear in bell bottom pants, love beads around their necks and their fingers in an perpetual “V” as they smiled and said “Peace, little sister.”

In school, boys were beginning to wear their hair in ponytails or in Afros, and the community was in an uproar.

Politics and the disintegration of my generation became part of our dinnertime conversation, and I went along quietly until Richard Nixon and Watergate put an end to my gullibility.

Up to that point, I thought the president was above reproach. After Watergate, I switched my voting designation to Independent and vowed to vote for principles, not parties.

“Did you know anybody who went to Vietnam?” Carlos asked.

His question silenced me. I didn’t personally know anybody who served when the war was going on, but I’ve interviewed quite a few veterans.

One man in particular has never left my thoughts. When we looked at pictures of him as a young man in the jungles of Vietnam, he cried for himself and all the boys who lost the ages of 18 to 25 to a war that took so many before their time.

His words echoed what a veteran from World War II had told me – he’d left home an idealistic boy and came home a man for whom reality was that death could come at any minute.

I had nothing to say to this grieving veteran. “Thank you” seemed like not enough and “I’m sorry” changed nothing. So I simply put my arm around his shoulder and sat there with him until the demons were silent.

“How did the war change you?” was the last question.

At the time, I didn’t think the war changed me at all. I didn’t have to go overseas, I didn’t put my life on the line nor did I have a family member who served.

But all of us who lived during that time changed. We became appreciative of our freedoms and discovered we had the right to change a political atmosphere that fostered corruption and allowed a vicious war to continue.

Wars change people, whether it’s a war on civil inequality, persecution half way around the world or a quiet discussion between a baby boomer and a young man ready to take on the world.

These changes will last long after the last bullet is fired.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I’m not someone who enjoys cooking, and that’s why I’m always on the prowl for easy recipes. When I was a new mother, I searched for recipes that could magically combine nutrition and taste.

For instance, dark chocolate is known to lower blood pressure and walnuts are known to boost brain power. Therefore, chocolate walnut brownies with a side scoop of chocolate ice cream must be healthy.

Whenever my friends and I would get together, we’d taste each others’ new desserts and, our mouths filled with whipped cream, mumble “I’ve got to have that recipe.” Weeks might go by before we got around to sending that recipe along in the mail.

But then the Internet came along, and we found ourselves regularly trolling professional cooking sites. Instead of waiting to buy Emeril Lagasse’s latest cookbook, we could check out Emeril’s blog and print out a recipe in a matter of minutes.

Outstanding amateur cooks began creating their own blogs, complete with photos. Some of them, though, didn’t quite understand that not all of us keep tahini sauce or Brie cheese in the refrigerator.

But many of them did understand that there’s thousands of inepts out there looking for secret tips and hints. When I found these honest blogs, I was hooked.

No more believing a recipe that calls for a 30-minute bake time when the actual confection requires at least 45 minutes in the oven. No more caved-in banana bread that’s raw in the middle but burnt on the edges because we didn’t know the secret strategy of lowering the temperature 25 degrees.

Cooking bloggers save the day.

Just when I thought my kitchen life couldn’t get any easier, along comes Pinterest. My sisters introduced me to this online bulletin board, and I can see why they adore this site and repin their favorites.

From ideas for decorating bathrooms to Houdini-inspired hair styles, Pinterest has everything the do-it-yourselfer could ever want.

Who knew how easy it could be to make a paper-cone wreath or that taking an old picture frame, covering the back with burlap and then using the glass as a dry erase marker could work for making a shabby-chic kitchen writing board.

The avid do-it-yourselfer will find instructions on making soap that looks like a snake’s skin or a step-by-step illustrated guide to reupholstering a sofa.

If you’re not handy with a pressure cooker or a glue gun, Pinterest has dozens of advertisers who will gladly steer you to their store’s Website where you can have something similar for 10 times the price.

One night, I decided to see just how deep the how-to articles ran. So I typed in random search words and now know Pinterest pinners can teach you how to train a dog to stop barking.

They can teach you how to put on eye shadow, complete with a diagram for subtle shading. Seventy six people not only wanted to know this technique, but they shared the article with dozens of their friends.

The folks at Pinterest do have a good sense of humor. They seldom explain how to make wine, but they have lots of projects for what to do with all your empty wine bottles. Hint, a chandelier and candelabras top the list.

After looking at dozens of fun projects, I’m inspired to get moving and be productive. Perhaps I’ll whip up some chocolate marshmallow fudge, mix up a home-made mosquito repellent or rewire the kitchen.

I think I’ll go for the fudge.

With walnuts.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Consistency.

That’s the word parenting books, magazines, blogs and Websites use when dispensing advice. I’ve been a variety of mothers over the years, and consistency wasn’t always my top calling card.

On exceptionally good days, mostly in my imagination, I was patient and kind and told and showed my boys how much I loved them.

In reality, I was often frustrated and, when my sons bashed a hole in the wall doing what I told them not to do, I will not say I was kind.

As a new mother, surrounded by heaps of laundry and dirty diapers, I started reading every parenting article I could get my hands on, hoping for a life-line.

I started with the expert, Dr. Spock. He said never put a baby to sleep on his or her back. If the baby spit up in that position, the well-liked doctor warned, the baby could choke. That advice made sense to me, so I always put my babies to sleep on their stomachs.

Today, doctors say always let babies sleep on their backs, never their stomachs.

If the so-called experts can change their minds, and there’s pros and cons on both sides of the child rearing situation, how can a mom know the right thing to do?

I didn’t, so I stopped reading the books and looked at the women in my life. They had a lot to teach me.

My elderly aunts were seemingly submissive to their husbands. But they ran their households with authority and wielded the paddle and the change purse.

My aunts taught me that mothers can waltz, dance and jitterbug. They also taught me how to knit and crochet, how to fold sheets and how to run a successful business, even without formal training.

On the surface, my grandmothers were polar opposites. My maternal grandmother was often in the kitchen or on the couch at night crocheting.

In reality, she helped out at the family store, taking shifts just like her husband and children, but she was the one who came home and put dinner on the table every night.

My other grandmother unexpectedly became a widow in her early 40’s. She took the only job she could with a 14-year-old daughter in tow, that of a housemother at a college fraternity house. Both were working women before the term became popular, and from them I learned moms were much more than mashed potatoes and pot roast.

But it’s from my mother where I learned the best lessons of what being a mom is all about. Through her example, I learned strength is found in perseverance. She taught her daughters and her sons that it takes quiet commitment, a sense of humor and unlimited forgiveness to keep a family together, both financially and emotionally.

She reminds me to love unconditionally, make decisions based on emotion and knowledge and to forgive people their blunders. She laughs at her mistakes and makes it a point to know her grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

I finally realized I didn’t need Dr. Spock, Dear Abby or a magazine for a parenting plan of action.

My mom’s the best blueprint for mothering I’ve ever known.

On this Mother’s Day, I want to recognize the mothers, grandmothers, aunts, friends, cousins, sisters and women who love with all their hearts, no matter if a child is theirs biologically or by choice.

I hope they remember that on any single day, they are all capable of greatness, even if the act is nothing more than wrapping their arms around a child and whispering “you are my greatest joy.”

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

All I wanted to do was adjust the clock in my car. After having some mechanical work done, the time read out was off, so I thought it would be rather easy to reset the clock.

After pressing every knob and then holding in two buttons simultaneously, I gave up. I had to research my car on the Internet to find out how to adjust a clock that, on an old-fashioned timepiece, is as simple as pulling out a knob.

Technology hasn’t simplified our life – it’s complicated it beyond belief. 

Take, for instance, turning a television on and off. I don’t want to go back to the days when our remote was my dad yelling for one of us to go change the channel. But today’s TVs are overly complicated.

Our current TV set up requires three different remote controls – one to turn the TV on and change the channel, one to work the DVD player and one for the cable.

Sure I could get one universal remote control, but that means I’d have to learn how to use a remote control all over again, and I’ve gotten quite adept at balancing the three so I can quickly watch reruns of “The Andy Griffith Show.”

Making a doctor’s appointment isn’t easy either. On the phone, I have to go through at least six recorded prompts before I talk to a person. Do I want the call in English, do I want to make an appointment, and my favorite, am I experiencing an emergency – to which I’m supposed to hang up and dial 911.

Let’s face it, nobody would dial the main number while bleeding profusely and then when the 911 prompt comes up, whack themselves in the head and say “why didn’t I think of that?”

When it comes to the kitchen, simple is out. Shrimp was on sale last week, so I bought a pound, remembering I’d seen broiled shrimp on a menu recently and thought it might be easy to cook at home.

Back home, I searched online and all the recipes called for fresh chopped parsley and green onions. I didn’t pick those up in the grocery store. I just picked up shrimp. Then they wanted me to add dry mustard. I thought mustard came in a yellow squeeze bottle.  

So I ended up doing what I always do – peel the shrimp, melt some butter in a pan, cook ’em until they’re no longer pink and then season with Tony Chachere’s.

And the list goes on. On our new vacuum cleaner, it took me 10 minutes to find the on and off switch because it was buried in a sea of fancy buttons.

When shopping for a new washing machine, high-end models had digital displays worthy of a NASA control center. We settled for the basic push-in-the-knob wash, rinse and spin model.

I don’t want to record six different shows at a time or a menu that looks like something NASA would whip up in its test kitchens. I don’t want a dozen different selections for washing bath towels. And I certainly don’t need 10 different settings for vacuuming a living room rug.

I just want simple.

My friend, Karl Baumgartner, has an easy solution for handling the pesky details in life, starting with the clock in his vehicle. He never changes the time when daylight savings time rolls around because, he said, for half the year, the time is correct and he doesn’t have to do a thing. The other half of the year, he always gets where he’s going early.

The next time daylight savings time rolls around, I think I’ll follow Karl’s advice. Simple and easy. Now that’s technology I can follow.
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.