Most people, when asked to name an influential person in their life, will immediately say a family member. If asked to name someone outside of their family, they often name a teacher. Two events have happened recently that reminded me of the positive impact an outstanding school or teacher makes in a child’s life.

The first is the closing of St. John’s School for Little Children in Richmond. When we moved to Richmond almost 30 years ago, I passed in front of St. John’s United Methodist Church on my way to the grocery store, and I’d see children laughing and playing on the swings and gym set.

I checked around and found St. John’s had a pre-school two mornings a week. I decided to check it out because my then 4-year-old son was extremely shy. I knew he’d be heading to kindergarten the next year, and I didn’t want to send him without his knowing school rules – how to stand in line, what a cubby was used for and, most importantly, how to get along with other children.

He wasn’t as convinced as I was that leaving home for a few hours was a good idea, and I remember having to pull him out of the van by his ankles to go to “school.” I felt guilty, so I’d circle through the Richmond post office drive-through lane over and over again during recess so I could see what he was doing.

His teacher would smile and wave to reassure me my little boy was okay.

It was different with my youngest son. He bounced out of the van every Tuesday and Thursday morning, and absolutely loved being away from mom and making new friends. As different as my two sons were, what was identical was the loving and nurturing environment they received at St. John’s.

In July, the school closed, and the church halls no longer echo with the sounds of sneakers skipping on the linoleum and happy voices on the playground. The memories we created there, however, will last for years as will my gratitude to the staff at St. John’s Little School.

Our community lost a tremendous teacher and friend with the passing of Diana Barnett. For many years, Diana was a beloved teacher at Austin Elementary, and I had the privilege of interviewing her. Her classroom was as cozy as anybody’s living room, and there was an energy in those four walls that emanated from Diana.

With her always-present smile and boundless creativity, “Barnett’s Kids” absolutely adored her, as did their parents, her colleagues and the Austin Elementary community. I was instantly won over by Diana, and I wasn’t alone. She was teacher of the year numerous times and was one of the most creative people I’ve ever met.

One of her former colleagues, Sue Bromberg, said Diana was with her every step of the way in her life and extended her friendship and care to Sue’s sons, even as they grew into adults. Diana was that irreplaceable mentor and special friend to dozens of people, and she never stopped teaching the kids that came through her classroom door.

Diana and her family moved to Arizona a few years ago where she continued positively impacting that community, school and dozens of families. There are few natural-born teachers in this world, and Diana Barnett was one of them.

A celebration of Diana’s life will be held tonight at 6 p.m. at Austin Elementary School in Pecan Grove. For those wishing, Diana’s family asked a donation be made to the M.D. Anderson Cancer Center. I usually make a donation to the school library when someone passes away, and book I’ve chosen to remember Diana with is “100 Things That Make Me Happy.” Diana Barnett, you were someone who made so many people happy.

I hope you’re drinking a Coke somewhere, Diana, and teaching somebody how to live life to the fullest, just as you did. Your legacy will live forever in the hundreds of lives you touched in your too-brief stay with us.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

I could smell the cigarette smoke as soon as I got near my friend. Now the stale smell bothers me, but when I was younger, I had no room to complain because I was a smoker.

I started smoking when I was a teen. My dad smoked and even though I didn’t like his habit, I told myself I was being “cool.” Unlike other types of teenage rebellion, smoking wouldn’t land me in jail.

I successfully hid the cigarettes from my parents until a family car trip. My mom was complaining about my dad’s smoking, and he went off on a rant that he was an adult and could do as he pleased. I’d recently turned 18, so I reached into my purse, pulled out a pack of Benson & Hedges and lit one up.

There was complete silence in the car, even though my siblings knew I smoked.

“When did you start smoking,” my dad asked quietly.

“A while ago,” I remember saying.

That was all he could say.

I kept up the habit until the day I found out I was expecting my first child. The minute I got the news, I tossed the pack to my best friend and told her I was done with cigarettes. I never smoked while I was pregnant because I wanted a healthy baby.

But when my son was about a year old, I went through some tough times and picked up the cigarettes again.

I rationalized I wasn’t hurting anybody and had almost convinced myself I could indulge in this one little vice.

Until one summer evening.

My toddler son was playing in the living room, and I was smoking a cigarette watching him. We had window air conditioners at the time, and I noticed that the smoke was staying in the room – I could see the haze near the ceiling.

I realized my child would be breathing in that second-hand smoke, and I was the one putting toxins in the air he was breathing. Feelings of guilt and shame swept over me. Over the next week, I tried to quit, but I couldn’t, and it scared me – I was hooked.

At about the time I realized I was addicted, my office offered a sweet deal to the employees – if they enrolled in a smoking cessation class for $50, anyone who was smoke free six months later would get their $50 back.

Believing my prayers had been answered, I signed up. The instructor had a logical and emotional game plan to help us stop smoking.

First, we had to switch to menthol if we smoked regular cigarettes and vice versa. His reasoning was it’s easier to quit something you don’t like instead of something you do like. Those cigarettes also had to have half the nicotine of the brand we were currently smoking.He told us cigarettes were our little buddies and that stopping smoking was as much an emotional break up as a physical separation.

The last two weeks, we had to give up one cigarette a day, starting with our favorite cigarette. Roger said it would be easier to break the habit of associating a cigarette with something we liked, like that first cup of coffee or after lunch, if we knew we could have another one later in the day.

On the last day of class, all of us smoked the last cigarette together. We were nervous because we weren’t sure we’d make it. But I felt I could be strong, if not for myself but for my son.

Six months later, I collected that $50 and I haven’t had a cigarette in over 35 years.

Putting down the cigarettes for good was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done and one of the few times I’ll pat myself on the back for achieving a goal.

Now when I hug my friend and the smell of cigarettes smacks me in the face, I know that will never be me again. I don’t have to worry about burning holes in my clothes, spending money on an addictive habit or having nicotine stains on my fingers.

And that’s a great feeling.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Whenever I’m in the grocery store and I see a child with his or her shoes untied, I have to physically restrain myself from bending down and tying that shoe. I have the same reaction when I see a child scrape their knee – “mommy mode” kicks in.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been a “mommy.” My sons all called me “Mom,” but the “mommy” was how I saw myself – I kissed their boo-boos to make them feel better. I banned peanut butter until they were in the third or fourth grade because I’d read the peanut butter could stick to the top of their mouths and they could choke.

I cut their sandwiches into squares or rectangles, depending on what they wanted that day, and I packed their lunch every single day from the time they were in first grade all the way to when they were a senior in high school.

It wasn’t that I was a super mom because I made plenty of mistakes, including sending them to school with stains on their shirts, hair that wasn’t brushed because I was tired of arguing with them or with unsigned papers the teacher needed but I’d forgotten to sign.

But when it came to giving advice, trying to solve their problems and wanting to know what was going on in their lives, I was 100 percent all in.

My sons are now grown men, and I wonder if I’m overstepping out of habit, still being “mommy” instead of “Mom.” The boys are probably too nice to tell me to stop fussing over them, but I see signs that I need to do so.

They seldom call to ask my opinion any more. They call their dad. He only gives out advice when asked and the boys call him for help with their cars and home repairs. They’ve moved on to man-to-man advice.

The advice I have to offer isn’t that important to them anymore. They don’t have scraped knees that need mommy’s kiss to make it better. They don’t need me to put the legs back on their Ninja Turtle guys and they know where to buy underwear.

In a way, it’s a relief not to have to constantly worry that they’re going to get hurt, lose their lunch money or won’t know what to do in a tough situation. They’ve all been through fender benders, have all had to look for a new job and have endured heartbreak and frustration.

And they survived, just like we all do.

From time to time, I have the selfish desire to go back to the days when they’d snuggle up in my lap, tuck their heads underneath my chin and let me rock them to sleep. I yearn for the nights of kissing them good night as they slept in their beds, a baseball mitt or well-loved panda bear tucked in next to them.

Then I see them buying their own homes, starting their own businesses, handling their finances and job situations and the pride I have in them for being such incredible men is overwhelming.

I asked my mom how she made the transition from mommy to mom, and she said she always knew her children were capable of making solid decisions. Life is all about learning as we go and to butt in is to rob children of the opportunity to grow into the adults they’re meant to be.

She’s right.

My mommy time is over, and it’s time to move into mom time.

And, who knows. I might discover, just as my mom did, that when I move into the “Mom” role, instead of having little children to fret over, I have three new adult friends.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

 

As writers, we’re supposed to come up with words for everything. We write about the back-room tactics of politicians and the feel-good activities of people in our community. On the flip side, we do our best to shine the light on those who manipulate the system for their own good. Most of the time, we do a fairly good job.

But there are no words for why someone would shoot up an elementary school.

No words why someone would open fire in a concert.

No words for those who grieve.

No explanations.

There are no sentimental clichés to make the tragedy any better. There’s not enough fire and brimstone that can bring back a sense of security or bring back those who perished.

No one could foresee that this level of evil exists in our country. How could anyone imagine someone could walk into an elementary classroom and massacre innocent children?

How could anyone see that a deranged individual would target innocent people who were simply outside enjoying a music concert with friends and loved ones?

The answer is – no one.

I wish I could think of the words that could take away the pain of the families who lost a loved one due to senseless violence. I wish I could bring back those young people, back to a life unfulfilled.

I wish with all my heart I could write something to those who ran from the terror to put a safe feeling back in their lives, but there’s no words for that. There’s no way to make them feel safe again, and there’s no way to erase what happened.

For years, millions of words will be written about these tragedies. We’ll examine the senseless violence committed against children and families in Sandy Hook, Columbine, Charleston, Virginia Tech, the University of Texas, the West Nickel Mine Amish School and at a movie theater in Aurora, Colorado. We’ll search for a reason why someone would open fire on innocent people. We’ll condemn the shooter’s family and friends for not paying attention and alerting others that this person was dangerous.

We’ll try and blame those who own guns for allowing people to stockpile weapons. And then we’ll blame those who try and take guns away for not allowing people to arm themselves against the lunatics in the world.

But rational reasons don’t exist. There are no explanations to comfort those who lost a loved one in an act of violence that rocked the entire nation. There are no words that can bring that friend or loved one back to life or make the nightmares and all-too-real fear stop for the survivors.

We’re shaking our heads in disbelief, hoping there’ll be someone with an answer for stopping the violence.

What’s left is the most basic form of empathy humans know – we reach out and pull the person hurting close to us. As we hug them tightly and blink back the tears, we’re wordless as we stroke their hair and vow to never let them go.

Words aren’t enough to heal the broken hearted. Only the comfort of those who love us and those who are mourning the deceased with us can get us through the horrors no person should have to endure.

Until we do find the words, we’ll continue to hold each other close for dear life because that’s the one answer that makes sense.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.