Milestone birthdays are the ones we look forward to achieving.

The first one I celebrated was an odd year. In Louisiana, teens could get their driver’s license at the age of 15, and I desperately wanted to drive.

On my birthday, I arrived at the DMV before they opened and was the first person in line to get my license.

The next milestone birthday was the year I turned 18. Not because I could buy liquor and cigarettes.

The real reason was – nerd alert – because I could vote in a presidential election.

I was so excited to finally have a voice in helping choose the next president.

Turning 50 was a big deal for me. I’d started a new career, and my boys were living in a college dorm. My identity had changed from mom to no-longer-needed mom. With a few bumps and tears, the year turned into a successful milestone.

Fifty-five was a great year because the discounts began to flutter in my lap like autumn leaves. Stores had a special day of the week where seniors got an extra discount.

Restaurants, like IHOP and Dairy Queen, offered “early-bird specials” for people over the age of 55, and I loved getting a couple of bucks off the price of my pancakes or burgers.

There wasn’t a discount or special offer I missed once I hit that golden age. Every place I went, I’d always ask for the senior discount.

Twenty percent off clothes on Wednesdays, special discounts on Tuesdays and free coffee at some fast-foot joints. Throw in an AARP card, and the savings roll in for the silver-haired crowd.

Lots of businesses cater to old folks. Tuesdays are senior discount days at the movies, but that’s not a huge incentive for me. Being older means I don’t like driving at night, so I usually go to the afternoon matinee.

But I love that the discount is available.

This year, I had another milestone birthday – 70. Most people don’t like admitting how old they are. I look at it differently.

I had no control over when I was born, so my age isn’t a decision I made, and I don’t mind telling people how old I am.

So far, being 70 has come in handy.

My cell phone was giving me a headache. I got a message that the phone couldn’t save my photos because I didn’t have enough room in the cloud.

I already pay extra for storage, and I didn’t want to upgrade again. I went to the Apple Store, and a nice young lady asked if she could help me.

“I’m having trouble with storage,” I told her, and then I had an idea.

“You know, I’m 70 years old and these things just aren’t as easy as they were when I was your age,” I said as I held out the phone to her.

She smiled and helped me figure out the problem.

I think she felt like she was helping her own grandmother.

After that, I was on a roll.

The tire pressure light came on in my car, so I went to the tire store. I explained to the nice young man that I was 70 years old.  I didn’t have a clue what all those bells and lights were all about.

Just like the girl in the Apple Store, he smiled and said he’d handle everything for me.

Admission – I knew more than I let them see. I think the old saying is “dumb like a fox.”

These milestone birthdays just might be worth their weight in gold. I wonder what I can get when I hit 80?

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.     

One of my favorite shows is “Young Sheldon.” The characters are three-dimensional, and the story lines are relatable.

Almost every episode, the Cooper family sits down to dinner, often to an American meal of meatloaf, mashed potatoes and carrots.

Growing up, family dinners in the Hebert house are reminiscent of the ones on “Young Sheldon.” I often wonder how our mom managed to work outside the home and then get a hot meal on the table every night.

Mom was a great cook, and some of the meals I remember were spaghetti and meatballs, gumbo and baked chicken. Mom either made the salad dressing, or a bottle of Wish-Bone Italian Dressing was on the table.

We always had Kool-Aid to drink, and somebody spilled their drink at every single dinner. Manners were expected, and we always had to ask to be excused before getting up.

When we were teens, we’d miss weekly dinners because of jobs or after-school activities. The one meal we were forbidden to miss was Sunday dinner.

Sunday mornings were always chaotic. Before we left for church, Mom would put a pot roast in the oven on low heat while we all fought for time in the bathroom.

But somehow seven children and two adults managed to pile into my Dad’s old Cadillac and arrive at St. Isidore Catholic Church.

Always late.

Always to the front row.

I remember being mortified as we marched down the center aisle – our own parade – and slid into the pew. Usually, a slight shoving match took place when we were sitting next to each other which earned us a withering look from either mom or dad and, once, the priest.

At home, we all pitched in to get dinner ready. A cotton tablecloth was mandatory for Sunday dinners, and we’d set out the plates – all collected with coupons from Winn-Dixie.

Another sibling would make the Kool-Aid while one put ice in the glasses. Mom expertly made the mashed potatoes, warmed the corn, whipped up a salad and got the roast on a platter.

We’d say the blessing and then dig in. It was a rule that we passed to the right, understandable because it was mass chaos without that traffic pattern.

While we ate, we talked about a variety of topics, from what we’d done that week to what was happening in the world.

We were free to give our opinion about politics as long as they agreed with our dad’s philosophy that everything was a communist plot.

Our sister, Diane, loved to argue with Dad and he loved the back-and-forth as much as she did. Some of those “discussions” got pretty loud, but Diane said that’s how they communicated.

Nobody got up from the table until after dessert, and we all helped clean up the kitchen, wash the dishes and put things away. All the while, conversations were taking place.

At the time, we didn’t realize those meals would become some of our favorite childhood memories. Unfortunately, I didn’t recreate Sunday dinners with my boys. But whenever the grandchildren are over, we sit down together for meals.

One of our dinner traditions is for everyone to say one good thing that happened to them that day. If I forget to ask, one of the grands will pipe up with a good event from the day.

We linger at the table and talk, and the faint memories of my family are always in my head.

Every time I watch a television show where people are sitting down to share a meal, I’m glad the writers remember those little things, like sharing a bowl of mashed potatoes or spilling a glass of red Kool-Aid, can create some of the best childhood memories.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

The first week of school is an exciting, and exhausting, time for everyone in the family. As a grandparent, it’s a sigh of relief, knowing we don’t have to get up before dawn and face those early-morning battles.

That first week can also be a sentimental one. We remember the tender moments from when our children were young and eager to go to school.

There’s an excitement about shopping for back-to-school supplies. I imagined leisurely picking out backpacks, supplies, and clothes with the boys, all of us happy about this new phase.

That’s not exactly how those preparations happened.

Even when I shopped early, there were angry crowds on the school supply aisle, and not just from the frazzled moms. There was the inevitable argument and meltdown with my sons about what kind of backpack to buy.

Batman and Spiderman were popular. One year, there was no rest until we found a backpack decorated with Ninja Turtles. When they left elementary school, we were looking for plain black backpacks.

I went shopping with my grandchildren for backpacks, and the 10-year-old practically jumped for joy when he found one with Minecraft logos. When he touched the front and the panel lit up, you’d have thought he won the lottery.

The school supply list is a nightmare for parents. I learned early to buy the kit from the school, but there were always a few “extras” they needed that weren’t on the list. I was frantic, trying to find everything listed.

But the first year I cleaned out backpacks in May and found that unopened pack of red-and-blue pencils, I quit trying to check everything off the list.

Lunchboxes were a new adventure as well. Mine claimed they didn’t like the school-provided lunch, so I made their lunches every morning. Said lunches had to go in an acceptable lunchbox. Popular ones for our boys included a few Batman lunchboxes, a Roger Rabbit plastic one and the must-have Ninja Turtle lunchboxes.

Once they were in middle school, the only acceptable lunch container was a brown paper bag. Because they were growing, I had to join Sam’s Club so I could buy larger paper bags.

I was lucky that my sons weren’t picky about clothes. If there was a superhero on the front, we were good to go.

Once uniforms were instituted, back-to-school clothes shopping got a whole lot easier.

Until they got to high school. Then I became an ignoramus who churned butter and had absolutely no fashion sense. I finally gave them a budget and let them choose what they wanted. If they wanted to blow the budget on a pair of expensive jeans, that was their choice.

Luckily, they were used to checking price tags, so they usually made frugal choices.

Then, finally, the first day of school arrives.

As the bus lumbered down the street, boys safely inside, I remember closing the front door and sighing with relief that the morning chaos was over.

I replayed the “Halleluiah” chorus in my mind as I headed to the kitchen to put away cereal boxes, milk, and half-eaten pieces of toast.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but those first days of school would be memories in the blink of an eye.

Now my grandchildren are looking forward to their first day of school. Reliving my sons’ days through them is a nostalgic feeling I’m glad to share with my daughters-in-law.

They are wonderful moms, and I believe they’re feeling the same way I felt for all those years. I know they’re shedding a few tears as they wave goodbye.

There’s a big part of me that’s relieved I don’t have to pack up three lunches every morning, fight the “did-you-brush-your-teeth” battles and pray nobody tells me they feel like throwing up.

At this point, the memories are what’s priceless.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

There’s a giant hole in our bathroom ceiling.

Not by choice, but by necessity.

A few weeks ago, we noticed a light brown spot on the ceiling, and we knew it was a leak. We thought the water was due to the recent heavy rains. A contractor came out, cut a hole in the ceiling and found the culprit.

There was a 29-cent cap that failed on a cold-water line that went nowhere – unbelievably odd – and the ceiling and some walls needed to be replaced.

While the contractor was looking around outside for additional leaks, he noticed a few places where the roof had failed, so he suggested we replace the roof.

The 30-year roof lasted about 14 years, which I’m told, is about par for roofs these days.

Accepting the short shelf life seems to be the phrase of the day.

We heard the same story about the expected timeline for appliances a few years ago when I had to replace a freezer we kept in the garage. Our 20-year-old Kenmore freezer had survived two moves, countless power outages and grazing teenagers before it finally gave up.

I went to an appliance store and asked for another freezer that would last that long. I kid you not, this was the salesperson’s reply: “Ma’am, we don’t make them to last that long anymore.”

Our dryer has been chugging away for over 25 years. It’s noisy and simple but whenever I look at new dryers, I choke at the price tag.

Then I realize a new, expensive model will only last a couple of years. I might as well hang on to the old one because I know it’ll hold up.

It seems electronics are built to be useful until the newest cell phone, tablet or laptop hits the market. Even though you’re happy with your old model, manufacturers make it difficult to keep them.

You can’t get replacement parts any more or they change the port size so your tried-and-true flash drives and devices no longer work.

We have a box of cords that no longer fit any electronic devices, but I have a hard time throwing them away. Every upgrade requires a different cord. It’s impossible to keep up.

There are warranties you can buy when you purchase an item. I still laugh about the $4 three-hole puncher I bought that offered a protection plan for only $6.

Then we must keep up with the warranty. My desk looks like a tornado touched down, so I’d never find that warranty if I put it in one of the desk’s nooks and crannies. Even though I have a filing cabinet, I don’t think I could fit another piece of paper in there.

Besides, few companies issue paper warranties these days. Everything’s electronic, and my email box is fuller than a tick on a summer day.

Until the studs and dry wall are completely dry, we’ve got a gaping hole in the ceiling, a dehumidifier fan blowing 24/7 and a fine coating of dry wall dust covering the counters, floor, light fixtures and ceiling fan blades.

We signed up for a new roof, but when the contractor told me this one was sure to last at least 20 years, all I could do was laugh.

I’ve learned warranties these days are about as valuable as believing Santa or the Easter Bunny is going to deliver a dryer or new freezer that’ll last another 25 years.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.