Children’s books are stacked high on the end table in our family room, and seeing them always makes me happy.

When our grandchildren were young, reading books together on the couch was a nightly ritual.

They’d pick out some of their favorites, and we’d snuggle under a blanket while I read the books aloud. Later, when they were learning to read, we’d take turns reading the pages. I never knew if they’d simply memorized the story or were actually reading. That didn’t matter. Reading aloud together was a perfect way to end the day’s activities.

When our sons were young, our nightly ritual always included books. At 8 p.m., it was bath time followed by snack time. Brushing teeth and picking up toys were next. The boys would climb into bed, and we’d read a story to them.

I wish I could say this idyllic setting was every night, but life gets in the way. Sometimes they’d fall into bed tired and dirty, and stories were put on the back burner.

I also wish I could say I was a Mary Poppins reader, but the boys would often catch me skipping pages because I was the one who was tired and dirty and only wanted to fall into bed.

Looking back, sitting next to my sons at bedtime, reading favorite tales and then tucking them in remains some of my favorite memories. Because I’m an avid reader, we visited the library on a regular basis. We had a variety of books to choose from at night, and having different books kept their interest alive in reading.

One of our favorite books was “The Monster At The End Of The Book,” a Sesame Street tale about Grover, the loveable monster who discovers he’s the scary monster at the end of the book.

I thought about that book a few months ago, and found it on the internet. The grands and I read it together, and they laughed at the end, just as my boys had many years ago.

Today’s books on the end table include a few “Pigeon” books by Mo Willems. A persistent pigeon tries to convince people he can drive a bus or he doesn’t need to go to bed.

The drawings are simple, but the kids laugh out loud every time we read about this stubborn pigeon.

My wonderful niece Hope is also an voracious reader, and she posts her favorite books on her Instagram account. I bought the ones she recommended, and she was right – the grands loved the stories.

One of their favorites is about counting monkeys who don’t appear until the last page. Watching the kids do hand motions, turn pages slowly and follow other suggestions to get rid of pesky critters in the story is fun for both me and the kids.

Not everyone enjoys having a book read aloud to them, however. I’m a fan of Louisiana writer James Lee Burke, especially his detective character Dave Robicheaux.

I was in the midst of working my way through the Robicheaux series when my mom had surgery. While she was recuperating, I told her I’d read aloud to her because she was still a little groggy.

Using what I considered my best Louisiana accent, I started reading to her. Suddenly, she put her hand on the book and said two words – “stop reading.”

Thereafter, my brother Jeff would threaten Mom with my reading the book if she didn’t take her medicine.

So I returned to the under 10 crowd who seemed to appreciate my voices and accents in our favorite books.

The next time the older grands come over, I think we’ll go through those books on the end table and reminisce about our favorite characters and plots. I can’t think of a better way to spend a hot summer afternoon than curled up on the couch with a favorite, familiar book.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Former publisher Clyde King had a tradition of writing about the Darwin Awards. The dubious award came up in conversations with my grandson this week. He’s studying to get his learners permit, and part of the curriculum is vehicle observation.

It’s easy to point out the difference between the dashed lines and the solid lines in the middle of the road and their meaning.

Even though parallel parking is tricky, it’s a lot easier than explaining why certain drivers attempt some of the hare-brained stunts we’ve seen on the roadways.

Here’s a few of the maneuvers we’ve witnessed this summer:  a small sedan crossed four lanes of heavy traffic at 60 miles per hour to make an upcoming exit.

Another man left a gas station and instead of turning right onto a divided highway, he turned left, the wrong way.

Luckily the light was red for oncoming traffic, and, in the midst of at least a dozen people honking their horns from three different directions, he was able to turn safely at the light.

We’ve seen people driving at least 90 mph on the freeways, tailgaters where I could make out their names on their shirts, people reading a book while behind the wheel and dozens of boneheads running stop signs and red lights.

These are the reasons I found myself explaining the meaning of a Darwin Award.

Established in 1993 by Wendy Northcutt, the Darwin Awards are given to people who are not only stupid but exceedingly stupid. There are rules for qualifying, including the person must no longer be living and the event must be true.

Writers of the website use humor to describe some of the dumb things people have done, resulting in a good laugh at people’s inability to see the results of their ridiculous decisions.

Keeping Clyde’s tradition going, here’s a few of my favorite Darwin Award winners.

In 2019, two Texas men decided to ignore the fact that the Black Bayou Drawbridge in Lake Charles, La. was closed to cars and open to boats.

Who could resist this challenge? Obviously not these two.

They tried a “Smokey and the Bandit” trick to vault over the open drawbridge, but, alas, their car fell short, dropped into the water and the men drowned.

Road rage will get you every time. Two vehicles were in a fender-bender in Poland in 2018, and the drivers jumped out of their cars and began arguing. That grew into a physical fight, and the two wrestled until they were facing oncoming traffic.

A huge truck came along and ended the argument, and the lives, of the two road-ragers.

The Darwin Awards aren’t the only place where people are recognized for their stupid antics. A would-be criminal in Atlanta tried to rob a nail salon, but nobody bought the fact that he was serious.

Eventually, the thief realized he wasn’t getting any reactions from the women in the salon, and he left without a dime.

Here’s one for probably the dumbest criminal in Texas. Undercover police were on a stakeout in Lakeway, hoping to catch a car thief.

When the thief tried to steal their unmarked police car, he found the vehicle filled with officers.

Busted.

As I explained to Alex, there’s no shortage of stupid people in this world. That’s why it’s best to always keep an eye on the road because, if you think somebody’s going to do something stupid, chances are they will.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Crawfish pistolettes.

Soft buns filled with a creamy, tangy cheese sauce, bursting with tender, perfectly cooked crawfish.

Heaven on a plate.

Ever since my drive home from Baton Rouge a few weeks ago, I’ve been obsessed with crawfish pistolletes, a delicacy I’d never eaten before but one that unexpectedly became my top seafood choice.

Leaving Louisiana without picking up a Cajun treat was not an option. Lake Charles, La. is one of the last big cities on I-10 heading to Houston, so the search for last-minute seafood was on.

All my life, my family is a food-driven one. Vacations are remembered for where we ate, not the sights we saw.

Get togethers center around what’s on the menu. There’s always the main course with at least six side dishes. Desserts are a must, even though most of us are trying to watch the fat intake.

My sweet tooth demanded I find a way to cut calories for a favorite dessert, banana pudding.

The old-fashioned way to make this dessert is with vanilla pudding, sweetened condensed milk, bananas and cookies.

I streamlined the recipe to using sugar-free instant pudding with skim milk, lots of bananas, low-fat Cool Whip and low-fat vanilla wafers.

Maybe not the full bang for the buck, but close enough.

Back to the pistolettes.

I’d never heard of this Cajun delicacy until that trip out of Louisiana in May. I stopped at a restaurant near the state line and went inside

The lady at the counter noticed I was taking a long time to make a decision. I told her I wanted a small snack, something to tide me over until I got home.

“What’s your favorite seafood?” she asked.

Instantly, I replied crawfish.

“A crawfish pistolette is perfect for you,” she said.

She described the appetizer as a white-bread bun with crawfish filling. Sounded basic so I ordered one to go.

I didn’t open the bag until I’d crossed the state line. One bite in, and I instantly regretted not ordering a dozen of those babies.

The cheese was hot, creamy and smooth. The crawfish were plump and had the right amount of Cajun seasonings. The bread was the perfect vehicle for that filling. To say I was hooked was an understatement.

After I got home, I searched for restaurants near my home for pistolettes.

Nothing.

I expanded the search to the greater Houston area.

Nothing again.

So I went online to find the recipe. I’m not a good cook. In fact, if there’s more than five ingredients, it’s off my list. But these pistolettes are worth the trouble.

The closest recipe called for lots of real butter, evaporated milk and processed cheese.

I didn’t mind that the recipe needed cooked and peeled whole crawfish tails. Those are for sale in the frozen section of every grocery store I visit.

Before I headed to the grocery market, I had a revelation.

I was going to Baton Rouge in July and could buy some pistolettes already cooked. The problem was I couldn’t remember the exit or the name of the restaurant where I got them.

I looked up crawfish pistolettes around Lake Charles and hit the jackpot – The Boiling Point.

My grandson and I pulled into the empty parking lot on our way back and my heart sank.

The sign on the door stated they were closed.

I found two more seafood restaurants in the area that advertised pistolettes.

The first one was boarded up. The second one was also closed.

This must be a sign that the fat-ladened, totally delicious crawfish pistolettes are not for me.

I think I’ll take another look at that recipe and see if I can low-fat that one. Then it’s look out, cher, this Cajun girl is hauling out the cast-iron pots.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

She was just a dog.

At least, that’s what I told myself.

Our 18-year-old “mutt,” Channell, took her final breath today under the gentle hands of our veterinarian. Letting her go was much harder than I ever thought it would be, especially as I’m not a pet person.

Then Channell came into our lives.

She wasn’t our dog at first.

A tiny puppy was thrown into a ditch on a rainy night, and our daughter-in-law rescued her. She kept Channell until her husband needed to go to school out of state. I volunteered to take care of their pet for the eight months they’d be gone.

At first, my husband wasn’t sure about this arrangement. But this brown-eyed mixed-breed puppy was friendly and never jumped on the furniture or chewed up shoes.

It wasn’t long before Channell and my husband were best buddies. If he went outside without her, she’d stand at the door and cry until he came back in.

When the eight months were up, the dog was no longer our daughter-in-law’s – she was ours.

Even though Channell was basically around two older adults for most of her life, she was great when the grandkids came over. She didn’t mind if they pulled on her ears or tail, and she never growled or nipped at them.

She was one smart and clever dog. She figured out the best way to corner squirrels – her deadly enemies – and would patiently wait for them to miss seeing her and jump to the ground.

That was their last mistake.

Channell particularly enjoyed teasing our neighbor’s two terriers. Whenever they were in their back yard, Channell would run along the fence until they were chasing her. Then she’d stand back and watch them bark themselves hoarse.

I could practically see the smile on her face.

Channell was an expert escape artist. She jumped the fence in the back yard a few times, kind neighbors keeping her until we could come get her. Once I came home and she was sitting in the driveway, having scaled the fence again.

After that incident, my husband built a dog run underneath the back-yard shade trees for her. A couple of years ago, we admitted her fence jumping days were a memory, so she had the run of the back yard.

Channell was a top-notch “snake dog.” One afternoon, I heard her barking furiously in the back yard and went to see what was wrong. She’d spotted a coiled-up snake in the grass.

When she was sure I knew of the danger, she ran back to the door where two of our grandchildren were standing, and she stayed in front of them until the snake was gone.

Channell was a fast runner. Whenever we took her out to the country, she would run at full speed for hours, only stopping when she was exhausted. Even in her older years, she could outrun rabbits and left a couple of them on the back porch as prizes for us.

The only thing Channell was afraid of was loud noises, particularly booming fireworks and thunder. Every Fourth of July and during bad thunderstorms, we had to keep her in the innermost room of our house until the commotion ended.

She lost her hearing a couple of years ago, something we realized when a loud thunderstorm passed over the house, and she didn’t seem to notice.

She loved to swim in the pool, and when her arthritis and age made it hard for her to get in and out, she stopped. Not even tossing her favorite tennis balls into the pool could coax her into the water.

Over the past few months, we knew she was failing. We could no longer wait for nature to take its course – the strain was too much on her. So we made the painful decision to end her suffering.

In the beginning, she was just a dog.

In the end, she was our companion, our fierce protector, our silent sounding board and, the simplest title that sums up so much more than I can describe, our dog.

Rest in peace, girl. You’ve earned it.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

Traditions bind generations together. That belief is the central theme of the musical “Fiddler on the Roof” where traditions connect family members.

Recently, our family hosted a baby shower for our son and daughter-in-law. Our eighth grandchild is due at the end of July, and we cannot wait for this little girl to make her appearance.

Since her older siblings are boys, we wanted to be sure Alle had “girly” gifts, and my daughter-in-law and I were in charge of putting on the shower. We didn’t think we had the decorating talents of Alle and our other daughter-in-law, Ingrid, but we gave it our best.

Pink and delicate were the overall picks for the occasion. Erin took the lion’s share of the decorations, and she did a beautiful job.

Erin’s two daughters, Kylie and Katherine, were called on to help, and along the way, we passed on family stories.

In the china cabinet are plates and bowls I seldom use, mostly because they’re elegant and we’re not a fancy family. But today was the right day to haul out the “good stuff.”

The girls were with me as I opened the doors and gently took out a sugar bowl, part of a set of china my sister found for me. I reminded them how important they are to each other, just as my two sisters are to me.

Also in the cabinet was a gift my brought me from Lebanon years ago.  We talked about their Lebanese heritage and why those gifts held such a sentimental attachment for me.

Also in the cabinet were a few china cups and saucers my aunt gave to me years ago. These had been chipped or broken, but I never had the heart to throw them away. Instead, I glued them back together and saved them in the cabinet.

I began collecting china cups and saucers because of my Aunt Bev, and I have quite a few. The girls and I picked out pink cups and matching saucers for the shower. We placed the freshly washed and dried sets on a runner Alle’s mother brought us from Mexico.

The sugar bowl was filled with sugar cubes, the tea kettle on a warming pad, and the hot tea station was finished. I looked at the display and how the light caught the silver and gold on the cups.

I thanked my Aunt Bev once again for giving me a love of those pretty cups and for passing on a tradition of antiquing and collecting she loved. I thanked Alle’s mom for passing on a gift from her culture and smiled at how two different families meshed together seamlessly.

Erin had bowls and platters from her mom, and I loved hearing her tell the girls about the wonderful parties her mom held when she was growing up. Erin’s mom is a delightful person, and her annual Cookie Day is a not-to-be-missed event.

As the girls helped us set the table, we gently guided them, but they’d been at their mom’s side many times and knew how to set a pretty table. Watching guests from my family and Alle’s use the keepsakes we treasured brought the traditions full circle.

Erin made beautiful thank-you gifts for the guests. Inside a pretty tulle bag was a tea strainer, loose tea and a small gold teaspoon. They were the perfect ending to a wonderful afternoon.

As we cleared the table after the last guests left, I thanked our female ancestors for taking the time to teach an important lesson we are passing on to this next generation: traditions connect us.

 

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Early in our careers, we’re excited to have a job and, more importantly, a paycheck. We might change career paths over the years, but there’s a big payoff at the end – retirement.

Our daydream is sleeping late and drinking coffee on the porch instead of being squeezed into a cubicle. In retirement, the dream is to do what we want, when we want and nobody’s bossing us around.

Magazine and television ads show genteel people in retirement, their beautiful white hair perfectly groomed. They’re often wearing a sweater draped around their shoulders as they ride bikes through Italy, climb mountains or drink champagne while admiring the view from the deck of a cruise ship.

Those scenarios are certainly true, but there’s other things about being retired that aren’t shown in print ads.

That beautiful white hair? Only a few people are blessed with those genes.

The rest of us have battleship gray hair with a mind of its own if it hasn’t thinned or fallen out.

Sweaters are necessary because we’re cold all the time. Forget cashmere – we’re wearing an old sweater we’ve had for years because we’re too smart to buy something strictly for looks.

Like a cliché, the music is too loud, and we can’t understand why this young generation believes morose and meaningless lyrics are worthwhile.

But then we remind ourselves that every one of us knew how to play “Wipe Out” with pencils on our school desk.

I see retired people exercising, either online or at a fitness club. Pilates and yoga classes are pretty popular among the over 60 crowd.

But let’s face it. If I vacuum too vigorously, I could throw out my shoulder, and my elbow aches for an hour.

I look at the dust on the ceiling fans and tell myself those blades need to be dusted. That chore requires me to get on a ladder, and there’s no way I’m climbing up a ladder balancing a cleaning wand.

Forget late-night snacking. In my younger days, downing a Coke and a bag of Doritos at one in the morning was no problem. Now, caffeine keeps me awake and eating anything that spicy is a message for acid reflux to come calling.

Forget skipping and running. Bad knees and arthritis require that we not only walk, but having a cane or a walker is often a necessity.

We fuss at people who drive too fast because we’re putting along in the right-hand lane. We get in the left-hand lane if we have a turn coming up, even if it’s half a mile away.

When I find myself muttering under my breath about reckless drivers, a voice in my head reminds me to find “Born to Be Wild” and play it. I’ll pull over, queue up the song and blast it on the radio.

Just because we’re retired and eating dinner at 4 p.m. doesn’t mean we’ve given up.

We’re sensible.

We drive slower because our reflexes aren’t as sharp as they used to be. That makes us smarter than we were in our 30s with a stack of speeding tickets.

We don’t climb on a ladder because nothing’s worth bruising a hip. That dust can stay on those ceiling fan blades until kingdom comes for all I care.

One day, I might find myself on the deck of that cruise ship. But being older, I know I don’t have to go back to work in a few days.

I don’t have beautiful white hair, but I have the freedom to color it, let it go gray or shave it all off. There’s no one I have to impress and there’s no dress code in retirement.

I’ll vacuum when my arthritis isn’t flaring up and, if I miss hauling out the vacuum cleaner for a few weeks, so be it.

I take the trash to the street wearing a robe and slippers, and I only wear make up if it’s absolutely necessary.

That’s what retirement looks like for me.

Time to sit back, enjoy the view from my air-conditioned living room window and look back on the mistakes and accomplishments in my life.

There’s still time for making more memories. I have time for friends and family, time to enjoy the things I enjoy, skip over what I don’t like and smile because I know the difference.

Maybe that’s what retirement’s all about – realizing what’s really important.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

One of my favorite songs is “For Good” from the musical “Wicked.” The first time I heard the song, the lyrics hit home because that’s how Bob Haenel was to so many of us.

“We are led to those who help us most to grow if we let them…”

This wonderful man passed away in the early morning hours of June 9. He fought a long battle with Alzheimer’s and finally took his last breath with his constant nurturer and wife, Denise, holding his hand.

I met Bob in the mid-1990s when I wrote a column for this newspaper highlighting the people of Pecan Grove. When staff writer Devoni Wardlow took another job, I applied for the now-open Thursday slot.

He gave me the job and, for over 25 years, so much more.

Bob wasn’t flashy. With his beige sweater, slacks and a tie, he seemed like someone’s favorite relative. He had a quick sense of humor and a sharp wit.

He kept a supply of Diet Cokes and his office was an organized mess. He was a paper stacker, but he could always put his hands on the needed piece of paper in seconds.

Bob was an avid golfer, and he loved their property in Caddo Gap, Ark. Photos of him in the creek with his boys and Denise were some of his favorites.

He loved sports, rock and roll trivia and bluegrass music. Most of all, Bob loved his wife, Denise. Whenever he talked about her, his blue eyes lit up. He adored his sons, John and Evan, from the little boys they were to the wonderful men they have become.

                “So much of me is made of what I learned from you…”

He inspired many of us who came to the newspaper as green reporters. Bob never berated nor did he micromanage. He’d point out where to change a story and let us revise. He quietly taught us journalism fundamentals.

Both sides count.

Less is more.

Stand up for the little guy.

That last line was a core belief of Bob’s. He said if we weren’t there for the people in the community, who would be? Throughout his long newspaper career, he never let the “little guy” down.

We worked with Bob, not for him. Writers left the open newsroom with more confidence, a deeper knowledge about the news business and a firm belief in the importance of good, solid journalism.

“Some people come into our lives for a reason.”

The reason you came into the community’s world is to make sure they were heard and to tell their stories.

The reason you came into your reporter’s lives is to remind us that the news is more than a line on a profit margin sheet.

The reason you came into so many lives is to remind us we mattered, from your family to the people you reported on for over 30 years.

“I know I’m who I am today because I knew you…”

In my darkest days, Bob was there with a lifeline. When I didn’t believe in myself, Bob, for some reason, did. He saw a spark in me I didn’t know existed. He fanned that spark with easy encouragement.

Although I’m a writer, there aren’t adequate words to convey how much I admired Bob Haenel, how huge an influence he was in my life and how much our hearts are aching now that he’s no longer with us in person.

He never realized how huge and powerful an impact he made on those of us who were lucky enough to know him. He was simply being Bob.

This dear man’s spirit will remain with all of us because he changed us. And as the song lyrics state, Bob changed us for good.

You fought the good fight, Bob. Rest in a well-earned peace, free of deadlines, free of pain.

And maybe, just maybe, you’ll finally get to open that hot dog stand you dreamed about for so many years.

 

    This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Our grandson, Alex, is spending some time with us this summer. This evening during dinner, we started talking about movies.

Some of Alex’s favorites are the Harry Potter films and a few of the “Star Wars” movies.

In “Harry Potter,” Alex loved the special effects and the story line of how Harry defeated the “one who shall not be named.”

With “Star Wars,” Alex hadn’t seen the original movie from the 70s that introduced “the Force” to audiences around the world.

I told him how scary it was when Darth Vader first appeared on the screen. The heavy breathing, the dark, heavy cape and the mask combined to make one scary villain.

“But he’s nothing compared to the Wicked Witch of the West from ‘The Wizard of Oz,’” I told him.

Alex had never seen the movie, he said. I told him that “The Wizard of Oz” played on television every year at Thanksgiving. This was before cable and streaming services, I explained.

Every year, we all looked forward to being scared again by the witch and cheering Dorothy and her friends on to meet the wizard.

The more I talked about the movie, the more excited I got. I told him we were going to sit down after dinner and watch it. We left the dishes and found the movie.

As the opening credits played, I pointed out “The Wizard of Oz” was filmed in 1939. The special effects pre-dated CGI and modern ways of creating magic on the screen, I told him.

I gave him a heads up – I knew the lyrics to all of the songs and most of the dialogue. I would not be able to resist singing and talking along with the characters.

He was a good sport and allowed me to sing along with Dorothy on “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” and with the Cowardly Lion on “If I Were King of the Forest.”

Like most of us, Alex said the Wicked Witch of the West was scary and he liked the special effects in the Emerald City, especially the Wizard.

I warned him that I always cry when Dorothy whispers to the Scarecrow “I think I’ll miss you most of all.” And tears were rolling down my cheeks when Dorothy clicked her heels together, just like they have every time I’ve watched this film.

When the movie ended, Alex said he could see why it was a classic. We talked about what makes a great movie, and the great ones, we agreed, are always about friendships.

Dorothy was supported by her friends the Scarecrow, the Tin Man and the Cowardly Lion, and they, in turn, supported and loved her. Together, they made it down the yellow brick road and discovered the traits they wanted most of all were always inside themselves.

The same goes for Harry Potter. Without Hermione and Ron, Harry would’ve eventually realized his potential, but his growth was more powerful because he was surrounded by his two best friends.

Luke Skywalker achieved his legendary status as a hero with Leia and Han with him. All of them grew because they had each other.

The same is true for any hero or heroine in literature, the movies and especially us. We are more powerful than we think ourselves to be. When we have a friend standing by us, it’s easier to find what we’re really made of.

Especially when that power has been there all along.

I’m glad Alex and I watched “The Wizard of Oz” together. Sitting with my grandson, I once again was reminded that there really is no place like home, especially when surrounded by loved ones.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

My dear friend’s mom moved to this area from another state. Newly widowed, the mom wanted to be closer to her daughter. In what must’ve felt like a whirlwind, her house sold quickly, and she bought a home here.

Before she moved, however, they had an estate sale. Years of accumulated belongings were marked for sale because the new house was smaller. Even though organizers state dozens of reasons why it’s a good idea to get rid of clutter, letting go isn’t easy.

I’m someone who likes being surrounded by memorabilia and clutter. All around my desk are photos of family members, knick knacks from trips we’ve taken and half-filled notebooks. I can’t bear to part with a notebook that still contains blank pages.

Plus, I’m a self-proclaimed pen addict. On some pens, the ball point drags, and that gets to be tiresome after an hour. There’s an old coffee cup near my computer with my favorite pens, and I know I’d take the cup and all the pens with me if I moved.

My friend’s mom and I were talking about whether to hang the many photographs she’d brought with her. Right now, the walls in her new home are pristine, and hanging pictures requires patience and measuring. Plus, hanging pictures results in lots of holes in the wall and frames to dust.

My advice – hang the pictures.

Surround yourself with the faces of the people you love.

We have a small room where the grandkids watch television, and the walls are covered with family pictures.

The grands often ask me who the people are in the black-and-white photos, and I explain about their great-great grandparents. The kids hear now-familiar stories about how my grandfather started his business in this country and how my grandmother ran a fraternity when she was in her 90s.

Being in a new house has to be overwhelming but being surrounded by things that remind us of the path we’ve taken changes the blank slate of white walls into a dynamic tapestry of where we’ve been and who came with us on the journey.

Taking our familiar furniture and placing it on a new rug or floor blends the old and the new. Just because we’re in a new house or a new city doesn’t mean we don’t take our traditions and that salt-and-pepper shaker collection with us.

Starting over, whether we choose the new path or it’s forced upon us, is scary and, at the same time, exciting. Even though we leave behind a house or a city that doesn’t mean the memories don’t come with us.

Every time I go into a Lebanese restaurant, I’m instantly back in my grandmother’s kitchen, the smell of chicken and rice as familiar as my name. Browsing through an antique store and seeing items from my childhood take me back to our house on First Street in Olean, N.Y. and to our first Louisiana house on Evans Drive.

I hope my grandchildren are storing the smells and sights of our home for when they’re adults and want to remember an extra part of their childhood. To make sure, I’ll keep the baby toys, the old corduroy couch where we curled up and read books and the drinking glasses where they first tasted strawberry milk.

I know my friend’s mom will make more memories in her new home. I also know she brought along the memories of every place she’s ever lived.

Those memories stay with us forever but there’s always room for more.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Recently I went through the girls closet at our house and gave away the clothes they’d outgrown.

Some of the clothes were the princess dresses the girls had. I didn’t think I’d ever want to part with them, but a friend’s daughter was the right age for the dresses.

I realized it was selfish to leave those pretty dresses hanging unused in the closet when I knew her daughter would enjoy them.

One was a simple purple dress I made. It wasn’t fancy, but the dress was long and had lace. The fanciest one was a dress I found in a dress store at least 15 years ago.

The light pink dress was full of tulle and lace and, when the wearer twirled, the dress flowed out in a beautiful circle. The dress itched our younger granddaughter, so she didn’t wear it very often.

But my friend’s daughter absolutely loved the dress, and she wore it all the time. Knowing the dress was being enjoyed by a young girl absolutely made my day.

I thought back to the days my Aunt Bev would let my cousin and me play in her closet. Aunt Bev was a “girly girl,” and she had a closet full of beautiful clothes and accessories.

She let me try on all her gloves, and that was back in the day when the gloves came up to our shoulders, the tiny pearls at the wrist an extra beautiful touch.

We’d try on her hats and spray perfume on our necks, just like we’d seen our moms do when they were getting dressed up.

I spent many hours sitting at Aunt Bev’s make-up table with the three-paneled mirror. The flat part of the dresser held tubes of lipstick, powder and blush, three “tools” I used with abandon.

She never fussed at us for messing up her things, an extremely gracious thing for her to do. As an adult, I thanked Aunt Bev many times for allowing us to play in her closet and to allow us to believe we were really princesses.

There’s something magical about playing dress up, both for girls and boys. My sons loved dressing up as superheroes when they were young. They especially loved capes.

We had a black cape for when they felt like Batman, a red one for the days they wanted to scale tall buildings – an overturned kitchen chair – and a green cape for the days they pretended to be the Green Lantern.

True Spiderman and the Green Lantern did not wear capes, but in a young child’s imagination, capes are a necessary part of the superhero wardrobe.

We also had a Flash costume complete with a headdress and yellow boots. There was also a Wolverine costume, realistic down to the plastic adamantium claws.

Many times, they’d dig around in our closets, looking for bandanas, boots, hats or anything else they could use to create what they saw in their imaginations.

When they put on those costumes, they believed they were somebody else, usually superheroes. They jumped off the couches, making sound effects like they were squirting a web or slashing a bad guy’s cape.

For hours, they’d wear those costumes and live in their fantasy world. Watching them, I was transported back to my Aunt Bev’s closet. My boys might’ve been Superman, but I was an exotic fashion icon from the hat on my head to the high heels that were five sizes too big.

I hope my friend’s daughter never loses her willingness to play dress up, just as I hope my son and son-in-law teach their 2-year-old sons that it’s okay to let your imagination run wild.

And never forget the childlike joy in pretending.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.