In a family with seven children, the only day specifically for us was our birthday. Mom cooked our favorite dinner and cake. Gifts weren’t extravagant, but she always bought us something she knew we’d like.

Today, Sept. 26, is our mom’s 92^nd birthday, and it’s a day to celebrate her.

She claims she never thought she’d live this long, and she constantly questions why she’s here. I could name all the things we say to people when they utter those statements – “God has a plan” or “Don’t say things like that.”

You still have a lot to teach us, Mom, but here’s a few of the life lessons you’ve taught us so far:

Faith. You have a deep faith in your religion, and you live that faith. It wasn’t easy to get seven children to Mass every Sunday, but you did. We received all the sacraments and knew all the prayers out of the Baltimore Catechist.

In May, we picked flowers for an altar to honor the Blessed Virgin because you have a special relationship with the Blessed Mother. We know you always hoped one of your sons would become a priest, but you’re thankful they’re all good, decent, honorable men.

Perseverance. Over the years, life has thrown you a series of tragedies. Your younger brother passed away unexpectedly on your birthday. Your mother never celebrated your birthday after that, and it was difficult for everyone. We didn’t know if we should be happy or sad.

But you taught us that life goes on. We grieve, we mourn, but then we remember that others are still here and deserve our attention. It must’ve been hard every year on your birthday, but you made sure we understood that life is to be celebrated.

Humor. You have a great sense of humor, and the person you laugh at the most is yourself. When my sister retired a few weeks ago, she told Mom she’d be coming to see her more often. Mom’s reply was “Is that a threat?”

She’s notorious for being a food pusher, and she hounded my brother one day about eating. As he was leaving, she held up a bag and said, “We have pears!” We all ribbed her about trying to force feed Jimmy.

That year for Christmas, we all got a small plate with a pear painted on it. She said the plate would ensure we always had pears at our house. She might laugh at jokes, but she mostly laughs at herself.

Determination. When Mom graduated from high school, she desperately wanted to go to college. My grandparents told her that was ridiculous – her job was to marry a Lebanese boy and have lots of Lebanese babies.

She told my grandfather one of her female cousins was going off to business school.

“I guess we’re not as good as them,” she told him, and he instantly bristled. The result was Mom got to go to business school, a career that served her well all her life.

She worked outside the home when we were growing up, but I don’t remember that she was gone. I remember her cooking dinner for us every single night. We always had clean clothes, food, encouragement and support no matter what we wanted to do.

Traditions. Every single Sunday after Mass, we had roast, rice, gravy, salad, corn and rolls for dinner. Attendance was a requirement, not a request. On Christmas Eve, my dad would read the story of the Nativity, and then we’d take turns opening gifts.

After Dad passed, my brother took on the role of reading the story. Mom made sure that 65-year tradition still holds.

Wisdom. Mom would brush off this compliment, saying she’s simply doing the best she can. But whenever I need a kick in the pants, she gives it to me. When I need to cry it out, she lets me sob and then tells me to wash my face. Her words and actions have guided me my whole life, and she’s never steered me wrong.

She doesn’t play favorites, but we all think we’re her favorite. Her grandchildren and great-grandchildren think she hangs the moon, and they’re right.

Delores Hebert is my role model, the person I admire most in the world and my best friend. We are so fortunate Mom’s still with us, and none of us take that blessing for granted. Some mothers are toxic, and some are absentee parents.

We know we hit the jackpot when we got Delores for our mom, our children’s Siti and our grandchildren’s Sit-Siti.

We’re going to celebrate you today, Mom and every day we’re lucky enough to have you here with us.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

As a young parent, I wanted to make sure my boys had all the educational opportunities I could find.

We read books, visited the library and had conversations to increase their vocabulary.

Although, looking back, I’m not sure what “stop that,” “who did this” and “I said so” did much to improve their word banks.

There were toys the experts said would help children develop intellectually. Perhaps those gifts did increase their brain power, although it was hard to detect as I walked over dirty clothes and discarded bath towels strewn from the bathroom to their room.

While some were great, there are some that are the worst:

Toy Musical Instruments. These are at the top of the list. Your child might whine for a toy drum, and you could think for a nano second that an instrument could wake up their inner Mozart.

Resist at all costs to your hearing and sanity.

Play-Doh. Play-Doh will stimulate a child’s imagination. They can build anything they want out of this dough that’s safe for children.

Unless, of course, they eat the whole can of dough, thinking because it’s pink it must taste good.

Play-Doh is virtually impossible to remove from your carpet and clothes. This is especially true if the stuck-on Play-Doh makes it to the laundry pile. Play-Doh is sneaky and shares its dye with everything in the dryer.

Legos. These are so much fun for kids, but when you step on one in the middle of the night, you will scream in pain. The same goes for Matchbox cars. So much fun, but not for your bare feet.

Wooden blocks. These are advertised as incredible for a child’s imagination. Not only will they learn different shapes, but they can also build entire cities.

In reality, your child will dump the entire box of blocks on the floor, use them as weapons and then leave the three thousand blocks on the floor for you to pick up because their “city” was demolished by an earthquake.

A 2-year-old earthquake.

Tea sets. Most children love tea parties. But a pretend tea party requires liquid for those little cups.

You’ll watch your child fill every single cup and teapot with water for the party. They will then spill every cup all over the bathroom sink that will trickle down over your wooden cabinets, into the floor and carpet.

Markers and crayons. These are wonderful in helping children create what’s in their imagination. Sometimes those dreams make their way to paper, but most of the time, those artists draw on the walls and themselves.

There are washable markers, but they always leave a trace on shirts. And for walls, washable means most of the paint is coming off along with the fire-engine red color.

Kids also like to try and eat the crayons and color their faces and tongues with the markers. It’s lovely to ask your child to stick out their tongue and find they decided purple was a much better color to have in their mouth.

Make-up. Manufacturers sell play make-up, but they’re just as destructive. Lipstick ends up all over their face, not just the lips. As a bonus, they’ll write on the walls, mirrors and their siblings with the darkest shade of lipstick you own.

Children also think lipstick tastes good. It doesn’t, but they’ll try it anyway. Eyeshadow doubles as blush – all over their face – and liquid make up works best as paint on the wall.

Before you buy a supposed toy for the kids or grandkids, give a thought as to what your child sees in that item versus what you see.

You see something to stimulate their imaginations. They see something they can smear all over everything in the house and themselves.

Read them a book instead. At least you can put that back on the shelf with little chance of a two-foot-tall tornado rolling through your house.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

There’s a scene in “Back to the Future” where Marty McFly watches gas station attendants rushing out to pump the gas, check the tires and clean the windshield on a vehicle.

That’s known as customer service, and, these days, it’s in short supply.

I called a medical office to make an appointment to address some sunspots on my face. I checked references online, researched different clinics and decided on a place affiliated with a major hospital.

The first question the person answering the phone asked was if I had insurance. This was before she asked my name, age, or why I was coming in.

I said I did and then provided all the numbers and information she asked for.

Next, she asked if I had an appointment preference. When we agreed on a date and time, that’s when she asked for my name, email address and phone number.

There was never a question about whether the dermatologist could take care of my issue. Never a question about what I needed.

But lots of time spent on whether or not they’d get paid and filling out an electronic form.

My sister-in-law provided context in that she’d been to a doctor’s office that didn’t ask about the insurance.

When the visit was over, they informed her they didn’t take her insurance, and she was liable for the whole bill.

I’ll give the place I called the benefit of the doubt, but it’s the placement of the question that bothered me.

I went back and called the second place on my list. The person on the phone asked my name and why I was coming in.

When I told her, she said they could handle what I needed. That’s when she asked for my insurance information.

I provided the information, concluded the call and then called the first place back. I cancelled the first appointment and told the person who answered the phone, the same one I’d talked to earlier, why I was cancelling.

She didn’t care and hung up without an apology or an attempt to retain my business. That’s poor customer service.

I don’t shop in stores where the lines are long and there’s a shortage of cashiers.

I spend my money where the company hires people to make my wait in line – sometimes at 5 p.m. after working all day – as short as possible.

I’m not rude to the people who work in understaffed stores or businesses because they’re simply following the directives of the company.

Most of them will go the extra mile to make the customer or client feel comfortable.

Those are the places that get my money because customer satisfaction doesn’t cost a dime.

That intangible requires the owner of the company to ensure customers are treated with dignity and respect no matter if they spend one dollar or a thousand dollars.

Quality customer service requires the employee to remember without the customer’s money, they don’t have a job.

Small-town businesses remember that unwritten rule. So many local places know you by name.

In restaurants, a servicer will put an iced tea on the table when you sit down because they know that’s what you order.

They smile when talking to you, respect your time and thank you for making the decision to give them your business.

I had both ends of the spectrum today.

I chose the company that asked my name and what I needed before they asked for my money.

In my book, that’s quality customer service.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

An online article caught my eye – “Pinnacle Man, Found in Cave Nearly 50 Years Ago, Has Been Identified.”

Back in 1977, two hikers found a man’s frozen body in a cave in eastern Pennsylvania.

No one came forth to claim the young man’s body, so his paperwork moved to the cold case file. But thanks to Ian Keck, a trooper with the Pennsylvania State Police Department who used “old-fashioned police work,” the man was identified as Nicholas Paul Grubb.

These are the kinds of cases that fascinate me, and there’s plenty of these kinds of unsolved mysteries on crime podcasts.

My son Nick said he loves listening to “who-dun-it” podcasts while driving, so I tuned into one and listened to at least three of the shows. Full confession – I’m a long-time fan of crime shows.

Back in the 1970s, Peter Falk starred as Lt. Columbo, a homicide detective with the Los Angeles Police Department.

Columbo had a disarming way to lull the murderers into believing he was an inept, forgetful detective. I never missed an episode.

Similar to “Columbo” was “Quincy” with Jack Klugman as a medical examiner who couldn’t resist investigating mysterious deaths. His energy was contagious and fun.

My sister wouldn’t miss an episode “Starsky & Hutch,” mostly for the two gorgeous stars instead of the somewhat weak scripts they were assigned.

All of these shows had likeable main characters, interesting story lines and the cases wrapped up in a nice, neat package in 60 minutes.

That’s not always the case with true crime podcasts.

First, they’re all based on real cases. Many have been covered on television programs like “48 Hours” or newspaper stories, and the podcast hosts cite where they got their information.

I tuned into one of the most well-known podcasts from National Public Radio. “Serial” was a 12-part podcast about a young girl, Hae Min Lee, who was murdered. Police arrested her ex-boyfriend, Adnan Syed, for her murder.

Years later, Sarah Koenig’s detailed reporting was the reason the case was reopened and Syed, who’d been in jail, was released.

Over the next two weeks, I listened to all 12 hours of Koenig’s award-winning podcast. I was curious to hear more crime show podcasts, and was surprised to find there are quite a few choices out there.

The top-rated podcast is “My Favorite Murder.” Karen Kilgariff and Georgia Hardstark talk about true crimes that are compelling and cover a variety of cases. Warning – there’s a lot of profanity along with, of all things, laughter.

On two of my favorites, “Crime Junkie Radio” and “Southern Mysteries,” the hosts give their own impressions of what happened in the cases. Many times, they’re critical of law enforcement, but they usually give them credit for working with the resources they had at the time.

So much has changed over the years.

These days, there are cameras mounted outside almost every home, on every street corner and in and outside of most businesses. People can be tracked by cell phone tower pings, having their vehicle tagged on highway monitors or on individual cell phones.

But years ago, that wasn’t the case. Police cases were solved by detectives running down every clue in person or on the telephone, painstakingly trying to uncover “whodunnit.”

For some of the old cold cases, modern technology allows detectives to run DNA analysis. They can now examine fibers and hair that were found and preserved from the murder scene to help pinpoint the guilty parties.

Listening to how detectives follow leads, whether it was in the 1940s or last week, is fascinating and a different break from the same-old, same-old top 40 songs.

The next time you’re stuck in traffic, folding clothes or taking a car trip, find a crime podcast and become your own Columbo.

You’ll be hooked, just like me.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

PROMPT:  A picture of an elderly man wearing a suit and a red tie with earphones on. His hands are up, like he’s conducting the music.

 “Excuse me,” a voice said.

Francis Donovan was startled out of his daydream. The headphones had drowned out the noise in the music store, and he’d been lost in bygone days. The music playing on the headphones was from a long time ago. He could almost smell the sweat in the ballroom from young people dancing without the benefit of air conditioning. He was just about to start twirling his hips – just a little because his arthritis was killing him this afternoon – when the voice brought him back to reality.

“Would you like to buy those headphones?”

The voice belonged to a young man wearing a name tag with “Jason.” The plastic name plate was attached to a blue shirt with the store’s logo above the tag. Francis blinked a couple of times to come back to the present day. He wasn’t in a Brooklyn school gym back in 1960. He was in a box store in Florida, trying to fill the hours between lunch and dinner with something other than watching the Gameshow Network and reruns of “M.A.S.H.”

Francis pulled one of the earpieces away and looked at the young man – teenager really – with a look he knew would stop any annoying questions. It was a look he’d honed from his many years as a conductor for a small community orchestra.

“Do I look like I’m finished young man?” Francis said, his voice controlled yet firm.

The teenager put his hands up in a defensive motion.

“Whoa, dude, I’m just checking to see if you wanted to get those headphones,” he said. “Take your time, but we do have some wireless buds you might like better.”

Francis kept his gaze on the teenager until the boy spotted a younger customer and quickly walked away. Over his shoulder, he spoke to Francis again.

“Remember, we work on commission here, so if you want to get those better headphones, my name is Jason and I’d appreciate the support,” he said, a smile in his voice.

Francis watched until the boy turned the corner and then he put the headphones back on. As he fiddled with his phone to return to the spot where he’d been, he was glad he hadn’t traded in his old Motorola for a newer model. His son, Frank, had given him an iPhone for Christmas, but Francis politely gave it back, telling his eldest son he was perfectly happy with his old phone. The truth was, Francis knew how the phone worked, and he wasn’t sure he could learn a new device with all the fancy bells and whistles. Besides, the old phone had headphone jacks, and Francis loved listening to music on YouTube from the old days, back when arthritis was a word he couldn’t spell and metal walkers were for geezers.

Ah, here was the spot where that boy, what was his name – Jacob, Johnny – had interrupted him. It was Tommy Dorsey with one of his best hits “Getting Sentimental Over You.” Francis put the headphones back on and hit the play button on his phone.

The trombone was smooth, and Francis could feel his hands rise as he conducted the orchestra. Pull back on the trumpets a bit, he thought, and his hand swayed through the air. Let the trombone be the star here, he could hear himself telling the musicians. Keep the beat slow but steady, when called for, louder at just the right moment.

Francis felt a wave of sadness wash over him as the music came to an end. The feeling wasn’t just from the melancholy notes. The song always reminded him of the night he met his future wife, Mary. They were both at a dance in early 1960, right before The Beatles and rock and roll would take over the world.

Orchestras were still “keen,” and Francis knew one day he’d be the one standing in front of the instruments, stick in hand, leading the musicians through the notes to create lasting memories and sounds. That moment was as clear to him now as it was back in 1960.

Francis looked across the room and saw her. A group of young girls were standing together as they shyly looked around the room, watching the dancers on the floor. Francis didn’t hesitate – he walked quickly to the group and asked Mary to dance. That was the first dance of many they’d share together over the next 50 years.

All at once, Francis had tears rolling down his face. He missed his wife. He missed his youth. He missed the music that had provided a living for him, comforted him in tough times and lifted him up when his spirits were sagging.

“Hey mister, you okay?” he heard a voice say. It was that persistent sales boy, what was his name, John? Jerry? He was looking at Francis with concern, and the older man felt ashamed. This young boy was simply doing his job. Having an old codger fall over dead wasn’t something anybody wanted to handle in an after-school job.

Francis took the headphones off and tried to smile.

“Yes, young man, er Jason,” he said, glancing at the boy’s name tag, kicking himself mentally for not being able to remember such an easy name.

“Just lost in the music from the old days,” he said sheepishly, removing his eyeglasses and wiping his cheeks. Jason relaxed and smiled.

“I know what you mean,” he said. “Whenever I hear songs from when I was a kid, I’m right back there in my mom’s car, listening to her sing Barbra Streisand songs at the top of her lungs, off key, of course.”

The two laughed. This kid wasn’t so bad, Francis thought.

“So, what song were you listening to that made you, well, get emotional,” Jason asked, pointing at Francis’s phone.

Francis thought about brushing off the boy, but he took a chance.

“It’s an old Tommy Dorsey song about being sentimental,” he said, a little embarrassed. “I got to thinking about my wife and how we danced to that song.”

Instead of excusing himself, Jason seemed to lean closer to Francis. A wistful look was on the boy’s face.

“Before they got divorced, my mom and dad used to dance in the kitchen,” he said. Francis knew Jason’s mind was back in time, just as he’d been a few minutes earlier.

“They’d laugh as they did these dances with stupid names like the swim,” Jason said. “It was if we kids were invisible because they were laughing and shaking their butts. Is that how people danced in your time?”

Francis told him how his generation danced in a more sophisticated style, like the waltz, when he first entered high school but then the music changed.

“By the time I was a senior, rock and roll had arrived, and kids were doing dances like the twist,” Francis said, remembering how awkward he felt when guitars and drums replaced trumpets and trombones.

Jason laughed.

“The twist? Was that really the name of a dance?” he asked, continuing to laugh.

Francis couldn’t help but smile.

“Young man, if these hips weren’t full of arthritis, I’d show you some moves that would make you green with envy,” Francis said, and the two laughed.

Francis tilted his head and looked at Jason.

“So, do you dance?”

Jason shrugged.

“Nah, my generation isn’t really into dancing,” he said. “We mostly listen to music on our earbuds and stand around at the school dances. My mom makes me go because she wants me to be more social.”

Francis looked a little closer at Jason. The boy was wearing braces on his teeth, and his pants were a little short. His hair looked like it had been cut in the kitchen. He probably had trouble fitting in, Francis thought, and immediately felt a pang of sorrow for the boy.

“Well, being social isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” Francis said, remembering how he felt as a misfit 16-year-old boy. A memory suddenly popped into his head of a song that had been one of his favorites.

“There was a song by Bobby Vinton, ‘Mr. Lonely,’ and I probably listened to that thing a hundred times when I was your age. That seems like so long ago,” Francis said slowly.

But then Mary came along, and his life changed. Now she was gone, and he was probably closer to being Mr. Lonely again. He’d forgotten the boy was still standing there until Jason touched him on the shoulder.

“Well, mister, music can make you happy or sad. Doesn’t matter if you’re listening to it on your old phone there,” he said smiling and pointing at the device on the counter. “What do you say we listen to something a little happier. If I can talk you into a better phone, you can get earbuds and really rock and roll.”

Francis had to smile. Being sentimental, reliving the past, was a place he visited more than was good for him, he knew. He picked up his phone and patted Jason on the shoulder.

“All right, young man,” Francis said, hope in his voice. “Let’s see if you can fix me up with a set up that’s not too hard for this old geezer to learn. Maybe you can give me some suggestions for some modern tunes.”

Jason smiled.

“Cool,” he said. “Come on. I know just what you need.”

Francis wanted to say nobody really knew what someone else needed in life but, every once in a while, somebody comes along who knows what’s needed, if only for the moment.