Birthday parties are fun occasions. For the little ones, they blow out the candles on the cake, play games and gobble cake and ice cream.

Adults either ignore the number of candles on the cake or go full tilt with drinks and food.

When someone turns 95 years of age, that’s cause for celebrating in a big way. That’s exactly what my cousins did for their mom, Mary Eade Bett. They invited me to her party, and relatives came from far and wide.

Many came from our hometown, Olean, New York. As we sat around the table at an elegant meal, the cousins spent most of the time reminiscing.

Many of us hadn’t seen each other in decades, but we found we had quite a few shared memories about our relatives in Olean.

The story of how our ancestors came to America was retold. Each one of us added a little bit more knowledge to the story, which is probably not exactly the truth, but suited us just fine.

One particular trip remains memorable, but my cousins didn’t know the whole story.

They knew my grandfather, Henry, had gone back to Lebanon to marry the girl he’d always admired. His uncle, Louie, accompanied him to marry another girl in their hometown.

What my cousins didn’t know is that an American girl who wanted to marry my grandfather found out he was sailing back with a new bride.

Infuriated, she told the authorities my grandfather was married to her, so Henry was arrested on the ship for being a bigamist. There were gasps and laughter and then the stories started to roll. Some family tales were still shrouded in mystery, others brought quite a few laughs.

We spent a good bit of the evening trying to decide how many childhood stories were true and which ones were embellished.

What came through loud and clear was how much we loved our heritage and our relatives, especially our aunts.

Aunt Vickie taught us organizational skills and how to bake banana bread. Aunt Souad always had a gentle smile and plenty of food.

Aunt Bev cherished traditions and taught us how to knit and collect antiques. Aunt Mary paved the way for the women in the family to go to college. My mom showed us it was possible to have a career and a family.

These women made time to be an important part of our lives, and all these years later, we remember their caring with fondness and love.

Getting together with family for special occasions is getting less common these days. Facebook has taken the place of phone calls and Sunday afternoon visits on the front porch. There’s still plenty of family gossip, but the mystery’s gone since we can verify everything with a quick internet search.

I often long for the days when we weren’t sure what was fact and what was fiction. We’ll never know for sure if Aunt Flip was married to a mobster, what our great-great grandmother did to earn money in the war, or what our aunt did when she worked for the CIA back in the 1950s.

In all honesty, it doesn’t really matter.

What I know to be true is how fortunate we are to have some of our relatives still with us, telling more stories and reminding us to cherish our roots.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Snowflakes are gently falling.

The grass and lawn furniture are covered in white.

From the comfort of my living room window, the scene reminds me of every sentimental Christmas movie I’ve ever seen.

But there’s a downside to the quiet covering. That fluffy white blanket covering our Southern lawns means it’s beyond cold outside. Phrases like “arctic air” and “bitter cold” are being used to describe Winter Storm Enzo.

I dread opening the door.

Having this much snow in these parts is unusual, and it’s great to see people having so much fun in this once-in-a-generation storm.

People are embracing the cold, building snowmen and having snowball fights.

They’re making snow angels and using kiddie swimming pools to sled down the sides of the ditch.

It’s a lot of fun, but what does that get them?

Wet clothes, cold faces and fingers so cold they feel like they’re going to break off.

I’ll take summer heat over winter cold any day of the week.

For starters, I’m washing twice as many clothes when it’s winter. One days’ worth of cold-weather clothes and accessories is enough for a super load.

Contrast that with summer.

I can wait a week to wash clothes because lightweight summer clothes don’t take up much room in the washer. No need for wool socks, long pants or jackets in the summer months.

There’s also the cost of clothes.

The winter jacket alone will set you back $80 and that’s if you can find a heavy one here. You also need gloves, a hat, boots and a heavy scarf. Summer shorts, a T-shirt and flip flops are a lot cheaper.

Also, Southerners are accustomed to the heat.

In the summer, we can cool off with snow cones or chew on ice in an air-conditioned spot.

But the cold? We’re ill-prepared. We panic. We stress about temperatures in the teens. We clear all the shelves in the grocery stores.

Does that mean we’re wimps? Not at all. Bring on a heat wave or a hurricane and we’ll show you Southern grit.

We can prepare for a tropical hurricane, a monsoon and a prolonged drought in a moment’s notice.

We own beach umbrellas, lawn chairs and sun visors, not snowplows, tire chains or snow shovels.

We don’t own heavy parkas lined with fake fur.

We don’t own snow boots, gloves or heavy hats.

Southerners own well-used beach bags filled with sunscreen, mosquito repellent and Adolph’s Meat Tenderizer for jellyfish bites.

Living in the North does require knowledge we don’t have. Deep South residents haven’t a clue how to defrost icy windshields, shovel snow from sidewalks or how to spot black ice.

But a cold-weather person doesn’t know shade is more important than location in a parking lot, cracking the windows a half inch is mandatory if your vehicle is in the sun and to never grab a metal car handle if the vehicle’s been exposed to the afternoon summer sun.

We’re built for the heat, and we’ll demonstrate a hundred different ways we’ve learned to live with scorching temperatures.

We’ll drag out our fans, both the big box ones and the cheap personal fans that spray air and water on your face and sit comfortably outside at a baseball game.

We’ll remind you that high humidity keeps your skin looking younger longer unlike dry cold air that dries your skin out and ages you prematurely.

I will admit there’s one major positive and one hopeful possibility about frigid cold weather.

The definite positive – no snakes.

The possibility – perhaps this layer of snow can do what we’ve been unable to do for the past 50 years – kill fire ants.

If that happens, then Winter Storm Enzo would’ve been worth it.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

When my boys were young and people asked if I worked outside the house, I told them I had a job that fit my personality like a glove.

“I get paid to be nosy,” was my go-to answer.

When the boys were older, I went back to college and was lucky to keep my job at this newspaper. The answer I gave about my career remained the same – I got paid to be nosy.

But then I entered the education field, and people wondered why I’d give up such a fun job for one that carried a long list of negatives. I’d be babysitting other people’s kids all day long, the pay was lousy, the students had no manners, and the parents were a walking nightmare.

I found the opposite to be true. I was fortunate in that I spent time with mostly inquisitive young people all day long, the pay was three times what I made being nosy, and the parents simply wanted the best for their children.

Not only do full-time teachers find this out, so do those who volunteer in the schools. A faithful reader, Larry Richardson, wrote and asked if I’d write about substitute teachers.

Larry stated they are a necessary group for the school year, and he’s absolutely correct. I’m a consultant with some of the high schools in the area, and the list of subs needed each day is mind boggling.

These wonderful people come in and take over a class at a moment’s notice – literally. They might not know anything about math or chemistry or how to teach reading, but they willingly go into the lion’s den and keep students safe, happy, and in many cases, a bit more educated than when they walked in the door that morning.

Larry’s said he’s been a substitute teacher for 19 years, and I’m guessing the substitute teacher lifestyle fits into his own. Subs can turn down jobs, take a day here or a day there or even sign on as long-term subs and stay on one campus an entire semester.

The criteria are different for each district, but most require subs to have a high school diploma or a GED. Most will ask for subs to have completed at least 60 semester hours of college coursework at an accredited college or university.

What the job description doesn’t ask for is an endless amount of patience, a hide as thick as a rhinoceros and the ability to outsmart the antics of kids in the class whose sole mission for the day is making the sub’s life miserable.

So why would a rational human being go to a school where they’ve never visited before, be given vague lesson plans and take over a classroom of 30 upset students?

Because they understand children can feel abandoned when their regular teacher doesn’t show up.

They understand they’re a place holder for the day, but children need a stable adult in the classroom.

They understand if they put in the time, there might be a special moment that day.

A moment when a child’s eyes light up with understanding, and you’re the one there to see it.

When that connection is made, magic happens between that instructor and the student.

It doesn’t take long for that sub’s reputation to spread throughout the campus, and these part-time people become campus family.

I guarantee Larry is one of those subs who is valued by both the students and the adults in the building. His love for what he does was evident in every word in his email.

If you’re looking for a meaningful way to spend your day, consider signing up to be a substitute teacher.

You might discover, like Larry Richardson did, that spending your day helping young people learn benefits you more than them.

  This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

I was replacing an empty toilet paper roll the other morning, and I found myself saving the cardboard roll.

I looked at the tube later in the day and thought “save for what?”

“You never know,” I replied, and put the empty tube in the cabinet, along with the other 10 in there, for safekeeping.

Old habits die hard when you’re a parent, and saving odds and ends for school and Scout projects is one of those difficult habits to change.

You never know when you’re going to need the very thing you tossed.

The next day, I replaced my toothbrush. Instead of throwing away the old one, I put it in the bathroom drawer along with a dozen other used toothbrushes.

I stopped and wondered why I was saving all these old toothbrushes.

“To clean the grout,” I told myself.

“Who are you kidding?” a voice in my head sneered back.

Cleaning the grout in the shower with an old toothbrush is one of those cleaning chores I’ve watched a dozen times on YouTube. I’ve yet to try any of them because cleaning an entire shower with one small toothbrush seems like a never-ending job.

But I’ll keep those old toothbrushes because you never know…

As long as I was re-examining cleaning supplies, I thought about the old towels in the laundry room. My system is to use bath towels until the edges start to fray. Then I move them to the garage, or I cut them up and use the squares as cleaning rags.

There’s a stack of cut-up towels two feet high in the laundry room. There’s no way I’ll ever use that many cleaning cloths, but I’ll keep cutting up the old towels because you never know.

When I got to the kitchen, I went through the utensil drawer. I read about the hazards of using take-out black utensils, so I threw the fast-food ones away a few weeks ago. There’s still at least five spatulas in that drawer.

I asked myself if I really needed all those spatulas.

One has a sharper edge and is great for flipping pancakes. Another is long and skinny, and it’s just right for turning over a piece of chicken. There’s a short one I’ve had for years. I seldom use it, but… you never know.

Then I opened the cabinet where we keep the drinking glasses and coffee mugs. I read an article that one does not need more glasses than people in the house. Throw away all those old drinking glasses, the articles stated.

But some of those glasses have been with me since I was in my 20’s. There’s three that came from my grandfather’s five-and-dime store. Every time I use one of those glasses, I’m reminded of The Eade Standard Store, the shelves piled high with everything a household needs.

The mugs are like old friends. Each one has a special meaning. There’s the mugs my daughter-in-law’s parents brought us from Mexico. There’s another one with the name “James” on the side. That mug belonged to my dad, and now my grandson James uses it when he comes over.

One of my favorites is my Barney Fife mug. Whenever the grandchildren want hot chocolate, I get to explain how my brother-in-law picked the mug up for me because he knows my family loves “The Andy Griffith Show.”

So, until I run out of space, I’m going to keep saving scraps of towels, empty toilet paper holders and coffee mugs.

The grandchildren might need empty toilet paper cardboard rolls for a last-minute school project.

If they do, I’m ready.

Because you never know.

 

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

I looked back over the past few years of New Years columns, and they’re a hodgepodge.

I used to write a recap about the previous year. But then the internet came along, and those kinds of wrap-up stories filled the web.

Some national columns zeroed in on specific topics, like sports highlights, entertainment or pop culture, and were head and shoulders above my writing.

I gave that tradition up and concentrated on columns involving the human condition.

I’ve written about making small resolutions, like cleaning out the pantry and dusting the miniblinds. One year, I thought I’d visit other states. The furthest I got was Louisiana.

Then there were the years I wrote regrets for not calling people more, not letting go of past hurts or being a selfish friend or relative.

Those still sting.

Writing about specific holidays is fun for the first couple of years. After that, the goal is to find a new way to write about holidays that fall on the day my column runs. Eventually, the writer runs out of innovative holiday column ideas.

I’ve arrived at that year in January 2025.

I have no words of wisdom, no list of resolutions and no advice worth passing on.

Instead, I’ll stay on familiar territory. Perhaps the goals I promise myself in January might actually come to pass by the time December rolls around if I keep them realistic.

One year, a resolution was to clean out the medicine cabinet. I was surprised to discover how many medications were expired. I learned the hard way that expired meds aren’t worth keeping.

I cleaned out my sock drawer back in 2016. But it’s a wreck again as is the kitchen junk drawer and my office. I’m convinced I work more efficiently in clutter.

At least that’s the rationalization I tell myself.

A couple of years ago, I promised to stroll the streets of downtown Rosenberg, and that’s a resolution I accomplished.

Visiting that area on a pretty day is something I’m going to do again. Hometown shopping with the people who live and work in our area is not only fun but also helps neighbors. Most of all, downtown Rosenberg shopping is a lot more fun than walking around a sterile mall.

I enjoy browsing through the antique shops as those are a walk down memory lane. One of my favorite places to visit is the Art Center. It’s a colorful reminder of how wonderfully creative people can be.

In 2017, I wrote about going back in time to my teenage days. I’m still looking for go-go boots, and the soundtrack to “Saturday Night Fever” remains a favorite.

Some resolutions stay on the list year after year.

I’ll keep adding “make apologies” to the list again. I know myself – I will continue to blunder through life, so apologies are part of my daily life.

Another thread over the years is self-improvement. I’ve promised to stop nagging, to listen more and talk less and to pay attention. Losing weight is always on the list.

I’ve failed miserably in all of those categories.

So, I’ve amended the resolution to one that’s actually doable – give myself a break.

Accepting who I am and what I can and can’t accomplish might be the best resolutions I can make for 2025.

All those lofty promises have accomplished is make me feel guilty for what I didn’t finish and not give myself enough credit for what I did check off the list.

Reading through my past New Years columns, there’s one wish that appears year after year.

It’s to remain hopeful.

And, in 2025, that’s a resolution I can honestly keep.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.