There are songs that, when you hear them, cause you to stop in your tracks, close your eyes and become one with the music.

“Black Velvet” by Alannah Myles is that song for me. The song, released in 1990, was written by Canadian songwriters Christopher Ward and David Tyson.

One afternoon, “Black Velvet” came on the radio when I was in the car with my eldest grandson. I immediately turned up the volume and started tapping on the steering wheel with the beat.

He looked at me, questions in his eyes.

“This song is about Elvis Presley,” I told him.

A blank stare.

“People used to paint his likeness on black velvet,” I said.

Still a blank stare.

“What’s black velvet?” he asked. “And who’s Elvis Presley?”

How do I explain the impact the Elvis Aaron Presley had on an entire generation? How do I sufficiently explain the effect this sexy country boy from Mississippi had on the rock and roll scene back in the day?

Elvis was a little before my time but there’s no denying his explosion on the entertainment scene changed music. There were talented Black artists who wrote and sang these rock-and-roll songs before Elvis. This Mississippi singer had the opportunity to make it on the national stage.

Songs like “Nothing like a Hound Dog,” “Love Me Tender,” and “Jailhouse Rock” might seem old-fashioned these days, but when they hit the airwaves, they were like a seismic jolt.

My mom said the heart throbs for her generation were Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin in their tuxedos and smooth voices. When Elvis showed up in jeans and a slicked back, black pompadour, the girls went crazy.

When he shook those hips on the Ed Sullivan show, the network refused to let him be filmed from the waist down.

The first time I heard “Black Velvet,” I didn’t know what the song was about. Then one day I saw a black-velvet painting with Elvis’s likeness in an antique store.

That’s when I knew – people loved this man so much, they’d paint his likeness on one of the most luxurious fabrics in the world. Velvet suits Elvis’s voice perfectly. That Mississippi twang was a totally Southern voice, dripping with sugar, a little bit of whiskey thrown in for effect.

“Black Velvet’s” lyrics sum up Presley’s presence. Elvis did have that “little boy smile,” and he did establish a new religion – rock and roll that brought a whole generation to their knees. His songs were raw, full of emotion and light years away from any of 1950s tunes.

He reinvented himself in Las Vegas in the late 60s and early 70s, where his sold-out shows brought in over 2.5 million fans. His private retreat, Graceland, brought in over half a million visitors yearly before Covid. The only other house to see more visitors is the White House.

As the song says, Elvis was gone too soon. He died on Aug. 16, 1977 at the age of 42. He was in the midst of another comeback, having switched from jeans to white, jewel-studded jumpsuits.

His fans still grieve for him, whether they remember him from his go-go movie “Viva Las Vegas” to his surfer flick “Blue Hawaii.” Some might remember a trim, black-leather clad King still sporting his signature lip curl, long sideburns and growly voice.

Still others picture Elvis performing in Las Vegas, overweight and bloated, but where the women still screamed his name. Still others will remember Elvis whenever they see his likeness painted on black velvet.

There’ll never be another one like The King.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Halloween is a fun event, especially for children. Many of us remember picking out a special costume, dressing up and walking the neighborhood, knocking on doors and saying “trick or treat.”

Back then, Halloween was all about free candy. The scary part didn’t occur to us, but it did to Hollywood. Producers did their best to capitalize on the fright with movies like “Nightmare on Elm Street” and “Scream.”

Parents pushed back, asking for friendly Halloween stories. Witches went from the “Wizard of Oz’s” terrifying Wicked Witch of the West to the sisters on “Charmed.” Vampires no longer lurk outside your window to suck your blood. Now they’re a heart-throb in young-adult romance novels.

Perhaps the change has been because grown-ups don’t like to admit when they’re scared. Deep down, most of us are still kids scared to turn off the lights at night.

Sure ghosts and abandoned houses are scary. But when it comes to really scary, here are some adult things I’ve found to be the most terrifying.

Transmission trouble. Someone telling me they’ve seen a ghost would make me curious. Having a mechanic tell me I need a new transmission is downright terrifying. That repair costs more than the contents of my house.

Check engine light. When that light comes on in my car, I hit the panic button. The problem could be something simple chances are it’ll be an expensive fix. If that light starts blinking, then we’re talking major scare. I tried putting black electrical tape over the light, but my husband said that wasn’t a real fix.

Home repairs. The last time we had a plumber come out to change out some faucets, the bill was over $500. When our air conditioner went out, that cost was in the thousands. So whenever, I hear an appliance complaining, my checkbook starts choking.

The second gray hair. The first gray hair was easy. I’d always said I’d let my hair go gray gracefully. Then my hair exploded in iron-gray strands. Forget aging gracefully. I called Rosie, my friend and long-time hairdresser, and we’ve been banishing those grays for years. I have no plans to stop.

My first grown-up paycheck. I’ll admit I cashed it and asked the banker for all 1’s. That was quite a stack. But when I looked closer at that paycheck and saw all the deductions, I realized the government would be taking a good chunk of my money every single paycheck for the rest of my working life.

My first varicose vein. My first varicose vein showed up when I was 16 years old. My after-school job was standing on my feet for hours working the snack counter at a movie theater. I thought it was just a couple of blue lines, nothing to worry about.

Three kids later, the sides of my knees looked like a road map. I had them checked out and no worries. But I quickly discovered, just that first gray hair, if one shows up, the rest of the whole family’s on its way.

There’s a few other things I’m afraid of. At the top of my fear list is snakes. Any snake, any size, any color. I don’t care if they’re “good” snakes.

As far as I’m concerned, the only good snake is in somebody else’s yard.

In the next town.

In addition to snakes, most people are scared of at least three of the following horrors:  spiders, germs, heights, needles, airports, doctors, zombies, thunder, cockroaches that fly, bats, dogs, ticks, bears, flesh-eating bacteria, sharks, lizards or that balding spot on the crown of your head.

They say to conquer your fears, you need to face them.

I’m all for that.

Unless it’s a snake.

Then I’m running for the hills.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

Plain or fancy, I love museums and historical venues. They allow visitors to walk through time, seeing first-hand the tools, clothing and books people used in their every-day lives.

Museums often get a bad rap for being quiet and, let’s face it, boring. I’ve been to some of those. But museum curators have gotten smarter over the past 20 years, and today’s museums are vibrant, interactive places to visit.

One of the best exhibits I’ve ever toured was the King Tutankhamun display back in 1977. The New Orleans Museum of Art sponsored the event, and over 650,000 people visited. Luckily, I was one of them.

We were fortunate to see the actual King Tut mask that appears in so many photos. Dozens of displays showed what life was like over 3,000 years ago in Egypt. There were plates, combs, vases and a variety of items people used, and probably took for granted. Today, they’re priceless pieces of history.

There are fabulous museums here in Fort Bend County, especially here in Rosenberg and Richmond.

The George Ranch Historical Park is offering Texian Market Days this weekend. If you’ve ever wondered what it was like to watch real cowboys in action, make sure you head out that way. The historical reenactments are phenomenal.

The Rosenberg Railroad Museum has evolved into an incredible visitor’s stop. You can stand on the corner of the museum and imagine how life must’ve been like back in the days when farming was the main source of income.

I had the pleasure of visiting the newly renovated Fort Bend Museum in downtown Richmond, and those who worked on the remodel did a fabulous job. The museum has an open-air feeling, and the exhibits highlight contributions from Fort Bend’s ancestors from all cultures and races.

You’ll find out there was once a prisoner-of-war camp in downtown Rosenberg during World War II and read about the contributions of Hispanic, Black and Anglo settlers to this area. Life wasn’t easy, and the museum does a thorough job of showcasing their contributions.

The group I was with enjoyed a presentation by Jessica Avery, program coordinator at the museum, on some of the haunted houses in this area. With Halloween right around the corner, the presentation was especially interesting.

I knew about some of the spooky places, like the Fort Bend County Jail, but I had no idea there were so many other supposedly haunted places in town. If you want to know more, be sure and sign up for one of the ghost tours the museum is offering before the end of October.

Other areas in the county are striving to bring the history of all cultures to life. Bates-Allen Park in Kendleton is where former slaves would meet to wash clothes while barbecuing and picnicking together. People are working to enhance the park, and it’s worth a leisurely drive to enjoy the park’s quiet and beauty.

If you want to venture into Houston, most of the museums in H-Town are free on Thursdays. Call in advance to make sure, especially if you want to see a special exhibit.

A visit to the Museum of Natural History is worth the drive if you love nature’s gems as is a walk through the Fine Arts Museum if you love works of art. The Holocaust Museum is a somber visit – prepare yourself before visiting.

But there’s no need to venture further than 30 miles from your front door if you live here in Fort Bend County. Find out about the history here in your own back yard with a visit to one of the many museums our county has to offer.

And sign up for that ghost tour – you’ll never know what frights you might encounter.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

In the South, family stories are passed down from generation to generation.

No one told Southern stories better than the late Jeanne Robertson.

She was Miss North Carolina in the 1963 Miss America pageant, where she was named Miss Congeniality. With her constant smile, it’s easy to see why. Robertson retains the title of the tallest contestant as she was 6’2” tall.

Many of her shows are now on YouTube, and Robertson is warm and friendly as she weaves her stories of how Southerners handle life.

Some of Robertson’s videos have millions of views because she is so relatable. Her most viewed video is “Don’t Send a Man to The Grocery Store,” and it’s worth every minute of listening time. You’ll particularly enjoy the segment if you’re a right-brained person married to a left-brained person.

Southerners have a particular way of telling stories that put them in their own special category, and Robertson was an outstanding humorist. Perhaps it’s her beautiful Southern drawl, but it’s also in the way she sets up a story and then closes with an unexpected zinger.

One of my favorites is “Don’t Mess with Teenage Hussies” – the punchline at the end is priceless.

Her talk about her Grandma Freddie’s trip to the Holy Land rang true for me. Her grandmother was a public speaker who gave speeches to church groups about a trip to the Holy Land.

After her grandmother passed – bow your heads here, Robertson would say – Robertson found out her grandmother had never been to the Holy Land.

She’d bought a box of slides with scenes from the Holy Land and told stories to groups like she’d been there. The punchline at the end is totally unexpected yet makes sense if you’re from the South.

My grandmother also told stories with flair and drama. I would beg her to tell them over and over. She obliged, and every time, the story became a little grander.

My favorite was about a relative who was reaching out on her death bed for her long lost love. The story was dramatic, filled with lost love and longing.

My mom called foul.

“I was in the room when she died,” mom said. “No reaching, no gasping.”

I much prefer my grandmother’s telling and, as far as I’m concerned, my grandmother’s story is the one I believe to be true.

Robertson’s mother told her early in life to choose a humorous lens through which to look at life. I’ve found if you choose that path, mistakes in life are a lot easier to accept.

When I visited my son in Taiwan years ago, we went to a spa separated into sections for men and women. The last thing my son said to me before he went to the men’s side was “By the way, it’s a nude spa.”

It took me about 20 minutes to get up the courage to get in the inside heated pool. After a bit, I was okay with being au natural.

There was also an outside pool and, frugal person that I am, I wanted to get my money’s worth. So I went outside, in my birthday suit, and saw women sitting around the pool.

In their bathing suits. All staring at this naked American.

I could’ve turned around and run back inside, but with my chins held high, I walked straight and proud to the end of the pool area, looked around, nodded, and then walked back into the dressing area. I tell that story at family reunions, not with embarrassment, but with laughter at myself.

I choose humor, just like the late Jeanne Robertson did, to remember life. Do yourself a favor, find her clips on YouTube, and enjoy some down-home funny stories told by a master humorist.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

I come from a Catholic family. We have over 25 first cousins on my mom’s side and about the same on my dad’s side. I’m blessed with 16 nieces and nephews who’ve grown into friends and, best of all, I have six siblings – four brothers and two sisters.

The boys – Jimmy, Johnny, Joey and Jeff – are incredible men. Talented and thoughtful, they survived having three sisters.

Like their brothers, Diane and Donna are creative and caring. More than that, they are strong women and my best friends.

We’ve shared rooms and shoes. We’ve shared clothes, from high school sweaters and skirts to maternity pants and tops.

For many years, we took “sister trips.” We’ve been on a night-time ghost tour in Charleston, played laser tag in Las Vegas and enjoyed a late-night snack on china plates and real silverware at a bed and breakfast in Ashville, S.C.

Most families have a member who’s the firecracker, the one who keeps things lively. Diane, my younger sister by five years, is that for us.

When people asked if she was Denise’s sister, she’d say, “No, Denise is MY sister.” That confidence has served her well.

She studied computer science, graduated from LSU with honors while married with three children under the age of 3. I remember going over to their tiny apartment and seeing her holding a baby while cooking dinner, a textbook propped on the cramped counter.

She is her company’s benefits manager where she knows the rules and never forgets employees are people. She’s held state offices, has volunteered with Child Advocates and has achieved milestones in a field often dominated by men.

All of her children played soccer, and Diane and John never missed a game. For years, Diane was the mom with the camera, and she photographed her children and everyone on the team.

She loves her fantastic children and grandchildren with all her heart and soul. Diane is the person you want on your side because she never gives up and will never surrender.

I owe her an apology because I teased her about having thick, curly hair. Sis, I’d give anything to have your hair and those hazel-green eyes.

Donna is 10 years younger than me but that age difference has never seemed important to us. We connected as sisters and now as friends.

When she was 4-years-old, there was a beauty pageant in town in her age group. I saw the posters and told my mom Donna would win. Donna has the softest brown eyes, gorgeous, thick hair and a smile that lights up any room.

On the day of the pageant, Donna saw all the people in the audience and got stage fright. Those big brown eyes filled with tears. My mom took one look at her scared little girl and told her she didn’t have to be in the pageant.

I was livid. I knew my sister would win and I thought my mom should’ve made Donna compete. Mom did the right thing as Donna didn’t need that beauty pageant trophy – she’s won many more accolades.

Donna taught pre-schoolers for years, and we loved hearing her stories. I envied Donna as it takes a loving adult to get down on a little one’s level with a smile.

She’s now helps high schoolers believe in themselves and find the right secondary education fit. She connects with teens in a special way, and her three now-grown children are incredible humans.

Donna’s always gotten appreciative looks from people as there’s a charisma about her. Not just her beauty but from a light that shines from inside.

Neither Diane nor Donna suffer fools easily – they are just as likely to put someone in their place in the grocery store line as they are at a town meeting.

They’d both give me the shirt off their backs – which they unknowingly did when I raided their closets – and they’ve forgiven me my many transgressions.

I couldn’t ask for better friends than my beloved and delightful sisters, and I thank the heavens every day for putting these smart, generous and quick-witted women in my life.

And for the record, Donna would’ve won that beauty pageant hands down.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Over the weekend, I went to Louisiana to celebrate my mom’s 89^th birthday with her. I stopped in Lafayette to pick up flowers and some supplies for the party.

On my way down Ambassador Caffery Parkway, I noticed they were re-striping the road, and traffic was backed up at least three miles. I told myself not to take the same route back to the interstate.

After getting what I needed, I could’ve used my phone to find a route through Lafayette so I’d miss that traffic jam. Truth is, I didn’t know how to tell Google Maps to snake through Lafayette. So I reverted to the tried-and-true paper map.

There’s a Louisiana, Texas and Houston paper map in my vehicle at all times. There are routes I can only find when I spread out the paper map on the hood and examine all the side roads.

Sure enough, I found I could take Congress Avenue through Lafayette and pick up I-10 on the east side of town. That route took me past beautiful homes, stately oak trees and a few parks where kids were playing soccer and riding skateboards.

For once, I was glad I didn’t have technology at my finger tips to help me figure out a solution to a problem.

We’ve become so dependent on Google for things we used to use our brains for. I’m guilty of taking the quick and lazy way out and using Google instead of figuring it out for myself.

Occasionally I’ll use Google for recipes, but the best resources are the paper cookbooks on my shelf, especially books I’ve gotten from local church organizations.

No Louisiana kitchen is complete without the original River Roads Recipe cookbook – the best recipe in the world for home-baked brownies is on page 190. One of my earliest memories of my mom’s kitchen is the red-checked Better Homes and Garden cookbook she used for decades.

Besides Google, there’s two major services that take most of the thinking out of our lives – Alexa and Siri. They’re voice controlled, online digital assistants.

Amazon sponsors Alexa, and Siri is for Apple customers. Using your smart phone, Alexa can turn on your coffee maker, play music and answer difficult questions.

You can ask Siri the weather in London, recommendations for the best restaurants and the height of Mount Kilimanjaro. You’ll have your correct electronic answer in seconds.

My answers would be rainy, the restaurant that’s closest to my house and “tall, really tall.” My answers aren’t as precise as Siri’s but they’re accurate.

Alexa can help you check things off your to-do list. True, but using a pen or pencil and running a line through the checklist on a piece of paper gives me immense satisfaction. I don’t think I’d get that with a virtual check mark and an electronic list.

Alexa and Siri can change the channel on your TV, but I still remember when children were the only remote control in the house.

My dad would be relaxing on the couch and tell one of us to go change the channel. That was an aggravating job unless you were the kid who got stuck holding the rabbit ears antennae because the reception was better with that human connection.

Alexa will burp and make monkey sounds. I’ll take listening to kids make those noises any day of the week. Plus the kids give you the added bonus of making adorable faces while performing those tasks.

One thing they both have in common is they never tire of your questions. They’ll never roll their electronic eyes at you nor will they say “I already told you that.” Their patience is infinite.

I was proud of myself for finding my way through Lafayette. I’m also happy when somebody asks me a trivia question, and I know the answer without resorting to an online service.

Finding a quick answer on my phone isn’t nearly as satisfying as finding the answer inside myself.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

My husband and I took a trip up the Massachusetts coast recently. Number one on our sight-seeing list was going on a whale-watching expedition.

Online photos showed giant whales jumping out of the water, waving their fins at sightseers on the boat. Friends told me they loved watching the whales in their natural environment.

So I signed us up. When we arrived, a sign in the office said “choppy” waters.

That’s like saying a karate chop from Jackie Chan is a love tap. That boat rocked every way but straight, and the wind turned a cool breeze into an arctic wind machine.

An hour later, the boat finally slowed down and we saw – off in the far distance – the back of something gray.

As quick as the whale’s back was visible, it was gone. Twenty minutes later, we saw another gray back. Again, off in the distance. Then it was time for the return trip to the shore. I spent that hour inside the warm galley, glad I’d taken Dramamine.

I chalked this up to another experience I thought was going to be a once-in-a-lifetime, fabulous event only to have it turn out to be somewhat disappointing.

This has happened to me before. Plymouth Rock comes to mind. I pictured a giant boulder, something the size of a tow truck.

Nope.

In reality, Plymouth Rock is about the size of my pillow. I felt fleeced.

On the flip side, there are things you think are going to be humdrum and turn out to be a fabulous experience.

Years ago, my brother, Jeff, and I took a chance on a Saturday afternoon movie we knew nothing about – “Raiders of the Lost Ark.”

We initially thought we’d while away a couple of hours in an air-conditioned theater. Instead, we had the best movie watching experience of our lives.

You might think watching “Paw Patrol” with little ones is boring. But when a child snuggles up next to you, that boring half hour turns into a memorable experience consisting of nothing more than blissful calm. Oh, and said child saying they want every toy advertised on every single commercial.

Washing dishes after a family meal is usually a task we dread. But that humdrum chore allows you to visit with your family or friends, and those casual conversations become memorable moments.

Spending idle time with your grandparents or parents might not seem like a big deal. But later in life, those afternoons will be ones you’ll wish you could revisit.

They’ll casually tell you their views about life, love, commitment, fun and the old days in those leisurely moments. It might be the only time you’ll have their undivided attention in an unrushed environment.

If you spend time cooking with your parents or grandparents, you’re indeed fortunate. Not only will you learn how to master family recipes, you’ll hear all kinds of family stories over a pot of simmering gumbo or while basting a brisket on the family grill.

Humdrum household chores can be a golden opportunity to show your children how to take care of themselves. While folding towels or changing the sheets on the bed, use the time to tell your children about your chores when growing up.

The point is to pass on family memories while doing something seemingly unimportant. Try not to be a martyr during the telling although when we were kids, we did walk uphill to school.

Both ways.

I didn’t see a giant whale jumping out of the ocean on that boat trip. But later in the week, I saw a sailboat gliding along just off the shore, its sails full of possibility, the ocean calm with blue skies overhead.

I saw possibility and adventure in that simple moment. I’ll take that over a rock every single time.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Today is my mom’s birthday. Telling her age wouldn’t bother her, but she reared me to have manners, so I won’t tell her age, only that she’s a smidge over 80.

Delores Eade was born in Olean, N.Y., the second child to Henry and Albedia Eade. They were hard-working immigrants from Lebanon, and they welcomed their new dark-haired daughter with open arms.

She was quite a willful child growing up, or so the stories go. Her sister still has a scar on her hand from when my mom threw a fork at her and it stuck in her hand.

Then there’s the time she let go of the baby stroller carrying her little brother at the top of the hill and raced the buggy to the bottom. Luckily, she won.

Delores was a smart girl, but her parents were stubbornly old fashioned. Good Lebanese girls got married, had babies and lived near their parents. They did not go to college, but that wasn’t what my mom wanted.

She wanted to go to business school. So she told her father that her cousin was going and she supposed they weren’t as wealthy or as good as her cousin.

She knew her father could never accept that his children weren’t as good as his brother’s children, so my mom got to go off to business school.

A young coed, she met a handsome sailor in Virginia Beach one fun weekend. Old black-and-white pictures in an album show a vivacious woman on the beach with her friends, not a care in the world.

The young sailor was smitten with her, and she discovered, like her, he was Catholic and wanted a big family. They fell in love and thought they could figure out that she was a protected daughter from the North and he was a carefree, handsome son of a printer from the South.

They married and moved to the South, but when my dad’s father passed away, they moved back to the North, right next door to my grandparents. That lasted as long as it could, and then my dad moved his six children and his wife down to Louisiana.

It wasn’t easy. Her mother sent her hurtful letters about how she’d abandoned them, and week after week, my mom read those vile letters but never told us.

Instead, she went to work every day and then came home to prepare a hot dinner for her now seven children every single night without complaining.

I don’t remember being without anything I really needed, and I don’t remember my mother being gone – she was always there for all of us.

She stayed with an alcoholic husband who divorced her. But when he was terminally ill, she allowed him to move back in with her because she knew his grandchildren adored him and they needed each other.

She taught me it’s possible to forgive, even the most hurtful actions, and it’s possible to move forward and blossom, even when one thinks the roots are dead. She taught all of us to laugh at ourselves first and that there’s sunshine in even the darkest days.

She tells the truth, even when I don’t want to hear it, and having a hot cooked meal is the answer to almost all of life’s problems. We were never allowed to miss Sunday dinner with each other, and she always had a tablecloth on the table for those weekly meals after Mass.

She is adored by all seven of her children, her grandchildren, her great-grandchildren, nieces, nephews, siblings, nieces and nephews. Yet she takes that in stride, always claiming she’s the lucky one to be surrounded by such an incredible family.

So happy birthday, Delores Hebert Eade, mom, Siti, Sit-Siti and my best friend. I love you more than I can ever say. Thank you for not only being the best role model but for being someone who has shown me how to live and, more importantly, how to love.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Names are tricky. Luckily, mine is pretty easy, but mistakes still happen. My first name can be spelled “Denice” or “Denisse.”

My last name will sometimes get two D’s instead of one, but that’s usually when the “The Addams Family” movie is being shown.

Growing up in the North, my last name, Hebert, was constantly butchered. My Dad was a Southerner with a Cajun last name who happened to move to New York State.

To those who know the ingredients in andouille sausage and eat it anyway, there’s no problem pronouncing Hebert. It’s “A-Bear,” like in the sentence “I saw a bear in the woods today.”

But for people who’ve never stepped foot in Louisiana, Hebert is usually pronounced “Hee-Bert” or “Heb-Bert.” I remember explaining how to pronounce my name to my teachers because they’d never met a real Cajun before.

These were educators who could pronounce every Polish, Italian and Lebanese name in the phone book. They had no problem with Kowalski or Kneiser.

But throw an Hebert or a Boudreaux in the mix, and every one acted as if we’d told them our names came from the ancient Aztecs.

Once we moved back to Louisiana, nobody ever asked me how to pronounce my last name. After all, this is a state where the words “Atchafalaya” and “Thibodaux” roll off the tongue as easily as “barbecue” and “ribs” roll off a Texans’ tongue.

By the way, that’s “Ah-chaff-ah-lay-ah” and “Tib-ah-dough.” The first is a huge swamp along I-10 where you will inevitably run into a traffic jam and sit unmoving on a causeway for 45 minutes with no way to get off.

The second is a Cajun last name that’s as common as Smith or Jones in states where they incorrectly pronounce crawfish as crayfish.

When my husband and I moved to Texas, we brought our Louisiana pronunciations with us. In Louisiana, a big body of water is a bayou, pronounced “bye-you.” Here, it’s “buy-oh.” When we saw Bissonnet Street, we pronounced it French style, “Bis-son-aye,” while Texans say “Bis-son-et.”

Roads were a tough one for us back then.

Interstate 10 is also called the Katy Freeway. I-45 is known as the Gulf Freeway and Loop 610 is known as “The Loop” even though two more freeways circle Houston.

I finally realized these roads are named for where they either originate or end up – Katy, the Gulf of Mexico and the unending loop around the greater Houston area that’s always under construction.

The grand winner in the confusing street names is U.S. 59, otherwise known as the Eastex Freeway, I-69, the Southwest Freeway and the Lloyd Bentsen Highway.

I still laugh about one of the first phone calls I made in Texas. I was trying to find a store near Sharpstown. I told the man I lived in Richmond.

“Well, you get on the Eastex Freeway,” he began.

“I’m sorry. Which freeway is that?” I said.

“The one that goes from east to west,” he said.

“Can you give me a number, like 610, 10 or something like that?” I asked.

There was silence.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “We just moved here from Louisiana and I’m not familiar with the street names.”

“From Loo-zianna, eh,” he said, pausing. “Then let me talk slower.”

If you really want to fit in with the Cajuns, do not ever say you’re happy to be in “New Or-Leans.” Simply say your favorite breakfast in “New Aw-lins” is “café-oh-lay with a side order of ben-yays.” By the way, that’s strong chicory coffee mixed with steamed milk and a side order of fried doughnuts covered with confectioners’ sugar – Café Au Lait and beignets.

They’ll think you’re a native.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

 

 

 

On a rainy afternoon, a Sean Connery film was playing on cable TV. I’m a big fan of the late Scottish actor who was the face and voice of “Bond, James Bond.”

I also liked Connery later in his career because he wasn’t afraid to toss his toupee and show the world’s sexiest man was actually bald.

My dad started losing his hair when he was in his 20’s, and he constantly agonized about his receding hairline.

Finally, he decided to order a toupee. I remember the day the hair piece arrived. My mom taped a note to the back door stating “It’s Here!” and my dad ran inside to open the box.

We weren’t sure what to think, but my dad was over the moon that he could finally cover his bald head.

Few were fooled, but wearing the “rug” made him feel good, so we went along with his attempt to cover the baldness.

Over the years, my dad put on weight. His head got a little bigger, but he was too frugal – well cheap – to buy a new toupee. He would simply tug down on the back part of it whenever a sliver of his scalp showed through.

My brother says one of the funniest things he’s ever seen was when my dad was at an amusement park. They were on a ride where the round wall spins and the floor drops out from underneath the riders. The centrifugal force keeps the riders plastered against the wall.

As the ride spun, dad’s toupee slowly floated up in the front, only staying on because Dad’s head was against the wall. My brother spent the whole ride watching my dad attempting to lift his arm up so he could clamp his hand down on the toupee to keep it from potentially flying off.

Dad eventually grew tired of how hot his head felt in the summer and he missed swimming. One day, he ditched the rug for good, claiming he had better things to do with his energy than grow hair on his head.

My brothers, sons and most of my nephews are also either bald or balding. For the most part, they’ve accepted their fate gracefully.

Our youngest brother calls himself “The Bald Avenger” on his popular website, and one of my sons thinks being bald is a good deal. He doesn’t waste time combing his hair or spend money at a barbershop.

While watching an episode of “Ted Lasso,” one of the characters bemoans the fact that he can no longer play professional football, soccer to we Americans. His girlfriend, knowing he’s upset, asks her boyfriend’s young niece to describe her uncle.

She never once mentions he’s a football player. I decided to try the experiment on my family in honor of my dad’s upcoming birthday.

I asked them to describe Pop using only three words. I gave no more direction than that, and here are the words I received in response:  optimistic, direct, insightful, opinionated, entrepreneurial, goofy, spirited, magical, hopeful, spontaneous, energetic, dancer, charismatic, suave and force of nature.

Dad was all of those things and more. But there was one adjective no one mentioned.

No one said bald.

Not one person.

Something that bothered my father all of his adult life wasn’t even mentioned by those of us who knew and loved him well.

Those who love us don’t really notice the physical traits that bother us the most. They see us for who we are, both on the outside and on the inside.

They know us for our talents, whether it’s sewing, playing the guitar, dancing or drawing.

They won’t remember us as fat, skinny, tall, short, bald or hairy. They’ll remember us for giving of ourselves in times of need. They’ll remember we listened to them cry or tell us about their day.

They’ll remember our kindness when we tucked them into bed at night or listened patiently as they told us a story.

They’ll remember if we had soft skin, strong arms or a comfortable lap. They’ll remember our singing voice, our laugh and the stories we told.

They’ll remember backyard barbecues, shooting hoops and baking cookies together.

Above all, they will remember we loved them.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.