Professor John Lienhard with the University of Houston hosts a program about the way inventive minds work. The show highlights people who’ve made the world a more interesting place.

One of the most fascinating things I’ve ever seen was at my sister’s place this past week. A little background – her house has flooded twice. Once was from a freak storm that settled over Alexandria, La., and the other was also weather related.

As anyone who’s ever had water damage knows, repairs are costly, and the house has a reputation, one that’s impossible to erase. Their home is on a slab, so Diane and John initially thought they were stuck – their beautiful home’s value would sink, and they’d always have the fear of flooding in the back of their minds whenever heavy rains hit the area.

But my sister never gives up. Whether it was fate or “big brother” listening in to her and John talking about raising the house, an ad for David Shoring, a company specializing in raising houses, appeared on her social media feed.

Intrigued, Diane started researching and found FEMA offers a Flood Mitigation Assistance grant that could pay up to 100% of a contract to raise a house that’s flooded at least twice. She remembered the ad and, two years ago, applied for the grant.

Diane would call and email every couple of weeks, but the federal government is a slow-moving machine. A few months ago, she got the word – her application had been fully funded.

They got bids but went with fate and lined up Davie Shoring to raise the house. A crew started with digging tunnels under the house by hand – some from the back of the house, some from the front. Wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow was filled, and there were mountains of dirt all around the house.

The technology uses stacks of concrete, square blocks with a whole in the middle, to stabilize the house. Inserted into the blocks would be steel bars. These blocks would be stacked up as the house rose and would serve as a new, higher foundation. The bars keep the concrete in place.

Thirty-six jacks were placed underneath the house on load-bearing walls. Each jack was connected to a giant meter board with thick cables to make sure all parts of the house were being raised at the same level at the same time.

Finally, lift day arrived. With wires and levels in place, Foreman Josh gave the word – they were ready.

Diane and John were nervous – this is their home and a company was promising they could safely raise their home five feet in the air.

Would the house crack? Would the walls cave in? Would the house fall to one side?

The motor started and the house went up one inch. Workers checked every meter on the truck and under the house to make sure the jacks were working in tandem.

Foreman Josh walked the inside of the house to make sure none of the walls were cracking. The process was working perfectly, so they cranked up the jacks again.

By the end of the day, the house was up almost five feet, the height the state of Louisiana now requires for homes to be raised.

By the end of the next day, stairs were in place in the front and the back. Dirt was smoothed back in place and concrete skirting will surround the house followed by landscaping.

My sister said the only thing out of place in the house was a picture fell over. The view from the windows now offers a beautiful panoramic of their property, and they are relieved and relaxed now that their beautiful home is safe from flood waters.

I keep picturing people who found a way to help owners whose homes were on a slab. Either due to changing weather patterns or newly created drainage problems, their homes were in danger.

Some creative folks found an innovative way to do something nobody ever thought possible.

Now that’s the way inventive minds think.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

I was listening to the radio when an old Beatles tune came on – “Day Tripper.”  I’d always thought the song was about a girl who liked to take trips to the sea, the beach or shopping for the day.

But then, 50 years later, it hit me – this song was about a girl taking an LSD trip. It took me a long time “to find out, but I found out.”

Why it didn’t occur to me that this song was about drugs makes me embarrassed. Most of the songs from the 60’s were about drugs.

“White Rabbit” by Jefferson Airplane was the most obvious. “One pill makes you bigger, one makes you smaller.” Even someone as dumb as me could figure that one out.

With Paul McCartney’s “Michelle,” I didn’t feel so dumb because some of the words were in French. Besides, most of us just mumbled the lines after “Michelle, ma belle.”

The theater was packed when I saw the movie “Hard Day’s Night.” I can blame all those girls in the audience for not knowing what line comes after “’cause when I’m lectured at home…” because everyone was screaming so loud.

I still get a smile on my face whenever I hear the song “Tiny Dancer” because someone in my family innocently sang “Hold me closer Tony Danza” instead of “Hold me closer Tiny Dancer.” I had to leave the room before busting into laughter.

Some 1980’s songs are still hard for me to figure out. Steppenwolf’s “Magic Carpet Ride” is one of those. So is Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ On A Prayer.”

After reading the lyrics online and slapping my head for not being smart enough to figure out what the singers were saying, I’ve got a solution to not knowing the lyrics.

No, it’s not looking them up on your phone and then using the phone as a microphone so you can look at the words.

It’s mumbling.

Let’s face it – a lot of musicians are hard to understand so mumbling is quite all right. If the person with you is under the age of 40, they have no idea what the lyrics are about anyway.

Doubt that? Ask them what place in pop culture the phrases “dy-no-mite” and “good night, John Boy” hold.

Years ago, I took my teenage son to see “City Slickers.” When Billy Crystal, Bruno Kirby and Daniel Stern rode out at the end of the cattle on their horses drive humming the theme song from “Bonanza,” the entire audience erupted in laughter. My son leaned over and asked what was so funny.

The lyrics to kids songs are sometimes hard to remember. Maybe it’s because we’re sleep deprived. So forgive young moms if they can’t remember the third stanza to “Frosty the Snowman” or what foot comes first in “The Hokey Pokey.”

But, just like we can do with songs we can’t remember, all you young moms and grandparents have to do is mumble along or repeat the stanzas you know with a smile on your face. The toddlers will think you’re absolutely magical.

Don’t worry about knowing the lyrics to current pop songs. If those of us over the age of 30 knew the lyrics, the kids would drop those songs like we ran away from bell-bottom pants in the 80s.

So, if you don’t know all the words to “Bohemian Rhapsody,” just play the air guitar. Your kids will think you’re a rock star.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Spring is finally here. The trees are blooming — ask my allergies – people are strolling around the block after dinner and the weatherman is no longer predicting a sudden freeze.

But the best sign of spring is seeing youngsters out in the ball fields, practicing tee-ball, baseball, softball and soccer.

I’m not someone who likes sports. I was always the last one chosen for the team. Not even love could save me – my high school boyfriend didn’t pick me for his team when he was the coach. His reasoning was sound – I was the worst one.

In college, the only way I passed a tennis class was because I made 100 on the written test. I was the only person in the entire class who never won a point. You read that right – I never earned one point, much less won a match.

So it’s a little odd that I love sports, especially spring sports like baseball and softball. Because I’m the mom of boys who enjoyed sports, we were at the baseball field a good bit of the time during their growing up years.

It was a stretch at first, learning the game, not getting upset at other parents and especially watching my sons strike out, miss a foul ball or not make the throw from the outfield to the infield.

It’s the process that’s fulfilling in sports. Watching your child go from swinging and missing at a baseball to finally connecting is a thrill for the child and for the parent.

Seeing them learn the difference between offense and defense on the basketball court was like watching them learn the difference between salt and sugar.

We watched our boys work, and it was like manna from heaven to see that hard work pay off. But there were the darker moments – the missed tackle, an unfair coach, a surprise foul.

There were the injuries as well. Our middle son broke his collarbone when a kid slid into him while he was protecting second base.

There’s the burn out – school plus homework plus practice is tough for a young person to juggle. When they don’t get picked for the team, that’s a difficult conversation to have on the way home from tryouts.

Teaching them to roll with the punches, to try harder the next time and to shake it off is all part of being the parent of a young athlete.

We’ve had our share of bad coaches – men and women who were only wearing a cap because they wanted their son to be the pitcher or they wanted their daughter to be the goalie.

In all our years of being bleacher parents, only one young player made it to the minor leagues.

I wish these coaches had realized the real lessons were instilling a sense of teamwork and the realization that practice is vital for success.

Our boys have had some extraordinary coaches who taught the basics – how to catch and throw a ball and guard an opponent. More importantly, they taught them how to win and how to lose. To this day, I’m grateful for their guidance and support.

Our young grandson had such a soccer coach last year. He saw a spark in Jason and encouraged, praised, corrected and liked our grandson.

We have a picture of Coach Josh and Jason on display. Whenever I see that photo, I think about all the men and women who’ll step up this year and, without realizing it, will be the brightest spot in that child’s life for many years.

Load up the lawn chairs and the Gatorade.

It’s go time.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

With Easter this coming weekend, my mom asked if I remembered the Easter egg hunts we had growing up.

I vaguely recall looking for eggs in the big yard next to my grandparents’ house. Mostly I remember dressing up for Easter Mass with a new hat, gloves and shiny white patent leather shoes.

The Easters I remember the most, I told her, are the ones when our children, her grandchildren, were young. Those I remember like they were yesterday.

On the Saturday before Easter Sunday, we’d sit around the bar in my parents’ house and let the kids dye eggs. At least half ended up on the floor because those excited little hands couldn’t quite hold on to a hard-boiled egg.

Before the hunt began, the uncles would hide the eggs while we’d hold the youngsters inside. It was an unspoken rule – the ones on the patio, the ones in plain sight, were for the youngest cousins.

Then, the kids would line up on the steps by the back door, and when an uncle gave the word, off they’d go.

Some of the children would find an egg, stop, sit down and peel it right there. Forget about looking for more eggs. Their philosophy was I got something solid here – why waste time chasing after things I can’t see?

The older ones always helped the younger ones, and we still talk about their generosity and kindness.

There was a limit as to how many they could find so the hunt would be fair. The kids always accepted that rule without question. Well, with little questioning.

The afternoon ended with the egg cracking contest. Although I can’t remember who won those contests, I remember the older ones trying every strategy to win – holding the egg so just a little bit showed, spinning the egg to see which end had air and would be vulnerable.

Finally, we’d clean up, pack up and head home, ready for another week of work and school. We’d reminisce every year about the year before, retell the stories and add a few more.

Over the years, some of us moved out of state so we created our own Easter memories and traditions. For us, Saturday evening was for dyeing the eggs, and Sunday morning for combing through our baskets to see what the Easter Bunny brought before heading to church.

Sunday afternoon was for hunting eggs and silently wishing we were back at Mom and Dad’s to be with everyone.

I didn’t realize those fun everybody-together moments would become precious memories. I took for granted the Hebert siblings, cousins, nieces, nephews, spouses and friends would spend holidays together.

Those times together have become gold in my memory because we were gathered as a family. Didn’t matter about the spilled Kool-Aid, the stacks of dirty dishes, nor the dozens of toys scattered all over my mom’s living room floor.

Those hectic days are what I remember when my house is quiet. I replay watching my brothers play basketball in our parents’ driveway, slowly evolving into watching our nephews and nieces shoot hoops.

The same kids who once looked for Easter eggs are now hiding eggs in their back yards for their children or enjoying their own Easter traditions as a couple.

As we all make new memories, I’ll be remembering Easter egg hunts at the Hebert household, a holiday together we didn’t think was all that special.

At the time, it was simply a Sunday afternoon. Now, those moments are precious gold.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.