“Come on, you stupid thing, work!”

            “Why do you have to be so difficult!”

            This was the one-sided conversation I was having with my cell phone when it refused to send a text message.

            After holding the phone closer to my mouth and yelling louder, I realized just how ridiculous I sounded. I was having a conversation with something that could never talk back.

            I do that quite a bit.

            Talking has always been one of my strongest qualities, if I can define talking a good bit of the time as a quality. My mom said I started young. I begged for a Chatty Kathy doll when I was a little girl and it was my favorite doll.

             My relatives also knew how much I loved to talk. One afternoon when my great-grandfather came to visit, he watched me for a while, stood up, put his hat on, and walked out mumbling something about someone being a talking machine.

            That machine’s been running for quite a while, grand-dad.

            So it shouldn’t come as a surprise that I can talk to anything if there’s not a person around.

First, there’s our dog.

            I realized how much I talk to her when I read an article about how dog owners tell their dogs good-bye when they’re leaving and when they’ll be back. The article pointed out that dogs can’t tell time, so it’s pointless to tell the dog your travel plans.

            Doesn’t matter. Whenever I leave Channell in the morning, I scratch her behind her ears as I tell her what I’ll be doing all day, what errands I have to run and when I’ll be back.

            She never answers, but I think she understands me.

            I also talk to other drivers when I’m in my car. They can’t hear what I’m saying, but that doesn’t stop me from pointing out everything they’re doing wrong.

            Like to the person in front of me at the ATM machine.

            “You should’ve had that card out of your wallet before you got up to the machine,” I’ll mutter. And then when they drop their card and have to put their car in park, retrieve their card and start all over, I’m questioning their IQ level.

            I also freely dispense driving tips to other drivers, even though the windows in my car are rolled up.

            My favorite lines to yell out at the top of my lungs are:  “Are you kidding me!” and, as they go roaring around me:  “Somebody better be bleeding in that car.”

            My sons shake their heads and remind me that what I’m saying is pointless. The other person cannot hear me.

            Doesn’t matter. I still talk to trucks, SUVs and 18-wheelers.

            That’s just the tip of the iceberg.

            I talk to my pants. “You buttoned last week – what’s wrong with you today?!”

            I talk to the lock on the front door. It tends to stick, so I pretty much yell at that lock with an added kick at the bottom of the door to make sure that lock knows I mean business.

            I talk back to the radio announcer in the morning.

            “Is that all you can talk about is bad news?” I’ll grumble as Steve Inskeep reports on wars, famine, politics and the persecuted.

            With the television remote control, I mostly call out “Where are you?” It never answers, but I have hope because now the remote has voice command. Maybe one of these days I’ll yell “Where are you?” and I’ll hear a mechanical voice answer “Under the couch cushion.”

            But of all the things I talk to that can’t talk back, my dog is the best. She listens without interrupting, she wags her tail when I sound excited, she doesn’t repeat any gossip I tell her and she models great behavior when trapped with a Chatty Kathy – just keep your mouth shut.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

                I’m writing this column with the presidency in the balance. When this column runs, there will be a new president of the United States. Months of campaigning will thankfully be over.

But right now, there’s a small slice of time before I know for sure who the winner is.

I’ll be glad to see this election end, simply because there’s so much hate and vitriol in the campaign. My mind reels as to what reasons we can give our grandchildren as to how we sunk so low in this country that the two candidates for president wouldn’t even shake hands at a nationally televised political debate.

                But then I think back to a conversation I had with a group of teens this morning. They were worried that this these two are the worst candidates this country has ever put on the ballot. I told them people worry about the competency of the candidates during every presidential election.

                I grew up in a house where we had a picture of the president and the pope side by side in the kitchen. I believed the president was right up there with the pope when it came to respect, honesty and dignity.

                Then Richard M. Nixon came along, lied to the American people and our trust in the White House was forever tarnished. So my second time in the voting booth, I pulled the lever for Jimmy Carter, worried sick about the ability of a peanut farmer from Georgia to run the world’s reigning super power.

                But guess what. America didn’t fall apart.

                Later, I weighed voting for an ex-Hollywood movie star, Ronald Reagan, over Carter, but I’d watched us fail miserably to rescue Americans held hostage in Iran. Reagan promised he could keep us safe, so I pulled the lever for him, worried sick about a guy that starred in Hollywood westerns to sit in the Oval Office.

                America not only did well but we regained our position as the world’s super power.  

                Over the next few elections, I felt fairly confident about the men running for office.

                Until Bill Clinton won.

                As I watched Clinton and Gore on the stage, balloons and confetti falling all around them, I thought our country was in a heap of trouble. What in the world did these two inexperienced politicians know about running a country?

                Over the next eight years, the United States didn’t fall apart, despite Whitewater.

                When George W. Bush ran against Al Gore, I was torn. Here we were again, two men with faults and strong points running for office. When Bush won the race, I hoped our country would survive.

                We did, despite No Child Left Behind.

                And then a young Barack Obama ran for president, the first African-American to be a contender for the highest office. When he won, I was terrified some lunatic would try and assassinate him. I worried he was too young for the job, and I worried the old guard in Washington D.C. would do everything to discredit him.

                They tried, but he earned respect from those who doubted a person of color could serve as president. Our country survived, despite Obamacare.

                Here we are again, with two people running for the presidency, both with major faults and both with major strong points.

                No matter who takes the oath of office on Friday, Jan. 20, 2017, this country will survive. It might not be a pretty survival. There will be resentments, threats of voter fraud, people on both sides of the political aisle refusing to get along and people wringing their hands, worried sick our country will fall apart.

                But we won’t.

                We will survive.

                We always do.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

            There’s a new television show on NBC, “This is Us.” The story revolves around now-grown triplets and their parents. The children – Randall, Kate and Kevin – have grown into adults with their own problems and successes. The show goes back and forth in time between Randall, Kate and Kevin’s parents, Jack and Rebecca, and their parents.

            The show is extremely well written, acted and directed, and it’s pulled me in since the first episode. What’s most intriguing is how the characters from three generations are authentically linked.

The children swear they won’t repeat the mistakes their parents made, a promise their parents made about their parents. That generational connection rings true with so many families, no matter their culture or race.

            This show also makes me think about the ties that connect me with my family. I immediately thought about my grandfather during one episode that featured Jack’s grandfather arriving in New York City as a young man.

            My grandfather also came to this country as a young man and said seeing the Statue of Liberty was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen in his life. He believed America was the land of opportunity, and he reared his children to believe they could achieve all their dreams if they worked hard.

            The story also includes the family’s fascination with the Pittsburg Steelers professional football team. Football played a huge part in my family, both on my mom’s side and my dad’s. My dad loved the New Orleans Saints. He kept up with their trades and he knew all the players. Every summer, he’d say “This is the year. This is the year the Saints are going to the Super Bowl.” As a typical teenager, I’d roll my eyes and mutter that the Saints would never go to the Super Bowl. I swallowed that humble pie and toasted my dad up in heaven when the Saints not only went to the Super Bowl in 2009, but they won the title.

            On my mom’s side of the family, the Buffalo Bills were the favored team since we lived less than 100 miles from Buffalo. They were also big St. Bonaventure basketball fans since that college was in our hometown, and I still find myself rooting for the Bonnies whenever I see they’re playing. Even though my uncles didn’t play football in high school or college, they loved playing Wiffle ball on Sunday afternoons. After going to Mass and then finishing Sunday dinner, my aunts and uncles would clean up the kitchen. The aunts gathered around the kitchen table for a cup of coffee, and our uncles sprawled out on the living room couches to watch professional football on television.

            We knew our uncles would be more than happy to engage in a quick game of Wiffle ball during half-time, and everybody played. Those were great memories, and that love of sports continues with my generation and the next.

            My family believes the LSU Tigers hang the moon. And the stars. And, probably, the universe. Purple and gold aren’t just colors on the color wheel, they’re sacred colors to be used in every aspect of one’s life – coffee mugs, outdoor furniture and, especially clothing.

            Almost everyone in my family owns purple hoodies, jackets, shirts, pants, socks and T-shirts. Christmas trees are not complete unless there’s at least a dozen LSU ornaments on the tree.

             Even though we live in Texas, the traditions live on. We still follow LSU basketball and football but have combined that with keeping up with the Aggies. There’s maroon A&M ornaments on our Christmas tree every year, and basketball season’s not complete unless we’re watching my husband’s alma mater, the University of Kentucky, work their way up the Final Four ladder.

              Because this is us.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.