“Hi this is Diane. I’m not in at the moment, but leave a message at the beep.”

That’s the message my sister has on her cell phone, and it’s the only way I’ve heard her voice for the past two months. She’s busy with meetings, I’m usually at school and it seems our schedules seldom mesh.

So I’ve taken up having a relationship with her phone.

Before you laugh, consider what a cell phone’s answering service offers you.

First, it listens to every word you say. And doesn’t interrupt. Just patiently waits for you to finish saying everything you want to say.

When’s the last time you had a conversation with a human like that?

Secondly, the answering function doesn’t remind you of all the bad mistakes you made in your life. We’ve all had those conversations with friends…

“I bought a new sweater today.”

“You didn’t get a yellow one. You know yellow looks awful on you.”

Silence.

“You bought the yellow one, didn’t you,” says your friend while you shove another piece of candy into your mouth and look for the bag of Doritos hiding on the top shelf of the pantry.

But the answering machine conversation is quite different.

“I bought a new sweater today. It’s yellow. I know that color looks awful on me, but I think I can wear this particular shade of yellow and, best of all, it was on sale. If you think that’s a good idea, give me a signal.”

At that moment, the end-of-message beep comes on and you rejoice – someone agrees that the on-sale, puke-lemon yellow sweater is a good idea.

Sometimes I find myself hoping the person I’m calling doesn’t answer the phone, especially when I have bad news, want to complain or am in a rotten mood.

When it’s a friend, they either set you straight or try and talk you out of the bad mood. But, let’s face it, sometimes you want to just vent.

But when that nasty mood strikes, I don’t call Diane’s cell phone. We have too good a relationship to ruin it with a petty rant about how tight my pants are getting as I sip on a chocolate malt, complete with whipped cream and a cherry on the top.

So I dial my own cell phone and wait for the inevitable green light: “Leave a message at the beep.”

“Hello,  cell phone, I just had to get this off my chest. I know you’re going to think I’m an awful person but I just had to vent.”

And with that, I go on for as long as it takes to feel vindicated and then end the call, feeling much better.  Later I replay the message, chagrined at how dumb I sound and quietly delete the message.

No one hurt and, better yet, nobody knows.

“Hi, this is Diane. I’m not in at the moment but leave a message at the beep.”

“Hi Diane’s cell phone. I’m driving home, looking at the sunset and thinking about our Dad. When you see Diane, ask her if she remembers how Dad would come home late at night and bring us comic books?

“See if she remembers when he’d stop the car on the railroad tracks and open the door. He said it was to let the train through, even though there wasn’t a train in sight. We’d yell for him to get us off the tracks and he’d just laugh.

“Cell phone, you don’t have that memory but it feels good to share missing Dad with somebody who won’t tell me I’m being silly. Thanks for being there and for listening.”

“Beep. Message recorded.”

And remembered.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The sign by the side of the road was simple– sign up now for Little League Baseball. I smiled just seeing the sign, even though my boys finished baseball games a long time ago.

For at least 10 years, we rode around with lawn chairs in the back of the van and we ate many a meal at the ballpark, watching practices or waiting for games to start. I miss those days, but I learned a lot through my child’s baseball teams.

Not all coaches are fair. My experience with Little League coaches is 50/50. Half are there because they genuinely love the game and want to pass that enthusiasm and knowledge on to their son or daughter.

There’s a small minority who are there for the wrong reasons – they believe their child is the next Craig Biggio and other players should stay out of their superstar’s way.

They recruit only the kids they think are the best, and they want to win at all costs. Doesn’t matter if a child never gets to play as long as the team wins. As bad as this style of coaching is, what’s worse are the parents who let these bullies get away with that type of bad behavior.

So, parents, choose your coach well because their influence over your child will last a lot longer than the cleats.  

Organized sports are good. And bad. Nothing beats a sand-lot or school-yard Saturday afternoon baseball game where the same kids get together week after week to play ball. But those days are long gone now that our catch phrases are “stranger-danger” and “no trespassing.”

Organized sports have stepped in to allow kids a safe place to play sports, learn the rules and meet other kids. If the rules stayed like that, we’d all be better off.

Instead, we become slaves to the rules and never question why a simple game of hit the ball, catch the ball and throw the ball has more rules and regulations than the federal government.

What we need to do is keep organized sports organized and not allow them to morph into a totalitarian state. See “not all coaches are fair” above.

Teams are just for the kids. As much fun as my sons had playing baseball, I think I had more fun in the stands.  When you’re parked on a wooden bench for three hours twice a week, you make friends.

We laughed in the stands, cheered each others’ children on in the stands, weathered the cold, wind, heat and rain in the stands and, along the way, saw the best and the worst of each other and still accepted each other.

That’s because we understood that when our child is involved, our hearts often overrule common sense. And we forgave even the most hot-headed parent in the stands. Because we knew that could be us one of these days, and we hoped others would be as forgiving as we were that evening.

Patience.  When there’s 15 kids on a team, it takes a while for your child to get up to bat. We had to act as if it wasn’t a big deal if the game ended right before our child’s turn.

We learned patience when the bases were loaded and our kid was at the plate with two strikes and three balls. Bleacher parents know there’s always another turn at bat and always the possibility of an over-the-fence home run.

They also know nothing beats having somebody at the gate at the end of the game wearing a big smile, proud no matter what the scoreboard says.

These are just a few of the lessons I’ve learned through Little League. Life on the other side of the first-base line is where you can always learn a few more life lessons.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

It was just a tickle really, nothing to be concerned about. Until that slight tickle turned into a fire-breathing dragon, lurking in the back of my throat, an aggravation that in two days completely destroyed my voice. The result? Laryngitis.

For someone who’s a talker, the diagnosis was like telling a fish it could no longer swim.

Since I was a young girl, I’ve been a talker. My mom loves to tell the story of how she arrived at her grandparents house late one night, and I tap danced and sang for 30 minutes on top of a closed suitcase.

Never mind that my parents thought a 3-year-old could handle a full bottle of Coca-Cola after dinner.  I was forever dubbed a talking machine by my great-grandfather but the moniker’s almost a badge of honor because I come from a long line of talkers.

The only strong silent type in the entire Hebert family is my cousin Mike, and he’s one of 25 first cousins I have. The rest of the Hebert clan will sit and talk about nothing, everything and all points in between until the beer and crawfish run out.

But even though I love to talk, I also love to listen.  As a young girl, I loved snuggling up to my grandmother while she spun outrageous stories about the latest gossip in the family. Never mind that I was only 7 years old – I was an adoring audience and she was the best story teller in town.

My grandfather’s stories were told as long fables resembling a slow-moving stream – always moving with a purpose but in no hurry to arrive at the end. His stories are the ones I remember word for word these many years later.

I thought about the great storytellers I’ve known these past couple of days when I’ve only been able to listen, not put in my two cents’ worth.

Yesterday, I was checking out of the grocery store, and the clerk asked me a question. I had to smile, shrug my shoulders and point to my throat. I mouthed “laryngitis,” and she smiled and did the talking for the both of us.

I had the feeling that perhaps a great bit of her time was spent listening to people whine about high prices, questioning if she scanned in their coupons or talking to her like she’s an indentured servant.

Because I couldn’t talk back, she was free to chat about anything she wanted and I couldn’t say a word. It was one of the nicest one-way conversations I’ve ever had and I’ll bet she thought the same thing.

Today, I overheard teenagers talking about a problem, and instead of interrupting with a grown-up solution, I listened as they rationally reasoned their way out of the situation.

Even when I was by myself, not having a voice brought unforeseen benefits. I love to sing along with the CD player, but because I have no voice, I was able to hear beautiful music without my off-key warbling drowning the artists out.

I’d forgotten how clear John Denver’s voice was or how Celine Dion perfectly hits those high notes. Hearing them again without my accompaniment was pretty nice.

There were a few idiots on the road coming home this afternoon. Normally I’m yelling at them from the sound-proof comfort of my car, listing all their mental failings and their inability to maneuver a vehicle, but today, I couldn’t yell at all. When I pulled into my driveway, I wasn’t as aggravated as I am most days.

Maybe keeping my mouth shut isn’t such a bad idea.

 This column was originally published in the Fort Bend Herald.

After days of gloomy, rainy weather, the sun came out over the weekend, reminding me how much I’d missed a baby-blue sky and the warmth of the sun.

The grandchildren immediately headed outside after arriving, and my eldest noticed there were still pecans on the ground. We have a native pecan tree in the yard, and those limbs have put out quite a bounty this year.

Last year, we sold the pecans she picked to the Bailey Brothers in Fulshear, and Kylie enjoyed receiving money she earned through hard work.

Noticing all the pecans on the ground yesterday, she saw dollar signs again and we all got to work. We put a big plastic bucket near the tree and 3-year-old James and 2-year-old Katherine helped their big sister drop small pecans in the bucket.

While we worked, we talked about our favorite pecan treats – pecan pie, pecan cookies and pecans sprinkled on ice cream.

I’m not a farmer, but I wondered if the pecans on the ground were still good after all the rain we’d had. So I suggested we open a few.

Kylie resisted, as every pecan out of the bucket was less money in her pocket, but she agreed after I told her we might be picking up bad pecans and all that work would be for nothing.

I remembered how my family used to crack pecans, and I grabbed a couple of small hammers out of the kitchen junk drawer. With a gentle tap, tap, tap, we opened a few, and they were perfect.

As we cracked the shells and pulled out honey-colored pecan pieces, I thought about the satisfaction that comes from harvesting and then eating something that grows in your own back yard. It’s sad so few children these days have the opportunity to grow their own vegetables or eat the fruit from something they’ve picked with their own hands.

I remember the truck garden we had in our back yard one year. My dad challenged each of his seven children with having their own row to plant, tend and harvest. My brother, Joey, won the contest, but we all enjoyed vegetables from that little backyard plat and learned we could grow what we wanted to eat.

Last year, my son and his family made over two dozen jars of jam from blackberries they picked growing behind where they were living. Their children loved searching in the bushes for blackberries, learning valuable lessons about wearing rain boots and looking out for critters lurking in the leaves and branches.

They were so proud when they presented me with their jars of jam, and that only comes from, literally, the fruits of one’s labors.

My grandchildren love visiting nearby Blessington Farms in Simonton. Owners Lynne and Dave Johnson live in Fulshear but drew upon their memories of farming in Iowa to turn some acreage into a delightful destination spot for children and adults alike.

Visitors get a bucket when they arrive and can pick their own blueberries and strawberries right off the vine.

Recently added is a catch-and-release fishing pond where children can experience the fun of catching a fish, getting their picture taken and then watching the fish swim away to be caught again another day.

Year round, children can enjoy old-fashioned activities such as the hay maze, giant slides and a petting zoo with barnyard animals. For youngsters wondering what a real farm’s like, nothing beats holding a gentle hen as she clucks on your lap or listening to a rooster announce his presence.

Blessington Farms’ website has up-to-date information about hours of operation, and, weather permitting, plans are to open the gates this Saturday. Note they’re closed on Sundays.

There’s a great lesson to be learned when one harvests nature’s bounty and there’s no greater feeling of satisfaction than seeing a bucket filled with blueberries, strawberries or native pecans that you picked with your own hands.
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.  

  

  One of my favorite actors is the late Jimmy Stewart. For over 40 years, Stewart delighted audiences in movies where a moral, decent man was needed for the lead, and he never disappointed.

Stewart was born in a small town and always remembered his middle-American roots. He actively served in the armed forces during World War II, flew missions, and came home to resume his life, much like thousands of other soldiers did after the war.

He married late in life and remained married to Gloria until her death, 45 years after they said their vows. I didn’t know any of that until much later. It was through the movies I came to admire Mr. Stewart, and that admiration began with “It’s a Wonderful Life.”

Jimmy Stewart is the only actor who could’ve played the main character, George Bailey. Stewart’s earnestness and down-to-earth manner was perfect for the part.

George Bailey was trapped in a small town when all he wanted to do was see the world. It’s not hard to understand that longing when watching “It’s a Wonderful Life,” and Stewart connects with anyone who feels trapped and then rescued when realizing the riches they have aren’t measured by a bank account.

I’d heard so much about “Mr. Smith Goes to Washington” that I checked it out from the library. I spent a wonderful Saturday morning feeling rejuvenated by the idealistic words coming from the young Senator Smith, ideas and beliefs we’ve become too jaded to believe in any more.

Alfred Hitchcock saw a darker side to Stewart and signed him to two movies – “Vertigo” and “Rear Window.” I’ll watch “Rear Window” over and over again, as much to see the elegant and cool Grace Kelly as to watch Stewart solve a murder mystery from a wheelchair.

Recently I watched one of the movies most associated with Stewart, “Harvey.”  A man, Elwood P. Dowd, believes he sees a “pookah,”  a 6-foot-3-inch tall rabbit he names Harvey.

Elwood drinks a little too much, and a string of near misses occur when Elwood’s sister tries to have him committed to a mental institution. We never see the rabbit but, by the end of the movie, most of us come to believe there really is a Harvey.

The movie’s taken from a Pulitzer Prize winning play of the same name, but it’s Stewart’s patient and quiet portrayal of Elwood that rings true. Stewart never rushes his lines, and I felt myself physically relaxing when watching Stewart’s monologues in the movie.

When a psychologist tries to find out where Elwood strayed from reality, in a masterfully paced monologue, Elwood tells the doctor: “In this world, you must be oh so smart or oh so pleasant. Well, for years I was smart. I recommend pleasant. You may quote me.”

There’s a lot of wisdom one can gain from George Bailey and Elwood P. Dowd. We might not always get what we want, but if we remember that we really have wonderful lives, despite where we live or how much money we have, then that’s a wonderful life.

We can also listen to people talk about their hopes and their dreams, just as Harvey and Elwood did, and it wouldn’t cost us a dime to show a little humanity. The payoff is what Elwood received – a quiet acceptance of others.

Nobody else could play those characters the way Jimmy Stewart did. Nobody except Jimmy Stewart could have us believe that angels get their wings every time a bell rings and remember how much our lives are enriched when we take the time to slow down and be “oh so pleasant.”
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I’ve had the event on my calendar since October – go see the Monet exhibit at the Houston Museum of Fine Arts. Didn’t matter that I can’t tell the difference between an impressionist painter and a realist painter, I did know the name Claude Monet.

Search Google for a calming picture to use as a background screen saver, and Monet’s “Water Lilies” is usually in the top 10 choices. That picture was my screen saver until my grandchildren came along, but “Water Lilies” remains a favorite.

So when I saw 50 of Monet’s actual paintings were coming to Houston for an exhibition, I couldn’t wait to go. But the busy days of Halloween turned into non-stop cooking for Thanksgiving and then Christmas obligations gobbled up December.

I took advantage of the first Saturday in January and convinced my eldest son and his girlfriend to go with me to the museum. They’re world travelers, but they’d never seen a Monet work of art in person.

Plus I said I’d pick up the costs, so they were happy campers.

Once inside, we were pleasantly surprised to see “A History of Photography:  Selections from the Museum’s Collection.” I started taking pictures when I was 18 years old, and I’ve loved photography ever since.

I’d read about the exhibit but never thought I’d get a chance to see the display. I studied all the informational cards on the wall, glancing at the photos, and I felt I was definitely getting my intellectual moneys’ worth with this short exhibit.

But the clock was ticking, and I quickly moved through the other rooms, my eyes on the big prize – the Monet exhibit.  I wanted to rent an audio player that would explain each of the Monet masterpieces, but the line was too long.

I was anxious to see the paintings, so I told myself I’d read all the plaques instead.

As I stood in front of the second picture in the exhibit, reading all the biographical information, I heard classical music in the background.

At first I thought the museum was piping in music, but then I noticed people in the next room, watching a young man playing a classical piece on a beautiful grand piano.

His eyes were closed as his long fingers moved over the ivory keys, and I stood there and absorbed the beauty of the music, forgetting about the details of the paintings printed on those cards.

I realized at that moment that I’d been wasting a lot of time at the museum reading all those cards. I turned and watched the people moving through the exhibit, most dressed in expensive clothes and shoes, and noticed they, like me, were focused on the informational plaques.

Many were listening to the audio information in their ears, not absorbing the piano music but absorbing information .

I realized we weren’t taking time to stand back and admire the beauty Claude Monet found in the currents of the Seine River. We’d been so obsessed with reading all the biographical information we’d missed looking at the actual paintings.

So I stopped reading the placards, tuned into the piano music, and quietly moved through the Monet exhibit without looking at any more informational cards. I simply admired the beauty in those broad brush strokes and marveled at Monet’s expertise in painting light.

I left the museum quite satisfied I’d truly absorbed the museum experience. I wasn’t dressed in a $800 Italian dress suit nor could I pretend I was an art scholar or historian.

I was a plain, ordinary gal who wanted to see a masterpiece with her own eyes. And because that’s all I expected, I received so much more.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

So long 2014 and hello 2015. Many of us are sitting down with either paper and pencil or our phones to make a long list of New Year resolutions – lose weight, eat healthier, save money.

Been there.

Tried that.

Failed those.

Here’s a list of resolutions that might be a bit easier to accomplish this year.

Your health. Anyone who doesn’t know they have to watch their fat intake or monitor their cholesterol is paddling down the river of denial.

You know what you’re supposed to do, but sticking to any regiment or routine is difficult. That’s why we re-dedicate ourselves to the scale and our running shoes every January.

Instead, see if you can figure out the underlying reason for why you’re going to have that extra piece of pecan pie while sitting on the couch watching another episode of “Shark Tank.”

If you can find the reasons why food and inertia are your buddies, you’ve taken the first step on a healthier path.

Toxic personalities. You know who these people are. They gossip about co-workers. They pollute the work environment. They complain about everything and everyone. Getting away from them is tough.  

Most of the time, we go the other way if we see them coming. If you’re not that quick, here’s a tip as to how to walk away without confrontation: When that nasal voice gets on your last nerve, inhale quickly and say “Oh no. I forgot to do something.” And then walk away with a purpose. “Unfriend” them, delete them from your address book and don’t look back.

If you’re a bit more confrontational, you can always deliver the line “Life’s too short for such negativity, pal,” and walk away. In a way, you’ve given that Negative Nancy one more thing to complain about. That’s because you’re a giver.

Your free time.Americans work like there’s an Egyptian slave master beating a drum in their office. We don’t take the vacation days we’re allotted, we work from home after putting in a 40-plus hour work week and the job is often our life.

Take your time back. The world will not come to an end if you turn off the laptop or iPhone, go to a festival, ride your bike around the neighborhood or sit back in the La-Z-Boy and watch an escapist episode of “Pawn Stars.”

Daydream. We’re surrounded by noise. We’re plugged into an iPod, listening to the radio or watching YouTube videos. Canned music plays in every store and commercials scream at us at every Website we visit.

Our imaginations are our greatest assets, and we’ve allowed technology to take over the moments when we used to sit back and ponder the universe while watching ripples on a lake or listening to the wind rustle the leaves.

Take back your imagination – unplug and open your mind up to possibilities.

Stop and Go. These two words can be quite empowering. Stop criticizing yourself for making mistakes. Stop putting yourself down because you don’t have the best clothes or the trimmest figure. Stop comparing yourself to other people and putting yourself on the negative scale.

Instead, go. Go to the movies. Go on a picnic. Go out and explore. Go for what you’ve always wanted to accomplish. No more stopping – just going.

And you can do the same with this column. Go on over to the sports page if that’s what you want or look for shapes in the clouds.

It’s your year. It’s 2015, a new start. May your year be filled with green lights instead of red ones.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

Christmas is tomorrow and, like most people, I’m scrambling, making sure I’ve purchased and wrapped gifts for everyone, the turkey’s defrosted and there’s eggnog in the fridge.

I’ve been blessed with good health, a wonderful family and more than enough of what I need. But since Santa’s a magical guy who promises to deliver things we want, not necessarily what we need, here’s my pie-in-the-sky Christmas list…

A convertible.Yes, Santa, I know this wish is totally impractical. There wouldn’t be room for the four car seats I need for my grandchildren. I also need plenty of space for my briefcase, camera bag, over-sized purse and boxes of books on CD from the library.

But to cruise along a back country road in a sleek convertible, the top down, the wind blowing through my hair and the Beach Boys blaring, what a wonderful ride that would be.

A cruise. I’ve never been on a cruise. In fact, I’ve been on very few boats in my life. But imagining a week with unlimited delicious food, having my bed turned down every night and visiting exotic locations would be a dream come true.

However, my stomach is unreliable and, thanks to a bout with salmonella years ago, unfamiliar foods send my stomach into orbit. I’m afraid a week on the open seas would do the same.  

So Santa, if you could send me on a cruise where I wouldn’t have to deal with anti-sea-sickness patches all over my back, I’d be a happy camper.

A trampoline. An odd Christmas list, Santa, but I don’t want a trampoline because I have four young grandchildren.

I want a trampoline for me. I’d love to jump up and down, do flips and let loose much like any 7-year-old child does when presented with something to jump on. You’d have to include courage and a neck brace for me to carry out these acrobatics, but to fly through the air would be worth the risk.

Courage. Much like the Cowardly Lion in “The Wizard of Oz,” I’d love the audacity to stand up to bullies, slay the wicked witches of this world and protect my loved ones with a snarl and an intimidating style.

I did have the courage to stand up to the con man at a recent street festival who charged $5 to throw a dart at a balloon and then gave children a plastic water pistol.

When a short, obviously angry woman stands in front of your tent and says at the top of her voice “how do you live with yourself ripping off little children?” and demands her money back, I guess I’ve got buried courage.

Which, come to think of it, so did the Cowardly Lion.

An afternoon. This is probably the hardest item on my Christmas list, Santa. I’d like an afternoon to spend with my dad.

He’s been gone for over 13 years now, and there’s so many things still left to say. I want to tell him all about my grandchildren and thank him for being a magical “Pops” to my children.

I want to ask his advice about how to grow older without ever having to grow up. I want to smell his Old Spice aftershave one more time and let myself get swallowed up in a bear hug that only dads can give to their daughters.

And then, just maybe, I’d have the courage to take my dad’s hand and jump on the trampoline with him. And that, dear Santa, is my Christmas wish list for 2014.

To all those who have a pie-in-the-sky Christmas list, may all your wishes come true and may Santa deliver everything your heart desires.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

On my way home every afternoon, I call my mother. I actually enjoy the long drive because she’s such a good conversationalist.

Today, however, instead of her cheery “hello,” a message came on saying the phone number was not in service.

That was impossible. Mom’s had the same phone number for years.

So I called a few more times and got the same answer. Then I tried calling Mom on her cell phone. I knew this was useless because Mom can never find her cell phone, but I had to try.  

When the “leave a message” prompt came on, I hung up and called my brother, Joey, who lives near Mom. I asked him if there’d been a power outage, and he said there hadn’t been.

“I’m in town and I’ll go over there in a few minutes to make sure she’s okay,” he said, much to my relief.

This wasn’t the first time I’d called my younger brother to check on Mom. The first time was years ago after my father had passed away and Mom was living alone for the first time in her life. I called to check on her and she picked up the phone, breathless.

“Just a minute,” she said and I heard the phone drop to the floor, hitting chairs and the wall on the way down.

After five full minutes, she hadn’t returned, and I panicked.

What if she’d fallen and hit her head? What if she’d had a stroke? What if she was bleeding and no one was there to check on her?

These were the wild questions running through my mind because those were the worries she’d shared with me a few weeks earlier. Living alone is scary, especially for a widow.  

So I called my brother, Joey, who lived four blocks away from Mom’s house. My sister-in-law, Debra, answered the phone.

“I need Joey to go over to Mom’s right now and check on her,” I said, explaining what had happened.

“He’s on the ladder painting the house,” she said.

“Tell him to get off the ladder and get over there right now,” I said in true bossy pants, big-sister style.

And in true, younger brother “better-do-what-she-says” fashion, and because Joey’s one of the kindest people in the world, he jumped off the ladder, got in his car and drove like an Indy 500 race car driver over to Mom’s.

He burst in the back door, the paint still wet on his clothes, and yelled for her.

She had been in her wallpaper store, a small business she ran from the house.

“Your oldest daughter in Houston called and told me to get over here,” he said, still out of breath.

“Oh yeah, the doorbell rang at the same time the phone rang,” Mom said. “I meant to come back to the phone but I forgot.”

Joey looked at her, shook his head and stomped out to his car. He went home, got on the ladder and didn’t speak to me for two weeks.

He was entitled.

So today, thinking back on that event, I told him what had happened and he said he could be at Mom’s in less than 15 minutes. I thanked him, but in the meantime, called Mom. She picked up and said the cable service had been out all afternoon.

Without any explanation, I told her I’d call her right back, and I quickly punched in Joey’s number to tell him Mom was fine.

“And I didn’t have to get off a ladder to find that out,” he said, a laugh in his voice.

No matter what, I know I can count on my brother, Joey, to not only take good care of Mom but to never let me forget that when it comes to panicking, nobody holds a candle to his bossy-pants big sister.
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

My first assignment at The Fort Bend Herald, formerly the Herald-Coaster, was as the obituary writer. I had other responsibilities, but then-editor Bob Haenel told me the obituaries were the most important part of my job.

For some people, their obituary might be the only time they would have their name in the newspaper, and I’d better make sure I spelled everything correctly.

As I typed, I found myself wishing I’d known some of these people who were no longer with us. They’d served their country, survived tough childhoods and brought themselves up from dirt poor to establishing foundations.

So it was with sadness I read that Lucille Stewart Jackson passed away. I interviewed Lucille over 10 years ago, and it’s an afternoon I remember well. The retired nurse had invaluable knowledge about Fort Bend County, especially Kendleton.

She was so gracious in her little house just north of Pecan Grove and willingly shared the memories of growing up black, poor and proud.

We talked about how life was back in those days, and she could recall details with exact clarity. She remembered the people, how it was to be not quite accepted but to keep working toward equality and fairness.

The obituary mentioned she had two sons, Nolan and Donald, who were both deceased. What the obituary didn’t mention is that her sons were killed in an automobile accident together. In one evening, Lucille lost her entire family, but throughout her life, she always helped others, especially her church, Oak Hill Missionary Baptist Church.

There are many people in our midst who were instrumental in the early days of Fort Bend County, and I wish I had time to visit with each and every one because their memories of growing up here are fascinating.

The story from Junior Hartledge who drove cattle across what’s now New Territory. He slept underneath the stars, never dreaming of the metropolitan suburbs that would one day replace native grasslands and sprawling prairies.

I often think about the stories I heard from Virginia Scarborough and the wonderful, Southern way she recalls growing up here and of the safety and security she felt on the streets of Richmond.

I felt the same nostalgia when I heard childhood stories from Arthur and Lydia Mahlmann and Mason Briscoe, especially how Saturday nights were full of excitement in downtown Rosenberg.

Girls would try out the new lipstick at the drug store while the young boys sipped on beer and munched on sausage. Families came in from the fields on the weekends and filled the downtown streets of Richmond and Rosenberg with music and laughter.

I can’t pass a corner grocery store in Rosenberg without thinking of the family whose father went to the store every Sunday afternoon to help neighbors call their families back in Mexico.

I often think of a 97-year-old man I interviewed in Sugar Land who remembered sleeping in the sugar cane fields at night because people of color weren’t welcomed in the houses.

His memories were of  stalks waving in the moonlight as far as the eye could see. What a sight that must’ve been but how sad that he wasn’t allowed in the main house, not even for his marriage ceremony.

I’ve been privileged to listen to stories from those who served in World War II, Korea and Viet Nam, and not just men. I’ll never forget the afternoon I spent with four women who were nurses during World War II and how they held the hands of their fellow soldiers as they lay bleeding on the battlefield.

And now we’ve lost Lucille Jackson. Fort Bend County is a better place because she was here and a sadder place because she’s no longer around. May you rest in peace, Lucille.

I know you were welcomed into heaven’s gates by two smiling, familiar faces.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.