“You got a surprise in the mail,” my husband said as he put an envelope on the kitchen counter.

Curious, I picked up the letter.

“Congratulations. You’ve been selected for jury duty.”

My stomach sank and I banged my head on the counter. I don’t know of anyone who likes to be summoned for jury duty.

We claim we want to fulfill our civic obligation, but when it comes to actually carrying out that duty, we’d rather have a root canal.

The first time I received a jury summons was in Louisiana. I was barely an adult, so the notice thrilled me. The government believed I was adult ready.

We assembled in a courtroom – just like on television – and there were attorneys chatting around two tables. At the head of the room was a judge sitting behind an impressive raised desk.

The counselor from my high school was sitting in the front row, dabbing at her eyes. When the prosecutor announced we’d be hearing a case about a murder, I knew exactly who they were talking about – the counselor’s late husband.

He’d been killed during a robbery, and we all knew about the tragedy because it happened when I was in high school. The prosecutor asked each potential juror if they’d ever heard of the case and I told him I did and why.

The prosecutor dismissed me, and I later found out the accused tried to assault the bailiff and his own lawyer during the trial.

Conviction. A slam dunk for the jury.

The next time I was summoned was in Fort Bend County. The case involved drunk driving.

The prosecutor asked if any of the prospective jurors abstained from alcohol. I was the only one who raised my hand, and the prosecution dismissed me from that trial as well.

When I received this latest jury summons, I was a little leery. We’re still in a Covid-19 quarantine state, and I remembered that the courthouse was packed on jury days.

The letter assured us that officials were taking all precautions, but if anyone felt uncomfortable, they should notify the court.

I didn’t have a valid reason for not going, and I knew I’d feel like a bum if I didn’t fulfill my civic duty. So I got up early on jury day and headed to Richmond.

Everyone had to wear a mask, and there were blue x’s taped on the floor six feet apart all the way from the front door to the jury assembly room.

The process was orderly and organized, from the x-ray machines to the clerk who took our temperatures.

People are usually sitting side by side, but every other row was roped off. Blue painter’s tape created a box on the open rows where people could sit about six feet from each other. The room was filled, but I didn’t feel uncomfortable.

Every step of the process was explained, either by a video or by court officials who were professional, courteous and humorous when the situation called for that.

Five hours later, all but 15 of us walked out of the justice center, and I have to say I felt both relieved and disappointed. All we had to lose was time, but the person on trial stood to lose or gain their freedom.

To know that 12 people are in charge of someone’s fate is a tremendous responsibility, and even though we might complain and look for a way to weasel out of jury duty, the experience was informative and something Americans are charged with doing.

Because of Covid-19, defendants have been waiting months for their day in court, and they deserve a fair trial and to be judged by their peers.

They, and the jurors, attorneys, judges, clerks and deputies, deserve a safe environment to conduct business.

You, the citizen, deserve to see the court system at work.

When you get that summons in the mail, don’t worry. Pack a water bottle, some snacks, a sweater, a book and a comfortable mask.

All you have to lose is some time.

All a defendant has to lose is their freedom.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

While looking at the upcoming weather change, I decided to wash the quilt on our bed. It’s too bulky for our 25-year-old washer to handle, so I searched for a nearby laundromat.

When I was in college, going to the laundromat was social time. The room was filled with college students, none of whom knew how to properly wash clothes.

Music was playing from somebody’s boom box, and we’d argue the pros and cons of the Rolling Stones vs. The Beatles.

I wasn’t sure what to expect when I went into a laundromat all these years later, and I was quite surprised by what I found.

The days of shoving everything that was dirty into one small machine were over. Modern washing machines are stainless steel and can handle different size loads of dirty clothes. Dryers are quiet and efficient.

Also, I didn’t need a roll of quarters. Patrons insert a credit card in a machine on the wall, key in the amount they want put on the card and go from there. I didn’t figure this out on my own – the nice lady working there helped me out.

I’d forgotten to bring laundry detergent, but another machine sold Tide pods along with Skittles and Gardettos.

I loaded the comforter into a machine and settled in with a library book, but the people were a lot more interesting than the “whodunit” in my lap.

There was a tired young mom with three baskets full of toddler clothes and a middle-aged man who paced the aisles. I noticed there was a piece of masking tape stuck to the back leg of his jeans with $1.00 printed on it.

An older gentleman came in the back door with a clothes basket filled with Tide pods and Zip-loc bags.

Each bag had bottled water, crackers and chips. He left the plastic basket on the folding table and walked to the machines where the young mother was waiting.

He inserted a laundromat debit card, she thanked him, and he kept walking around, inserting the card in machines where other people were waiting.

When he sat down at the folding table, I asked him if he was a volunteer. He smiled and started talking.

He said he volunteered with “Hope Impacts” to help the homeless in Katy. He said those down on their luck could come to Kingsland Baptist Church on Tuesdays and Thursdays for a shower, a hot meal and change of clothes.

The ministry also offers assistance with medical and dental care, counseling and skills to help in job searches.

More importantly, those down on their luck also see a friendly, non-judgmental face and someone to treat them like a human being.

My reporter’s cynicism was in full alert, but when I saw this man helping people in a dignified way, my faith in humanity was restored.

I thought about the many ministries here in our area that help with the invisible people of society. I’ve seen the good these organizations, some of which are Helping Hands, Lunches of Love, Attack Poverty and Common Threads, accomplish with dedicated volunteers and monetary donations.

There are dozens of church and civic groups that reach out to those down on their luck, and this is the time of year when the need grows.

Being grateful is a state of mind that is nourished by helping others. If you feel a little low in that department, consider reaching out to some of the incredible organizations here in our community.

Do some research and find a group you feel would best be served by your help, either monetarily or in person.

The people you help could be those you’d never guess are down on their luck. When we all work together, we can help make this world a lot better place.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

It’s been at least 15 years since I’ve visited a Little League ballpark and yelled “batter, batter, batter swing.”

When our boys hung up their baseball mitts for the last time, I thought those days were over, but I got a chance to sit in a Little League ballpark this week. The game brought back wonderful memories of watching kids play the all-American sport.

Baseball’s been in my family for as long as I can remember. My uncles loved their baseball trading cards, and they’d play wiffle ball in the side yard every Sunday afternoon.

Nieces and nephews joined in and learned early how to hold a bat, run to first and how to round second base.

Our eldest son loved playing baseball, and we started with T-ball at the T.W. Davis YMCA in Richmond. The younger boys would jump around on the playground while their elder brother learned how to bunt, steal a base and catch an infield fly.

His younger brother loved baseball as well, and the parent friends we made on that team remain friends to this day.

Our youngest son enjoyed the guitar more. He was a good sport and seldom complained about heading to the ballpark to watch his brothers play.

There were times I resented packing up the lawn chairs, snacks and gear and driving to the park. I imagined myself sitting home and relaxing instead of sitting outside on either a hot, sticky night or a cold, drag-the-blanket-with-me night.

Years later, I got to sit home, but I realized how much I missed the game when I went to watch my neighbor play ball at George Park in Richmond this week.

The last time I went to George Park, there were a few soccer and softball fields and about four baseball diamonds. Today, there’s fields everywhere, from beginning T-ball teams to parent-pitch to pre-teen teams.

The old wooden bleachers are now actual seats, and the lights shine just like at a high school field. The umps have matching shirts, and sponsor signs line the fence with some of the same businesses when our boys played.

Our neighbor Kyle’s team is the Astros, and those kids were ready to play. One young girl on the opposing team was the catcher, and she didn’t miss a throw. I cheered when she got on base, sliding like a champ into that bag.

Some of the kids struck out, and the coaches talked to them as they came back to the dugout, usually with their arm over the kid’s shoulders, and it was obvious fall baseball is one of learning more than winning.

And just like when my boys were up to bat, when Kyle stepped into the batter’s box, I held my breath.

When a ball came his way, I crossed my fingers as he ran as fast as he could to the fence and threw the ball to the cut-off man in time to make the play.

The sigh of relief I felt so many times came right back as if I’d never left the ballpark.

Some things have changed – there’s electronic scoring instead of a paper book, the bats are all high-end metal sluggers and people in the stands were wearing masks.

What’s the same is the enthusiasm the kids and parents have for one of America’s favorite games. Young girls and boys were learning the value of being on a team where sportsmanship counts and it’s possible to win and lose gracefully.

There’s nothing like baseball.

Kyle’s got a game Friday night.

I wouldn’t miss it for anything.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Achieving the “gotcha” moment seems to be the new level of success.

From presidential and vice-presidential debates to the highest courts in the land, setting a trap for someone and springing it is what now serves as entertainment.

This week, I’m listening to the senate hearings for Supreme Court nominee Amy Coney Barrett. If a senator isn’t showboating for him or herself, they’re grandstanding for their party.

They also spend a lot of their allotted time complaining about everything from voter suppression to Covid-19 precautions.

When they do ask a question, it’s not to get information. It’s to score points for their party and to try and nail Judge Barrett.

The search to find the best judge to sit on the highest court in America shouldn’t come down to party lines. The search should involve asking potential appointees tough, relevant questions about their qualifications and how they view the Supreme Court’s role in America.

But that doesn’t make senators look important.

That doesn’t allow them to score “gotcha” points.

That doesn’t allow them to bully and trip up whoever’s sitting on the hot seat.

Getting the facts apparently doesn’t get good ratings, and these hearings are being broadcast live on television, radio and social media.

 

The Rise of Karens

It’s not just politicians who are taking advantage of a television camera.

Look the popularity of “Karen” videos on the internet. One video of women acting badly has over 2.1 million viewers. That’s over 2 million people who want to see someone acting poorly and getting slapped down.

I never seem to have witty words instantly come out of my mouth like in the movies, and I’m usually so flabbergasted I don’t even think about getting my phone out.

Instead, I bolt up in bed in the middle of the night, slap myself on the forehead and mutter “I should’ve said that.”

We’re not stopping to consider how these women got to the point where they’re almost incoherent and in a rage. They probably believe they’re retaliating in the only way they know how.      The best way comes courtesy of Christian Cooper, an expert bird watcher in New York City. He was confronted by an out-of-control white woman who called the police and said an African-American man was threatening her and her dog.

For her “Karen” attitude, she was fired from her job and ridiculed on social media. Mr. Cooper refused to press charges, saying Ms. Cooper had been punished enough and she apologized for her rude and offensive behavior.

He’s one of the few people to refuse grabbing for the gotcha moment. Instead, he turned to compassion and understanding.

We don’t have to be a Karen to remember how to handle a situation where we want to blow up. My former neighbor, Helen, had a distinct flair for knowing how to act dignified in any situation.

She had a fabulous wardrobe, but my favorite item in her closet was a dark purple cape. Not a cape like a superhero would wear, but a fashionable shawl she wore to stay warm in restaurants.

Helen went to visit her husband at his office, and the two had a disagreement. She described what happened.

“When I’d said my piece,” she told me, “I stood up, took another puff off my cigarette, rubbed it out in the ashtray and stood up.”

And then the crowning moment.

“I looked at him straight in the eye and said ‘Don’t come home until you have a better attitude.’ I took my cape and flipped it over my shoulder. And then I walked out of his office without looking back.”

All I could do was look at her with my mouth open. Helen didn’t call her husband names. She didn’t throw anything at him or belittle him. She stood up for herself in a dignified way.

They made up that evening, but, as far as I knew, he never picked a fight with her in his office again.

“Gotcha” might get a lot of likes on YouTube and raise the ratings on a news program. But nothing will ever take the place of common courtesy and positive assertiveness.

And walking away with your head held high and a cape tossed over your shoulder.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When I was a teenager, going to high school football games was the highlight of the week.

I was in the pep squad, and we cheered on the Baker Buffaloes from wooden stands on Friday nights. We memorized hand signals and cheers and erupted into screaming applause when one of our players made a huge play.

As an added bonus, whenever we made a touchdown, the buffalo on the wooden scoreboard would snort smoke from its nose. Yes, football in a small town was exciting and memorable.

Later, we had season tickets to Louisiana State University football games, and those games are as clear to me today as they were 30 years ago.

Charles “Charlie Mac” McClendon was the head coach, and we all held our breath when the “Golden Band from Tigerland” marched on the field before every game, snapped their instruments into place and played four notes.

Instantly, thousands of fans were on their feet, cheering the Tigers, sticking with them through thick and thin.

The LSU stadium is nicknamed “Death Valley” although I thought the name “Deaf Valley” was a better one. The cheers were so loud, you couldn’t hear the person next to you, even if they screamed into your ear.

I learned the different penalty signals and grew to appreciate a collective “boo” whenever the refs made a bad call. For LSU fans, that was every single time the Tigers received a penalty.

Their rivalries with Ole Miss and Alabama remain legendary, and I vividly remember one match up against Alabama when we got drenched but stayed the whole time because the game was so exciting.

I thought about those days while watching Monday Night Football with my eldest son. He and his brother have Fantasy Football teams, and they watch games differently than we did back in the days of the Steelers.

The internet defines fantasy football as “selecting real players to create fake teams that earn points based on real players’ performances on the field. If your fake team scores more points than other people’s fake team, you win (and get to rub it in their face on Tuesday morning).”

That definition comes nowhere close to how complicated fantasy football is. Even after numerous explanations, I’m still not sure how it works except one doesn’t cheer for a team. You bet on individual players.

My son tried to explain the process, and he probably thought he was watching the game with a first-grader.

“So what team are you pulling for,” I asked as I sat down.

“Neither one,” he said, his phone in his hand. “I’ve got players on both sides.”

He showed me this complicated table on his phone with percentages, numbers and names.

My mind wandered and I remembered becoming a fan of the Pittsburgh Steelers back in the 1970s.

There was a young, brash Terry Bradshaw who broke all the conventional rules. The Steelers had the powerful Franco Harris and “Mean Joe” Greene. They were unstoppable, and it didn’t matter that we lived in Louisiana. The Steelers were my team, and that team won the Super Bowl.

I know fantasy football is complicated fun and perhaps the individual is more important than the team these days.

But…

I wouldn’t trade one minute of sitting in Death Stadium, one hour of cheering on the Baker Buffaloes or the love I still have for the Steelers for all the digital numbers on an iPhone.

For me, it’s all about the team.

I still believe in the Texans, the Cowboys – yes, you can like both – and I pray LSU beats Alabama until the end of time.

For this football fan, the team is ultimately more important than the individual.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

One wrong turn.

A missed exit off I-10 near Lake Charles, La. was all it took for me to find myself where I didn’t want to be – smack in the middle of where Hurricane Laura blasted through Louisiana.

I meant to take a road further north of Lake Charles to make my way through the state, but I somehow missed that exit and unexpectedly found myself in downtown Sulphur, one of Laura’s hardest hit areas.

Sulphur was the fast-food exit along I-10. One could stop there and choose from a dozen fast-food joints before heading into Lake Charles and heavy traffic.

I never ventured past the first half mile off the interstate, but on a gray, rainy day, I found myself looking at what a small town looks like exactly a month after a Category 4 hurricane comes through.

The destruction was unbelievable.

At the end of every driveway, both businesses and residential, piles of debris and water-logged furniture, wood and sheetrock were stacked up so high, it was hard to see past them.

Sheets of metal roofing waited at dozens of curbs like curling ribbon on a birthday present.

Businesses were demolished. Most of the roofs were gone from the front of the store to the back. Where plate glass once gave shoppers a view of what was inside, now there was only a vacant room with insulation and wires hanging from the ceiling.

Some brave businesses had hand-lettered signs out front stating they were open for limited hours, but most were dark and vacant.

Giant live-oak trees, some as big around as a hotel fountain, were lying on the ground as if a pro wrestler had picked them up and slammed them down. Most trees were ripped in half and the leaves had been blown off those that remained.

There were dozens of utility trucks on the roadways with hard-hat topped workers at the top of utility poles, attaching new wires to the new poles, to get power back to people who are still in the dark.

A school was boarded up with empty yellow buses filling the parking lot. Chunks of the building were gone, tarps and wood covering the openings.

The school sign flashed a message for students to remember they’re loved and to finish classes online because there was no way the school could open in the foreseeable future.

At first, all I could see was the sad destruction, the devastation and the overwhelming work as I wondered how people could pull themselves out of a hole that wide and that deep.

But people were going about the business of rebuilding. They were hauling debris and waving at each other as cars and trucks passed their homes. Those waves were accompanied by a tired smile, but a smile nonetheless.

And then I smelled a distinctly Louisiana fragrance – cayenne pepper. A food truck was operating in a parking lot with a hand-lettered sign stating they were selling boiled shrimp and crawfish.

That’s a way of life most have known for generations, and no hurricane was going to stop them from enjoying a semblance of civilization, of family and of home.

Little by little, month by month and probably year by year, Louisiana will rebuild, just as these Cajuns did after Betsy and Camille, Katrina and Rita and Ike and Carmen.

I realized Sulphur’s more than a one-stop town off the interstate. It’s home to over 20,000 people who’ve survived floods, economic downturns, Covid and now this hurricane. There is no way they won’t rebuild, no matter how long that rebuilding takes.

The saying “laissez les bons temps roulez” will ring through the bayous again.

Cajuns are resilient and nothing, not even a Class 4 hurricane, will ever stop them from “letting the good times roll.”

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

The assignment was straight forward – write a research paper about an influential American.

I was attending classes at Wharton County Junior College in Richmond about 15 years ago, and decided to write my paper about Barbara Bush.

The former First Lady was someone who used her political position to shine a light on important issues – education and reading. As an avid reader, I was happy someone in power could perhaps convince young people to pick up a book or newspaper.

After we turned our papers in, I was standing in the hall talking with three young classmates. The conversation turned to strong female leaders, and it was clear they weren’t familiar with strong women on the national level.

I asked them to name an influential woman from the last 50 years. They thought and then one girl blurted out an answer.

“Betsy Ross,” she said confidently.

“That was over 100 years ago and doesn’t count,” her friend replied.

They laughed, but I groaned inside.

These three had no clue who’d paved the path for them so they could go to college and pursue the career of their choice.

With the death of two influential women this past week, Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg and former Fulshear mayor Viola Randle, I started thinking about the women who made it possible for other women to go after their dreams.

Over the years, I’ve had opportunities to interview leaders in our community, and I sought out women who’d led the way.

I had the pleasure of interviewing Ms. Randle at her home. She was unpretentious, funny and sharp as a tack.

She helped run a business and a city as an African-American woman, and she opened the door for many young women in this county.

Other women stepped up back in the 1990s in this area. Lupe Uresti served on the Rosenberg City Council and was mayor of Rosenberg in 1992. Dorothy Ryan also served on the council and was mayor in the 1990s.

I also had the good fortune to interview and develop a friendship with the late Kathleen Lindsey. She was one of the few women in her law class at the University of Texas, was instrumental in starting the Fort Bend County Library system and an elementary school was named after her.

Most of us have strong women in our family histories, women who overcome great odds, often as part of their every-day life.

Our family is no exception.

My great-great grandmother came to America because she knew there was no future for her family in Lebanon. She saw poverty and wars and believed she could make a better life for her and her sons in the United States.

Her husband refused to leave his home country, so she left without him. She came to America, sold apples and did whatever she needed to do to keep her sons fed and clothed.

So many women walk this path every single day, most without thanks or others knowing about their quiet strength and positive influence in their families’ lives.

We should tell our nieces, granddaughters and daughters about the strong women in our families. As mothers and aunts and fathers and uncles, it’s our responsibility to make sure our girls believe they can be a vocal part of society and be the change makers the pioneers in our families and community showed us was possible.

If we want our daughters to realize how powerful they are, they need to know they have a solid foundation on which to build. They need to realize the dreams they have can come true if they are strong and refuse to give their seat up to someone else because of the color of their skin, their gender, their religion or their beliefs.

It’s time for our girls to realize the strength they have inside themselves.

Help them find that grit.

Tell those stories.

 

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Although the coronavirus has us socially distancing, life goes on.

People have found ways to continue toasting happy events, and many of those ways are quite creative, even though they’re not what we initially had in mind.

My nephew, Ben, is engaged and had a big wedding planned for the first part of October. He and his fiancée, Shevy, had venues booked, and we were making plans to attend their wedding in Virginia.

Covid stopped all that.

Ben and Shevy had to cancel everything. As a family that loves to celebrate together, the news was disappointing. We also realized we wouldn’t be able to host a bridal shower for Shevy and scrambled for an alternative.

Showers are a big deal in many families, mine included. My mother’s idea of what makes a great shower and mine are often at opposite ends of the spectrum. A few years ago, she came over early to help with a shower I was giving at my house.

She was inspecting the plates of snack foods and stopped at the chicken-salad sandwiches.

“You didn’t cut the crusts off the bread,” she said, pointing at the triangles of sandwiches on the plate.

“And I don’t plan to,” I told her. To me, that was too much work and I had no intention of standing by the sink and cutting crusts off all those sandwiches.

“People know sandwiches have crusts,” I told her as I dumped some chips in a bowl and put a can of store-bought dip next to the bowl.

While I finished a few last-minute preparations, my mother quietly got a serrated knife out of the drawer and cut the crusts off the sandwiches.

People at the shower commented on how elegant the sandwiches looked. My mother smiled. I rolled my eyes. But the next time I hosted a shower, I grudgingly cut the crusts off because I learned that little extra step did give the sandwiches a fancy look.

My sisters-in-law, nieces and sisters go all out for showers, and I’m amazed at the professional level of culinary and decorating skills our nieces have demonstrated. They created original invitations, made party favors that matched the colors of the wedding and decorated their tables in an up-to-date, modern style.

Following their grandmother’s advice, they cut the crusts off all the sandwiches.

We have brilliant nieces.

But we were still stumped on what to do for Ben and Shevy. Sister Diane came up with a Zoom shower, yet we were quite nervous about how to run the shower. Zoom meetings are usually for business or school, so we weren’t sure what to do when.

Despite our worrying, the shower came off flawlessly. My sister found a game where people got points for finding obscure things in their home, if you consider a VCR obscure, and points for having more than 1,000 pictures on one’s phone.

Relatives from all over the country, including France were there, and it was wonderful to see everyone, even if it was electronically.

We laughed, played the game, watched Ben and Shevy open their gifts and because we were all in the same area – a computer screen – nobody was left out of conversations.

Nothing beats being at family functions in person, but the virtual shower was pretty simple. When the call was over, we were finished – no dishes or pots to clean, gifts to haul out to the car or leftovers to divide between the hostesses.

Preparation chores were non-existent – no bathrooms to clean, rugs to vacuum or furniture to dust.

Best of all – no cutting the crusts off the sandwiches.

I think we hit gold.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

The quiet.

An unfamiliar setting for me.

Most of the time, noise is comfortable – family conversation, the dog snoring, the hum of the air conditioner.

Over the past few months, though, the racket has grown disturbing. My husband suggested we take a morning trip over to Seabourne Creek Nature Park in Rosenberg to escape the news for a bit.

I love nature, but not necessarily the outdoors. There’s mosquitoes, snakes and the unrelenting Texas heat and humidity. But other places of interest were either closed or unavailable, so I agreed.

Seabourne Creek is located on Highway 36 within eyesight and earshot of I-69. I was surprised by the number of people in the park. I admired their toughness – the temperature was quickly rising, but they jogged along the pebble paths, oblivious of the sweat.

Our first stop was the butterfly garden. I remember seeing this patch years ago when there were only a few small plants. Now the garden is bursting with color – reds, yellows, greens, blues and purples. How those plants can grow in the brutal Texas heat is beyond me, but the dozens of butterflies seemed quite content to feed.

Families were at the park, mostly around the lake fishing. Dads and moms were baiting hooks while their children did cartwheels, spinning to a stop when they heard a fish jump in the water.

Couples were seated on park benches watching the birds and enjoying the shade. One pair told us some pretty birds were over by the lake, so we headed there. I was hoping for some photos and my bird-watching husband was looking forward to seeing some songbirds.

On the walk to the lake, I noticed for the first time how quiet the park was. Even though the freeway was close by, the sounds of civilization were non-existent.

No trucks lumbering past, no car horns, no radios blaring. Just birds rustling in the trees, tiny frogs calling to each other and the crunch of the walking path gravel underneath our feet.

When we came to the educational garden, my husband and I separated, and I was all alone with the plants. Although I didn’t know the names of any plant or bush in the lush garden, that didn’t matter. Volunteers had listed the names of all the plants on signs, along with botanical information, and I silently thanked them for their tedious work.

Taking pictures of the flowers, hoping to catch a butterfly sipping on nectar, I realized how weary I’d become of the news and the world. Turn on the television or the radio, and all we hear is bad news, and that’s all there seems to be.

A hurricane decimated central Louisiana, quiet magnolia-lined streets and a laissez-faire way of life left in shambles.

Around the world, unemployment numbers are high, many businesses have closed down and there doesn’t seem to be an end to this pandemic. I feel guilty for having a roof over my head and pessimistic for the future.

But here in this park, where the entrance is free and the prairie is wide open and constantly blooming, the quiet gave me hope.

A belief that volunteers will make sure we have a quiet sanctuary where we can catch our breath and recharge.

A reminder that getting back to nature is the jump start we need to believe that the world will go on, change and renew.

A kick in the pants that there is good in the world.

We just have to go find it.

And often, we find that good in the quietest of places.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. For photos of Seabourne Creek Nature Park, visit Denise Adams’ Facebook page. 

There are few genuine things and people in this world. Such was the case with William “Junior” Hartlage who passed away this week.

Years ago, photographer Russell Autrey and I came up with an idea for a special section in this newspaper featuring cowboys.

Fort Bend County was changing. Acres of open prairies and pecan orchards were giving way to master-planned subdivisions and four-lane highways.

I’d seen young cowboys at the Fort Bend County Fair and wondered how they stacked up against the seasoned cowboys in the county. As a city girl, I was enamored by the cowboy mystique. They could rope cattle, fix fences and work year round, regardless of the Texas heat or the bitter cold spells.

Editor Bob Haenel gave us the green light to profile young cowboys and weathered cowboys. I wanted to find a genuine cowboy so I went to the one person I knew would have the answer – Frank Briscoe Sr. at Fort Bend Feed and Farm Supply in Rosenberg.

I went into the store, greeted by the rich smells of leather and sounds of chirping chicks, and asked Mr. Briscoe if he could recommend someone for the story.

“Junior Hartlage,” he said with his drawn-out Texas twang. I called Mr. Hartlage, set up an interview and headed out to the country.

He was tall and soft spoken, and welcomed me into his and Charlotte’s comfortable home. Junior, as he asked me to call him, told me stories of growing up in Fort Bend County when the county was farmland as far as the eye could see.

They had cattle drives across open acres where houses in New Territory now sit side by side. He remembered sleeping under the stars near Sugar Land, listening to coyotes howl at the moon.

If I wanted a feel for what life was like for a cowboy, he asked me to come with him while he vaccinated some cows.

We went outside and stood on a narrow wooden platform with stairs on each end. The farm hands would steer a cow into the chute, close the two ends, and Junior would give each cow a shot.

I stood back a bit because I’d never been that close to a cow, especially one that wasn’t happy about being in the chute.

All of a sudden, a cow reared up and knocked Junior off the platform. He fell onto his back into the dust as the crew wrestled the cow under control.

Junior picked up his hat and stood up. As he knocked the dirt and dust off his jeans, he looked straight at my face and pointed his cowboy hat at me.

“You don’t tell my wife about this,” he drawled.

I assured him I wouldn’t and I didn’t. At that moment, I thought Junior Hartlage was the toughest guy I’d ever met.

The story was complete after interviews and photos with the young cowboys, and they said there’s no other life they would wish for themselves.

They talked of how ranching was in their blood, and that was exactly what Junior said when I was leaving his place.

Russell and I finished the story, confident that the Texas cowboy mystique was aptly being passed down to young cowboys who loved the lifestyle they’d chosen.

Junior was the real deal, a genuine cowboy, and I was so glad I got to meet him.               He sat tall in the saddle and quietly commanded respect, a respect he’d earned from a lifetime following his dream, something few people get to do.

Junior Hartlage was the real deal.

You’ll be missed, cowboy.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.