A couple of years ago, my husband and I took a winter trip to Rockport with the Coastal Prairie Chapter of the Texas Master Naturalists to see the whooping cranes.

These men and women work to educate the public about the importance of protecting Texas’ natural resources.

They also work at local parks, especially Seabourne Creek Park, so residents and visitors will have a positive encounter with nature.

On the last visit, I spent the time visiting historical sites. I learned a lot about the area’s background and enjoyed driving around Rockport.

This time, however, I concentrated more on the journey instead of the destination. Most of our trip found us on Highway 59. They should rename this section of highway the “Smokehouse Strip” because the stretch was filled with barbecue joints.

I wish we could’ve stopped at all of them, but we decided to have lunch in Victoria. On road trips, we shy away from the chains and look for a local place to eat.

When we saw a sign advertising Ramsey’s home cooking, something told us to pull into the lot.

Ramsey’s wasn’t anything special on the outside, but the inside was like a favorite diner found in rustic Texas towns where the blue-plate special is always a sure-fire winner.

The restaurant opened in 1948 by the Ramseys. Even though there’s a new owner, he kept the name and many of the original menu items, wait staff and cooks.

There was a table of regulars in the back that seemed to know everybody who came in the door. They were friendly to us and even asked what we were thinking about ordering.

I asked about the soup, and a silver-haired lady at the table next to me suggested the special for the day. That choice sounded tempting, but I went for the cheeseburger and onion rings.

For me, those two workhorses are the hallmark of a great restaurant. It’s easy to overcook the burger and really easy to serve up a greasy pile of onion rings.

The cook did neither. My burger was juicy and cooked just right, and the onion rings were crisp and fresh. I wished I’d saved room for a slice of pie in the display case because that coconut cream confection looked to be about six inches high and was surely calling my name.

But we left, happy with our lunches and change in our pockets.

Our next stop was at the Aransas National Wildlife Refuge center. The refuge is the winter nesting grounds for whooping cranes, and thousands of people flock to this area in the chilly months to catch a glimpse of the tall birds.

We stopped in the Visitor’s Center, and friendly volunteers directed us to spots where cranes had been spotted that day.

At the two-story tall observation tower, we were able to look out over what seemed like a hundred acres of pristine marshland and waterways. People talked in quiet voices, and the sounds of birds singing and leaves rustling were the loudest sounds we heard all afternoon.

We met up with the Master Naturalists late in the afternoon near the docks in Rockport. As they compared notes on the birds they’d seen on the trip, I watched the shrimp boats come in from their day out on the gulf and marveled at the elegant ballet pelicans performed as they swooped over the waters.

Sometimes education comes from a visitor’s center or a nature book. We can also learn from taking guided tours and checking Google for the local history of a town or city.

Other times, knowledge comes from quietly watching the sun set over an endless sea, the perfect way to end a weekend journey.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

 

One of the perks of being a newspaper reporter is one has the opportunity to meet some pretty terrific people. A question often asked is “who’s the most famous person you’ve ever interviewed?”

For me, fame isn’t just measured by the number of times someone’s name has been in the headlines, the political office they hold or the amount of money they have.

Importance is what that person means to their community and how they spread kindness and knowledge to make their corner of the world better.

One of the most famous and most humble in our midst is Ms. Virginia Scarborough. A few years ago, I had the good fortune to interview Virginia, as she asked me to call her, for a story about the burial site of Deaf Smith. Legend had it that Smith was buried in Richmond but nobody knew exactly where he was buried.

Immediately, I wanted to track the story down. I started at the Fort Bend Museum, and a volunteer told me if I really wanted to know, I’d talk to Virginia Scarborough.

When the third person I asked about Deaf Smith told me to ask Virginia, I knew I’d better call, and she invited me to come by her home and visit.

She greeted me at the door with a smile and we sat down at her kitchen table and chatted over cookies.

Virginia believes Smith is buried somewhere in the middle of the street near the museum in downtown Richmond. She also thinks he might’ve been buried upside down, going out of the world in the same direction the Texas pioneer entered it.

I remember laughing at the way her eyes twinkled when she told the story. We also chatted about her involvement in Fort Bend County history, and I was amazed at the lengths to which Virginia went to searching for lost cemeteries.

She’s traipsed through meadows in mud boots, tracking down long-forgotten headstones. She said she once got chased out of a field by an angry bull, and she had to climb a fence in a hurry to get away from the angry bovine.

Virginia was past retirement age when she pulled off that trick.

It’s not often one comes across someone who’s thought of so highly, but after meeting Virginia, I know why. It’s not just her soft way of speaking that’s never condescending yet filled with information.

It’s not that she’s quoted in numerous history books.

It’s not even that Virginia’s family can trace their roots back to the Old 300, settlers who came to Fort Bend County with Stephen F. Austin or that a school is named after her late sister and educator, Antoinette Reading.

Perhaps it’s because Virginia’s been an instrumental source of knowledge for the Fort Bend Historical Commission and helped oversee the preservation of Morton Cemetery, the burial site of Jane Long and Mirabeau Lamar.

She has the credentials — she’s a member of the Daughters of the Confederacy, the Daughters of the American Revolution and the Daughters of the Republic of Texas.

Although those are all stellar reasons for being respected, the reason Virginia is such a treasure to Richmond and Fort Bend County is because she’s a genteel, gracious, humble and giving person whose intelligence and dedication to preserving the facts benefits all of us.

I’m extremely fortunate I’ve had the pleasure of visiting with Virginia. I hope one day she’ll invite me back and we can sit together at her kitchen table where I can once again fall under the enchantment of this gracious lady.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

I can’t find my car keys.

I haven’t a clue where I left my cell phone.

And my closet looks like a tornado ripped through it.

The only solution?

Clean out my purse.

How, you may ask, does cleaning out my purse help solve any of these dilemmas?

Well I’m not sure, but whenever my life’s a wreck and out of control, the first thing I do is clean out my purse because my purse is an extension of my life.

When I was a teenager, I needed a big purse, mostly for my hair brush – which back in the 1970s was as big as a barbell. There also had to be room for three tubes of lip gloss and two packs of gum.

As a young mother, my purse took a back seat to the diaper bag. That bag was great with the first child because I thought I needed everything baby related at all times.

In that diaper bag, I carried five or six extra diapers, a big tube of diaper-rash ointment, the large container of baby wipes, blankets, an extra set of clothes and plenty of toys.

With my second child, I started relying on my purse instead of the diaper bag. I pared down to two extra diapers, wipes and an extra shirt.

By the time the youngest one came along, one extra diaper, a travel pack of wipes and three or four Matchbox cars all fit quite nicely in my purse and I ditched the diaper bag.

My purse, I discovered came in quite handy with young children. It served as a booster seat in a restaurant, a pillow for a sleepy toddler and a physical barrier between two squabbling brothers. And because I had an indestructible purse, it didn’t matter when the purse was stepped on, thrown up on, used for third base or dropped in a mud puddle.

When the boys were older and no longer in need of toys or diapers, my purse became a holding ground for a reporter’s notebook, a big cell phone – which is how they were made back in the day – at least 10 pens and my camera.

Friends would show me their expensive purses, and I’d admire their accessory but I knew I had a real keeper with my reliable, sensible purse.

More importantly than the useful duties my bag carried out, my purse reflected my mood. The first time I realized my purse and my life were related was a few years ago when I couldn’t find my checkbook.

I realized I also couldn’t find the grocery list or a paycheck stub. I put two and two together and decided to clean the bag out and see if my mood improved.

I started with the wallet and emptied all the change. I realized first off that’s why my purse was so heavy. Then I took all the receipts out and made a stack of those.

Next to come out were the empty candy wrappers, runaway Tic-Tacs and Life Saver candies and all the pens that no longer worked.

I only put back when I needed, and a sense of calm came over me. I now carried around an in-control bag.

My life couldn’t be far behind. And, maybe it’s because I tricked myself into believing that fact, but now whenever my life’s a wreck, the first thing I do is clean out my purse and my wallet.

And after a hectic and busy week, where my car keys went missing every day and a candy bar melted in the bottom of the front section, a little cleaning just might be in order.

Now if I can just find my purse…

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

I went to a local high school girls’ basketball game recently, ready to watch some friendly rivalry between two cross-city teams. Watching the athletes warming up, I wondered how they’d gone to school all day long and then had the energy to play basketball.

The stands were filled with family and friends, and I thought the game would be pretty exciting because the teams were evenly matched.

The athletes were great – some of the fans were the problem.

This isn’t my first encounter with over-the-top fans. I went to a Pee-Wee football game once to see if the league was a good fit for my youngest son. While we were watching the game, an elderly man in the stands kept yelling “Spill some blood! Spill some blood!”

Right then and there, I decided Pee-Wee football was not for us.

Most parents enroll their children in organized sports because they want them to be physically active, make friends and learn to play on a team. Then there’s others who believe their child is better than everyone else and they push and bully their child and the coaches.

They’re the ones who scream at their child from the sidelines and blame the coach and every other child on the team for any and all losses. They’re in the minority, thank goodness.

But I’m realistic and understand the enthusiasm of football fans, especially with the Super Bowl coming up. Entire cities wear their team’s colors, fly their pennants from their car antennas and wear that team’s jerseys every game day. 

Years ago, we had season tickets to the LSU football games. Charles McClendon was LSU’s coach at the time, and, like most college football coaches, people either loved him or hated him.

There was one man who sat a few rows down from us at the games, and every other play he’d yell “You couldn’t beat Bunkie,” a small Louisiana town of less than 4,000 people.

I expect college football fans to react with passion and volatility – people take their college sports, especially football, seriously. How else can you explain how grown people will walk around with a foam block of cheese on their head?

Football fans love a winner and hate a loser, and LSU fans are no different. A few months ago, rumors were flying around Baton Rouge that LSU was going to get rid of long-time head coach Les Miles.

His record over the past 11 seasons with the Tigers is 112-32, and I thought the fans admired him and were happy with his coaching.

But I found out differently – it seems Miles has trouble beating Nick Saban who was the former LSU head coach and current head football coach at the University of Alabama. Saban left LSU for “greener pastures,” and beating him is a matter of pride for the Tigers.

Did it matter that Miles had beaten Ohio State for a national title? Did it matter that Miles has four times as many wins as losses? Nope. It only mattered that he hadn’t beaten Saban enough times.

But I’m not in Tiger Stadium. I’m at a high school basketball game and most parents are cheering great plays, three-point shots and when a player returns to the bench.

But a few parents are yelling at teen photographers for blocking their view. They’re yelling at the officials, they’re yelling at the coaches and yelling at the players.

If we ever wonder why young people today know how to behave at public events and scratch our heads because others have trouble, we don’t have to look far for the answers.

They learned from their parents.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.