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. 

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.