On my last trip through Louisiana, I came to a complete halt thanks to a traffic jam on the Atchafalaya Basin. There’s no way to exit once you’re on the 18-mile long bridge, and I could feel my frustration growing. After about 15 minutes, I turned off my car, got out and gazed out over the waters, reminiscing about my last visit to the Bayou State.

My husband and I spent a week in Abbeville because it’s near New Iberia, the city where stories about fictional detective Dave Robicheaux’s take place.

I’ve loved author James Lee Burke’s series ever since I heard the first book, “Creole Belle” read by the actor Will Patton whose true Southern accent makes Burke’s descriptions come to life. Patton does a masterful job of luring the listener into Robicheaux’s world, and it’s one I’ve entered numerous times as I’ve either read or listened to every single book about the lawman.

My husband’s a good sport and willingly humored my wish to visit New Iberia. One of the highlights was visiting the quaint “Books Along the Teche” bookstore where the friendly and knowledgeable owner personally knows “Jimmie” and understood my fascination with Burke’s novels.

I hoped to purchase a signed James Lee Burke novel, and luckily the bookstore had one. I hugged my book to my chest as we left the shop, and we spent the next few days exploring the sights in Cajun country.

One of our first stops was to the Acadian Village in Lafayette. Their purpose is to preserve early Acadiana heritage and to provide employment for people with developmental disabilities.

Ten acres of farmland were transformed into a quaint Cajun village with authentic homes depicting the lifestyles of the early Cajuns. We walked through each home, marveling at the ingenuity and resourcefulness of those early settlers who found a way to thrive in an often-harsh environment.

The next stop was Jefferson Island where we toured the Rip Van Winkle Gardens. The site featured beautiful flowers and exotic landscaping, and the Joseph Jefferson home reflected what it was like to live at the turn of the century when you had a little bit of money.

No visit to southern Louisiana is complete without crawfish, and we found a great restaurant, Cajun Claws, where the waitress didn’t offer a menu. There was only one choice, and that was hot boiled crawfish. Those mudbugs were seasoned perfectly, and we didn’t leave a claw unopened on that platter.

We stayed at a cozy bed and breakfast, Apartment A, in the heart of Abbeville, and proprietor Debbie Garrot made sure we had everything we needed or wanted. We left that part of Louisiana feeling recharged and ready to get back to reality.

As I leaned on the railing of the bridge and looked out over the swamp, I thought about that trip to Abbeville and understood why Cajuns are drawn back to their homeland. The briny smells of a bayou, the eye-watering scent of Tabasco sauce and hearing that distinctive south Louisiana accent calls Cajuns all their lives.

But now, Texas fills my heart, the grit and determination of the peoples who settled this land making me believe that anything’s possible, from taming oil gushers to maintaining dozens of cultures to creating modern, thriving cities out of mosquito-infested swampland.

In every state, one can trace the roots of those who settled the area and people who need to touch base from time to time with the influences that made them who they are. That pride not only calls us home but gives us the courage to strike out and carve a new path.

After an hour, the traffic started moving, and I climbed back in my car and headed west, leaving behind the cypress trees and magnolia blossoms. I was headed home where a meal isn’t complete without either barbecue sauce or tortillas on the table and the stars at night are big and bright.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

On my last trip through Louisiana, I came to a complete halt thanks to a traffic jam on the Atchafalaya Basin. There’s no way to exit once you’re on the 18-mile long bridge, and I could feel my frustration growing. After about 15 minutes, I turned off my car, got out and gazed out over the waters, reminiscing about my last visit to the Bayou State.

My husband and I spent a week in Abbeville because it’s near New Iberia, the city where stories about fictional detective Dave Robicheaux’s take place. I’ve loved author James Lee Burke’s series ever since I heard the first book, “Creole Belle” read by the actor Will Patton whose true Southern accent makes Burke’s descriptions come to life. Patton does a masterful job of luring the listener into Robicheaux’s world, and it’s one I’ve entered numerous times as I’ve either read or listened to every single book about the lawman.

My husband’s a good sport and willingly humored my wish to visit New Iberia. One of the highlights was visiting the quaint “Books Along the Teche” bookstore where the friendly and knowledgeable owner personally knows “Jimmie” and understood my fascination with Burke’s novels.

I hoped to purchase a signed James Lee Burke novel, and luckily the bookstore had one. I hugged my book to my chest as we left the shop, and we spent the next few days exploring the sights in Cajun country.

One of our first stops was to the Acadian Village in Lafayette. Their purpose is to preserve early Acadiana heritage and to provide employment for people with developmental disabilities.

Ten acres of farmland were transformed into a quaint Cajun village with authentic homes depicting the lifestyles of the early Cajuns. We walked through each home, marveling at the ingenuity and resourcefulness of those early settlers who found a way to thrive in an often-harsh environment.

The next stop was Jefferson Island where we toured the Rip Van Winkle Gardens. The site featured beautiful flowers and exotic landscaping, and the Joseph Jefferson home reflected what it was like to live at the turn of the century when you had a little bit of money.

No visit to southern Louisiana is complete without crawfish, and we found a great restaurant, Cajun Claws, where the waitress didn’t offer a menu. There was only one choice, and that was hot boiled crawfish. Those mudbugs were seasoned perfectly, and we didn’t leave a claw unopened on that platter.

We stayed at a cozy bed and breakfast, Apartment A, in the heart of Abbeville, and proprietor Debbie Garrot made sure we had everything we needed or wanted. We left that part of Louisiana feeling recharged and ready to get back to reality.

As I leaned on the railing of the bridge and looked out over the swamp, I thought about that trip to Abbeville and understood why Cajuns are drawn back to their homeland. The briny smells of a bayou, the eye-watering scent of Tabasco sauce and hearing that distinctive south Louisiana accent calls Cajuns all their lives.

But now, Texas fills my heart, the grit and determination of the peoples who settled this land making me believe that anything’s possible, from taming oil gushers to maintaining dozens of cultures to creating modern, thriving cities out of mosquito-infested swampland.

In every state, one can trace the roots of those who settled the area and people who need to touch base from time to time with the influences that made them who they are. That pride not only calls us home but gives us the courage to strike out and carve a new path.

After an hour, the traffic started moving, and I climbed back in my car and headed west, leaving behind the cypress trees and magnolia blossoms. I was headed home where a meal isn’t complete without either barbecue sauce or tortillas on the table and the stars at night are big and bright.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

This Sunday is Father’s Day, a holiday where we bestow garish ties, nifty electronic gadgets and barbecue tools on our dads. Heart-felt poems and gushing odes to fathers are plentiful on greeting cards and on social media. Often our ideal image of a father comes from movies, books and television shows.

The gold standard in the fiction world has to be Atticus Finch from the novel “To Kill a Mockingbird.”

Atticus is a single father rearing two children in a small Southern town. He stands up for what’s right and disciplines his children when they need guidance. Plus when played by Gregory Peck, what’s not to admire and love.

On the opposite end of the spectrum is Pat Conroy’s “The Great Santini.” In real life, Conroy’s father was an abusive drunk who beat his children and terrorized his whole family.

For baby boomers, there’s a variety of dad models to choose from, most of whom didn’t have a wife around to help with the children. Lord knows how that affected my generation. These single fathers include Steve Douglas from “My Three Sons” and Andy Taylor from “The Andy Griffith Show.”

I sometimes wonder how they’d handle the problems in today’s world. Opie never had a drug problem nor did Douglas ever face being unemployed, having his boys run away from home or talk back.

Currently the television show “black-ish” features a strong father who’s financially successful and absolutely adores his wife and children. Anthony Anderson plays Dre Johnson, the father on the show, and he cries when his eldest daughter goes off to college and worries he’s not teaching his children how to survive being a person of color in a mostly white world. Those are more realistic scenarios dads of all cultures and ethnicities face.

Probably television’s favorite father is Phil Dunphy from “Modern Family” who’s a child at heart, loves his family and struggles with being respected by his father in law. Of all the television fathers, I think I like Phil the best.

But as much as I like these programs, the fathers aren’t real. Movies, television and literature can’t nail down how real fathers shape and mold their children. They overlook the life real fathers face – a bloody trip to the emergency room, scrimping and saving for health care, clogged toilets and mowing the lawn week after week after week.

So in no particular order, here’s my list for the characteristics of an effective and good father.

They’re supportive. They back their child as they work toward becoming the best person they can be, cheer them for their successes and show them how to work their way through the failures.

They’re loving. They tuck their kids into bed at night, hold them tight when they’re scared and show and tell their children every single day that they’re special, important and loved. That doesn’t mean they’re softies – they discipline when the occasion requires tough love.

They’re dependable. They work. They come home. They show up. They’re sober. Day after day, month after month and year after year.

They say “no.” They willingly become the “bad guy” and tell their kids that they can’t stay out all night, they can’t do whatever they want and, no, they cannot eat that peanut butter and jelly sandwich in bed.

They’re respectful of themselves, their spouse, their in-laws, their job, their faith, society and their families. That doesn’t mean they’re pushovers – they’re quietly respectful.

They have a sense of humor. They make sure their children grow up with happy memories and they teach their offspring to laugh and roll with the punches when life throws them a curve ball.

They’re human. They admit when they’ve made a mistake, cry at graduations, occasionally burn the burgers on the grill and make at least one home repair job worse by attempting to do it themselves. But their children learn a valuable lesson – don’t be afraid to try, even if there’s a high probability of failure.

So to all the dads out there – and yes, that includes women who are dad in the family – Happy Father’s Day and may your burgers be perfectly grilled.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I’ve been reading lots of blogs online from women about getting older. Most are from women in their 30s who’ve found a terrific outlet for their feelings — blogging. Back before the internet, I wrote a column when I turned 50 — basically that the higher you climb the ladder of life, the broader your view gets (and, let’s be honest, your hips as well).

Life in your 50s brings an appreciation and acceptance of where you’ve been yet there’s still some excitement as to where the second half of your life will take you. Now that I’m in my 60s, I find there are things I still look forward to doing. As the author states in the original blog, you don’t shop at Forever 21 for yourself — now it’s for your granddaughter whom you fervently hope will have an easier time through those teenage years than you did.

You shop at the “older lady” sections of the stores but that’s okay because you do not give a damn what anybody else thinks. You wear what you like, a fashion style based on living through Birkenstock sandals, hip huggers and go-go boots. You either accept the gray hair or color it and you can dye your hair purple because, again, you do not give a rat’s patootie what anybody else thinks.

Each decade has its struggles and rewards. The 20’s are a time of accepting responsibilities, finding your own voice and figuring out what you want to do in life. The 30s are usually spent raising kids, going to PTA meetings, fitting the lawn chairs into the back of the van next to the diaper bag and deciding if the person you chose to spend the rest of your life with is worth ushering in your 40s. The 40s? A little more relaxing but those orthodontic bills are killers. As is the pain in your shoulder and your left knee.

And that brings us to the 50s, the 60s, the 70’s and the 80s. What I can tell you from this vantage point is to enjoy every single minute of whatever decade you find yourself in. You will never get them back – not that bar-hopping all-nighter you spent with your friends in your 20s, the hours in the ballpark on bleachers watching your child play ball in your 30s, the late-night talks with your pre-adolescent daughter in your 40s or the helping your son pack his clothes for college in your 50s.

Enjoy every single blessed moment because, truthfully, they’re gone before you can say “Steppenwolf” and remember, yes, we were born to be wild. At this point in our lives, that wild means getting real ice cream instead of low-fat yogurt, having a steak instead of baked chicken and wearing your sweat pants everywhere because you do not care what others think. And that, my dear friends, is heaven.

I stood on the sidelines at the Terry High end-of-the-year choir concert with the video camera rolling. Capturing the night for choir director Rhonda Klutts was my primary reason for being there and, frankly, I was running on empty. Walking into the auditorium, my head was swimming with my to-do list, and I wished I was headed home instead of heading to another event.

But I’d promised I’d go, so I reluctantly walked through the doors, telling myself I’d enjoy the music despite being tired and cranky. As the young men and women sang their hearts out, I found my spirits lifted and my batteries recharged.

Music has the power to re-energize us, and when it’s a live concert, the energy’s instant.

I’ve been to dozens of live concerts, the first memorable one being a John Denver performance when I was in my early 20s. I remember sitting in the dark as Denver’s voice washed over the crowd, wondering how anyone’s voice could be so crystal clear in person.

Denver’s performance was funny, moving and incredible, all at the same time. After that concert, I became a life-long John Denver fan, and the song “Poems, Prayers and Promises” still makes me cry.

In later performances, Denver sang “Sunshine” much slower than he did in his early career, and his later version of the song takes on a poignancy that’s missing from the faster, pop version. But even as he grew older, his voice remained crystal-clear, and I appreciated him much more the second time I heard him in concert.

I’ve seen James Taylor in concert twice – once when he was younger and the second when he was older. His voice deepened over time, but that clear, unique sound was still there. Like Denver, he slowed down some of the songs in his later years, and the result was gold.

“Sweet Baby James” was always a favorite, but when “Mudslide Slim” sang that melody all alone on the stage, just him strumming an acoustic guitar with each line slowly delivered to the audience, I was a blubbering fool by the end.

I’ve also been to local music concerts where I’ve been amazed at the talent here in our community. There’s also been a few where I literally winced when the singer was trying to hit some of the high notes, but more often than not, sitting outside underneath a sky filled with stars while being serenaded by guitars, drums and a silky voice is a blissful way to spend the evening.

As I relaxed and leaned back at the high school concert, I paid more attention to the singers on the stage. Some showed a bit of stage fright, but the encouragement of Rhonda Klutts and her assistant Marlayna Shaw was like a shot of adrenaline to those singers.

From my vantage point, I could see Rhonda’s animated face, smiling and her arms up in the air, encouraging those singers to deliver every note from the bottom of their lungs.

By the time they got to “Eagle’s Wings,” I don’t think there was a dry eye in the house. Not only was the song spot on, this was the last concert for the graduating seniors, the last time these young men and women would sing together on a stage.

I thought about how much they’d learned from their teacher, especially the lesson that music unites and encourages and will stay with them the rest of their lives.

On the way home, I rolled down the windows, turned off the radio and sang “Sweet Baby James” softly as the miles rolled past, my soul refreshed, my spirits lifted, grateful for the troubadours who lift us up in song.

Because, as James says, “singing works just fine for me.”

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.