My sons will be the first to tell you – I’m a nag. Not your ordinary mother who nags you about picking up your clothes, doing your homework or eating your vegetables.

I’m a superstar nagger.

My eldest son lives 8,000 miles away in the Philippines, but I nag him about calling more often and against getting any more tattoos.

Our middle son doesn’t take to nagging but I’ll gently remind him about the importance of yearly dental appointments and to call or text me once a month so I know he’s okay.

The youngest one gets the full brunt of my nagging, especially when he’s hundreds of miles away and living as cheaply as possible. I nag him about what he’s eating, where he’s washing his clothes, if he’s saving money – the list is endless.

I even nag our dog.

Whenever I hear someone nagging someone else, I feel comforted, knowing another do-gooder is also trying to straighten out someone else’s life with regular and non-stop life-improvement reminders.

Last week, I heard nagging from the last place on earth I ever thought I’d hear it – a rental car.

We were on a trip down the coast of South Carolina visiting the places author Pat Conroy described in his books.

I had a list of the different islands and towns he wrote about, and I was determined to check them off the bucket list.

We were on a long stretch of highway, and a message flashed on the dashboard:  the driver should consider stopping for a cup of coffee.

Not the icon for low tire pressure.

Not reminding us to stop for gas.

The car was nagging us to pull over for a caffeine fix.

Why in the world would a rental car think we needed coffee?

Maybe it was the length of time the car had been running without stopping. Maybe it was the number of lane changes. The traffic was heavy, and we’ve learned from Houston driving that you have to make quick moves to avoid getting stuck behind someone driving 10 miles below the speed limit.

Naggers don’t really need a reason to nag – we do it because we’re programmed to do so.

Electronics have made our lives easier and safer – smoke detectors and house alarms come to mind. When the batteries need replacing, they beep until you take care of business.

Our house alarm will call the police if we don’t key in the password within two minutes. My computer will lock me out if I type in the wrong password more than three times.

We don’t have to pay attention to daylight savings time – our watches and clocks automatically reset the time – and the refrigerator beeps if we leave the door open longer than 30 seconds.

I can set up apps on my phone to nag me about drinking more water, when it’s time to take a walk or it’s time to meditate.

But these reminders could go too far.

What’s next – apps to remind me to buy life insurance or get my prescriptions refilled?

Will my car refuse to start until I’ve assured the vehicle’s computers I remembered to turn off the lights in the house and I’ve got my wallet in my purse?

Come to think of it, having something remind me to pack my wallet wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

Having electronics tell you to pull over for coffee or remind you to call your mother so she stops nagging you might not be such a bad thing.

We professional naggers could use an apprentice.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

 

Even though I was born in New York state, I love reading about the South. I’m not a fan of novels that paint a sugar-coated picture – I gravitate toward novelists who write with care and honesty about people who understand that 90 percent humidity for most of the year is a given.

I remember picking up “The Prince of Tides” by Southern writer Pat Conroy many years ago and being hooked with the first line – “My wound is geography. It is also my anchorage, my port of call.”

As someone who loves magnolia blossoms and Spanish moss, I couldn’t put that book down, at times crying, and, at other times, re-reading passages until I had them memorized.

Conroy wrote of South Carolina’s Low Country in exquisitely chosen words and resonating phrases that made me want to visit the marshes and waters that formed this treasure of a writer.

This summer, I finally got the chance to visit Conroy’s hometown, Beaufort, S.C. The main reason was to visit the Pat Conroy Literary Center. In my hurry planning our trip, I didn’t read the center’s hours in detail.

We arrived in Beaufort on a Monday evening and were leaving Wednesday. When I looked a little closer at the website, I saw where the center was only open Thursday through Saturday.

My heart dropped. I had no idea how I was going to tell my husband I’d dragged him hundreds of miles to visit a center that was closed.

At the bottom of the site was a note that the center was also open by appointment. I sat down and wrote Communications and Events Coordinator Maura Connelly an honest email about my oversight, pleading for a short appointment to tour the center.

She wrote back within hours and invited us to come. A huge wave of relief washed over me, and we arrived 20 minutes early. So did she, and, with a smile, Maura welcomed us. The center is filled with books, some written by Conroy, but mostly books from Conroy’s personal collection.

The walls in the comfortable center are covered with memorabilia from Conroy’s early days including numerous photos and personal belongings, such as Conroy’s original thesaurus donated by a college friend.

Executive Director Jonathan Haupt came out of his office right after we arrived, and asked if he could take us through the center. He was knowledgeable, unhurried and warm as he described the center’s goals and Conroy as a person. He said they were doing what Conroy would’ve liked – spreading a love of reading and writing.

Haupt invited us to sit at Conroy’s desk and in his chair, and I thought I’d feel like I was sitting on a throne.

But that wasn’t quite correct.

Conroy, in his constant khaki pants, might not feel comfortable on a throne.

Perhaps he’d prefer sitting in the bough of a jon boat, trolling along a sea of grasses in the shallow marshes in the Low Country, the smell of shrimp and crabs a constant reminder of the connection between people and their personal geography.

Before we left, we visited a nature sanctuary and I thought about Pat Conroy’s life and the events and places that form all of us into who we are.

Walking along the boardwalk, the smells of the marsh filled my senses and, as a Cajun girl, I understood Conroy’s attachment to the Low Country because I’m attached to the bayous, lakes and lush greenness of home.

As we drove over the drawbridge leaving Beaufort, I thought about the kindness Ms. Connelly and Mr. Haupt showed us at the literary center, the loving way they are preserving Conroy’s memory and the elegant way they’re passing on a simple legacy:  words and stories are important.

The lifeblood of Southerners includes the waters, people, customs and culture of this beautiful land we call home and the stories we pass down from generation to generation.

I’m so grateful I found that shared connection in a prince of tides from the Low Country.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

There are casualties when vacuuming.

Dust bunnies, dog hair and M&M’s hiding underneath the couch are the usual victims. I didn’t expect my son’s first guitar to be on the injured list the last time I hauled out the vacuum cleaner.

Chris moved his guitars back to our house while doing some home renovations. Unfortunately, his empty house caught on fire in the middle of the night and everything – his clothes, furniture and the entire house – was destroyed.

After the shock wore off, I was relieved he’d brought his guitars to our house, some of which he’d had since high school. This Ibanez guitar was the first one we’d bought him in high school.

Chris was fascinated with the guitar ever since his older brother started taking lessons. Chris would sneak into his brother’s room and play around on the guitar. He was pretty good, and when his birthday rolled around, we bought him that Ibanez from a pawn shop and signed him up for lessons.

A quick learner with a natural aptitude for the guitar, Chris was lucky to take lessons from an incredible guitar teacher, Steve Nicosia, and played until his fingers bled.

Late at night, when the house was quiet, I could hear Chris in his room, strumming and practicing songs over and over again. I knew that Ibanez was his way of coping with an often-tough world, and hearing him bring music to life was an incredible gift for me.

The afternoon I broke the guitar, I was in a hurry. I knew when I propped the guitar against the wall it was a mistake. I accidentally knocked the guitar over with the hose of the vacuum cleaner, and the “crack” I heard was like a punch in the stomach.

I picked up the guitar and saw the neck was broken. Chris kept reassuring me it was okay, but I knew that guitar was dear to his heart. I looked up guitar repair shops and left messages with numerous shops.

The next day, a friendly voice called back and said he’d be happy to look at the guitar. No promises, but he’d let me know if the guitar was worth saving.

I found Neil Sergeant at Professional Guitar Repair. A smiling man with a blonde ponytail opened the door and welcomed me in. It was like stepping back into the 1960s – guitar cases were stacked on the floor and colorful posters from dozens of bands lined the walls. Dusty shelves held an ample supply of replacement guitar parts and every tool and oil associated with guitars.

Neil tenderly took the guitar from my hands and put it on a padded work bench. He ran his hands over the wood and noted the Ibanez was from the 1970s but seemed to be in pretty good shape.

A cracked neck is common, he explained, as he efficiently removed the headstock, pegs and tuners. As he worked, we chatted. He said he’d originally gone to school to learn how to build guitars, but, over the years, he became fascinated with repairing them.

Corporate America wasn’t for him, he said, and I caught glimpses of the 1960s culture throughout our conversation. Neil was open and honest, and seeing how he expertly handled my son’s guitar, a virtuoso.

There aren’t many sole proprietors around these days, and Neil Sargent is one of the guys that makes America run. He was so much fun to talk with, and I left there feeling like I’d rediscovered an old friend.

Fingers are crossed that Chris will be strumming that guitar again and teaching his children to play and love the guitar, just as he did.

That love can start with a beloved 1970s Ibanez guitar, expertly put back together by a cool cat named Neil Sargent.

         This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

How does Janet do it?

Janet is my sister-in-law and the family’s official baker. Others in my family are good in the kitchen, but Janet’s often the one who arrives at gatherings with a plate of perfectly baked, delicious chocolate chip cookies.

In my roles as mom and grandmother, I’ve probably baked at least 200 cakes, dozens of cookies and an occasional pie. Most were courtesy of a box mix, but on special occasions, I go the extra mile and bake from scratch.

Last night, I wanted to make some end-of-the-school-year treats, so I decided to go old school, figuring I could probably still whip up a decent dessert.

I had a package of semi-sweet chocolate chips in the pantry, and I knew they’d print a cookie recipe on the back. Even though the ingredient list looked long, I knew I had everything, so I went to work.

First, the flour and sugar. The canisters on the counter were almost empty, so I decided to fill them up first. That resulted in my spilling flour all over the counter. Thinking I’d get a little smarter, I decided to pour the sugar straight into the measuring cup from the bag.

Mistake. The sugar came out in a rush and I spilled sugar all over the counter that mixed in with the flour.

The recipe called for ¾ cup of brown sugar, but after measuring, there was some left in the bag. I told myself it didn’t matter if I poured all the rest of that brown sugar in the bowl. I stacked the rest of the dry ingredients next to the bowl.

Then it was time to beat the butter.  I’d forgotten to take two sticks out of the refrigerator. A minute in the microwave softened the butter right up, probably a bit too much, but I confidently added the white sugar and reached into the fridge for an egg.

I accidentally dropped the egg, stopped, cleaned it up and went back to the recipe. But I’d lost track of where I was. Had I added the baking powder? What about the salt? The problem, I told myself, was too many ingredients.

I was facing a counter crowded with vanilla, oil, Crisco, measuring spoons, pot holders, cooling racks and the dinner dishes. I thought I’d added everything, so I moved on to the baking part.

The directions called for an ungreased cookie sheet, so I took them at their word. I finally got the cookies in the oven, set the timer and filled up another baking sheet.

I bravely and foolishly thought since I’d dragged out the baking pans, I might as well make brownies to go along with the cookies.

Luckily, I had a box mix for that and mixed it up – only two ingredients – whew.

I peeked in the oven. The cookies were as flat as a pancake.

“Maybe they puff up in the last couple of minutes of cooking time,” I thought.

That was incorrect.

When I tried to get the first batch of cookies off the baking sheet, they wouldn’t budge. I thought I’d have to get a hammer and scraper to get those cookies off. I quickly yanked the second pan out of the oven, took the raw cookies off and put some parchment paper down.

Back in the oven they went, and I put the crumbled cookies on a plate for my husband. He’s used to my disasters in the kitchen. I told him those crumbs would make great ice cream toppings.

He pretended to believe me.

When the last pan of cookies was finished – all as flat as a plate – I put the brownies in for the time called for on the box. Twenty minutes later, they seemed to be done.

I let them cool, but when I tried to cut them, it was like trying to cut mud. I added clumps of slightly underdone brownies to the plate of cookie crumbs and consoled myself with the fact that my husband would have a great ice cream sundae.

Everything tasted okay, but the kitchen was in shambles. I had flour, sugar and egg all over my shirt, I’d dirtied four baking pans, all the measuring cups, three bowls, a Pyrex baking dish and a dozen spoons and knives.

Home-made might sound heavenly, but the next time I have a desire to bake something special, I know exactly what to do.

Call Janet.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.