It was just a tickle really, nothing to be concerned about. Until that slight tickle turned into a fire-breathing dragon, lurking in the back of my throat, an aggravation that in two days completely destroyed my voice. The result? Laryngitis.

For someone who’s a talker, the diagnosis was like telling a fish it could no longer swim.

Since I was a young girl, I’ve been a talker. My mom loves to tell the story of how she arrived at her grandparents house late one night, and I tap danced and sang for 30 minutes on top of a closed suitcase.

Never mind that my parents thought a 3-year-old could handle a full bottle of Coca-Cola after dinner.  I was forever dubbed a talking machine by my great-grandfather but the moniker’s almost a badge of honor because I come from a long line of talkers.

The only strong silent type in the entire Hebert family is my cousin Mike, and he’s one of 25 first cousins I have. The rest of the Hebert clan will sit and talk about nothing, everything and all points in between until the beer and crawfish run out.

But even though I love to talk, I also love to listen.  As a young girl, I loved snuggling up to my grandmother while she spun outrageous stories about the latest gossip in the family. Never mind that I was only 7 years old – I was an adoring audience and she was the best story teller in town.

My grandfather’s stories were told as long fables resembling a slow-moving stream – always moving with a purpose but in no hurry to arrive at the end. His stories are the ones I remember word for word these many years later.

I thought about the great storytellers I’ve known these past couple of days when I’ve only been able to listen, not put in my two cents’ worth.

Yesterday, I was checking out of the grocery store, and the clerk asked me a question. I had to smile, shrug my shoulders and point to my throat. I mouthed “laryngitis,” and she smiled and did the talking for the both of us.

I had the feeling that perhaps a great bit of her time was spent listening to people whine about high prices, questioning if she scanned in their coupons or talking to her like she’s an indentured servant.

Because I couldn’t talk back, she was free to chat about anything she wanted and I couldn’t say a word. It was one of the nicest one-way conversations I’ve ever had and I’ll bet she thought the same thing.

Today, I overheard teenagers talking about a problem, and instead of interrupting with a grown-up solution, I listened as they rationally reasoned their way out of the situation.

Even when I was by myself, not having a voice brought unforeseen benefits. I love to sing along with the CD player, but because I have no voice, I was able to hear beautiful music without my off-key warbling drowning the artists out.

I’d forgotten how clear John Denver’s voice was or how Celine Dion perfectly hits those high notes. Hearing them again without my accompaniment was pretty nice.

There were a few idiots on the road coming home this afternoon. Normally I’m yelling at them from the sound-proof comfort of my car, listing all their mental failings and their inability to maneuver a vehicle, but today, I couldn’t yell at all. When I pulled into my driveway, I wasn’t as aggravated as I am most days.

Maybe keeping my mouth shut isn’t such a bad idea.

 This column was originally published in the Fort Bend Herald.

After days of gloomy, rainy weather, the sun came out over the weekend, reminding me how much I’d missed a baby-blue sky and the warmth of the sun.

The grandchildren immediately headed outside after arriving, and my eldest noticed there were still pecans on the ground. We have a native pecan tree in the yard, and those limbs have put out quite a bounty this year.

Last year, we sold the pecans she picked to the Bailey Brothers in Fulshear, and Kylie enjoyed receiving money she earned through hard work.

Noticing all the pecans on the ground yesterday, she saw dollar signs again and we all got to work. We put a big plastic bucket near the tree and 3-year-old James and 2-year-old Katherine helped their big sister drop small pecans in the bucket.

While we worked, we talked about our favorite pecan treats – pecan pie, pecan cookies and pecans sprinkled on ice cream.

I’m not a farmer, but I wondered if the pecans on the ground were still good after all the rain we’d had. So I suggested we open a few.

Kylie resisted, as every pecan out of the bucket was less money in her pocket, but she agreed after I told her we might be picking up bad pecans and all that work would be for nothing.

I remembered how my family used to crack pecans, and I grabbed a couple of small hammers out of the kitchen junk drawer. With a gentle tap, tap, tap, we opened a few, and they were perfect.

As we cracked the shells and pulled out honey-colored pecan pieces, I thought about the satisfaction that comes from harvesting and then eating something that grows in your own back yard. It’s sad so few children these days have the opportunity to grow their own vegetables or eat the fruit from something they’ve picked with their own hands.

I remember the truck garden we had in our back yard one year. My dad challenged each of his seven children with having their own row to plant, tend and harvest. My brother, Joey, won the contest, but we all enjoyed vegetables from that little backyard plat and learned we could grow what we wanted to eat.

Last year, my son and his family made over two dozen jars of jam from blackberries they picked growing behind where they were living. Their children loved searching in the bushes for blackberries, learning valuable lessons about wearing rain boots and looking out for critters lurking in the leaves and branches.

They were so proud when they presented me with their jars of jam, and that only comes from, literally, the fruits of one’s labors.

My grandchildren love visiting nearby Blessington Farms in Simonton. Owners Lynne and Dave Johnson live in Fulshear but drew upon their memories of farming in Iowa to turn some acreage into a delightful destination spot for children and adults alike.

Visitors get a bucket when they arrive and can pick their own blueberries and strawberries right off the vine.

Recently added is a catch-and-release fishing pond where children can experience the fun of catching a fish, getting their picture taken and then watching the fish swim away to be caught again another day.

Year round, children can enjoy old-fashioned activities such as the hay maze, giant slides and a petting zoo with barnyard animals. For youngsters wondering what a real farm’s like, nothing beats holding a gentle hen as she clucks on your lap or listening to a rooster announce his presence.

Blessington Farms’ website has up-to-date information about hours of operation, and, weather permitting, plans are to open the gates this Saturday. Note they’re closed on Sundays.

There’s a great lesson to be learned when one harvests nature’s bounty and there’s no greater feeling of satisfaction than seeing a bucket filled with blueberries, strawberries or native pecans that you picked with your own hands.
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.  

  

  One of my favorite actors is the late Jimmy Stewart. For over 40 years, Stewart delighted audiences in movies where a moral, decent man was needed for the lead, and he never disappointed.

Stewart was born in a small town and always remembered his middle-American roots. He actively served in the armed forces during World War II, flew missions, and came home to resume his life, much like thousands of other soldiers did after the war.

He married late in life and remained married to Gloria until her death, 45 years after they said their vows. I didn’t know any of that until much later. It was through the movies I came to admire Mr. Stewart, and that admiration began with “It’s a Wonderful Life.”

Jimmy Stewart is the only actor who could’ve played the main character, George Bailey. Stewart’s earnestness and down-to-earth manner was perfect for the part.

George Bailey was trapped in a small town when all he wanted to do was see the world. It’s not hard to understand that longing when watching “It’s a Wonderful Life,” and Stewart connects with anyone who feels trapped and then rescued when realizing the riches they have aren’t measured by a bank account.

I’d heard so much about “Mr. Smith Goes to Washington” that I checked it out from the library. I spent a wonderful Saturday morning feeling rejuvenated by the idealistic words coming from the young Senator Smith, ideas and beliefs we’ve become too jaded to believe in any more.

Alfred Hitchcock saw a darker side to Stewart and signed him to two movies – “Vertigo” and “Rear Window.” I’ll watch “Rear Window” over and over again, as much to see the elegant and cool Grace Kelly as to watch Stewart solve a murder mystery from a wheelchair.

Recently I watched one of the movies most associated with Stewart, “Harvey.”  A man, Elwood P. Dowd, believes he sees a “pookah,”  a 6-foot-3-inch tall rabbit he names Harvey.

Elwood drinks a little too much, and a string of near misses occur when Elwood’s sister tries to have him committed to a mental institution. We never see the rabbit but, by the end of the movie, most of us come to believe there really is a Harvey.

The movie’s taken from a Pulitzer Prize winning play of the same name, but it’s Stewart’s patient and quiet portrayal of Elwood that rings true. Stewart never rushes his lines, and I felt myself physically relaxing when watching Stewart’s monologues in the movie.

When a psychologist tries to find out where Elwood strayed from reality, in a masterfully paced monologue, Elwood tells the doctor: “In this world, you must be oh so smart or oh so pleasant. Well, for years I was smart. I recommend pleasant. You may quote me.”

There’s a lot of wisdom one can gain from George Bailey and Elwood P. Dowd. We might not always get what we want, but if we remember that we really have wonderful lives, despite where we live or how much money we have, then that’s a wonderful life.

We can also listen to people talk about their hopes and their dreams, just as Harvey and Elwood did, and it wouldn’t cost us a dime to show a little humanity. The payoff is what Elwood received – a quiet acceptance of others.

Nobody else could play those characters the way Jimmy Stewart did. Nobody except Jimmy Stewart could have us believe that angels get their wings every time a bell rings and remember how much our lives are enriched when we take the time to slow down and be “oh so pleasant.”
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I’ve had the event on my calendar since October – go see the Monet exhibit at the Houston Museum of Fine Arts. Didn’t matter that I can’t tell the difference between an impressionist painter and a realist painter, I did know the name Claude Monet.

Search Google for a calming picture to use as a background screen saver, and Monet’s “Water Lilies” is usually in the top 10 choices. That picture was my screen saver until my grandchildren came along, but “Water Lilies” remains a favorite.

So when I saw 50 of Monet’s actual paintings were coming to Houston for an exhibition, I couldn’t wait to go. But the busy days of Halloween turned into non-stop cooking for Thanksgiving and then Christmas obligations gobbled up December.

I took advantage of the first Saturday in January and convinced my eldest son and his girlfriend to go with me to the museum. They’re world travelers, but they’d never seen a Monet work of art in person.

Plus I said I’d pick up the costs, so they were happy campers.

Once inside, we were pleasantly surprised to see “A History of Photography:  Selections from the Museum’s Collection.” I started taking pictures when I was 18 years old, and I’ve loved photography ever since.

I’d read about the exhibit but never thought I’d get a chance to see the display. I studied all the informational cards on the wall, glancing at the photos, and I felt I was definitely getting my intellectual moneys’ worth with this short exhibit.

But the clock was ticking, and I quickly moved through the other rooms, my eyes on the big prize – the Monet exhibit.  I wanted to rent an audio player that would explain each of the Monet masterpieces, but the line was too long.

I was anxious to see the paintings, so I told myself I’d read all the plaques instead.

As I stood in front of the second picture in the exhibit, reading all the biographical information, I heard classical music in the background.

At first I thought the museum was piping in music, but then I noticed people in the next room, watching a young man playing a classical piece on a beautiful grand piano.

His eyes were closed as his long fingers moved over the ivory keys, and I stood there and absorbed the beauty of the music, forgetting about the details of the paintings printed on those cards.

I realized at that moment that I’d been wasting a lot of time at the museum reading all those cards. I turned and watched the people moving through the exhibit, most dressed in expensive clothes and shoes, and noticed they, like me, were focused on the informational plaques.

Many were listening to the audio information in their ears, not absorbing the piano music but absorbing information .

I realized we weren’t taking time to stand back and admire the beauty Claude Monet found in the currents of the Seine River. We’d been so obsessed with reading all the biographical information we’d missed looking at the actual paintings.

So I stopped reading the placards, tuned into the piano music, and quietly moved through the Monet exhibit without looking at any more informational cards. I simply admired the beauty in those broad brush strokes and marveled at Monet’s expertise in painting light.

I left the museum quite satisfied I’d truly absorbed the museum experience. I wasn’t dressed in a $800 Italian dress suit nor could I pretend I was an art scholar or historian.

I was a plain, ordinary gal who wanted to see a masterpiece with her own eyes. And because that’s all I expected, I received so much more.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

So long 2014 and hello 2015. Many of us are sitting down with either paper and pencil or our phones to make a long list of New Year resolutions – lose weight, eat healthier, save money.

Been there.

Tried that.

Failed those.

Here’s a list of resolutions that might be a bit easier to accomplish this year.

Your health. Anyone who doesn’t know they have to watch their fat intake or monitor their cholesterol is paddling down the river of denial.

You know what you’re supposed to do, but sticking to any regiment or routine is difficult. That’s why we re-dedicate ourselves to the scale and our running shoes every January.

Instead, see if you can figure out the underlying reason for why you’re going to have that extra piece of pecan pie while sitting on the couch watching another episode of “Shark Tank.”

If you can find the reasons why food and inertia are your buddies, you’ve taken the first step on a healthier path.

Toxic personalities. You know who these people are. They gossip about co-workers. They pollute the work environment. They complain about everything and everyone. Getting away from them is tough.  

Most of the time, we go the other way if we see them coming. If you’re not that quick, here’s a tip as to how to walk away without confrontation: When that nasal voice gets on your last nerve, inhale quickly and say “Oh no. I forgot to do something.” And then walk away with a purpose. “Unfriend” them, delete them from your address book and don’t look back.

If you’re a bit more confrontational, you can always deliver the line “Life’s too short for such negativity, pal,” and walk away. In a way, you’ve given that Negative Nancy one more thing to complain about. That’s because you’re a giver.

Your free time.Americans work like there’s an Egyptian slave master beating a drum in their office. We don’t take the vacation days we’re allotted, we work from home after putting in a 40-plus hour work week and the job is often our life.

Take your time back. The world will not come to an end if you turn off the laptop or iPhone, go to a festival, ride your bike around the neighborhood or sit back in the La-Z-Boy and watch an escapist episode of “Pawn Stars.”

Daydream. We’re surrounded by noise. We’re plugged into an iPod, listening to the radio or watching YouTube videos. Canned music plays in every store and commercials scream at us at every Website we visit.

Our imaginations are our greatest assets, and we’ve allowed technology to take over the moments when we used to sit back and ponder the universe while watching ripples on a lake or listening to the wind rustle the leaves.

Take back your imagination – unplug and open your mind up to possibilities.

Stop and Go. These two words can be quite empowering. Stop criticizing yourself for making mistakes. Stop putting yourself down because you don’t have the best clothes or the trimmest figure. Stop comparing yourself to other people and putting yourself on the negative scale.

Instead, go. Go to the movies. Go on a picnic. Go out and explore. Go for what you’ve always wanted to accomplish. No more stopping – just going.

And you can do the same with this column. Go on over to the sports page if that’s what you want or look for shapes in the clouds.

It’s your year. It’s 2015, a new start. May your year be filled with green lights instead of red ones.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.