One of the positives about going to the used bookstore is there’s so much more than book bargains. In addition to great prices on used paperbacks, bookstores have games, toys and nostalgic items.

I was in such an establishment this past Saturday on a hunt for bargain comic books. While sorting through excess issues of Superman, Wolverine and Batman, I saw a crowd of young people browsing through the vinyl records.

With music available for free on streaming services like Pandora and Spotify, it never occurred to me that young people would want to purchase old vinyl records. But that section of the store had the biggest crowd, and they weren’t baby boomers like me.

A story on CNBC last year states that vinyl record companies can’t keep up with the demand for vinyl records. The biggest buyers are the millennials because they feel the quality of the music on a digital file can’t come close to the depth of the tones on a vinyl record.

I thought I’d kept my old vinyl records, and I was so disappointed when I came home and realized I’d sold them years ago when we were downsizing. At the time, I thought digital was so much easier and we didn’t have a way to play vinyl records.

Now I’m wishing I still had them.

My first memory of vinyl records came courtesy of my Uncle Vinny. He was a teenager when we were growing up, and he had a stack of 45-rpm records he’d let us play.

I remember stacking the 45’s on a tube in the center of the record player and listening to Leslie Gore sing “It’s My Party” over and over again.

My mom got a stereo for Christmas one year; and if I listened to Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass belt out “A Taste of Honey” once, I heard that song a thousand times. Luckily Mom was generous, and she’d let us borrow the Philco and play records in our rooms.

My favorites back then were The Beatles, the Dave Clark Five and The Monkees. Before judging, remember, a 14-year-old girl can have eclectic tastes. I didn’t say good taste, I said eclectic. Still the albums not only had the dinner-sized plate records, there was a lot of information about the band on the back cover.

Part of the nostalgia with vinyl records also involves the beautiful art work on record album covers. My favorite cover was the ornate and quite colorful “In a Gadda Da Vida” from Iron Butterfly. Carol King reminded us that talent doesn’t always come in a glitzy package as shown on her folksy “Tapestry” album cover.

Nothing will ever beat James Taylor’s “Mud Slide Slim” album cover with Sweet Baby James sporting a slick smile and wide suspenders.

For simplicity, I loved the black-and-white “James Gang Rides Again” cover. Those first few notes from Joe Walsh on “Funk 49,” the first track on the album, are classic rock. Those guitar licks take baby boomers back to the days of platform shoes, wild hair and bell-bottom jeans.

As I walked toward the check-out line, I smiled at the millennials crowded around the vinyl record section because, despite a generation gap, they were searching for the same thing we boomers were looking for in music – to live in the moment when we believe we can be anything.

Instead of auto-tuned voices and micro-managed mega stars, let that music fill the air around us with strong, if not always in-tune voices, rockin’ guitar solos and thundering drums sets. Because that’s real and every generation seeks out the truth, even if it’s not perfect.

And maybe that gap between the generations isn’t as wide as we once believed.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

 

On early morning drives, I find myself marveling at the gorgeous colors in the sunrise. It’s as if the Good Lord took a paintbrush, dipped it in vivid scarlets and pinks and painted the skies, just to create a beautiful start to the day.

It’s unbelievable how quickly nature can go from majestic to malevolent.

That’s exactly what happened in Fort Bend County when over 20 inches of rain drenched our area in less than two days, bringing havoc, apprehension and devastation.

Yet in 2010 and 2011, Texas was in the midst of one of the worst droughts in the state’s history. I remember walking around our yard and seeing gaping ruts where the ground had separated due to a lack of water.

I never checked the weather report when planning something outside because it hadn’t rained in over three years. When the rains came back, I opened the umbrella I kept in my car, and it had dry rotted.

Now we flinch at the sound of thunder, and we keep our thumbs on our phone’s weather app, not because we’re secretly meteorologists. We know first-hand the blows Mother Nature can deliver when we least expect it.

No matter where you live, there’s issues with the weather. Growing up in New York State, I think about bundling up in a snow suit, snow boots, a scarf and gloves from November to April.

I can still picture my dad with a snow shovel, making a path to get the family car out of the driveway.

A Southern boy through and through, my dad finally decided he’d had enough, and he moved us all to Louisiana.

Welcome to hurricane season.

I remember riding in the back seat with my family through Gulfport, Miss. and seeing a line of palm trees slanted to the side. Dad said Hurricane Betsy had caused that damage, and I was awed at the power Mother Nature possessed.

Still because there wasn’t a major hurricane when I was in my teens, I didn’t take the storms as seriously as I should have. It wasn’t until Hurricane Allison slammed into Houston that I saw exactly how a few days of violent, unrelenting rain could turn peoples’ lives upside down.

My aunt and her family were flooded out of their house one year, and I can still picture her in her driveway, tears streaming down her face, as she watched her family photos, furniture and belongings floating in the flood waters of the Comite River.

So when Hurricane Katrina hit the New Orleans area and people came to Texas, I saw that same lost look in their eyes that I’d seen in my aunt’s.

Desolation. Hopelessness. Fear.

I hoped I’d never see those emotions again as communities made strides after Allison and Katrina to put in bigger and better pumping stations, and the weather models became more and more sophisticated. We’re usually not surprised by huge storms, but Mother Nature can be a crafty witch.

We saw this rain storm coming, but few of us realized just how powerful the system was and how hard it would affect families here in our area.

But we’ll dry out, rebuild and start over. As they always do, firefighters, police officers, EMS personnel and community and Red Cross volunteers will rally, take care of those affected by the storm and make sure no one’s left without food or shelter.

People whose homes are dry will take in neighbors and relatives until they can return to their houses. The gumbo, enchiladas, kolaches and chili will flow and the best in people will be revealed.

That’s what we do, as many times as it takes for as many people who need help.

And one morning, when I see clear skies and a beautiful sunrise, I’ll stay positive that we’ll overcome and be stronger than ever. All the proof I need is in the faces of the survivors.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

For almost 20 years, we were known as the two Denises that lived on Copperwood Lane. We had a lot in common – our eldest boys were the same age, and my boys adored her daughter. The four of them, along with neighbor Ashley, grew up together, through good times and sad times.

Angie lived a few blocks over and connected with us through her younger son. Our three boys were part of a large ensemble that hung out throughout elementary, middle school, high school and college. Even though their life journeys took them on different roads, the three boys have never lost track of each other.

Denise, Angie and I didn’t keep up as well as the boys.

Sure we exchanged notes on Facebook and the occasional email, but it took the passing of Denise’s mom to make us acutely aware we needed each other’s company, and time wasn’t on our side.

Denise invited us to her home in Blanco for the city’s annual Wild Woman Weekend. I went back and forth about whether to go, thinking I should stay home and catch up on household chores. But Angie asked if we could ride together, and I decided a car ride with a friend I’ve known almost 30 years and haven’t seen in almost 15 was something I needed to do. House chores, I reasoned, would be there when I returned.

So Angie and I set out early Saturday morning and found our way to Denise’s beautiful home in Blanco. When we pulled up, hugs and smiles enveloped us, and we agreed we hadn’t changed a bit.

Of course we had, but being together again was too special to ruin with reality. Denise had signed us up for a cooking event that morning, so we hurried into Blanco for our first Wild Woman excursion. I figured we’d sit in the audience and watch a chef cook.

Not wild women, it seems.

Angie and I teamed up with Lindsey, Denise’s daughter, and we clicked like clockwork. Our dish of baked salmon with orange dill sauce, baked asparagus and pan-fried potatoes won first place and earned all of us an apron. Denise was our biggest fan in the audience, taking pictures and encouraging us every step of the way. She did the same thing for me years ago when I accidentally put a perm in my hair instead of a body wave.

Afterwards, we strolled around the courthouse lawn, visiting with vendors selling everything from lavender plants to original pottery.

We made our way to the bowling alley, and relaxed while listening to the sounds of bowling balls hitting the wood, people laughing and beer bottles clinking.

We left there, walked the town square and ended up having burgers at the Redbud Café, listening to a singer who sounded just like Patsy Cline.

The best part of the weekend, though, was Sunday morning. We talked for hours over bacon and eggs about where we are in our lives right now and acknowledging the choices we made in the past got us to where we are today. And for all of us, that place is a satisfying one.

We compared our bone density readings, the books we’ve read, religion and politics. We laughed, shed a few tears over parents who’ve passed and bragged unashamedly on our grandchildren.

Mostly, we’re thankful our boys, now grown men, have remained friends. Their friendship drew us together years ago and once again this past weekend. I have a feeling we three wild women won’t wait another 10 years to get together again.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

I watched a short YouTube video of the late Etta Baker playing the Piedmont blues on an acoustic guitar. The smile never left the 85-year-old’s face as she strummed and picked at the strings.

Her hands reflected a lifetime of hard work and plucking at a guitar in her scant spare time. Late in life, she was recognized and heralded as one of the blues greats. Ms. Baker played all of her life until she passed away in 2006 at the age of 93.

Listening to her, I was swept back to the days when my youngest boy was a teenager and played an acoustic guitar constantly. I’d sit at the bottom of the stairs and listen to him play tunes over and over until he had the finger picking just right.

Today, he’s a husband and father of four. He and his wife have a busy home life that includes plenty of time with the children and tending to the barnyard animals. Throw in a day job and commute along with renovating an old farm house, and their days are packed.

The guitars that were in his hands constantly are now put to the side as parenting and home-owner responsibilities take the front burners.

I wonder how many people have musical instruments tucked away in the tops of their closets, waiting for when they tell themselves life will slow down and they can start playing again.

There’s probably hundreds of us with a half-finished project stuck in the back of the laundry room. Maybe it’s a blanket we started to crochet or box of dried-up paint and a half-painted canvas.

Eventually we forget about those projects because we don’t have time for activities that don’t get the floor mopped or earn us overtime at work.

There’s also bills to pay, grass to mow, homework to check and the dog begging for an evening walk.

We need our jobs so we can put food on the table, and that means not only buying the food but cooking it, serving it and then cleaning up afterwards.

By the time most people finish with their “have-to” list, there’s little time for the “I wanna” list.

Life, we say, gets in the way.

Where we’d once sing the entire “Rubber Soul” album in our rooms – rewinding over and over to listen to “I’m Looking Through You” at least five times in a row – we now might put some earphones on and listen to John, Paul, George and Ringo while folding clothes or loading the dishwasher.

We hide away the things that once gave us immense satisfaction and pleasure because, as an adult, there’s never a right time and there will never be enough time.

Every once in a while, though, we can think back on a time when we did have enough time and little inhibitions. I’ll admit to dancing in my room as a teenager to “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction” like I was Mick Jagger on the stage.

I’d be shaking my shoulders, trying my best to master the Mick swagger, snapping my fingers and head back and forth as if the whole world was my stage.

Now the only dancing I do is if I get in the shower and the water’s too cold. But maybe it’s time to dance whenever the music’s poppin’.

As Ms. Baker got to the end of the song, I made a quiet wish that my son finds his guitar, heads out to their front porch and plays a chorus or two of “Blackbird” so his children can hear and know the musical talent that lies in the strong hands that tuck them into bed at night.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.