We live in a crazy world.

People are hoarding toilet paper, not silver or gold.

The top television show isn’t something intellectual – it’s a series about an egomaniac who breeds big cats, has three husbands and is in jail on a murder-for-hire judgment.

The president of the United States gets into verbal bashings with members of the press who go on to bash him and we’re headed into a world-wide recession.

It’s easy to lose hope, and that’s what I was feeling.

Until I saw what two young men are doing to make the world a better place through a servant’s heart.

These two young men are my nephews, Jason Hebert and Randall McGarry.

Jason is the manager for a number of Waffle Houses in Louisiana and became concerned when stores started closing their doors.

He and a friend put together a program “Waffle House Adopt a Meal” that serves a free breakfast to those on the front lines – first responders, government officials and other essential workers.

With his sister, Tara, handling the media blitz, including social media and television, the drive has been extremely successful.

Jason’s reason for pushing the program is simple. He has a purpose.

“I’m doing my part of being part of a bigger picture,” he said. “It makes me feel good to give back.”

In Richmond, Va., Randall is the manager at a local restaurant and became concerned when the coronavirus started shuttering eateries. Restaurant servers and wait staff are notoriously underpaid, and many live paycheck to paycheck.

Randall and three friends organized an online fund, “Support Richmond Restaurant Workers” with money going directly to restaurant workers who need money to make ends meet.

Not only that, the friends are working to establish a union to have employers provide better working conditions for servers, including equitable pay and improved benefits.

To say our family is proud of these young men is an understatement. Giving back to the community is a commitment that runs deep in our family and that’s done without ever asking for publicity or thanks.

Great-grandfather Herbie Hebert ran a newspaper in Vidor and was a huge supporter of unions.

When he died prematurely, the church overflowed into the parking lot with working-class people who believed Herbie to be their hero.

On my mom’s side, great-grandfather Henry Eade was an immigrant who came to this country with only the money in his pocket and big dreams.

He made a solid living for his family and served on the school board. Although dangerous, he established and funded a clinic in his hometown back in Lebanon for both Muslims and Christians.

Randall’s father has volunteered with the Kiwanis Club in Martinsville, Va., is a years-long volunteer with the Boy Scouts of America and is currently a judge in Martinsville when he’s not volunteering in his church parish.

Jason’s dad regularly goes to Central America to provide free dental care for locals and has provided free dental care to prisoners. He’s also a decades-long religious education teacher.

Our mom volunteered at the local hospital in her 70’s and 80s, and my sister volunteered on the Child Advocates’ board, CASA, for years in her hometown and served on the United Way board.

Youngest sister is a church youth leader and catechist and volunteers with the community storehouse board that provides food and backpacks for school-age children.

Our brothers have taught religious education for years, worked with prison ministries and were working with the governor’s wife on a prison-education program in Louisiana.

The in-laws donate their talents by coordinating events and supplies with their spouses, including providing meals for school kids, a parish program to prevent child abuse and neglect and help with online support groups for kids, animals and those with chronic illnesses. One has sewn and donated hundreds of face masks in the past two weeks.

Our cousins volunteer in schools, civic groups and in their cities.

Service to community is how they live their lives, and that generosity is sprinkled with laughter and a reluctance to stand in the limelight.

Whenever I see the madness and sorrow in the world, all I have to do is look at this wonderfully endearing family that quietly serves to know I’m as incredibly blessed as the communities where they live.

Our grandfathers would be quite proud.

 

    This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

My son gave me a fabulous Christmas gift – a gift certificate to get my vehicle detailed at the local car wash.

The weeks after Christmas were too cold and we had company, so I didn’t make it to the car wash place. One late afternoon, I went, but they didn’t have enough workers there to fulfill the intent of the certificate.

So I left, saying I’d be back.

January turned extremely busy, February even busier, and my car got dirtier and dirtier.

“As long as I can see out the back window, I’ll be fine,” I told myself.

Spring break was looming, and I thought I’d be able to take my vehicle to the car wash.

And then the coronavirus scare hit.

Getting prepared for a shutdown and helping out with the grandkids trumped getting my vehicle washed, and then businesses shut their doors.

This week, I couldn’t stand the grime any longer and dragged out the hose, water bucket and sponges.

It’s been a while since I’ve washed my own vehicle. I told myself I was doing my part for the economy by supporting a local business.

But now it was time to stop waiting for the quarantine to pass and wash my car myself.

I filled a bucket with soapy water, dipped an oversized washcloth in the suds and started on the hood.

It took a bit of time to scrape the love bugs off. As I scrubbed, I realized love bug season was months ago. Had it really been that long since I’d washed my car?

Apparently so.

I’d forgotten the license plate was white with black letters – it had been dirty for so long, I thought the license was gray – and what a pain the hubcaps were to clean.

I gave the outside a thorough scrubbing, stopping twice to change the water. With sweat pouring down my face, I stepped back, expecting to see a gleaming vehicle.

The car looked like it had stripes of dirt.

Apparently I was rusty when it came to washing cars.

So I went back over the exterior twice and was finally satisfied I’d gotten most of the grime off.

Then it was time for the interior.

I took inventory.

Toys and books were strewn all over the floor mats, in addition to empty juice packets and Legos stashed underneath the seats.

There was mud on the backs of every seat and door, on the carpet and even on the seat belts.

In addition, the youngest grandchild had opened a box of M&M’s so there was melted chocolate in the seat and even down in the seat-belt holder.

I pretended not to see that.

Underneath the seat, I raked out a pile of candy and fast-food wrappers. I was okay with that until I realized the candy wrappers were from Christmas. Had it really been that long since I’d cleaned out my car?

And that’s only the mess the youngsters left. I had my own fair share of fast-food wrappers, CDs, gum wrappers, letters and gas receipts stuffed in the shelf underneath the dashboard.

The trash filled a garbage bag, and the toys filled another one.

A half hour later, I stopped vacuuming because I was worried the motor was going to overheat.

It took another hour and half a bottle of Windex to clean the seats, windows and dashboard.

When I finished, my car looked like it had just come off the show room floor, well except for those dings on the side of the car I put there banging the door against the wheelbarrow in the garage, the dent from parking too close to a trailer and the missing paint, courtesy of the love bugs.

That car’s been in the garage for a week now. I told myself it’s because I don’t have any business going anywhere during the coronavirus quarantine.

The reality is — I don’t have the heart to take that car anywhere and dirty it up again.

I think I’ll wait for the car wash to reopen and tell myself I’m helping support local business.

Maybe they’ll have more luck with the love bug carcasses than I did.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

About a year ago, I bought a scanner capable of scanning in documents for electronic sharing.

I had high hopes of scanning in family pictures I’ve been taking for decades and posting them in our family Facebook page.

Something always came up to keep me from the scanner – appointments, work, family obligations.

But every few weeks, I’d glance over at that unopened box, feel guilty and tell myself that I’d get around to scanning in all the pictures no one remembered I’d taken.

Until this week when social distancing became a familiar phrase in the world’s vocabulary.

That’s when I noticed the scanner box.

Excuse time was over. I had nothing to do for the foreseeable future, so it was time to put my money where my scanner was and get busy.

I dragged a chair from the dining room into my office, put the scanner on the seat and plugged it in.

After months of sitting in the box, I wasn’t sure the scanner would work, but the lights came on and the “ready” light flashed.

Then I went searching for all the photo albums we have.  I’d forgotten how many pictures I had until I started flipping through a few albums.

I had pictures from Easter, Christmas and backyard celebrations going back over 35 years. Page after page of family memories were right in front of me.

With each photo, my mind replayed what was going on – the laughter, the sound of the basketball hitting the concrete in the never-ending game in my parents’ driveway and the laughter of children from holiday to holiday.

My parents on their wedding day, full of hope and promise and no clue they’d have seven children and three times as many grandchildren.

There was my dad, full of life and laughter as he rode his grandchildren around the yard on his three-wheeler. He made them feel like they were riding the wind, and I never knew who had more fun, him or them.

There was my mom with a welcoming smile on her face in almost every picture. Her hair went from black to gray to snow white, but her beautiful smile never faltered.

There were dozens of pictures of my boys at playgrounds, splashing in water puddles in the driveway, eating ice-cream cones and playing in kiddie pools.

I’d forgotten my two youngest wore Batman capes everywhere we went, but I was reminded of those days when I saw the pictures of them complete with their capes and boots.

There were pictures of them filling Easter baskets with candy and dressing up for the annual Christmas play with their cousins.

I needed to share these feelings, so I started scanning in the pictures and got into a rhythm of scanning, saving and then posting to our family Facebook page.

Almost immediately, the comments started rolling in.

“Oh I remember that day!”

“Geez, they were so little!”

“Why didn’t anybody tell me my hair looked awful!”

What really surprised me was the reaction of my now-grown nieces and nephews. They remembered minute details from their childhood, and they said the pictures brought back those memories in vivid detail.

If you have photos on your cell phone, download them, save them and then share with your family.

If you have photo albums, get them out and take a leisurely trip down memory lane during this time when you’re home socially isolating.

You’re not alone when you’ve got those pictures in front of you for they’ll connect you with the people you love and the moments that made life special.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.