Baby boomers take a lot of good-natured ribbing about being fuddy-duddies. Take one of my favorite commercials, Dr. Rick with Progressive Insurance, on “unbecoming your parents.”

His funny and clever clues for new homeowners to see if they are becoming their parents rings true. If you have too many pillows on the couch, try to fix leaky plumbing or can’t pronounce “quinoa,” you could be in trouble.

I seldom recycle a sturdy cardboard box because that box will be good for something one day. I turned shoeboxes into a holder for gravy and taco packets, and I covered a few with wrapping paper to hold small toys.

The latest item to come under fire is the minivan. A minivan owner might as well walk around with a sign around his or her neck proclaiming “I’m a nerd.”

Rubbish.

I’m here to sing the praises of the bashed minivan or, as it’s often called, “The Mom Car.”

We purchased a minivan the second year they came out. We had three children: two toddlers in car seats, and a third grader who played sports.

Our sedan was too small and it was almost impossible to get a third child in the middle of the back seat without kids climbing over the seats and punching each other.

When I saw how the side doors opened on the minivan and how easy it was for the kids to climb in by themselves, I was sold.

Let’s not even talk about backing up or parallel parking. With the spacious window of the minivan and the height of the seat, I could see everything all around me.

The minivan fit my personality. My wardrobe back then was Mom jeans and a T-shirt, sweat pants and a T-shirt or shorts and, you guessed it, a T-shirt.

A recent article crucified women who dressed like that, and I felt bad for the thousands of moms out there who are lucky to get out of the door with their shirt on the right way when they’re trying to balance kids, snacks, an oversized purse and car keys.

In a minivan, it didn’t matter if the vehicle was filled with toys, pillows and empty juice packets. It also didn’t matter if you wore your pajamas or the kids had on just a diaper and slippers because minivans were invented for the mom who used her shirt to wipe her kid’s nose.         Minivans, I salute you.

While we’re at it, here’s to plastic containers that do triple duty. Not only do they hold Cool Whip or soft-spread margarine, these plastic containers are perfect for leftovers. Sure nobody knows what’s in them, but that’s part of the fun of leftover night – mystery meals.

There’s no way I’m recycling a plastic container until I’ve reused it at least three times. In fact, they’re perfect for holding the extra ketchup packets from fast-food joints.

The red plastic bottles don’t reflect how much ketchup is in the container, so I’d usually pull the bottle out and find one of the boys had put an empty bottle back in the refrigerator rather than go to the trouble of throwing it away.

Ketchup packets to the rescue, and I knew they were in the old Cool Whip bowl in the pantry.

I love my imitation-leather purse with a dozen pockets on the inside, the mismatched plates and bowls in the cabinet, some of which were grocery store specials, and our scuffed-up Pyrex baking dishes.

Even though I don’t have small children and we sold the minivan years ago, I still drive a mini-van style vehicle because I’m basically a nerd mom who morphed into a nerd grandmother.

So here’s to misunderstood minivans, mom jeans and empty Cool Whip containers. Long may you serve the overworked and overtired moms of the world.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

We grew up hearing my mom singing. “The Sound of Music” album was a constant play for her. I loved hearing her sing – she has a true soprano voice, but she never believed she was a good singer.

She thought the glory belonged to her older brother, Ray. I remember hearing him singing opera as he came down the staircase at the Eade house.

Ray had a booming voice and confidence. He never pursued a career in the arts, but younger brother Vincent did.

Vincent was the lead singer in three popular bands, and I loved listening to the 45s he played on the family record player.

Uncle Vinny visited us when I was a teenager, and I remember him sitting in our driveway, playing his guitar, and singing “Ventura Highway,” much to the delight of the fan-girls on our street.

Mom said all her siblings had beautiful singing voices, a genetic gift from her parents. My grandmother was often asked to sing the Arabic refrains at the Maronite services at the Catholic church.

Our grandfather sang all the time as he went about his duties in the store.

We didn’t know much about one of my mom’s brothers. When we were in elementary school, Marshall died at the young age of 21 from kidney disease.

My grandmother grieved for over 40 years, always wearing black or navy blue, seldom smiling.

A few weeks ago, my cousin, Jimmy, was cleaning out the third floor over the store my grandparents owned. The Standard Store has been in the same location in Olean, N.Y. for over 80 years.

My grandfather had everything in the store anyone could want – yarn, towels, candy, cigarettes, tools, kitchen items, knick-knacks, potholders – and the merchandise was stacked from the floor to the ceiling.

As a result, there’s lot of stuff in the attic. One afternoon, Jimmy found a white box, and written on the outside in my grandfather’s shaky handwriting was “Marshall talks and sings – this is good tape.”

We know no one’s heard those tapes in over 60 years, probably because the family’s grief was so deep, they couldn’t bear to hear Marshall’s voice.

The reel-to-reel tapes were in remarkably good shape, and our cousin Amy put the word out to see if anyone knew how to translate the tapes into a digital format.

Our nephew Adam came to the rescue. He’s a talented musician in Athens, Ga., and he thought he knew someone who could translate the tapes.

Adam was right – Jason Nesmith transferred the audio from the reel-to-reel tapes to a digital format, and Adam made a special trip to our mom’s house to play the audio file for her.

He couldn’t have given my mom a better gift. She heard her brother singing and his voice for the first time in decades.

We were struck by how clear and beautiful Marshall’s voice was, and all of us who watched the unveiling online were so moved as we heard this young voice singing about love and springtime.

Vincent remembered Marshall going into his room and locking the door, playing and recording music for hours. No one, however, knew what a beautiful voice he had until now.

Our family is extremely grateful to Adam and Amy for not giving up and bringing such happiness to our mom and uncles, Vincent and Bobby.

Adam uploaded the recording to YouTube, and I’ve listened to our young uncle’s clear voice so many times, happy, strong and confident. I’m so sad his dreams of singing professionally were unfulfilled.

We wish Mom’s only sister, Beverly, could’ve heard the tapes before she passed away last year.

Like Bev’s daughter, Amy, we’ve chosen to believe there’s an Eade chorus in heaven and, oh, how magnificent they must sound.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.    

Confession time.

I love muscle cars.

Maybe it’s because I was born when the Ford Mustangs were the bomb. Maybe it’s because there was no contest when comparing the front of a tricked-out Chevelle to that of my mom’s pea-green Vega station wagon.

I’ll also confess I went on a date with a guy because he drove a Mustang. I drove a few muscle cars, and I remember how cool the long stick shift on the floor felt when moving from first to second gear.

The first car I bought was a sensible Honda. She got me where I needed to go economically and without much fanfare. Our next vehicle was a sensible van. And then another sensible van.

I graduated to a sedan when the boys got their own muscle cars – a Camaro and a Mustang – and then back to an SUV when the grandchildren came along. Still, whenever a vintage muscle car passed me on the street, the envy reared back up.

A couple of weeks ago, I was riding my bike and saw a huge tree down in someone’s front yard. The homeowner was surveying the damage from the storm, and we started chatting.

I noticed he was wearing a Corvette T-shirt, and we discussed our mutual fascination with fast cars.

Jack told me about Bumbera’s Performance where we could see some muscle cars in the parking lot. Our 12-year-old grandson loves fast cars, and I thought going there would be a fun, quick outing.

One morning last week, I called to make sure they were open, and I told the manager, Sean, I was a muscle-car fan as was my grandson. He said to stop by any time, so we headed over there that afternoon.

The big red building on the frontage road was easy to spot, and we wasted no time oohing and awing over the restored Mustangs in the parking lot.

Pretty soon, a man came out and asked if I was the lady who’d called that morning. I said I was and he introduced himself as Sean and told us the cars out front were really cool, but he had something even better to show us.

Sean opened the door to the brightly-lit workshop, and the scene was like something out of a muscle-car dream. Cars in various stages of restoration were up on racks and along the spotless floor.

As we walked along, Sean explained what was happening to each one. An owner wanted his vintage Camaro upgraded, another Corvette had been repainted and the upholstery and insides were being replaced and modernized.

On every car, no detail had been overlooked, from the classic knobs on the old push-button radios – AM only, I explained to my grandson – to the dials on the dashboard.

With a wink and a smile, Sean said we weren’t through yet.

He took us to the spotless shop in the back where there was a genuine NASCAR race car.

The car looked just like they do in the movies – decals all over the sides and top, gauges and wires inside and a metal steering wheel.

“Want to sit inside?” Sean asked Alex. With a huge grin, Alex said “yes,” and Sean hoisted Alex in through the window. The amazed look on my grandson’s face was worth a million bucks.

Inside the shop, each car was painstakingly being restored and rejuvenated. That’s because of the outstanding workmanship at this family-owned business.

We wrapped up our amazing visit in the show room admiring a muscle car that was a work of art. I cannot thank Sean enough for the hour of magic he gave us. He went out of his way to show kindness to three strangers.

Sean made this senior citizen’s dream come true, gave her daughter-in-law and grandson an afternoon they’ll never forget and, along the way, made me the coolest grandmother on the block.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.     

Just when we think we’ve got a handle on covid, the media’s put out another scare – babesiosis. Not a fear of babies. This infection is spread by ticks, much like Lyme disease.

Like everything we’ve read and heard over the past year, this news was more “the sky is falling” reporting even though the disease is rare and most likely to happen in the northern woods.

Fear sells, and you don’t have to look far to find something to give you nightmares.

Billions of Brood X cicadas – that’s the number CNN is using – are swarming this summer after a 17-year hibernation. Videos show these bugs swarming over trees and bushes, much like locusts from the days of Moses.

Later in the broadcast, we learn they’re not dangerous but that’s secondary to words like “swarming” and “emergence.” The way the reporters describe the scene, the ground’s going to open up and armies of bugs will emerge like a tornado and strip the land of all vegetation.

Here in the South, we already have plenty to fear.

Let’s start with alligators in the streets.

Social media is filled with photos of alligators roaming neighborhoods.

Not swamps.

Not rivers.

The neighborhoods where our children ride their bikes.

They want us to picture giant alligators swallowing pets, possums and small cars.

Gators in the streets are rare, but that doesn’t stop us from getting the heebie-jeebies.

The real fear comes from things that are hard to spot and more common.

Like snakes.

The South isn’t like Ireland where there aren’t any snakes. Here in our humid land, water moccasins, copperheads and puff adders are in abundance.

According to fear mongers, these deadly snakes are at least 12 feet long and they’ll eat what the roaming alligators leave behind.

We have flying cockroaches. These aren’t bugs the size of a dime. No these brownish cockroaches that seem to be the size of your shoe are like flying kamikaze pilots when they come at you in the dark.

Once you see a cockroach dive bombing your head, all reason leaves your brain and you’re running for the house, vaulting over any alligators or snakes lurking in the back yard.

There’s spiders. Some people have an innate fear of these arachnids, but spiders aren’t on my list of fears.

If I see one, it’s an easy squash and into the trash. But when I saw a video of a spider giving birth to about a zillion baby spiders on someone’s living room wall, I had nightmares for a week.

Right now, we’re battling mosquitoes. After a few torrential rainstorms, the mosquitoes hatched in numbers that would equal the population of Miami. I cracked opened the door to let our dog out, and a dozen flew in.

We had another recent rainstorm that dumped more rain and that means in another week, just as this first wave of mosquitoes was waning, the second wave is coming.

I have a feeling they’ll be super androids compared to the bugs we had last week.

The South is also host to the most vicious of all insects and pests – the fire ant. Nothing can kill them. They survived 9-degree temperatures back in February, 100-degree Texas summers and massive flooding.

In fact, when the water rises, they group together to find a big stick and float their whole mound to higher ground.

I haven’t even mentioned web caterpillars in the trees that look like a nightmare from the “Body Snatchers’ movies.

There’s also stinging caterpillars that drop on your head if you sit underneath a tree, looking for shade.

So cover your heads, layer on the bug spray and wear long sleeves. From babesiosis to bugs, we’re in for an itchy, icky summer.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.