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

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

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

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

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

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

Resist at all costs to your hearing and sanity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A 2-year-old earthquake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I had both ends of the spectrum today.

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

In my book, that’s quality customer service.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So much has changed over the years.

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

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

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

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

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

You’ll be hooked, just like me.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

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

 “Excuse me,” a voice said.

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

“Would you like to buy those headphones?”

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

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

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

The teenager put his hands up in a defensive motion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Francis took the headphones off and tried to smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jason laughed.

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

Francis couldn’t help but smile.

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

Francis tilted his head and looked at Jason.

“So, do you dance?”

Jason shrugged.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jason smiled.

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

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

 

Many years ago, I had an interview at Needville High School. I’d never been there, so I asked for directions.

Then managing editor Bob Haenel said getting there was easy.

“Go to the light and turn left,” he said.

“Which light?” I asked.

“The light,” he replied.

Finding our way has gotten easier with the invention of global positioning systems, GPS, but there’s nothing like directions from someone who remembers the old-time navigation ways.

Bob loved giving those kinds of directions, and this is another conversation we had.

“You turn where that house burned down,” he said.

Being new to the area, I asked what house. He proceeded to explain the lineage of the people who’d lived in that house, thinking that explanation would cause the light bulb to go off over my head.

That didn’t work. He described the fire which led to a discussion about fires in the area and houses and businesses the town had lost.

I never did get directions I could follow but I got a great history lesson.

Directions from natives are great as long as you understand local landmarks. When we first moved to Fort Bend County, Terry High School and Willet’s Furniture were the two landmarks people referenced.

It got to the point where when we’d ask how to find something, we’d immediately say we knew where Terry High School was to save time.

Houston directions are confusing. Instead of I-45 and I-10, people say the Gulf Freeway, the Southwest Freeway, the Eastex or the Old-Katy Highway.

As newbies to the area, we had no clue what they were talking about. Not even the GPS identifies those roads by the local names, a point I appreciate.

The modern GPS is indispensable. There are times when I talk to the system like it’s a person sitting next to me. And, just like a passenger, I’ll argue with the GPS.

When that calm voice tells me to head west out of a parking lot, I get frustrated.

“I don’t have a clue about north or west,” I’ll yell to the dashboard. “Tell me which way to turn.”

I also talk to the GPS when it tells me to go one way and I don’t want to go that way. Usually that’s because I know there’s potholes on that road or that the traffic’s always heavy at that time of the day.

“Turn left in half a mile,” the robotic voice will say.

“I don’t think so,” I’ll reply. “Too much traffic.”

“Make a U-turn at the next intersection,” will come the snippy voice insinuating I did not follow the directions.

“That’s not the way I want to go,” I’ll yell at the car.

The GPS does not give up easily. For the next 10 miles, the system will continue to try and reroute me with U-turns until it finally accepts that I’m going a different direction.

And for those 10 miles, I’m constantly telling the GPS it’s not the boss of me and I can go any way I want.

But I’ll give modern technology a pat on the back. There’s no way I could’ve maneuvered through the Dallas interstate system without that electronic voice telling me to switch lanes and roads.

Even though I grew up in the Baton Rouge area, there’s no way my memory could’ve gotten me through the city without that little electronic voice and arrow showing me the way.

There are times, though, when I miss the fascinating oral history that goes along with the old-time directions of “turn left at the old Anderson house.”

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

If you’re going anywhere in Texas, you’re spending a lot of time in your vehicle.

There’s lots of ways to pass the time as you stew in traffic jams, crawl through the school carpool line or cover the 20 miles between your house and the grocery store.

One is to create a bingo game, and here’s a few suggestions for categories. Give yourself a free space in the middle, just to be fair.

There’s the “I Wonder Box.” This is when I guess where people are going. I try to figure out their destination based on how they’re dressed and how many people are in the car.

Some are easy to figure out – a man or woman with a child in a car seat is often heading to a place where kids are welcome.

People in pick-up trucks with mud on the tires could be heading out to the farm or to the feed-and-seed store.

You could use your imagination and come up with all kinds of wonderful stories about where people are heading.

Another favorite driver to spot is the “Who’s the Biggest Idiot on the Road Today?” This game doesn’t last long because there’s so many idiots.

There’s the person checking their phone at the traffic light and doesn’t realize the light has turned green. When you lightly tap your horn to alert them, they act as if aliens are shining a spotlight on their car.

These idiots also turn left from the far right-hand lane or come to a complete stop in the middle of the road for no reason whatsoever.

Not only are they stupid, but they’re also often dangerous.

Then there’s the “My Little Darling” parent in the school drop-off line who, despite sitting in that line forever, will take their sweet time at the drop-off point.

They’ll brush their child’s hair or give one last hug and a kiss, bringing the entire process to a dead stop.

If you don’t have to wait in a school drop-off line anymore, this box can be checked off at the entrance to a store. There’s often somebody dropping somebody off, completely blocking traffic but not caring one bit.

Another box is “Who’s Most Likely to Cause A Wreck Today.” This is the person who decides to cut across four lanes of traffic on I-10, driving 70 miles an hour, to make the exit.

It’s also the person who never signals, runs red lights, is putting on make up or texting while driving. This box is an easy swap for the “Biggest Idiot” category – take your pick.

There’s the “Speed Demon” box. This is the person who comes roaring up on you, zips around your vehicle, almost clipping your fender, and then gets to the red light at the same time you do.

Doesn’t matter to Speed Demon. They rev their engine and take off like a jack rabbit as soon as the light changes only to find themselves fender to fender with you, the slow poke, at the next light.

They also drive at least 20 miles over the posted speed limit because, to them, speed limits apply to other drivers, not them.

There’s the “I’m Terrified” driver, the exact opposite of the Speed Demon.

This is the person who leaves at least two car lengths of space between themselves and every other car, even if they drive 20 miles below the speed limit to accomplish that goal.

They almost come to a stop when merging onto I-10 because nobody wants to let them in. They haven’t quite learned the Texas way of merging – speed up and bully your way into oncoming traffic.

No matter what categories you include in your car bingo game, remember the goal is to arrive at your destination in one piece.

But if you want to make the trip a bit more interesting, create a bingo card and have some fun while you’re maneuvering the always surprising Texas traffic.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

Almost everyone is busy preparing for the coming school year.

School administrators are scrambling to fill the remaining vacancies on their campuses. To say they’d offer a reserved parking spot, weekly spa treatments and a free Thanksgiving turkey to a qualified applicant is an understatement.

Bus drivers and crossing guards are desperately needed as are cafeteria workers and special education aides. The pay for these positions isn’t nearly what these angels are worth.

Teachers are attending professional development sessions where energetic instructors show PowerPoints and use hands-on activities about the latest and greatest theories in how to get kids excited about learning.

The only thing the audience can think about, though, is how they’re never going to get their room set up when they’re spending all their time listening to someone preach.

Parents are staying up late shopping online for Crayola Crayons – only the boxes with 24 original colors, please – colored folders with brads and Ticonderoga pre-sharpened pencils.

They’re questioning why they have to buy a dozen boxes of Kleenex and a case of hand sanitizer. They forget that if one child has the sniffles, the whole class is infected, and teachers can kiss an entire box of tissues goodbye in an hour.

The easiest component in the back-to-school preparation track are the kids. Most get ready for school by wishing their friends are in their classes and that they have a nice teacher.

There’s no shortage of advice about how to have a successful school year.

One of my favorite pieces of advice is to establish routines and consistency. At home, that’s easier said than done when factoring in baseball and soccer practice, traffic jams and last-minute school projects that require at least two after-dinner trips to the store.

Professionals suggest teachers set up a calming learning environment. That’s all fine until a child decides to throw a hissy fit and rip down all the motivational posters on the wall.

Yes, teachers should create a positive and welcoming classroom environment. That’s possible with a smile, easy-going attitude and making sure the kids know you’re happy to be there.

Parents should limit screen time, but sometimes, mom and dad need a breather.

Of all the advice I’ve seen, read, taken or ignored, getting ready for the school year boils down to a couple of sentences.

Don’t sweat the small stuff. Can’t find those pre-sharpened pencils? There will be a pencil sharpener in the classroom.

Don’t understand the computer programs the school district expects you to master so you can contact a teacher? A hand-written letter still works.

Teachers, worried about not having time to set your classroom up exactly as you want?

No worries.

Allow your students to help put the final touches on the room. It might not look like something the seasoned teacher down the hall has or a picture you saw on Pinterest, but it’ll be a space your students will call their own.

The old adage that kids will long remember how you made them feel is absolutely true. Treat them like an experiment and they’ll resent you for not seeing them as a person.

Not every kid comes to school having had a hearty breakfast and a leisurely morning. Never forget that kids and parents are usually doing the best they can under their current circumstances.

Teachers, remember that children need your smile and your grace, both emotionally and in the amount of work you send home. Don’t forget to send home a praising note or make a praising phone call every once in a while.

Administrators, grant your teachers and staff leeway so they can be innovative and creative.

Parents, please give teachers mercy because some of them are parents as well as professionals. Offer to help instead of criticizing.

Take a deep breath and remember… no matter what piece of the educational puzzle you are, it takes everyone working together to put the big picture together.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

With rainy days followed by hot, humid weather, I stayed indoors and tackled some of the long-overdue household chores on my to-do list.

As school is right around the corner, I decided to use the tried-and-true method of A-F grading. Here’s my Housekeeping Report Card for the Summer of 2024.

Laundry – A – I’m a weirdo who enjoys doing the laundry. There’s a feeling of accomplishment watching a pile of smelly, wet clothes transform into folded, dry stacks of clean clothes.

Vacuuming – F – Why vacuum something I’m going to walk on over and over again? Besides, we have brown carpet and light brown tiles in the house so the dirt is practically invisible.

Mopping – F – See note on vacuuming.

Dusting – F – As my friend Patsy likes to say, dust is a protective covering on furniture. Our furniture is over 40 years old and still looks great. Underneath layers of dust, that is. I’m tempted to raise this grade to an A, but in terms of housekeeping, it’s a definite fail.

Rearranging pillows on the couch – A – I don’t go to bed unless the pillows on the couch are arranged in a specific way. Maybe if I spent more time vacuuming than rearranging pillows, our house would be cleaner.

Making the Bed – A+ – I never made my bed when I was a teenager. My husband convinced me that making the bed in the morning was a good start to the day. He’s been right about a lot of things. This is one of them.

Washing windows – D – The only reason I didn’t get an “F” here is because I occasionally wash the inside windows and the windows on the patio door. Toddler handprints have a way of being quite evident.

Cleaning the Fridge – C+ – I’ve improved in this household chore, mostly because it’s just the two of us here, so there’s not as much food in the refrigerator.

Maintaining an orderly pantry – D – I try, I really try to put things in the same place in the pantry after each shopping trip. But when there’s a sale on something and I buy a dozen cans, things must push aside to make room. That’s not always an orderly shove.

Closets – B- – The grandkids have closets in their rooms, and for the most part, those stay orderly. However, whenever they come over to play, forget order. Legos, swords, cars, trucks and plastic fruit are all over the place. When they go home, I shove everything in the closet and shut the door.

The Kitchen Table – A – I make sure the table is cleared every evening after dinner with plastic fruit in a bowl and napkins in the middle of the table. Now if leaving my laptop, notebook, pens, headphones and mouse on the table count as cluttered, then this grade could easily be lowered to a C.

Bathrooms – B – Of all the household chores I avoid, cleaning the bathroom isn’t at the bottom of the list. I procrastinate, but once I get going, I don’t mind swishing the bowl, cleaning toothpaste out of the basin and Windexing the spit off the mirror.

My Car – C – I could blame my messy car on my grandchildren who ride with me quite a bit. But they’re not responsible for the gum wrappers in the front cup holder, the discarded grocery lists or the unfolded blanket, two umbrellas and extra pillow I carry around for emergencies.

Kitchen Drawers – B – I don’t have fancy dividers or holders in most of the drawers. For spatulas and big spoons, they’re tossed in the drawer well enough so the drawer closes. I do have a holder for forks and knives, but when a toddler helps unload the dishwasher, all bets are off.

When I add everything up, I’m passing and that’s good enough for me.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

News reports are constantly ringing the doom-and-gloom bell.

There’s good reasons.

Inflation is on the rise, people are still without electricity after the hurricane, and the mosquitoes have multiplied faster than lightning.

As depressing as these realities are, there’s some recent news that hit a little closer.

I don’t want to believe Houston writer and columnist Ken Hoffman died.

When we first moved to Houston 30 years ago, we subscribed to the Houston Post. At that time, Hoffman was a breath of fresh air.

The columnist wrote about everyday problems and annoyances, always taking a humorous spin. He wrote about the best kind of fast food to eat in the car, food reviews about affordable places people visited and finding the tastiest carnival food.

Hoffman regularly profiled a dog needing to be adopted, and the pups he profiled had a 100 percent adoption rate.

He published a book, “You Want Fries With That?” and, as usual, poked good-natured fun at the trials and tribulations of maneuvering through life.

His take on the human condition was spot on, and I don’t want to believe he’s no longer with us.

I don’t want to believe exercise guru Richard Simmons has passed away. I remember when the sequin-draped Simmons burst on the exercise scene back in the 80s.

He was funny, relatable and his routines were easy to follow. On his television show, he wasn’t afraid to cover touchy subjects about weight and body image.

He readily shared his painful journey of being an overweight teenager and the tough struggle to establish himself as a serious celebrity. I loved watching his exercise videos, Sweatin’ to the Oldies, and laughing at his self-deprecating humor.

He had become a recluse and was in poor health, and his passing leaves a void in the world.

I don’t want to believe Dr. Ruth Westheimer is gone.

The respected author, sex therapist and talk show host was a pioneer forty years ago when only men dominated the air waves and the therapist’s office.

She answered questions about sex honestly and didn’t back away from sensitive subjects.

Dr. Ruth was a tiny Jewish grandmother, an immigrant to this country who worked as a maid to help pay for her education. She was the last person you’d think could give out advice about intimacy, but she did so in a way that made people feel comfortable talking about sex.

I don’t want to believe someone tried to assassinate a former U.S. president, a current presidential candidate.

It doesn’t matter whether you’re a Democrat, Republican, Libertarian, or someone who abstains from politics.

Shooting at someone while they’re surrounded by innocent people, simply because you disagree with what they’re saying, is unacceptable.

Shooting at children while they’re in a classroom is intolerable.

Shooting at people while they’re praying in church is evil.

Shooting innocent people, no matter where they are, when they are or who they are, is an abomination.

Period.

I can’t believe we even have to make that declaration.

But we do.

I want to believe we are better than the lowest common denominator of society.

I want to believe writers like Ken Hoffman will be remembered for the smiles and laughter he brought to the world.

I want to believe Richard Simmons and Dr. Ruth Westheimer will be remembered for helping people feel better.

Despite the pessimism, sad news and anger in the world, I don’t want to accept this is the best we can offer the world.

We’re capable of being better.

We need to make that change now.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

It’s dark outside. The wind is howling, almost in agony, and the rain is pelting against the windows.

I can hear the big trees around our house pushing and groaning, the wind punishing them as much as it is the house.

Hurricane Beryl is here, and I’m scared.

For days, we’ve been watching a tropical storm develop in the Gulf of Mexico. Early predictions had the storm heading into Mexico.

Then the storm inched its way north, and Corpus Christi was the entry point.

The fates intervened with an open door straight into the Houston area.

Like everyone, we got busy.

We tied the outdoor furniture to a big tree in the back of the yard and moved lighter things into the garage.

We made sure we had gas in the cars, bottled water, drinks, snacks and chips.

Lots of chips.

After that awful February freeze, we bit the bullet and bought a generator, a decision I haven’t regretted one minute.

Sunday night, we went to sleep, knowing when we woke up, the world would be different.

And it was.

About 3 a.m., the winds and rains started. At first, like a tapping at the door.

By the time 5 a.m. came around, the tapping had turned to pounding. We could hear the wind as it screeched and big branches groaning.

Not being able to see what was happening was terrifying. Horror writers have known what happens in the dark is always scarier than what happens in the daylight.

As dawn broke through, it was worse than I thought. I could see the towering pecan trees around our house swaying and bending.

To watch these old trees trying to withstand 40-mile-an-hour winds was both reassuring and scary.

I’m especially watching the sycamore tree our grandson planted a few years ago. It’s taller than our house, and now it looks like it’s made out of a rubber band.

If trees are like people, it’s better to bend than not bend and break. Let’s hope the trees know that.

At the beginning of the storm, we had internet access, and the radar was nothing but orange, red and dark yellow all around the Houston area.

We tuned in to the Houston news stations, and they were reporting outages, unbelievable as the homes without power went from the thousands to the millions.

What’s crazy is there are people driving in the storm. Either these people are incredibly stupid or there’s an emergency. That’s the only reason why someone would be driving in the middle of a hurricane.

Without warning, the wind comes roaring  through the yard, and everything in the house rattles and shakes. Then I notice the Mexican plum tree that’s provided so much shade over our pool is on its side, yanked out and thrown down by the wind.

Whenever the wind gusts, the small branches of the shrubs outside our kitchen window knock on the window, almost begging to come in.

Finally, the wind dies down, and the rain eases up. It’s the eye of the hurricane, and its eerily calm outside. We walked outside to assess the damage and see a huge limb blocking our driveway.

I hear a sound, and our neighbor, Arthur, and his teenage sons Luke and Kyle have arrived, chainsaws in hand. They saw our driveway was blocked and came to help. In times like this, having neighbors who come to the rescue is worth more than gold.

Soon, the rain starts to pick back up and so does the wind. It’s not as angry as it was a few hours ago, and we know the storm will soon be over.

We head back inside and thank the good Lord our home and lives were spared and pray others sustained little or no damage.

Later that afternoon, as I’m sitting at the kitchen table, my husband noticed a hummingbird darting in and out of the now calm bushes. I wondered where that little fella was during the storm, but he made it through.

And so will we.

Neighbors will help friends, the power will come back on, we’ll all replant and replace.

We made it.

 

Denise’s email is dhadams1955@yahoo.com