The lightning show was incredible. Throughout the night, my living room lit up as if I’d flipped a giant light switch on and off and there were a thousand sparklers in the room.
A second later, the skies rumbled and roared so forcefully, the house shuddered. The rain pounded on the side of the house so hard, I thought it would take the paint off.

It’s tough to look at the pictures of flooded highways in Houston and not feel sorry for all those who lost property or were scared during the rampage. Not to offend those affected by the flooding, people in California, farmers or gardeners, but oh, there are times I miss the drought.

For the past five years, most of Texas didn’t see a drop of rain. This year, the drought ended, and we’re getting the rain we prayed for.
But there are things about the drought I found myself missing as our dog sat across my lap in the middle of the night, shaking with fear from the storm outside.

Mosquitoes. When we were in the middle of the drought, we went to an outdoor concert, and it never occurred to me to bring mosquito repellent.

Now with the rains, I can’t walk to my mailbox without spraying myself with “Off.” Coming home, I opened the car door to get the newspaper at the end of the driveway, and, not thinking, left the door open.
By the time I closed the door, there were 10 hungry mosquitoes buzzing around in my car.

Umbrellas. For five years, I never wondered where I’d left my umbrella. When the drought ended, I had to search all over the house for one. The umbrella I did find was dry rotted from lack of use and I had to throw it away.

Outside parties. We never had to wonder if we’d have to cancel an outdoor event during the long, dry spell. We knew it wasn’t going to rain for weeks. Swim party? Any day from May through September was just fine. Not only no rain but no mosquitoes – double bonus.

No surprises. The weather forecast for 2010-2014 was – hot, hotter, hotter than Hades. Every single day. At the time, it was miserable, but with all these rains, flooded streets and never knowing if the skies are going to open up and drench everything in sight, a little dry spell would be welcome.

Fire ants. These vicious little critters are the scourge of the earth, worse than locusts and stinging caterpillars. During the drought, they escaped deep underground and weren’t as much of a problem.

Now that it’s raining, it’s as if they signaled each hibernating colony to rise up and build mega-cities across our lawn. The company that discovers a way to eradicate these beasts, short of a flame thrower, should win every science prize ever invented.

To be fair, there are things I missed during the drought – a sky filled with fluffy white clouds, rainbows after a late-afternoon shower, splashing through water puddles and the sounds of light rain on the roof.

But after seeing a sky filled with ominous black clouds, late-afternoon showers that last for days, water puddles that turn into raging rivers and rain on the roof that sounds as if angry aliens are starting an invasion, I’m feeling a bit nostalgic for dusty roads.

I suppose we’ll have to take what Mother Nature dishes out, get out our boots and dance in the rain.  

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

One of the most beautiful Houston venues is The Hobby Center for Performing Arts where Theatre Under the Stars, TUTS, stages productions.
Last week, I had the chance to see “The Music Man” with a group of teens, most of whom had never been to the center.

They were amazed at the majesty of the theater, and we were all holding our breath when the curtain went up for the first scene. “The Music Man” opens with a group of fast-talking traveling salesmen. The dialogue is rapid fire, the stage car set was beautiful and the costumes were spot on.
And then I noticed it – all the salesmen were White. In fact, there wasn’t a person of color in the entire cast.

I know “The Music Man” takes place in Iowa in 1912. Back then, people of color, if they were even included in a show, were either chauffeurs or maids.  I’m sure when Meredith Wilson wrote the musical in the 1950s, he didn’t think about including different races.
As I sat there, squirming a little in my seat, I wondered why TUTS was staging a musical with an all-white cast in a city as diverse as Houston. It could be for the money as “The Music Man” is a well-known play and brings in the bucks.

Perhaps they think we shouldn’t tamper with the original script or change the writer’s vision or words.
Rubbish.
Theater and music are nothing if not creative and cutting edge. True artists push the envelope for society and, as a result, works of art are often adapted to reach a modern audience.

One of the most popular modern musicals is “West Side Story.” It was written in the 1960s as an updated Romeo and Juliet love story. I don’t remember Shakespeare reciting “When you’re a shark,” in his works,  but the new story line stayed true to Shakespeare’s words while still reflecting prejudices between families, races and cultures.

I flipped through the playbook to see what TUTS is offering the rest of the season, and here’s a list of their upcoming shows:  “Matilda The Musical,” “A Christmas Story, “Bridges of Madison County, “Mary Poppins,” “Oliver” and “A Gentleman’s Guide.”
All White people. To be fair, two productions, “The Little Mermaid” and “Cinderella” feature one or two cast members who are different ethnicities. “Hairspray” has a strong message about the Civil Rights movement. But it’s not being staged in The Hobby Centre. We’ll have to sit outside to see that one.
During intermission, I asked some of the teens if they were enjoying the show. They gushed about the beautiful surroundings and the quality of the performers and the orchestra. Then I asked if they noticed anything about the cast.
One Black girl said she noticed there wasn’t a face of color in the cast but said that’s just the way it is. A young man standing nearby said he noticed the same thing and came to the same conclusion. White teens noticed the same omission and said it was a bit uncomfortable to be sitting next to students of different races and not seeing anybody like their friends on the stage.
That the White students noticed the slight gave me hope. But the students of color who said “that’s just the way it is” saddened me more than the lack of diversity on the stage.
Our high schools don’t have a problem mixing races and cultures when casting plays, and the audience, the players and our communities are richer for that decision. Those directors understand that talent trumps ethnicity and race every single time.
Too bad the “professionals” don’t get it.
 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The first thing I did on my 15^thbirthday was stand in line at the Department of Motor Vehicles in Baker, La. so I could earn my driver’s license. I was there before the office opened because I couldn’t wait to start driving legally.

I always wanted to drive, and I begged to sit next to my dad on long car trips. He’d explain how to keep up with traffic, how to merge and how to conquer the interstate.

In town, I practiced in our old Ford sedan. I don’t remember much about that car except it was a standard with the stick shift on the steering column and it was fast.

When I was a senior in high school, my dad gave me his old Pontiac Executive. That car was a lumbering tank, and five could sit across the back seat with no problem.

The car had a few issues – I had to pump the brakes to stop and mornings required my holding the choke valve closed so my brother could crank it up.

But the car was mine, and it was a sad day when we sold that Pontiac. After that came a few junkers until I bought my very first car – a white 1980 Honda that was just right as it was usually just me and our eldest son.

But as much as I liked that little car, eventually we had to get a bigger vehicle for our growing family, and we became owners of a minivan, the suburban parents’ go-to vehicle.

Although some people turn their noses up at minivans, I loved ours. In fact, I loved our minivans so much, we owned two back to back to accommodate bats, bikes and boys.

I pushed our last van a little too far, though. I didn’t want to put 600 miles on a new vehicle, so I took our aging minivan to Louisiana one last time.

That was a huge mistake as it kept overheating. I finally called my husband to rescue us in Beaumont, and that was the last time I saw our minivan.

By this time, though, our boys were grown, and it was time to downsize. I bought a sedan and came to enjoy a smaller car.

When my father passed away, I cried almost every afternoon in that car, missing my dad so much, I thought my heart would break.

One afternoon, somebody rear ended me and bent the frame. When I saw the car in the junk yard, I thought I’d be happy to see that sad car out of my life, but I stood there and cried one last time for the loss of my safe place.

Two more sedans followed; but as our grandchildren now number four, we decided to move back up to a larger vehicle to accommodate the youngsters.

It might seem odd to upsize, but the right car’s been in my life at the right time.

A huge Pontiac Executive kept a know-it-all teenager safe and sound. That little white Honda was sporty and economical, just like my life.

The minivans suited our family perfectly; and when I transitioned from a baseball mom to a working woman, sedans fit the bill.

Now I’ve moved into needing a vehicle that will keep our grandchildren safe and sound.

Because I’m hoping one day my granddaughter will sit in the front and we can talk about the rules of the road and the joy of driving.

And come full circle.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Mother’s Day is a tough holiday. While it’s a day to celebrate Mom, my heart aches as there are so many people who’ve lost their mother to illness or an accident.

Then there are those whose mothers are alive but were never invested in their child’s life. The adult child has no reason to shower flowers and bathrobes on a woman who never seemed to care.

There’s the moms who weren’t born into that role but gladly took on mom responsibilities and love their children with all their heart.

And let’s not forget dads who step in for moms due to circumstances beyond their control. They learn to braid hair, console a broken heart and find out the best place to get a mani or pedi when their girl’s having a tough week.

Throughout the ages, women have struggled to be the perfect mom. Many moms of the 1970s and 1980s  tried to balance the home front and an out-of-the-house job. Most of the time, we succeeded, but there were quite a few fast-food dinners at the ball park  we probably regret.

Moms of the 1990s bought into the theory that we could have a pre-dawn exercise routine, hold down high-powered jobs, enroll 2.5 children on every soccer, baseball, softball, yoga and swimming team within 50 miles of our house and still get our exhausted family in the minivan for a happy ride into the sunset.

Some moms of the 2000’s are trying to be like Beyonce or Princess Kate, both of whom seemed to drop the baby weight like we drop a Hot Pocket snagged out of the microwave.

We still haven’t grasped the reality that the best moms have their own style. They rear their offspring with a firm hand and a loving heart. They’re always a mom, whether they’re wearing designer jeans, sweat pants, on crutches, in a wheelchair or washing your dirty laundry.

Moms never eat the last piece of pizza or the last scoop of vanilla ice cream. In fact, the word “last” figures high in their vocabulary – they’re the last ones to turn off the lights in a child’s bedroom and the last one out of the kitchen at night.

So what do moms want on Mother’s Day? To hear their child’s voice, whether they’re 5 or 60 years old. Remember, this is the voice that called out to them in the middle of the night and yelled in triumph after catching a lizard in the flower bed.

This is the voice that telephoned for rides after they missed the bus, asked a thousand times if they had any clean underwear and, at least a million times, asked if there was anything to eat.
There are moms who would give anything to hear their child’s voice just one more time, and every person’s heart breaks for that parent.

And there are “those voices,” the whiney ones that swore their lives were ruined because we were too strict or wouldn’t let them wear makeup or short skirts.

Kids, I’ll tell you a secret. Moms will tell you they don’t remember that voice. They only remember the way your voice sounded when they tucked you in at night and you whispered “Sleep next to me, mommy, so I feel safe.”

On this Mother’s Day, remember it’s not the expensive gifts, lunch at a fancy restaurant or a new bathrobe that’ll make your mother happy. It’s your voice she wants to hear.

So call, just to say you love her, and remind her that, at this point in time, you’ll be the one to keep her safe.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.