Twenty-one.

That’s the age many teenagers dream about because they’re officially considered an adult.

Twenty-one is a top casino game where players try to beat the dealer.

This week marks the 21^st year I’ve been writing this column.

I took over the Thursday slot from Devoni Wardlow, a friend and fellow writer, when she moved away from the county.

I submitted three tentative editorial columns to then managing editor Bob Haenel, and he gave me the green light.

Grateful and terrified were the two feelings that accompanied me on that first week back in 1997 when I introduced myself to readers of The Herald-Coaster.

I thought I’d run out of topics after three months. Twelve weeks turned into six months which turned into a year, 10 years and then two decades.

For many years, my sons provided most of the ammunition for these columns. They’d pull some stunt, look at me with a sigh and say “This is going in the column, isn’t it.”

Absolutely.

Who could pass up writing about seeing their child sneak a Halloween pumpkin down the stairs in April, their first days of school or the stockpile of smelly socks I found in the back of their closets?

There were columns about the toys they had to have growing up – the White Power Ranger sword where I literally sprinted out of West Oaks Mall, ran the red light to get to the Toys R Us across Highway 6 and nabbed the last Power Ranger sword in stock.

Over the years, I’ve tried to capture motherhood in a humorous light. It’s either laugh or cry when one realizes the reason the washing machine is groaning and whining is because the college kid put in 25 pounds of stinky jeans and towels in the same load.

I’ve stayed away from politics as I don’t feel I’m qualified to pontificate on the pros and cons of who and what’s on the ballot.

I’m like most people – I vote for the candidate I hope and pray will do a good job and vote yea or nay on issues I think are in the best interest of the community.

Writing for this newspaper has allowed me to meet so many wonderful people from all walks of life and from all economic levels. They are often unrecognizable to the general public, but their contributions are the framework of what good citizenship is all about.

Some of the columns that are nearest to my heart are the ones I’ve written about people who dedicated their lives to improving this community – the late Arthur and Lydia Mahlmann, Hilmar Moore, Frank Briscoe and Kathleen Lindsey, to name a few.

And there are those I’ve written about who are still active well into their later years – Virginia Scarborough and Lucille Jackson are at the top of the list, and there’s hundreds more I’d love to write about.

I’ve worked with some of the best writers, reporters, photographers, carriers and newspaper support staffers around, and they’ve contributed more to my life than they’ll ever know.

Although there’s always a knot in my stomach every Thursday morning when the presses are running, working for this newspaper has provided me with a constant sense of gratitude.

I’m humbled and grateful to the Hartmans for allowing me to keep writing for them, to Bob Haenel for believing in me and giving me and other female opinion writers a chance, and to Scott Willey for allowing me to continue occupying this space on Thursdays.

Mostly, I’m grateful to those of you who take time to read this column. You’re the reason I sit in front of the computer, peck away, eat cookies, hit the delete button at least a hundred times and finally hit the send button.

Thank you for sticking with me for 21 years. Who knows what adventures are ahead?

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

The grandchildren were able to make a day visit this past weekend, and we decided to find a pumpkin patch for a head start on Halloween. That holiday is a special one as it’s their dad’s birthday.

When Chris was born, I remember thinking he’d enjoy having his birthday on a day when he could dress up and get free candy.

But he didn’t really get to celebrate his big day because his friends had no interest in attending a birthday party when they could be walking around at night in a ninja costume getting free Hershey bars and candy corn.

So we planned ahead and had his party a week early. That strategy stuck with us, and when the grandchildren were able to visit, we went pumpkin hunting early.

At the pumpkin patch, there were dozens of pumpkins in every shape, color and size. As the grandchildren roamed the spacious lot, they examined and judged almost every single pumpkin.

Few made the cut. Too bumpy. Too tall. Too short. Too round. Not round enough. Too big. Too small. I told them the only requirement was that they had to be able to carry their choice to the car.

Immediately 10 were eliminated from the running.

With their best of the best safely in their arms, we made our way home where supplies were waiting.

We’ve elevated our game from when a knife and a long spoon were the only tools needed. For our sons, the decorations were whatever they drew with a crayon and their dad handled the carving duties.

As grandparents, the sky’s the limit. I had stick-on jewels in every color, pipe cleaners, orange pom-poms, googly eyes, sheets of Halloween stickers, markers, Sharpies and bottles of paint.

The older two decided they wanted theirs carved while the younger two wanted theirs whole. Later I found out it was so they could cuddle the small pumpkins while their older brother and sister wanted to put a candle inside to make theirs scarier.

While we were decorating, I started thinking about Halloweens when their dad was young.

I’ll admit it — I wasn’t the best costumer. When my boys played baseball, I convinced them to be baseball players. During the soccer years, they were, yes, soccer players.

There was a year the boys went as salesmen, complete with a shirt and tie – not my best year – and the year they were pre-teens and went as road kill, an idea I borrowed from a friend.

There was the year I spent two weeks making a Flash costume and a clown costume, and they played in those for the next two to three years. Ninjas and mummies were always easy, and I’d offer extra candy if they’d choose those ideas.

One year, the youngest boy wanted a Wolverine costume he’d seen while trick-or-treating.

I didn’t order the costume, thinking he’d forget.

He didn’t.

For a solid week after Halloween, he said Santa was going to bring him that Wolverine costume. When the costume finally came back in stock in early December, I had to pay extra for expedited shipping, but the costume was waiting for him on Christmas morning.

Happy hunting out there all you vampires, princesses and puppy dogs. Here’s hoping your plastic pumpkin is overflowing with Reese’s peanut butter cups, Kit Kats and lollipops.

And, for us, the best treat of all, happy birthday Chris.

 

Denise’s email is dhadams1955@yahoo.com.

My son was sitting on the floor sorting out his mail when he happened to glance underneath my desk.

“Where did you get this fabulous speaker,” he said, holding up a box with the JBL logo on the side.

Embarrassed, I admitted it was a Christmas gift from his brother almost a year ago, but I’d never opened the box. I appreciated the gift, but there was another reason the gift stayed in the unopened box for nine months.

“I’m not sure what’s in that box,” I admitted.

“Are you kidding,” he said, shock in his voice. “It’s only one of the best Blue-tooth speakers on the market.”

When I opened the present, I remember thinking it was a thoughtful gift, but I didn’t quite understand how a Bluetooth speaker worked.

Besides, I didn’t think I needed anything fancier than the inexpensive MP3 player I bought off Amazon. I figured out how to put songs on it and, last week, downloaded an audiobook so I could listen to novels while out walking.

I was perfectly fine with the two little speakers hooked to my computer, my Black Friday earphones and a small radio in the kitchen. What did I need with a Bluetooth speaker?

But then Chris pushed a button on the back, and the speaker came to life. With a huge grin on his face, he paired his phone with the speaker and it was like Toby Keith was giving a concert in the room.

Chris explained how easily I could play music from my phone.

I had to belly up to the bar again.

“I don’t have any music on my phone,” I said. “I just use the phone for texting and making phone calls.”

He looked at me like I confessed to churning butter instead of buying Land O Lakes at the grocery store.

“You can play songs from YouTube,” he said and asked me what songs I liked.

“Black Velvet,” I said without hesitating.

The old song by Alannah Miles is one of my favorites. I’m not an Elvis fan, but that sultry song is one of the best around.

In seconds, I was singing along in that “slow, southern style,” and I was amazed once again at the sound and depth of the music coming out of that little speaker.

After he left, I took the directions out and felt stupid seeing how easy it was to use the speaker. All I had to do was pair it with my phone – yes, I can actually do that – and then I could listen to all my favorites as loud as I wanted.

When the house was empty, I paired my phone with the speaker and jumped onto YouTube. I found Wilson Phillips’ song “Hold On,” another favorite, and then went right through the playlist for Martina McBride and James Taylor.

“Sweet Baby James” always makes me cry, and being surrounded by Taylor’s voice while I chopped tomatoes and cucumbers made kitchen duty fly by.

Needing something to kick away the sniffles, I danced my way through all of Credence’s songs – “Favorite Son” and “Bad Moon Rising” which led me to Tina Turner’s version of “Proud Mary.” There’s no way to not sway and sing through those songs.

When I was washing the dishes, I called up Tracy Chapman’s “Give Me One Reason” and thought about how music has kept me company on long car drives, lonely nights and on glorious days when I felt I had nothing to lose.

I should’ve opened that box months ago.

Thanks, Stephen, for giving me a great gift that brought the sounds of joy back into my every-day life.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

Over the summer, we were fortunate to spend time with our grandchildren. One of their favorite outings was a rock climbing gym in Katy.

This past weekend, our son, Chris, decided he wanted to take a look because his children talked non-stop about their climbing adventures.

When he was young, Chris fearlessly climbed everything, and I remember taking him to a rock climbing gym when he was in Cub Scouts where he fearlessly scaled every wall he was old enough to tackle.

That fearlessness was evident in his children as they climbed to the top of all the walls in an area set up for younger children and teens.

This time, dad was along, and the older children wanted to climb the bigger walls.

The only way to do that was to have an adult take a belay class to learn how to hold the ropes and assist climbers up and down the walls.

Chris readily volunteered and, after an hour, he was certified. The older two children headed off to find a wall while the younger ones played in a room right next to the grown-up climbing area.

The only open beginner spot was at the end of the wall, but we figured the site would be a good starting point. Our eldest granddaughter went first, and I swallowed hard seeing how high the wall was.

She carefully started up the wall and, about three fourths of the way up, looked down and froze. The distance between her and the ground was at least 30 feet, and it was the highest she’d ever been.

Her dad quickly realized the predicament she was in, and he coaxed her to come down. At first, she didn’t want to, but she eventually made her way back down to the ground.

By the time she was in arms’ reach, Chris pulled her to him and reassured her she’d done a great job.

But she’d been spooked by the height, rightly so, and said she wasn’t going back up.

Most of us have been scared by something in our lives – a horse bucked while we were riding, an unexpected fender bender makes us nervous every time we get behind the wheel or we find ourselves avoiding situations out of our comfort zone.

We knew the only way Kylie could conquer her fear was to go back up, but that’s a tall order for a 10-year-old.

As she sat next to us, shaking, her dad told her she didn’t have to go back up unless she wanted to. Silently, she kept looking at the wall, apprehension evident in her eyes.

After a few minutes, she stood up and said she wanted to try again. But she asked if her dad could move the rope over to a section that wasn’t on the end. She said not being able to put her foot on a foothold was what spooked her.

He hooked her up to the ropes and told her to go for it. We watched her take a deep breath and begin climbing.

Both of us had tears in our eyes as that brave young girl went all the way to the top of the wall. She came down with a huge smile on her face, and her dad spun her around and around, telling her how proud he was of her for going back up that wall.

Conquering our fears isn’t easy to do, but when we do, we’re left with a feeling of accomplishment no one can take away from us.

Buoyed with confidence, we can take chances and go beyond what’s comfortable because we did something we were scared to do.

And we survived.

Step by step, Kylie beat back her fear and emerged triumphant.

I hope she knows how proud we all are of her. But more importantly, I hope she understands how proud she should be of herself.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

 

I caught the tail end of a movie from the late 1980’s, “Baby Boom,” starring Diane Keaton. She’s a ruthless businesswoman in New York City on her way up the corporate ladder.

Life changes dramatically when Keaton inherits a toddler from a distant cousin and has to adjust her life to raise Elizabeth.

Keaton moves to a farmhouse in Vermont she’s dreamed about for years. She thinks the old place will be perfect and jumps right in. Turns out the house has all kinds of problems, and it costs her a fortune to fix it up.

I can relate to that character as I’ve jumped into so many situations, regretting almost as many as I celebrated.

The first car I ever bought was a small Honda. They were new to the automobile line back in the early 1980s, but I didn’t need a big car. That white hatchback was the right size for my son and me, and so was the price.

I bought it from a showroom that didn’t haggle with the price. Those first Hondas were priced like television sets – the low price was the final price.

We kept that car until baby number two was coming, and then traded it to a friend for a minivan.

The last we heard, the hatchback went on to rack up over 200,000 miles on the odometer.

Never regretted buying that car for a minute.

I did regret buying an exercise bicycle.

Getting in shape in one’s living room has been around for a long time, but VHS tapes made it possible for anyone to pop an aerobics tape into the VCR and exercise alone.

The tapes were good, but I thought I needed to ramp up the routine. I bought an exercise bicycle from a friend. His wife seldom used it and I got the bike for a good price.

I rode it a few times and got bored quickly with only seeing my bedroom walls.

After a few months, I regretfully realized the exercise bike was the best coat rack I’d ever bought.

So, I bought a used bicycle, thinking I could tool around the neighborhood with my young son on the back of the bike and my elder boy riding his Hot Wheels car alongside us.

Young son screamed like a banshee the entire time, and sitting on a bicycle for more than 20 minutes was not comfortable or fun.

Sold both bikes and never regretted seeing them leave the house.

A co-worker recommended some stock when I was in my early 20s. I wanted to be like a Wall Street tycoon and make a fortune dealing in stocks.

So I bought a few shares of a stock he recommended at $20 apiece, dreaming of the piles of money I’d make.

There wasn’t any wheeling.

Wasn’t any dealing.

Just a steady decline in price, but I held onto the stock, believing that one day, the price would skyrocket.

Thirty years later, one share of that stock was worth one cent.

That was a deal I regretted for three decades.

Still, some things are worth it. I might regret the extra inches on my hips, but I don’t regret the Pralines and Cream Blue Bell ice cream on nights when I was feeling a little blue.

Nor do I regret the decadent Baklava Cheesecake covered in caramel syrup my sisters and I practically licked off the plate on a recent get together.

Choices are made and we live with the satisfaction of having made a great decision or the regret at having been a dope.

So walk past the exercise bike and pass the Blue Bell.

Life’s too short to live it with regrets.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.