I spotted a newspaper cartoon where a grandmother was promoting her book. She told the audience “My book came out in the fall, so I insisted it have a jacket.”

We can laugh at the fuddy-duddy advice, but the guidance from a grandparent is usually right on the money.

My Grandma Marguerite had quite a few sayings, but my favorite was never turn down an opportunity to go out, even if you’re not overly fond of the person asking. You never know who’ll see you when you’re out and they’ll know you’re available.

“Remember to have fun along the way” was how she signed all of her letters and cards, and I am reminded of her wise words when the day ends on a happy note.

My mom has all kinds of subtle advice, and her grandchildren and great-grandchildren soak up what she says and doesn’t say.

Their “Siti” has taught them to always have food in the house, especially cookies, to offer a guest because nobody leaves her house hungry.

She’s taught them to make other people know they’re important without slighting anyone else.

That’s because she pays attention when her grandchildren talk to her and she’s overjoyed when they come to visit.

Grandmothers will usually insist you wear a sweater or socks when it’s cold outside. It doesn’t matter that the house is the same temperature in the winter as it is in the summer – cold weather outside means grandchildren must bundle up.

I think it’s in the grandmother manual.

Grandmothers and grandfathers dispense similar advice and most can do so without aggravating their grandchildren.

Parents can say the same thing, but grandparents have a way of softening the advice yet still getting the grandkids to pay attention.

To young children, some grandparents smell a little funny. Most of the time, it’s Old Spice or Mr. Clean but I like to think that smell is experience and there’s no way to get rid of life’s perfume.

Grandparents will also let their grandchildren stay up late because they know a little leniency goes a long way toward building a strong relationship.

And, like their grandchildren, grandparents sometimes like breaking the rules.

They’ll ask their grandchildren to eat their vegetables, but they don’t insist. Grandparents are honest – chocolate cake does taste better than lima beans.

Grandparents also remember the naughty things their now-grown children did when they were younger.

When they hear their son or daughter carrying on with the grandchildren about mistakes, they gently remind said parent that they did the exact same thing when they were that age and to maybe go a little easy on the kid.

We have a couple of extra dollars when the ice-cream truck is coming down the street or in the check-out line at the grocery store.

Grandparents always have extra hugs and, most of the time, we take our time because we know how fast little ones grow up.

We don’t want to straighten you out, we want to spend time with you, listen to you, talk with you, read to you, walk with you and enjoy every minute we get to spend with you.

We don’t need you to mow the grass, wash your clothes or sweep the floor. We just want you to be you.

So indulge us a bit if we insist you wear a sweater outside. Because of all the people you’ll meet in the world outside of your parents and siblings, you’ll never find anyone who adores you more than your grandparents.

So put on that sweater. It’s a little chilly outside.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

One of my favorite afghans is a red, blue and black Granny Square twin-size spread I’ve had since I was in high school. It was the bedspread in my college dorm room back in the 1970s.

The blanket was a gift from my boyfriend’s mother, Pat Fresina. She loved to crochet, and she made sure I had a blanket to take with me to school.

For over 50 years, she made sure quite a few people had what they needed in life from blankets to meals to a shoulder to cry on.

After a long and tiring battle with congenital heart failure and other ailments, Pat passed away peacefully last week.

But, oh, what a legacy she left.

Her house was a great place to visit. The small brick house on Nimitz Street always had somebody hanging out, usually in the back room that had my favorite thing in the house, a working Wurlitzer jukebox.

The kitchen counters were covered with stacks of books, magazines and other household items that nobody worried about, especially Pat.

She’d much rather play games like Jeopardy and Family Feud with her kids and their friends. Hours were spent in that orange and brown kitchen playing Spoon or Spades, and the games were always loud and lively.

She was a mom of three daughters and one son, and she also held down a full-time job as a teacher.

Pat was a legend in the science departments where she taught. She taught most of my friends as well as my younger brother, Joey. She made science fun because she made the lessons lively and engaging.

Her son, Chuck, told me they never knew what they’d find growing in the refrigerator because his mom was always trying out new experiments and testing theories.

Sundays were my favorite time to visit the Fresina household because it was spaghetti day.

Pat would start cooking the gravy early in the morning, and we’d all sit down in the evening for a bowl of pasta covered with a rich red spaghetti gravy and a boiled egg. Sounds pecuilar, but a boiled egg chopped up in pasta and sauce is delicious, she taught me.

When Pat wasn’t crocheting, conjuring up science plans or playing games, she was reading Harlequin Romance books. She had them stacked up on the table next to the couch, but would always put them away to talk with somebody.

One afternoon, my best friend, Trudi, and I stopped by the Fresina household on our way to work. Pat was showing us her latest crocheting project when her son came in and started yelling about where his sister had parked the car.

Sister started yelling back and then their dad, Dominick, got into the shouting match. Trudi was looking back and forth between the yellers, but Pat didn’t even seem to notice. She kept talking about the blanket she was making.

Trudi said she’d wait in the car, and Pat blinked and asked if anything was wrong. I told her it had gotten a little loud in there.

“Oh I never noticed,” she said with a smile and a twinkle in her eye.

For her, life was loud and noisy and messy and wonderful.

She dressed up in silly hats and outfits, was game for any outing or adventure and never had a mean word to say about anyone. She was a tremendous mother, mother-in-law, Nanny and great-grandmother.

A science teacher to the end, she stated in her will that after her death, she wanted her body to be donated to science to help students learn.

I’m going to sleep underneath that afghan tonight and think happy thoughts about a woman who lived life to the fullest.

Thank you for allowing me into your heart, Pat. You’ll always be in mine.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Our active and delightful grandchildren are visiting for part of the week. My washing machine and dishwasher are groaning as they’re running practically 24 hours a day with grass-stained jeans, bathing suits, towels and T-shirts that somehow got splashed with mud.

Within eyesight of our driveway is a grassy area that provides a perfect circle for our young bikers. The four-year-old learned how to ride without training wheels a few months ago, and he boldly rides around and around the circle, a huge smile on his face the whole time.

His brother and sisters can go a little further, and their dad has them practicing for a children’s triathlon. They’re taking the training routine well, and seeing them ride with unbridled joy reminds me of my childhood afternoons on my bike.

In Louisiana, we lived in a neighborhood where everybody rode their bikes to the pool and each other’s’ houses.

In New York, we lived in a small community and all the kids rode their banana-seat bikes everywhere – the school, the park and to our grandparent’s store for gum and candy.

Of all the places I visited, though, the library was my favorite. At that time, the library in Olean, N.Y. was located in an old three-story stone building, and it looked and smelled the way old-time movies would have you believe.

Because I had my own library card – my most treasured possession – I was free to come and go to the library whenever I wanted. The basket on the front of the bike allowed me to check out four or five books, and I’d read those as fast as possible and head back for more.

For my grandchildren, riding bikes to the library would be a dangerous journey, but reading is still a pleasure. Their dad took them to a bookstore this weekend, and they came home with dozens of comics, most of which they’ve already read.

Usually we head to the library and come home with new tales and a few beloved favorites. In fact, there’s been some books they loved so much, we bought them.

One of their favorites is “Epossumondas Saves the Day” by Colleen Sally. The story takes place in Louisiana, and the book is a delight to read aloud.

I enjoy putting on a Southern accent when I read the story of the little possum that saves his mama, auntie and friends from the “great, huge, ugly Louisiana snapping turtle.”

The grandchildren always drag out two “Martha” books where a little otter has to learn to share her toys and say “sorry.” With siblings, a book about sharing and apologizing hits home.

A series we all enjoy is the “Pout-Pout Fish.” With a continual frown, the poor little fish has to overcome a sad, timid nature to conquer his fears.

The best part of reading to children is when they snuggle up close as we turn the pages, laugh about the adventures of the hero or heroine in the book and, at the end, when they beg us for just one more book.

They know we’ll always read one more before bedtime, and they think they’re pulling a fast one over on us. The truth is – the reader is the one who benefits from the closeness and bond created when stories are shared.

The smell of their freshly shampooed hair, the softness of their well-worn pajamas, and the way our feet intermingle underneath the afghan my grandmother crocheted for me years ago are worth more than gold.

Spring break 2019 is almost over, but I’ll always remember it as a week of readin’ and ridin’ and having little ones snuggled close by as they whisper “read it again.”

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Today is the first day of Lent.

Technically Ash Wednesday marks the beginning because it’s when we make plans for what we’re going to give up or do for the next 40 days.

It’s the bridge between chocolate cake and no chocolate cake.

But as in all things, there are a couple of loopholes in the whole 40 days of fasting and prayer. According to catholiceducation.org., the faithful do not have to fast on Sundays during Lent.

I know this rule is true because my grandmother said so. She reminded us about the dispensation rule when we’d sit down to Sunday dinner.

My sister would practically grind her teeth because she always gave up potatoes during Lent. To think she could be getting a big spoonful of Mom’s home-made mashed potatoes with our Sunday roast-and-potatoes meal but couldn’t because my dad didn’t recognize the rule was almost criminal.

As a life-long Catholic, Lent is the part of the year I always dread. I’m not great at giving things up – except exercise – and I always knew that no matter what I gave up, I’d cave in before the 40 days were up.

One year it was gum, and that didn’t last because I was a teenage girl who was always aware of the pitfalls of being labeled with bad breath.

Another year I tried sweets, but that ended when birthdays rolled around. I found it impossible to give up chocolate birthday cake and ice cream.

When I got older, I found myself rationalizing why one had to give up something one liked in order to prove one was faithful. What did giving up candy do for my spiritual life, I told my brother one year.

It wasn’t the giving up, he reminded me. It was the knowledge of what life was like without something I loved. The hope was people could relate to what it would feel like to not have God in their lives.

I was pretty sure that God and chocolate were two permanent fixtures in my life, so I let that one slide.

Even though the reason for giving up something in order to gain an appreciation has been explained to me numerous times, I’m still not ready to jump on that band wagon with or without a bag of Hershey’s Kisses.

Instead, I think it’s better to add something positive to my life during Lent in the hopes that the practice lasts. A few years ago, my mom suggested I pray a rosary on my way to work in the morning as a Lenten sacrifice since I refused to give up Twix bars.

I took her up on the offer, and I found the reciting of all those Hail Marys and Our Fathers had a calming effect on my soul.

All these years later, a rosary is still what I pray for that morning commute. I still yell about moronic drivers, but it’s hard to roll down the window and yell “you idiot” with a rosary in my hand.

So on this first day of Lent, I’ve got an idea about what I can add to my life that won’t add inches to my hips.

First, say something genuinely nice to one person every day. That should be standard practice but there are days when complaining seems to be the main litany coming out of my mouth.

Second, personally acknowledge people for the affirmative vibes they contribute to the world. Texting or emailing doesn’t always have the same impact, but since the end result is what’s important, text away.

So that’s my Lenten challenge, and I challenge you to do the same.

With 40 days in front of us, that seems to be enough time to make sure you can make a few people feel good about themselves.

And since it’s the first real day of Lent, the time to start is right now.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

It’s strange to think I found inspiration at a wake, but that’s what happened.

One of the very first feature stories I wrote for this newspaper years ago was on Milt and Lil Polansky. We all lived in Pecan Grove, and I’d passed their house numerous times.

What caught my eye was the hundreds of baseball caps hanging from the inside roof of their garage. They were arranged in neat rows, and I thought the collection would make a nice story.

When I interviewed Milt and Lil, however, I found they were much more than a collection of hats.

Milt, with his ever-present pipe, was a highly decorated World War II veteran who flew numerous missions over Germany.

Lil, with her twinkling smile, was a stay-at-home grandmother, but her contributions as an untiring volunteer to her church and the community were legendary.

More than their generosity to their community and this country were their gracious hearts and the joy they spread through their family.

When I interviewed them, they told me about their son, Jeffrey, who’d been lost at sea. The pain was still evident years later, but they turned their grief into an appreciation for family and life.

In my naiveté, I neglected to double check the facts with Milt and Lil, and I got Jeffrey’s name wrong in the printed story. I felt awful and was beating myself up pretty bad about the mistake, but Milt and Lil were more than understanding – they consoled me.

It was years before I could look them in the face, but they never held that huge mistake against me. We became friends and I often sought them out after Mass at Sacred Heart Catholic Church where they were long-time parishioners.

A division in the parish pitted member against member, and I found myself on the same side as Milt and Lil. That’s when I knew I was doing the right thing because Milt and Lil always took the high road.

Years passed, and I kept up with the Polanskys through photos in the paper or through friends. Sadly Milt passed away in July, and Lil followed him last week.

At her wake, I reconnected with their son, Roger, his wife, Ellen and their sons, Stephen and Jake. Stephen and my youngest son had been in Cub Scouts together, and it was a joy to meet Stephen’s infant son, Lil’s first great-grandchild.

In catching up with what our sons have been up to the past few years, Ellen told me Jake was working in Louisiana as part of a national outreach program to teach in struggling schools. Being from Louisiana, I was curious as to where he was located, so she called Jake over.

He was teaching at East Feliciana High School and living in Zachary, La. My brother, sister-in-law and my mom all live in Zachary, and we laughed about the old saying:  it’s a small world.

I made sure to get Jake’s phone number and I passed it on to my brother, Joey. Jake in turn has Joey’s phone number and I assured Jake my mom would be more than happy to make him a home-cooked meal since he’s a bachelor.

Jake’s teaching at a low-income school to give back to society, and I know he learned that lesson from his grandparents and his parents.

Instead of leaving the wake sad, I left uplifted because the legacy of love, humbleness, generosity and kindness Lil and Milt created in their lives was definitely evident in their children, grandchildren and, one day I’m sure, their great-grandchildren.

The world is a better place because of the Polansky family and I’m inspired to live a better life because of them. Thank you, Milt and Lil, for letting me into your home and your hearts all those many years ago.

I’m the better for knowing you.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.