For those living in the Richmond area, the George Memorial Library is the most recognizable landmark around. The curved roof, visible for miles, has stood watch over the community for over 25 years, and thousands visit the George every week.

Starting Sunday, the GML will be closed through Sept. 29 for modernization and renovations, and I’ll truly miss visiting this grand lady.

Libraries have come a long way since the days when the only way to have new books to read was to wait for the bookmobile to come down the road.

Where I grew up, the library was an old, three-story building, and formidable granite stairs led to a front door that required brute strength to open.

I remember how our whispered voices echoed throughout the rotunda. Mostly I remember the special smell that accompanies older libraries – that of musty books and printers’ ink.

People who came to the library with a mission hung out at the card catalog tables where cabinets with skinny drawers held the road map to information.

If you wanted to know about the life of Benjamin Franklin, you went to the drawer, found the section on Franklin, Ben and then wrote down a string of numbers so you could walk up and down the library aisles, hoping the book would be there.  

Then it was back to those hard tables and chairs so we could write down the information, always making sure to copy down all the numbers on the card so we could document our work.

Even though I visited the library numerous times for book reports, for me, libraries were fun places. There was always the relaxing adventure of browsing through the aisles all by myself and picking out three or four novels that looked promising.

When it was time to go, I’d hand my books over to a stern librarian who’d take my paper card with the metal plate and slide it into a machine. From there, a card was punched with the due date and slipped into an envelope on the back cover of the book.

 

A New Look

Libraries today are a far cry from those days. Instead of dark and foreboding institutions, new libraries are open and airy, and the George found a balance between the old and the new.

 Children are encouraged to play with blocks, puzzles and toys, and adults catch up on the latest magazines and newspapers in bright, cozy reading areas.  

There’s still the mandatory quiet in the library, but that’s balanced with the sounds of children laughing during Story Time and patrons tapping away on computers.

In some ways, the George was like going home to our grandparents’ home. Sure the couches were a little worn, but we loved snuggling up there with a book, just like we did at our grandparents’ home.

The elevators are a little slow at the George and the granite in the restrooms is showing its age. I’ll miss that old smell of the musty books, but with the GML upgrade, we’ll be able to sit around tables, sip coffee and browse the Internet through the library’s Wi-Fi system.

 Instead of a stern librarian giving us the “stink eye” if we misplaced our library card, we’ll have a modernized system where we can download e-books and MP3 files while our coffee cools.

The George will continue to look out over Fort Bend County, but she’ll now do so with the latest and greatest libraries have to offer.

She deserves some sprucing up. Take care, ma’am, until we see you in September.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

It’s Wednesday afternoon at the Circle Bowl and a chatty group, The Elite Seniors, were paying their $8, lacing up their bowling shoes and warily eyeing their opponent.

My mom is a member of The Elite Seniors and drives half way across congested Baton Rouge to go bowling. I was tagging along, wondering what’s the draw?

Turns out – a lot.

When my mom and dad were first married, they were on a bowling league, complete with their own bowling balls, shoes and shiny shirts.

Mom said back in the 1950s, all their friends were on bowling leagues. The activity wasn’t expensive, the kids ran around without worrying about breaking anything and couples visited while getting a bit of exercise.

When I was a teenager, midnight bowling was popular because we’d get to stay up all night and check out the boys while pretending to care about the game.

I’d forgotten all about bowling until one rainy evening. We were visiting my parents and my then 5-year-old son said he’d gone to a birthday party at the bowling alley.

“Back in the day, your mom was one of the top bowlers in the league,” my dad said. “She even won trophies.”

At barely 5-feet tall, I was skeptical and said I wanted to see her in action.

So we dragged their bowling balls and shoes out from the top of the closet and headed to the bowling alley.

Turns out, they were pretty good.

My dad’s form was smooth and graceful, and my mom took her time before sending the ball on its way, their bowling styles reflecting their personalities.

 

A New Pastime

A couple of years ago, my mom heard about a seniors league and decided to check it out. Pretty soon, she was winning trophies, talking about strategy and her new friends.

While visiting her this summer, I wanted to see if the commute was safe for my 80-year-old mom to make by herself.

When she walked in the door, there was a cheery chorus of “Dee’s here!” Smiles and hugs went all around as the Elite Seniors talked about politics, the weather and the LSU Tigers.

Everybody had their own equipment. Instead of dinged-up black bowling balls, an assortment of balls in blues and pinks sat side by side on the rack.

Instead of the ugly brown and tan shoes I remembered, the Elite Seniors wore bowling shoes in all colors and styles.

Then it was game time, and I wondered if some of these frail looking seniors could pick up a heavy bowling ball and throw it down the lane.

They were amazing.

 Bowler after bowler racked up ear shattering strikes and spares, their high scores reflected on the fully automatic scoring screen. They picked off splits and shook their heads in disgust when throwing a curve or a hook.

Everybody cheered when 92-year-old Homer bowled the first of his three strikes and great-grandmother Teensy easily racked up five spares.  

The Elite Seniors are good bowlers, but more importantly, they care about each other. If someone’s missing, they call to see if they’re okay. They know the names of each others’ grandchildren and great-grandchildren. They’re competitive, feisty and they have fun.

Despite the long drive to get to the alley, I realized my mom needs to keep bowling with the Elite Seniors. The friendship and camaraderie league members provide for each other keeps them young and engaged in life.

But more importantly, Mom’s got room on the mantle for another trophy.

Game on.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

If you’re on the Internet, you’ve probably seen those “pass-this-on-or-be-sorry” urban legends such as being careful when using hand sanitizer or your hands could catch on fire.

True life is much better than anything people could make up. That’s part of the reason I have a problem with the current summer blockbuster movies. This year’s crop specializes in blowing things up and unnecessary violence.

What they’re missing is the backbone for any successful film – a decent script.

It’s been a while since we’ve watched a movie with an extraordinary story line. One of the best is the 1962 movie “To Kill a Mockingbird.” We see Atticus Finch demonstrate true character by defending a man of color when prejudice was rampant.

No explosives. No inter-galactic space villains. Just a man who lives true to his beliefs.

The Harry Potter movies are often remembered for their spectacular special effects, but the true star is an outstanding script based on a creative story.

The same goes for the “Lord of the Rings” movies. The CGI effects are astounding, but it’s the story of Frodo’s dedication that makes a long-lasting impression.

Great stories are all around us. There are people who go above and beyond themselves every day as they battle cancer, accept foster children into their homes and persevere against the hard balls life throws at them.

But writers miss so much when all they’re worried about is how much stuff they can blow up or destroy.

There’s the true story of Irena Sendler, a Polish social worker, who saved over 3,000 Jews from the Warsaw Ghetto from being exterminated during World War II. She risked her life by smuggling babies and children out of the concentration camps.

She was eventually found out, arrested, beaten and jailed by the Nazis. Four Kansas high school students found out about Sendler and wrote a touching play, “Life in a Jar.”

But no movie.

Courage by Example

There another person whose story of courage is well worth examining – 13-year-old Talia Joy Castellano.

Talia was diagnosed with two types of rare cancer and lost all her hair during brutal chemo treatments. She decided she didn’t want to wear a wig and experimented with colorful eye makeup. She had so much fun and felt so good about herself, she created a series of professional make-up tutorials on YouTube.

The over 1 million YouTube viewers she’s attracted forget that she’s bald or that she’s battling cancer. Instead they see a happy young girl with a message of hope.

Ellen DeGeneres saw the same bright light and had Talia on her show where she was named an honorary Cover Girl star.

Talia wanted to become a make-up artist in Hollywood, but her dreams were cut short. The cancers came back, and, this week, her mother announced that Talia had finally lost the fight.

Producers will continue to make expensive, over-the-top movies. But finding a genuine story, an earnest one that will inspire people for years, is as easy as looking at the people around us.

Maybe it’s the story of a family who lost their toddler son to cancer but give out Christmas gifts to cancer patients year after year.

Perhaps it’s the story of a social worker who put her life on the line to save babies and children from extermination.

Or maybe it’s watching a make-up video by a smiling 13-year-old girl who knew true beauty and courage comes from within.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

For the last few weeks, red, white and blue have been everywhere. American flags wave from flower beds, street lamps and store fronts.
Fireworks stands pop up along the road, hyping Roman candles and bottle rockets, and grocery stores hype hot dogs, watermelon and apple pie on sale.  

We understand we’re supposed to recognize the significance of the holiday, but it’s easy to lose sight of the historical significance of many of our holidays.
Memorial Day honors those who lost their lives in battle. Veterans Day honors veterans of the armed forces. July Fourth is the day America proclaimed her independence. Instead these days are often associated with gigantic store sales.

So what do we know about the importance of July 4, 1776?
We know the colonists were tired of paying taxes to a king across the ocean.
We know Thomas Jefferson and Benjamin Franklin worked on the document that declared our intentions to become independent from Great Britain.
We know George Washington became the first president of the new country.
We forget, though, exactly what was at stake when the colonists publicly stated their desire for freedom, and we forget how much courage it took to make that stand.

The colonists – who were really no more than poor farmers and struggling merchants – literally risked their lives to stand up to British troops who were the best and most prepared in the world.

They fought a formidable army, won and then hammered out a constitution that would be fair to all. In one of their boldest acts, they signed their names to an act of defiance, a document we call the Declaration of Independence.

How many of us when asked to sign a petition or put a sign in our yard hesitate because we don’t want anyone to know if we’re a Democrat or a Republican? How many of us have held our tongues when we know something is wrong but we do nothing?

 

Democracy in Action

I was in Austin with journalism students the week before a controversial anti-abortion bill came up before the Texas legislature. These teens witnessed dozens of protestors chanting their support or condemnation of the bill.

They were witnessing history, seeing people stand up for what they believed and willing to take the consequences of having their faces photographed and filmed.
The two sides are bitterly divided, but nobody is denying them the right to say what they think. In this country, we encourage freedom of thought and speech, and we’ve had our system tested, most harshly by terrorists on Sept. 11, 2001.  

After the horror of 9/11, our country united. We worked together to rebuild what terrorists thought they could destroy.
We were misty-eyed when we heard “The Star Spangled Banner.” Soldiers in restaurants had their meals paid for by strangers. People remembered why and what the stars and stripes stood for.

As we watch the fireworks tonight, instead of marveling at the pretty colors, let’s remember the celebration is symbolic of the explosion of ideas that took place in people’s hearts and minds 237 years ago.
They hungered for freedom and were willing to use whatever means they had to achieve that goal. Too many people have put their lives on the line to fight for and preserve that freedom.
And remember the Fourth of July is much more than a sale or a barbecue and much more than lighting up the sky.  

The Fourth of July is the day we took a stand for what we believed.

America. Long may she live.  

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.  

I’m standing in line holding a towel, shampoo bottle and bar of soap. There’s two girls in front of me and two behind, all of us waiting for one of three narrow showers to open up.

 It’s College Dormitory Life 101, and I’m at the University of Texas in Austin at a summer journalism camp.

While listening to the girls whine about lame boyfriends, I thought about the two years I lived in a college dormitory back in the 1970s.

Heading off to Southeastern Louisiana University was my first big adventure, and I thought life in a dorm would be fabulous.

Back then, sleeping in the top bunk on a hard-as-a-rock university-issued mattress didn’t faze me. Neither did having a community bathroom for everybody on the first floor. I was the eldest of seven in a house with one bathroom, and we made it work.

My roommate and her mom were the decorating types, and they fussed over making sure we had matching blue rib-cord bedspreads from Sears and home-made gingham blue checked curtains. My contribution was a purple fish-net hanging in the corner and a James Taylor Mud Slide Slim poster.

In reality, I could’ve cared less about our decorating scheme. All I cared about was getting away from home and being on my own.

 

Now We’re Adults

I thought about those days a lot during our seminar as all the campers stayed in an older dorm, Jester West, which was built in 1969 and can accommodate up to 3,000 students.

Fitting a small city on 11 floors requires scrimping on square footage. Each room had two beds, a sink and some shelves, but I don’t think a VW Beetle could fit inside one comfortably.

Throw in two girls with their laptops, power strips to plug in hair dryers, curling irons, flat iron straighteners, cell phone rechargers and iPads and there’s barely enough room for the obligatory stuffed animals and piles of tennis shoes and Crocs.

Then there’s the matter of where to put clothes. Back in the seventies, Karen and I comfortably shared a closet because our wardrobe consisted of T-shirts and bell-bottom jeans.

Today’s college kid must hang clothes hangers from the ceiling to accommodate their 10 pairs of jeans, T-shirts from every punk rock band from the 1980s and two or three sets of pajamas for heading down to the first floor Wendy’s for midnight fries.   

That doesn’t even take into account the other essentials:  hoodies for cold classrooms, an oversized backpack for long treks across UT’s “40 acres” or a Keurig machine for those needed late-night cups of coffee.

Everybody has to have their own refrigerator and microwave plus a place to store the Orville Redenbacher microwave popcorn, instant mac and cheese, hot Cheetos and Pop Tarts. By the time you’ve shoved all that into this tiny room, it’s a wonder college kids don’t suffer from claustrophobia.

But I’m looking at that dorm room from an adult’s perspective. What seems like a tiny space is actually a comfortable cocoon far away from the prying eyes of mom and dad.

And let’s face it. Sharing a community bathroom isn’t a big deal if you find a sympathetic ear about that political science final while waiting in line for the shower. Boring white walls are an invitation to put up profane glow-in-the-dark posters.

As a bonus, might I suggest fish nets in the corners and a James Taylor poster.

I hear retro’s in.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.  

 

The young bridegroom stood at the front of the altar, glancing repeatedly at the back of the church.

His beautiful bride waited in the vestibule of the church, her father next to her, as they prepared to take the walk from childhood to adulthood.

My 26-year-old niece, Anna, married her long-time beau, Michael, this past weekend. The church was filled with family and friends who watched these two young adults pledge themselves to each other for the rest of their lives.

It’s not easy making a vow of that magnitude, especially in a world where we “unfriend” people on Facebook at the drop of a hat and people tweet their innermost thoughts to the world, promises and thoughts which are forgotten within the hour.

We’ve evolved into a throw-away and short-term society that believes tossing something outdated or broken is easier than the time and effort required to maintain it.

Few people keep a vehicle past 100,000 miles, preferring to trade in the old reliable sedan for a newer, fancier model.

When the microwave refuses to heat up Honey Buns or the coffee maker runs too slow, we don’t look for a repair shop – we buy a new one and toss the broken appliance. Manufacturers know this so they don’t make long-lasting machines.

When our 25-year-old freezer finally gave up the ghost and I asked to buy another one that would last that long, the salesperson told me they don’t make appliances like that anymore. He said a five-year lifespan was about all I could hope for.

So it’s come to that.

Five years is considered a lifetime. 

So to think two young people in their mid 20s would pledge to stay together for the rest of their lives is almost unrealistic. Until you take into account the character of Anna and Michael.

Over the years of their courtship, they worked to build a solid foundation for a life together. They talked, planned, laughed, cried and prayed and finally decided they were ready to pledge their lives to each other.

Michael and Anna were married in front of family and friends during a full Mass, and their reception was a joyous mixing of the Wahl and the Hebert families.  

Over the course of the night, the hall was filled with people dancing, laughing and toasting the happy couple. Grandchildren sat on their grandparents’ laps as relatives reconnected, sharing stories of past family gatherings and missing those who were no longer with us.

I looked around the hall, realizing people had traveled from all over the country to attend the wedding. Perhaps that’s the soundest show of support for newlyweds – families and friends making it a priority to witness the biggest promise one can make in life. 

Michael and Anna didn’t have to look far to see how a promise can come full circle. Our Aunt Bev and Uncle Jim flew in from New York to see Michael and Anna take their vows the same week they celebrated their 49th wedding anniversary.

In addition, my sister and her husband quietly renewed their wedding vows right after the ceremony. Twenty-five years ago, Donna and Jimmy were married by the same priest who married Michael and Anna.

Donna and Jimmy’s grown children witnessed the blessing of their union, just as we did when their parents were in their 20’s, two kids starting out with a promise to love and honor each other for the rest of their lives.

A promise and a prayer. Two intangibles that last a lifetime.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

By now, most high schools and universities have held their commencement ceremonies. Thousands of hopefuls have walked across a stage, received a padded cardboard diploma case from someone they’ve never spoken to in their life and been declared ready to take on the world.

To help them with this Grand Canyon step, speakers are invited to give inspirational talks to the graduates in hopes that they will keep walking when they reach the other side of the stage, somehow get a job and start sending money immediately to benefit the alumni cash register.

As in all things, though, some of the speeches are better than others.

Columnist David Brooks told graduates that they will not find their passion. It will find them. For many of the teens I know, that passion includes racking up hours of “Call of Duty:  Black Ops II” from the living room couch while consuming mountains of Doritos dipped in Cheez Whiz.

Dick Costelo, CEO with Twitter, told students they won’t recognize the impact they’re having in life until they’re having it. That’s sort of like realizing you’ve backed your car into a tree when you hear the thud.

Katie Couric knows how to inspire an audience. She told the graduates at Randolph Macon College in Virginia that everybody’s terminal. Exactly what 18-year-olds who can finally buy beer legally want to hear.

Rep. John Lewis from Georgia probably gave a speech that got the most applause – he told the Class of 2013 to go out and find a way to get in trouble. Good trouble, he cautioned, but I don’t know a teenager who would’ve listened for the caveat after hearing they had the green light to dabble in shenanigans.

Activist Bill McKibben told graduates in Florida not to let their minds go back to sleep. As if any of them been chomping at the bit in their morning classes. Ever try staying awake in a statistics or Elizabethan poetry class? I rest my case.

Newark Mayor Cory Booker told students to listen to the still voice in their heads. I don’t know about the graduates at Yale, but the little voice inside my head when I was 18 told me to go back to bed, listen to my “Rubber Soul” album for the 98th time and keep believing the Beatles would, one day, reunite.

Oprah told Harvard graduates that failure is “life trying to move us into another direction.” That direction, for some, might be the serving frappuccino at the local coffee house if they decided to major in the offbeat. Case in point, a course my Aggie son actually took and I paid for:  “The Language of Love.”

Seriously. I paid for that.

Astrophysicist Neil deGrasse Tyson told Rice graduates that they still have a lot to learn. Most 18-year-olds believe they already know everything. Asking them to admit they have a lot yet to learn is like asking my dog to sing “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall.”

Television writer Jon Lovett told the graduates at Pitzer College that it’s time to move on. They annoyed their parents for years and their professors for the past four. Now it’s time to go out into the world and annoy someone else. Unfortunately, many of them will repeat the cycle, move back home and resume annoying their parents.

Rob Lazebnik, a writer on “The Simpsons” penned a great tongue-in-cheek articles advising graduates to do what they do best – get lucky.

So roll the dice, Class of 2013 and hope Lady Luck is on your side.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

For months, I’ve been watching fun Houston events pass me by, thinking I couldn’t navigate my way to some of the activities I’d read about or thinking I should stay home and catch up on chores. I came across an old needle-point picture that reminded me that cleaning and scrubbing can wait until tomorrow.

And so I found myself maneuvering through the one-way streets of downtown Houston Saturday night to hear the Houston Symphony and one of my favorite singing groups, Pink Martini, live in concert.

For the first time in my life, I was going to hear a big-city symphony orchestra, and I really didn’t know what to expect. I’ve heard high school orchestras perform, and I’ve listened to countless symphony recordings courtesy of YouTube.

But I’ve never heard a full-fledged orchestra of professional musicians perform at a live concert. After finding my seat, I uncomfortably knew I was in the minority.

My Capri slacks and comfortable sandals didn’t quite measure up to the $200 designer dresses and $500 shoes all around me. Feeling like I wanted to crawl under the seat, I was rescued by a genteel lady in her late 70s sitting next to me. Her warm smile made me feel comfortable, and she answered my questions about the orchestra and the hall.

I found out the Houston Symphony is preparing to celebrate their 100th year in 2014, and they offer a variety of concerts throughout the year. After almost 20 years in Houston, I was a bit ashamed that I’d never taken the time to attend a single performance.

As the lights dimmed and the musicians sat upright and still in their chairs, I found myself holding my breath. Then Michael Krajewski, the principal pops conductor of the Houston Symphony, raised his baton, and the violins, violas, trombones, trumpets and clarinets began weaving their magic.

All my prior expectations about a symphony concert quickly fell away. I thought I’d hear only classical music, but I recognized the Gershwin songs they played.

I expected symphony musicians to be mostly older people. But I was quite surprised as the orchestra is comprised of people of all ages and nationalities.

A female flute player with corn rows was seated next to a young man who looked like he’d just finished his senior year in high school. A musician, who seemed to be in his 80’s, was playing alongside a serious young girl with straight black hair.

These musicians could be people in the grocery store, squeezing the lettuce or examining the labels on the mayonnaise. They could be the girl working in the college book store or the young man parking cars at the Astros game.

Seemingly ordinary people with extraordinary skills and talent were delighting hundreds of music aficionados and people like me who weren’t quite sure what to expect. The music brought me to tears, made me smile and made me think about the beauty people can create when they pick up a musical instrument.

When the orchestra played their last song, I realized the symphony isn’t just for River Oaks residents or grand dames with diamonds on every finger. The symphony is for everyone who wants to experience the joy of hearing notes that artfully weave around each other to create music that transports the listener to a world of harmony and acoustic beauty.

I’d originally gone to hear Pink Martini perform, a group my friends Bob and Denise Haenel introduced me to, but I reaped much more than hearing this talented group perform.

I was able to hear beauty.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The young man shook my hand, smiled and sat down, a notebook and pen in his hand.

“I’d like to ask you what you remember about the Vietnam War,” Carlos said. He was working on a history project and needed to interview someone who remembered the Vietnam War.

What I remember most about the war comes from my teenage years in the late 1960s, the height of the conflict. I started high school in 1969, and my freshman year was smooth sailing.

During my sophomore year, racial turmoil boiled over in our small Louisiana town. Integration had arrived, and two high schools in our area – one predominantly white and the other predominantly black – merged.

Those years were terrifying for everyone. Parents were picketing on the school sidewalks, and students were either scared or enraged.

I remember seeing our assistant principal with brass knuckles he’d confiscated from a student. The war halfway around the world didn’t scare me as much as the war inside the school walls.

“Did you have any family members serve in the war?”

The question brought me out of my reverie. None of my family members went overseas, but my friends’ older brothers and sisters were staging their own war.

Every day, it seemed, one would suddenly appear in bell bottom pants, love beads around their necks and their fingers in an perpetual “V” as they smiled and said “Peace, little sister.”

In school, boys were beginning to wear their hair in ponytails or in Afros, and the community was in an uproar.

Politics and the disintegration of my generation became part of our dinnertime conversation, and I went along quietly until Richard Nixon and Watergate put an end to my gullibility.

Up to that point, I thought the president was above reproach. After Watergate, I switched my voting designation to Independent and vowed to vote for principles, not parties.

“Did you know anybody who went to Vietnam?” Carlos asked.

His question silenced me. I didn’t personally know anybody who served when the war was going on, but I’ve interviewed quite a few veterans.

One man in particular has never left my thoughts. When we looked at pictures of him as a young man in the jungles of Vietnam, he cried for himself and all the boys who lost the ages of 18 to 25 to a war that took so many before their time.

His words echoed what a veteran from World War II had told me – he’d left home an idealistic boy and came home a man for whom reality was that death could come at any minute.

I had nothing to say to this grieving veteran. “Thank you” seemed like not enough and “I’m sorry” changed nothing. So I simply put my arm around his shoulder and sat there with him until the demons were silent.

“How did the war change you?” was the last question.

At the time, I didn’t think the war changed me at all. I didn’t have to go overseas, I didn’t put my life on the line nor did I have a family member who served.

But all of us who lived during that time changed. We became appreciative of our freedoms and discovered we had the right to change a political atmosphere that fostered corruption and allowed a vicious war to continue.

Wars change people, whether it’s a war on civil inequality, persecution half way around the world or a quiet discussion between a baby boomer and a young man ready to take on the world.

These changes will last long after the last bullet is fired.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.