Over 35 years ago, my husband explained the difference between a full-court press and a zone defense.

I’m still not sure what exactly they are, but I know what it means when he mutters “they need to stay out of the paint” during a basketball game.

I learned to appreciate basketball when I was in high school.

I was a member of the pep squad, and cheering in a warm gymnasium beat sitting in the football stadium in the freezing rain.

Few of us understood the basketball rules, but we could see the players’ faces and the gym always seemed to reverberate with feet stomping their encouragement on the wooden bleachers.

I grew to appreciate the athletes, both male and female, as their sweat and strained muscles reflected their love of the game.

That appreciation should’ve come earlier as the guys in my family are die-hard fans.

We grew up in Olean, N.Y., and my dad loved watching St. Bonaventure play basketball.

When we moved to Louisiana, Dad was a frequent fan in the stands where he cheered for LSU hoopster Pete Maravich as “Pistol Pete” made his way into the history books.

That love was put into action as our brothers had a perpetual basketball game going in our parents’ driveway.

At family barbecues and holidays, the brothers and brothers-in-law would invariably lace up their sneakers and the game picked up right where it left off.

The games were friendly but competitive. I don’t remember if anybody every won or lost, but the score wasn’t the point.

Friendly competition, non-stop heckling and showing off were the primary goals.

Our nieces and nephews would play when their uncles and dads let them.

One afternoon, we girls decided to play. The game started off friendly, but our natural competitiveness kicked in and there was elbowing, shoving and pushing.

I think I might’ve hurt my sister.

With three sons who all liked sports, we had a basketball goal in our driveway. With almost-daily games, when our thoughtful neighbors, Dwight and Neta, put in a new fence, they put the handle on their gate on the outside so the boys could get their ball out of their back yard.

Recently, when my alma mater, the University of Houston, made it to the NCAA finals along with Baylor, another Texas school, we settled in to watch the game. Baylor took the lead and never looked back.

Since we were already settled in for the evening, we watched the Gonzaga and UCLA game even though we didn’t have a favorite.

Without a dog in the fight, I came to admire both teams, and it was obvious they were well matched and both wanted to win.

When Gonzaga’s Jalen Suggs threw the ball from half court with less than a second on the clock, sunk the basket and won the game, we both jumped off the couch yelling in amazement.

We were eager to see these two teams take each other on for the championship title.

A sluggish, disjointed Gonzaga team took the court, but the Baylor Bears came on the court strong, bold, united and ready to win.

They easily took the 2021 NCAA Champs title.

Sometimes games, like life, are decided in a split second.

Sometimes, the winning outcome is evident from the start.

Other times, the underdog will fight with everything they have and take the win.

What matters is getting out there, playing with skill and abandon and accepting defeat or victory with grace and a handshake.

Not bad rules for life either.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

 

April Fools’ Day has different origin stories – which fits this day perfectly – but most of us use April 1 as a time to pull pranks and jokes on each other.

Our family’s favorite April Fools’ Day joke was one my brother played on my then-2-year-old son.

Nick was sitting on my Mom’s kitchen counter and my brother noticed he was wearing tennis shoes with Velcro laces.

Knowing it was April Fools’ Day, Jeff looked down at Nick’s shoes and said “Your shoes are untied.”

Nick looked down and his uncle said “April Fools’!”

We all laughed so Jeff said it again. Nick looked down again. This back-and-forth went on for probably 10 minutes with Nick innocently looking down at his shoes every single time, and teenage Jeff and my youngest sister Donna wondering when the child would catch on.

Perhaps this was a foreshadowing of what was ahead as Nick did graduate from Texas A&M University.

The best April Fools’ Day pranks come from people who aren’t known for telling jokes or doing silly things.

Such is the case with our middle son.

Stephen has a good sense of humor but he’s our serious child. He’s never been a joke teller or one who participated in the silly games and pranks other kids did.

But he pulled off the perfect prank when he was in college.

Stephen had been offered a summer internship with a national accounting firm, but he wasn’t sure which location they’d send him to.

One afternoon, he called.

“Mom, the firm made me an offer. There’s a catch though,” he said and my heart stopped.

He explained that the firm was going to send him to a Third World country in the Middle East. They couldn’t guarantee his safety but they were going to give him extra money because of the risks he’d have to take.

I asked him a lot of questions about what kind of security measures they were promising, did he know which country and if he was sure he wanted to take a chance with his life for money.

“Yes, I’ve thought about all of that,” he said. “There’s only one thing that concerns me.”

I held my breath.

“That you actually fell for this. April Fools’,” he said with a laugh.

He had me hook, line and sinker.

I told him to call his dad and play the same prank on him.

“Oh he’s too smart to fall for this joke,” Stephen said.

Intelligence had nothing to do with whether or not his dad would fall for the joke, I told him, ignoring his implication that I was the dumb one.

Stephen took up the challenge and called his dad who fell for it just like I did.

That’s why April Fools’ jokes are best carried out by those who don’t normally joke unlike my dad who loved telling jokes and telling tall tales.

If he’d tried pulling an April Fools’ joke on us, we’d have instantly suspected he was pulling our leg.

When Dad passed away, my brother Jeff and I were alone in the emergency room. Jeff looked at the clock, and said quietly that Dad died on April Fools’ Day.

Neither one of us realized the date before that moment, but we both agreed it was fitting that our father, the one who loved jokes and told a joke better than anyone else, passed away on this day.

Remembering to laugh in the midst of sorrow was the last lesson my dad taught me. So Happy April Fools’ Day, Dad. Thanks for reminding me that life has its share of smiles as well as its share of tears.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

In a family with seven children, times when we were all together were often scarce.

But there was one meal that was sacred, one meal we did not miss no matter the reason.

Sunday dinner.

But first, there was Sunday Mass.

My dad “found religion” when I was in high school and our church habits changed.

Before he saw the light, we sat on the back row and Dad snored through most of the service.

After his religious weekend, all nine of us had to sit on the front row. This wouldn’t have been so bad except we were always late.

For a teenager, that march up the aisle was the walk of shame. Add to that humiliation was that my dad insisted on singing every single hymn as loud as he could.

Dad couldn’t carry a tune to save his soul.

So there we were, late, on the front row with dad belting out “Here I Am Lord” for the angels to hear, although they probably had no problem picking him out of the congregation.

Once home, we’d set the table while Mom made the salad dressing. The menu didn’t change much – roast, white rice, gravy, mashed potatoes, salad and corn. No problem – our Mom’s a fabulous cook.

We’d say grace and pass the food to the right – Dad’s rule – and talk about everything under the sun while we ate.

Sometimes we’d talk about what was going on at school or sports but the conversation usually turned to politics.

We all had different views on the world, especially when we got to be teenagers.

Dad believed every word out of Archie Bunker’s mouth was the gospel truth.

We thought Archie Bunker was an idiot.

Dad thought voted for Richard Nixon.

Nixon single handedly shattered my belief that the president was right up there next to the pope and The Beatles.

We’d all chime in with our opinion. Some, like our sister Diane, loved to argue for the sake of argument.

Neither she nor my dad ever took their often loud disagreements personally. To them, those debates were verbal and intellectual exercise.

Our dad ended the discussion with his trade-mark wrap-it-up opinion.

“It’s a communist plot,” he’d say.

We’d throw our hands up in exasperation and took care of the dishes and leftovers, each one seamlessly taking on a task, from washing pots and pans to sweeping the floor, until the kitchen was clean.

Those Sunday dinners taught me invaluable lessons.

Although we differed in our views, we still allowed the other person to state their opinion, and we respected their right to have that opinion.

My incredibly smart siblings made me look at thorny issues in a different light.

Sometimes I changed my mind. Sometimes I stuck with what I thought. But I’m so glad they made me look at life from a different angle.

Social media and the opportunity to rant from a keyboard instead of face to face has turned civilized debate into a blood sport.

And that’s a shame.

Making political or religious disagreements personal doesn’t allow our minds to see an issue through a different lens and causes rifts in the family.

It’s sad how many relationships are splintered because of this unwillingness to honor another person’s point of view.

Our political and religious views are one small sliver of the pie that makes up each and every one of us. In our determination to be right, we forget that our right-wing friend is also an incredible artist, writer or gardener.

We need to remember our differences don’t make us enemies.

They just make us different, a message learned over hurried Sunday mornings and passing around a platter of pot roast.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

My uncle Marshall died unexpectedly when he was 21 years old. I remember hearing my grandmother wailing in the bathroom that night.

For the rest of her life, she wore nothing but black or navy blue clothes, seldom smiled and we were forbidden from mentioning Marshall’s name in her presence.

This once vibrant woman turned into a bitter, angry person.

That’s what I thought bereavement looked like.

But Dana McBride completely changed my outlook about death and grieving in less than 10 minutes.

Many years ago, I heard about children at Austin Elementary collecting coins for Chandler’s Tree Farm. My first thought was they were planting trees at the school.

Their project was much bigger.

Chandler McBride was the younger brother of Chelsea McBride, a student at the school. Chandler was battling cancer at Texas Children’s Hospital.

The McBrides understood first-hand the hardships quarantined families faced as they spent weeks isolated on the ward.

Dana and Kevin decided to make those families’ lives a little brighter with the help of the children at Austin Elementary. On every holiday, Dana, Kevin and Chelsea bought gifts for all the families on the ward.

Mother’s Day, Father’s Day and Valentine’s Day were all celebrated with the families by the McBrides. At Christmas, Kevin dressed up like Santa and pulled Chandler in a little red wagon to deliver the gifts.

As much good as they put out into the universe, 2-year-old Chandler quietly died in Dana’s arms.

There are few parents who could recover from such a heartbreaking tragedy.

But the McBrides chose a different path.

Instead of shutting their hearts, Dana, Kevin and Chelsea remembered the exhausted parents on the cancer ward.

Every Christmas for 18 years, Kevin dressed up as Santa and Dana and Chelsea delivered gifts from the back of Chandler’s little red wagon.

This family that brought such joy to so many was dealt an unbelievably cruel blow last week.

Chelsea was tragically killed in an automobile accident.

When I read Dana’s post about Chelsea receiving her heavenly wings, I had to read the post three times for it to sink in.

Surely God could not be so cruel as to take both of the McBride’s children.

Not the bright and happy Chelsea who volunteered at the local cancer center and worked with children. Not this family again.

I drove to the funeral reception in Lufkin with a heavy heart, crying, yelling at God, wondering how Dana and Kevin could survive this gut-wrenching tragedy.

When I saw Dana, she jumped up and hugged me. I told her how sorry I was and she said she was too, but they’d had Chelsea living with them and she was so grateful for that time with her daughter.

And then she changed my life.

With a serene smile on her face, Dana told me how she’s coping. We all have a purpose in life, she said. They were parents to Chandler and Chelsea and now God needed her and Kevin for something else.

“Chandler and Chelsea will be waiting for us when it’s our time,” she said. “Until then, we need to do what we can to fulfill our purpose here on earth.”

I came to Chelsea’s reception with an angry heart.

I left with forgiveness in my heart.

I took Dana’s words as a life challenge.

Live with a purpose, even on the days when you think you can’t get out of bed for the overwhelming sadness.

Live with forgiveness, even on those days when anger is the only emotion you feel.

Live with hope, even during the nights when overwhelming memories threaten to drown you.

There’s a reason and a purpose for your being here.

Never stop searching for your purpose here on earth and continue to pray for comfort, strength and peace for Dana and Kevin.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald

One year ago, we were slowly waking up to a new vocabulary and reality –face masks, social distancing and pandemic.

We’re still separated into the anti-maskers and the pro-maskers, those who will never take the vaccine and others driving an hour to an appointment where they can receive the vaccine.

Schools, however, have Spring Break on the calendar and no matter where you stand on the coronavirus debate, the kids will be school-free for an entire week.

Many are tired of staying home and looking at the same four walls. Others aren’t ready to venture out too far, so here’s some ideas to appeal to some and perhaps spark some interest in others.

Fun can be found within 50 miles of Fort Bend County, and most of these activities are right in our own backyards.

In no particular order, here’s some recommendations for Spring Break 2021:

 “The Berg:” Businesses have worked to make Rosenberg an up-to-date tourist destination.

The downtown neighborhood is filled with beautiful murals and quaint shops where the prices are right and choices plentiful.

Bargain and antique hunters are sure to find something in their price range.

Chain restaurants are reliable, but for a true adventure, take in one of Rosenberg’s home-grown eateries and listen for the train whistles. Save money, stay away from crowds and delight your taste buds.

Parks, like Seabourne Creek and the gorgeous Brazos Bend, offer adventures for bird watchers, families wishing to fly a kite, barbecue some hot dogs or kick around a soccer ball.

Eagle Lake:  If you want to stay away from crowds, consider a trip to Sealy and back home through Eagle Lake.

The easy drive north on Highway 36 to Sealy offers a first look at emerging wildflowers.

Stop at the railroad park in Sealy a few blocks away from the town’s square. Stretch your legs, stroll the square and head back home through Eagle Lake.

This tiny but beautiful city has lots to offer. There’s a museum and thrift store open during limited hours, and the Railroad Depot museum will be open the first weekend of Spring Break. History buffs will find the Masonic cemetery, established in 1872, a treasure trove of Texas’ past.

The big draw in Eagle Lake is the Attwater Prairie Chicken National Wildlife Refuge, home to this endangered species. If you love seeing a coastal prairie, the refuge is a beautiful spot.

Chances of seeing a chicken are slim, but chances of seeing some wildflowers are pretty good.

The visitor’s center is closed, but the restrooms are open. Best of all, the 20-minute driving tour is free. The center is open from sunrise to sunset. Driving time to Fort Bend County from Eagle Lake is 30 minutes.

Surfside:  There’s a free public beach but some spots require you to pay to park. Whatever you do, don’t park on the sand as you’ll get stuck.

Remember, since it is Spring Break, chances are this usually quiet spot will be filled with beach lovers aching to get away from memories of the recent arctic freeze. Driving time is an hour and a half.

Bellville:  There’s a nice town square here and a few barbecue places, but the biggest draw of all is Newman’s Castle. Step back in time in a real castle complete with a moat. Reservations are required, and admission is a little steep – $20 per person – but if it’s adventure you’re looking for, this is the place.

Finish off your medieval day with a treat from Newman’s Castle Bakery. The inside is nothing fancy but that doesn’t matter when munching on fresh kolaches and doughnuts. Newman’s has tables set up outside for those still cautious about inside dining. Driving time is one hour.

All of the cities in Fort Bend County have some historic or beautiful draw for all ages and interests, from the courthouse and beautiful gardens in the heart of Richmond, the boutique shopping and big-city feel of Sugar Land and the free playgrounds, restaurants and parks in our smaller cities.

Spring Break fun, even in a winding-down pandemic, can be found in your own back yard.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

It’s a dreary day and I’m going to tackle a dreaded chore I’ve been putting off for about 10 years – cleaning out the closet.

This isn’t first on my gotta-do list. I could sit down in front of the television with a bowl of popcorn and binge watch “America’s Worst Cooks.”

Or I could find mates to all the orphaned socks, clean out the junk drawer or vacuum under the couch.

But it’s time to roll up my sleeves and organize my closet, the one area where I find myself totally overwhelmed.

When we moved in, I promised myself I’d maintain my closet. All the pants went on the bottom rod and shirts and skirts went on the top.

I folded all the T-shirts and put those on a shelf. I lined up my shoes on a shelf instead of throwing them in a corner. Hangers were finally used.

That was years ago, and there’s only so much room in a closet. I faced the facts – some things needed to go.

T-shirts seem to be the most out of control, so I decided to start there.

I only own two long-sleeved T-shirts so both of those should stay. Same goes for the Christmas T-shirt – it’s the only holiday shirt I own.

There’s a couple of sentimental shirts from family reunions and from my teaching days. In the words of superstar organizer Marie Kondo, they “bring me joy” and get to stay.

At the bottom of the stack are two paint-splattered T-shirts. I use those for messy projects, so they have to stay as well.

Seems like I’m keeping all the T-shirts.

Time to move on to the dressy shirts.

Some have tags from stores that have gone out of business. Some are sleeveless, even though I won’t wear sleeveless shirts, and some are itchy or the collar’s too high.

However, I paid full price for them, so I’ll keep those as a reminder that full price doesn’t always mean full comfort. Also, for full price, I need to learn to like turtle necks.

On to the pants.

These seem to fall into three categories:  too small, barely fit or if I suck in my stomach and hold my breath, they’ll fit.

There’s a pair of jeans in the back part of the closet I wore before I had my first child.

They’re 40 years old, but one day, I’ll fit into those jeans.

One day, bell bottoms will come back in fashion.

One day hasn’t come yet, so I’ll hold on to those a little bit longer.

I’m not a fan of long sleeves but after this past winter where the temperature was 50 degrees in my house, I’m holding on to everything that’s warm.

Dresses are next. Now that I’m retired, I consider tossing all of the dresses on the donate pile, but there are some dress-up occasions I have to attend so I’ll keep all of them.

Dresses remind me I need high-heels. This one black pair isn’t the most comfortable but they make me feel tall, so I’m keeping them.

Another pair are like fun tap shoes, so they’re definitely staying.

These black flats were a terrific bargain, and I’ll keep those as a trophy to smart shopping.

I stand back with satisfaction – all the T-shirts are neatly folded on a shelf, pants are on hangers and the dresses are all facing the same direction.

The donate pile doesn’t have one thing in it, but that’s okay. When I lose weight, I’ll have a bunch of too-big clothes to donate.

That’s going to happen about the same time aliens land in my back yard and take me to their leader.

At least I can tap dance my way onto the ship.

 

This column was originally published in the Fort Bend Herald. 

We all have that picture.

The one in the elementary or junior high yearbook. The picture where we cringe every time we see it.

Either we had a goofy look on our faces, we were having a bad hair day or our eyes were closed.

For me, the hide-my-head year was seventh grade.

I’d given myself uneven bangs on a forehead not created for bangs.

The bangs were supposed to hide my bushy eyebrow – yes, I had only one that went across my face – but the bangs made the look worse.

I also needed braces, so I held my mouth in a funny smile that looked like I was sitting on a cactus, trying to remain serious.

I came across that picture when going through photos I picked up from my Mom.

She was recuperating from a minor heart procedure, and my sister and I were sitting on her bed talking to her.

Mom opened a drawer and we noticed it was filled with small photo albums and loose pictures.

The hundreds of photos in that drawer were the result of everyone sending her pictures over the past 30 years and from her days of taking pictures with a small Kodak camera.

I took the photos home to scan and post the images on our Facebook family page for everyone to see.

As I went through the stacks, I found some gems.

Mom had pictures of her mother throughout the years. I saw my grandmother’s hands and remembered how silky soft they were.

Those hands were seldom still as she was either making chicken and rice, crocheting or finishing up an embroidery pattern on pillowcases.

There were also pictures of our Grandma Marguerite, always wearing high heels, jewelry and her hair perfectly styled.

There were pictures of Mom’s siblings, some of whom have passed away.

Pictures of our Aunt Bev made me tear up but then smile as seeing her again reminded me of the many conversations we had and how she taught me how to knit and find bargains.

Seeing our relatives’ smiling faces in my grandparents’ living room with the gold couches and gold-flocked wallpaper was like stepping back in time.

Once again, I could hear the laughter in that room, and then I noticed the bright red carpet that ran through all the downstairs rooms.

I’d forgotten the carpet back story until I saw the pictures. My grandmother asked my grandfather to go pick out some carpet for the house as she was busy.

Red was his favorite color, so that’s the color he picked out. I don’t think she ever forgave him.

I was reminded how gorgeous our Aunt Kathy was and how she lit up a room with her smile and kindness. Photos of my Cajun uncles brought up memories of crabbing and fishing.

The photos showed how we’d all changed, from young kids to grandparents. Our children’s growing up was documented as well, from darling toddlers to apathetic teens to parents themselves.

Family trips were recorded, like the time some of the siblings visited Las Vegas.

There was a late-night blackjack game where the dealer took pity on us and allowed us to win a few hands.

The memories might be hazy, but those tangible pictures allow us to remember and relive those wonderful moments on a sandy beach at some property my parents owned, at a backyard barbecue accompanied by a never-ending basketball game, at chaotic Christmas celebrations, birthdays and impromptu get-togethers.

The photos are now scanned and posted on our family Facebook page where relatives are loving taking a trip back through the past.

Even the cringe-worthy elementary school pictures.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.  

For most of my life, I’ve battled tossing and turning at bedtime, eyes wide open, unable to shut my brain off.

Recently, I started watching mindless YouTube videos to try and get to sleep.

One restless night, I found the gold-mine of insomnia-chasing videos:  cleaning channels. Over 400,000 people tune in to one of the most entertaining cleaners, Jessica Tull.

Jessica and other YouTubers have all kinds of tips for taking your home from a total wreck to a neat-freak’s paradise.

None of the professionals in the videos are distracted by finding the remote control under a couch cushion and settling down for a “Friends” marathon.

No interruptions courtesy of the dog turning over the water bowl.

No balancing the telephone under their ear while trying to scrape gum off the floor.

No frustration in discovering someone left a marker on the rug and there’s a two-inch ring of color around the now-dried-up marker.

After watching Jessica straighten up her kitchen, garage and entire house, I was inspired to be honest with myself.

Exactly what needed cleaning in my house?

Answer:  Everything.

The floors needed mopping, I haven’t dusted in months – oh be honest, years – closets are places I hide things and the only reason our refrigerator is clean is because we had to buy a new one.

No more procrastinating.

It was time to organize, clean and conquer.

I headed to the store, determined to make sure I was fully armed for the task ahead. One hundred and twenty dollars later, I was back home, confident and ready to clean.

Big jobs are always easier if I start with the smallest task. I started with the cabinet where I’ve stockpiled water glasses, coffee cups, Thermos mugs and superhero drinking cups.

I took everything out, threw away the glasses with cloudy bottoms, cracks or chips, wrapped the coffee cups we don’t use in newspaper and put them in a bag to donate.

As instructed by Jessica, I used one of my new cleaning products to wipe down the shelves before putting back only what’s usable.

Result:  Organization.

Energized, I got out the new floor vacuum I’d bought, a Dust-buster on steroids, and ventured into No Man’s Land – underneath the couch.

After months of not cleaning, those dust bunnies were the size of elephants, but my new vacuum sucked them right up, and I only had to empty out the canister three times before I finished.

Next was the cleaning supply cabinet. Sitting on the floor, I realized a few things.

One, I had no idea what some of those cleaners accomplished.

Second, because I was disorganized, there were four bottles of 409, two almost-empty containers of Lysol, an empty can of Comet and three cans of Pledge, one with a missing nozzle.

I was undeterred because, thanks to Jessica, I’d purchased the ultimate cleaning tool, one that empowered me with confidence to tackle anything:  the Mr. Clean Magic Eraser.

Mr. Clean’s been the face of powerful cleaning since I was a kid, and the word “magic” promised salvation.

The big bald guy and I got to work.

Three minutes with the Magic Eraser, and the scum on the shower doors was gone.

Same with a few pesky rust stains in the bathtubs and the calcium build up around the faucets.

I went through three of the Magic Erasers before I called it a day.

There’s still a lot left to organize and clean and a lot of cleaning products I need to figure out what they’re good for.

At least I know when all else fails, magic works.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Every town with a newspaper had one – the society editor.

In bygone days, the society editor was a woman who reported upcoming teas, weddings, receptions, galas and social events.

She knew the correct way to list the attendants in a wedding, how to address a minister and the best gossip source in town.

The Herald-Coaster’s society editor was Betty Dawes Humphrey, and the grand dame, or grand heifer as she might call herself, passed away this week at the age of 88.

And she made the most of those 88 years.

She started her over 50-year career in the newspaper business balancing a manual typewriter on wooden crates as the printing presses were rolling.

It wasn’t long before her knack for writing in a conversational style and her friendships with hundreds of people made her the best choice for the Herald Coaster’s family editor.

Her office was located in the middle of the newsroom, and her desk was cluttered with things Betty loved – photos of her family, newspaper proof sheets and her legendary Rolodex with the phone numbers of almost every single person in Fort Bend County.

New reporters were taken under Betty’s wings, encouraged and taught the correct way to report the news. “Children,” she instructed us “are reared. Animals are raised.”

Fancy, three-syllable writing was for those unwilling to get details. Plain factual writing in a conversational tone was her style.

Betty made sure we gave her tips and information for her “Bits from Betty” column, written as if you were sitting in the beauty parlor with your best friends trading gossip and local news.

One of the events Betty loved was the Fort Bend County Fair. She usually announced the parade lineup from a grandstand in downtown Richmond, and she always added her own side note to groups as they passed by.

When intern Kim Kovar was taking pictures near the grandstand one year, Betty called her name out on the loudspeaker and complimented Kim on her reporting skills.

Kim wanted to dive underneath the closest folding chair but she knew better than to tell Betty “no.”

Betty took me with her to the Fair’s senior luncheon once or twice, and I was usually left handing out plates while she visited with every single table in the building.

Former Fort Bend Herald editor Bob Haenel worked with Betty for over 30 years and remembers her nosiness was what made her so successful.

It wasn’t unusual to go to lunch with Betty and she’d practically fall out of her chair to eavesdrop on the people talking next to her, he said.

But Bob, like most folks who knew Betty, loved her.

If you were single, she’d tried to get you married, he said. If you didn’t want to tell your age, Betty got that number out of you no matter how long the digging took.

She loved her children and was a bragging grandmother. She had her share of heartache with the loss of her son. Perhaps that’s why she was always so kind and patient to whoever came in with an obituary. They found an open heart and a patient ear in her office.

And it didn’t matter what color or nationality you were. Betty knew people from all walks of life, and I watched her talk with everyone, from janitors to mayors, with equal amounts of respect and friendliness.

There was no “I’m better than you are” in her world.

Your child’s birth, First Communion, Quinceanera, baptism, wedding, reception, accomplishment – all were important to her and she made sure your family was represented with the knowledge someone knew you mattered.

I’d bet there’s hundreds of well-worn scrapbooks with a “Bits from Betty” column glued inside because she knew the importance of having one’s name in the local paper.

I have at least a dozen of the holiday cookbooks the newspaper published, and she could write a column faster than anyone in the office.

She critiqued my stories in a frank, honest manner, and her advice was right on the money.

When I’m writing, I hear her voice, her wonderful laugh and her warning to not park in her spot.

Betty, I hope the angels know someone’s recording their every move and listening in to every conversation.

Make room for her at heaven’s table, Lord. Like all of us, you’ll be glad you did.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.         

I’ve lost lots of things in my life – keys, money, keepsakes.

I once lost the year I was 25.

During a casual conversation, a co-worker realized I was wrong about how old I was.

“You’re the same age as me,” she said. “You’re 25.”

Slowly, I realized she was absolutely correct.

I’m not good with numbers or math but, this time, I knew my math skills had to be part of my DNA because I’d made myself older instead of younger.

This deficiency is because I was born a right-brained person, more interested in the arts and creative thinking.

Right-brainers daydream, something I still do. Usually I’m saving the day because in daydreams, one can be Tarzan, Wonder Woman or Batman.

We right-brainers also have a rich imaginative life. I used to imagine I was graceful.

As a teenager, hours were spent in my bedroom walking back and forth on an imaginary line, pretending I was a gymnast like Olga Korbut who dominated gymnastics in the 1970s. This fantasy was to make up for the reality that I was a complete klutz.

My left-brained husband never spends a minute straightening out a closet because he always puts things where they belong unlike on the floor like me.

Said left-brained husband never finds himself questioning the extra hardware after putting together a shelf because he counted all of the nails and screws and compared them to the supply list before he started.

That’s opposite to his right-brained wife who dives in without reading the directions and then wonders why there’s three screws left over.

Both of us have recently picked up our cameras and are taking pictures for fun. We both enjoy nature photography, but we approach our hobbies quite differently.

I was showing him some pictures I’d taken at a park, and he asked me some technical questions about the images.

“What f-stop did you use,” he asked.

“Not a clue,” I replied

“What was your shutter speed,” he asked.

Same reply.

He started talking about the mathematical relationship of the aperture opening and the camera’s ISO and I started thinking about what I was going to cook for dinner.

It wasn’t that I didn’t care what he was talking about – I honestly didn’t understand most of what he was saying.

When I’m taking pictures, I’m looking at lighting and my subject.

I don’t look at the numbers on the back of the camera – just how the image shows up after I snap the shutter.

I look at the gas gauge on my car and, when the gas gauge points to the half-way mark, I top off the tank because I don’t want to run out of gas.

Left-brained people know how exactly many more miles they can drive before they have to stop and refuel. That’s because they read the car’s manual and know that function actually exists.

Left-brained people measure before they hang pictures on the wall and only leave one hole in the sheetrock.

We right-brainers eyeball where we want the picture to go and leave at least four holes in the wall before we find the right spot.

Left-brained people seldom forget their deodorant or socks at home when on vacation.

We right-brainers know a trip to the dollar store is in our future whenever we’re out of town.

We right-brained people often get lost, but we don’t get mad. We figure the detour is a chance to explore somewhere new, and we’re open to seeing something unexpected.

Besides, we get lost a lot.

Right-brained people drive left-brained people crazy because we’re unpredictable, impulsive and believe mistakes are a chance to try something new.

If we’re lucky, though, right-brained people appreciate the logic and calm left-brainers bring to our lives.

Life is all about balance and appreciating that sometimes you have to get out of your comfort zone.

We right-brainers are walking examples that a wrong turn can actually become an adventure.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.