When I was a teenager, I always looked forward to the weekends. School days were a round robin of getting up early to catch the bus and staying up late to finish homework. During the week, I often felt like a zombie, so my weekend goal was to put some Z’s in the sleep bank.

  Saturday was the one morning of the week when I could curl up under my bedspread and try to sleep until noon. That was impossible, though, thanks to my mom.

  By 8 a.m., she was banging around in the kitchen which was right outside my bedroom. It was impossible to sleep with all that clanging going on and, as I’m motivated by guilt, most of the time I grudgingly got up and helped her. Back then, I wondered why she couldn’t just leave everything alone until the afternoon.

  When I got older and spent weekdays chasing toddlers, running errands and cooking meals, I realized Saturday mornings were the one day of the week when I could get caught up with the dishes, laundry and bathroom chores.

  Although we’re now empty nesters, old habits die hard, so this past Saturday, I grabbed my cleaning bucket and headed down the hallway. I glanced at the walls and noticed tiny fingerprints about two feet off the ground.

  I recognized my granddaughter’s fingerprints and remains of the peanut-butter and honey sandwich she’d been eating while telling me a story. Then I saw my grandson’s fingerprints on the wall going up the stairs.

  I started to clean those off, but then I remembered how happy my granddaughter had been while recounting the story about the princess dream she’d had.

  My grandson’s handprint was made while he was learning to climb the stairs all by himself. Looking at those little handprints, I smiled for it wasn’t so long ago that I was cleaning their father’s fingerprints off walls.

  In the house where my sons grew up, the bedrooms were upstairs, and when the boys came down the stairs, they dragged their hands down the side walls of the stair case.

  One overhead section became a good-luck slapping charm, and all three would touch that section of the wall when they came down the stairs.

  As a result, that one tough-to-paint section had a permanent gray spot from their handprints. I complained incessantly about the dirt, yelling at them to stop putting their hands all over that one unreachable spot.

  But when our youngest son went off to college and we put the house up for sale, I looked at that spot over the stairs, the gho

sts of their fingerprints bringing back memories of my life when my boys were still under our roof.

  We leave fingerprints all over the place in life, at the milestones we commemorate with hugs, handshakes and hearty pats on the back. Many of us talk with our hands, spreading our hands wide when asking a question and our palms thrown upward when we’re fed up.

  Our hands check to see if our babies have a fever, smooth the hair away from our spouse’s face and tickle our children while tucking them into bed at night.  

  So I think I’ll leave my grandchildren’s fingerprints on the wall for a while. People leave traces in our lives in the most unexpected places. We can either wipe those fingerprints away, ignore them or smile and remember how the people who own them touched our souls.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

 

   

I love a good story, especially ghost stories. Perhaps it’s because my family had its own set of ghosts that I’m so intrigued by them. My father had a special name for the ghost in our family – “Mr. Toops.” Whenever the back door flew open by itself, Dad would always say “Come on in, Mr. Toops.”

We never thought much about my father’s invitation because Dad was a little silly at times. Later we found out that Mr. Toops was a real person, a man who lived next door to my father’s family.

Mr. Toops was hard of hearing, and he often walked right in the back door, figuring it was a waste of time to knock and wait for somebody to yell “come in.” My Grandmother Marguerite would see him standing there and say “Come on in, Mr. Toops,” and the line stuck through the next two generations.

There were plenty of other ghost sightings in the Hebert family – my grandmother claimed she often saw a faint image of a man standing near the edges of family functions. She wasn’t afraid of the Gray Man, as she called him, and neither were we.

She claimed her ability to see him was because she was born with a veil. Near the turn of the century, almost all births were at home. Marguerite was no exception; and when she was born at home in New Orleans’ mystical French Quarter, her birth was something special.

Marguerite was born with a “veil,” part of the amniotic sac that can partially cover the face of the child. It’s not common, but midwives believed that a child born with the veil had special powers and could see ghosts and into the future.

My grandmother said her mother kept the “veil” in a sealed jar, but someone stole it, and she believed the veil was headed for a voodoo ceremony. Despite the loss of the veil, for all her life, my grandmother had the ability to see and know things before they happened.

My mother’s father also had the gift of second sight and sensed when something was about to happen, from the culmination of a business deal to knowing someone was coming to visit.

From those two, I developed an insatiable curiosity about things beyond what we can see.

Whenever I hear a story about someone having a sixth sense, I want to know every detail, and that’s why I bent my brother’s ear the other night.

Johnny recently had an encounter with someone who could tell the future. He was visiting with a nun in Louisiana, one who supposedly has the gift to sense when things are going to happen and, in some cases, to heal people. She relayed to my brother that he needed to watch his blood pressure.

Just a few days earlier, my brother had a full physical, and he checked out fit as a fiddle. But while exercising, he over-exerted himself and developed a two-week long headache.

The doctor told him his blood pressure went through the roof, and he suddenly remembered the nun’s prediction.

My  next phone call to my brother will be to see if he can introduce me to this special nun. Perhaps she’ll know if there’s any hope one day I’ll develop a sixth sense like my grandparents.

It sure would be nice to know who’s about to knock on the back door.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The United States Post Office has to be one of the busiest places in town, especially on a Saturday morning. I found myself there this past weekend mailing two large boxes to my son in Taiwan.

I didn’t realize cologne was a hazardous waste – although Old Spice might qualify – so I had to open both boxes because I couldn’t remember which box had the bottle. Then I had to stuff everything back in the box, buy a roll of tape from the Post Office kiosk to reseal the boxes and fill out complicated mailing forms.

Printing my name in the tiny boxes took most of my concentration, but after a couple of minutes, I noticed a woman trying to address an envelope next to me. I quickly apologized for taking up the counter, and she sniffed and muttered “I asked you to move three times. You’d think you’d have heard me.”

Instantly, I was apologetic and mortified that I’d been one of those people I gripe and complain about all the time – the hogger. You know the type – they do whatever they want to do without paying the least bit of attention to anyone around them.

Sheepishly, I realized I gripe about a lot of behaviors people exhibit in public, and I’d had just such an experience before going to the post office. Earlier that day, I ended up in the grocery store line behind a young mom.

A tall blonde, wearing a diamond tennis bracelet and expensive jogging clothes, got in line behind me. A checker walked up and said she’d take the next person in line. The woman in the jogging suit made a bee-line to the open cashier and never looked back.

The young mom in front of me was stewing but didn’t say anything. Finally I leaned over my basket and said “Don’t people like that really get to you?”

Immediately she smiled and we had a pleasant conversation about impolite people who ignore the unspoken rule of grocery store etiquette – when a cashier opens up, the next person in line should go next, not the barracuda who lingers around the ends of the line, hoping to catch a freshly opened check-out line.

“Karma will get her,” I said to my new friend. “Karma has a long memory, and she never forgets.”

I’m a firm believer in what goes around comes around. When I was younger, I griped about people who walked all over others and never seemed to get what was coming to them.

These types still aggravate me –they’ll steal a parking spot even though you’re sitting there with your blinker on and they run red lights because their time is more important than yours.

But the older I’ve gotten, the more I see karma come around and “reward” these people for their rude and impolite behavior.

That woman who cut in front of us in the grocery store line? I watched the wind smash two grocery carts into her driver’s side door when she was putting her bags in the trunk.

The person who stole the parking space will, sooner or later, have to park at the far end of the parking lot in the pouring rain, and people who run red lights invariably get pulled over by the police.

You can only rob from karma for a short amount of time and then she wreaks her revenge.

I needed to appease the kismet goddess, and I saw my chance when a young girl walked up to the post office counter to mail a shawl to a friend.

She ended up having to buy a mailing box, but she didn’t have any tape. I handed her the roll I’d just bought and told her to help herself.

She was surprised but I said I was simply paying back the karma guardians. She laughed and said karma was definitely nothing to fool around with, and now she was bound to do something nice for somebody because, she said, “what goes around, comes around.”  

Even for we table hoggers.  

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The bay is quiet in the early morning hours, the sounds of idling boat motors echoing around the harbor, preparing for a days’ catch.

Shrimpers, wearing weathered baseball caps pulled tight on their heads and faded black rain boots, head out to the open waters before dawn, hoping they’ll catch their limit of 50 bags of oysters, fresh from Aransas Bay.

This scene is replayed every morning in Rockport, a busy seaport town about three hours southwest of Fort Bend County. My husband is part of the Coastal Prairie Chapter of the Texas Master Naturalists, and they planned a weekend trip to Rockport to see the sights, especially the majestic whooping cranes.

The Rockport/Fulton area is a mixture of old and new Texas. Confederate cemeteries are on the tourist attraction list right next to modern art galleries. Because the temperatures were in the 70’s, the skies a brilliant blue and the humidity non-existent, we happily spent our first day outdoors.

At Goose Creek State Park, we saw a family cleaning the redfish they’d caught that day, and the efficient husband-and-wife team were surrounded by a flock of hungry brown and white pelicans. As soon as they’d finish fileting a fish, the pelicans would open their huge beaks to catch the skeleton, and there was invariably a fight to see who’d fly away with the prize.

Lunch was at the Moon Dog Café, a popular local hangout that’s right on the water front. With open sides and a constant breeze, the hippie-style cafe the perfect spot to watch the boats come in and out of the harbor.

Oysters were the main catch of the day, and the decks of all the boats mooring at the dock were laden down with bulging sacks of freshly caught oysters.

The dock manager said those oysters would be on their way to all parts of Texas as well as Mississippi and Louisiana by the afternoon and perhaps on dinner plates that same evening. The public couldn’t buy from the boats, but shrimp, oysters and fish were readily available from nearby shops.

We stayed at the Lighthouse Inn, a step back in time to the gracious hotel days when guests relaxed on shady verandas. Thanks to a great tip from Wayne and Vicki Poorman, we were on the dock before the sun rose the next morning, cameras in hand, watching the shrimp boats leave the harbor bathed in scarlet, pink and yellow light.

When it was time for the trip out to see the whoopers, I stayed in town as my stomach’s not happy on the open water. I took advantage of an afternoon to myself and toured Fulton and Rockport.

I started with a leisurely drive down Fulton Beach Road, stopping along the way to photograph The Big Tree, one of the oldest live oaks in Texas, and spend some reflective time at the Schoenstatt Chapel.

My afternoon ended with a tour of the historic Fulton Mansion, and the tour guides were knowledgeable about the time period and the house.

The 1877 Victorian mansion is in need of major repairs, from shoring up the foundation to getting a new coat of paint on the outside. Luckily, a year-long renovation starts at the end of February, and I’m glad I got a chance to see this majestic lady before she retreats for the next year.

Sunday afternoon, we left Rockport via the coast road, knowing we’d come back soon, if for nothing more than to sit on the dock on the bay – thanks Otis – and watch the sun illuminate the world.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

  On my way to church on Sunday mornings, I pass in front of Roper’s, a small cafe in Simonton where the parking lot’s always overflowing. I’ve often wondered why a small restaurant that’s well off the beaten path would be so crowded early in the morning.

  Breakfast is one of my favorite meals on the weekend. The smell of hot pancakes and sizzling bacon always makes my mouth water, and nothing’s beats sitting down with the newspaper, a hot breakfast and a full cup of coffee.

  I’m usually too lazy to pull out frying pans and griddles to cook for myself and I hate leaving the house early in the morning for breakfast. But last Sunday morning, I was once gain intrigued by all the vehicles in front of Roper’s and pulled in to see why so many people visit this place.

  Thanks to Maria Silva, a friendly cashier at the front counter, I found out Roper’s has been open for six years. Owners Marty and Lauren Gillespie aren’t just names on the sign; they work alongside their staff in both the country store section and the cafe.

  The name Roper’s has nothing to do with cowboys – it’s a tribute to a friend’s cattle dog. When ole Roper died, Lauren and Mary thought naming the cafe after that faithful pooch would be a great way to keep his memory alive.

  To the left of the front door is an almost hidden area where a dozen small tables are nestled. Red checked tablecloths create a homey atmosphere, and framed pictures look like what you’d find in your living room.

  Although the cafe is cozy and the staff is welcoming, what hits guests first are the delicious smells from the kitchen. Lauren and her team stay busy in the back, hand peeling dozens of potatoes that go into the tacos and creamy potato salad.

  What they do best, though, is making almost everything from scratch, from breakfast tacos to omelets where the diner decides what ingredients go into a light egg-based delicacy to a hand-pounded chicken-fried steak that not only covers the plate but leans over the side.

  Entrees range from a chicken tender basket to fried catfish. Side dishes like mashed potatoes, purple hull peas and fried okra are reminders of what our moms and grandmothers served at family get togethers.

  Lots of restaurants have great food, but what makes Roper’s different is the family atmosphere. Maria said whenever she hears a vehicle pull into the parking lot, she glances out the window and, as she recognizes the person getting out of the vehicle, starts pouring their coffee, fixing it just the way they like it.

  In the mornings, the cafe fills quickly with “the regulars,” people who stop in for a home-cooked breakfast before heading out to the work world.

  Men wearing blue button-down shirts chat easily with guys wearing faded denim shirts and starched jeans, and children are always welcome. Marty usually stays in the front, making small talk with customers while Lauren and her crew stay busy behind the scenes.

  When crawfish season arrives, the staff at Roper’s hauls out big pots and hosts giant crawfish boils on Saturday evenings. Lauren’s dad boils up the mudbugs, and customers love to sit at a table and dive into a pile of steaming hot crawfish and temper that Louisiana hot sauce with a cold Shiner.

  Good times, good food and good friends. That’s what Roper’s does well – allows old-timers and newcomers to sit a spell, talk about the weather, share a few laughs and leave with a smile and a full tummy.

  I’ll take that dinner over caviar and candlelight any day of the week.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

  When we’re young, people ask us what we want to be when we grow up and the answer’s often a model, a magician or president. These are whimsical careers, so as the years pass, we find professions to fit the persona we’ve grown into.

  As a child, I wanted to be a cowgirl. My bike was my trusty steed, and we circled the block – or the ranch as I liked to think – hundreds of times, always on the lookout for varmints. When I grew up, I realized I was scared of horses, so being a cowgirl was definitely not a vocation for me.

  When I was a teenager, I wanted to be an airline stewardess. I wanted to visit exotic places, and I thought a career with an airline would allow me to see the world with someone else footing the bill.

  As I took a responsible job as a secretary, I watched that dream of jetting away to Cairo, New York City and Paris dissipate like the long-ago dream of a little girl wanting to be a cowgirl.

  Motherhood came along and, over the years, I gladly accepted three blue bundles even though I was filled with terror, knowing I was responsible for those little lives. As time went on, I gradually felt more comfortable changing diapers, dispensing advice and protecting my boys from the cruelties of the world.

  We wanted to let them experience the fun of travel, so we’d occasionally fly to a colder climate during spring break. Out of the corner of my eye, I’d watch the flight attendants, wondering what faraway places they’d been to and where they were headed.

  A chance came along to work at a newspaper, and although I loved reading novels like “One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest” and “Don Quixote” and had dabbled in a little bit of writing, I never thought I could be a writer because the responsibility is solemn.

  With a few well-placed words and phrases, a writer can squeeze hearts, open eyes or move mountains. Whenever I write a column, I say a quiet prayer that my words are helpful, not harmful. Even though I’ve been occupying this space for over 10 years, I still gnash my teeth and agonize over what’s printed in this slot.

  More than just shouting into the wind, I fervently pray that if I’m writing a humorous column, someone will read the words in the midst of sorrow and a smile will sneak into their hearts.

  If a young mother is feeling overwhelmed, I hope reminiscences of my sweatshirts decorated with spit-up and linoleum floors that didn’t see a broom for weeks hits home.

  More than that, though, I want to keep stoked a perpetual fire in my heart to remember the real job of a journalist:  to report the truth. Those of us who write must always remember that words are the most powerful weapon in the world.

  I’m reminded of that fact when I hear “America The Beautiful” and “Danny Boy” and the tears well in my eyes over those simple yet stirring lyrics. As I watch television shows like HBO’s “Newsroom” and reruns of “The Wonder Years,” I know there are talented and unsung wordsmiths out there igniting our brains and our hearts.

  To this day, when I watch women riding horses, I marvel at their grace and agility. When I’m on an airplane and watch flight attendants going about their tasks, I’m grateful they can gracefully handle emergencies at 30,000 feet in the air.

  I’ll never be a cowgirl or a flight attendant. I’ll never walk a runway in a $3,000 designer dress nor will I preside over the United Nations. But in my mind and from my keyboard, I can climb on a mythical white steed and, like Don Quixote, fight the windmills.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald, Fort Bend County’s daily newspaper.

  On Monday, we’ll celebrate Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Day. As time goes by, King’s persona is often that of a man standing in front of a microphone giving his famous  “I have a dream” speech.

  But King was much more than a sound bite or a paragraph in a history book. Like many Americans, he was born poor. Growing up, he thought he was getting a good education, but when he got to college, King realized he was far behind the other white students. He studied, caught up and graduated from Boston University.

  His fight for civil rights began in 1954, and by 1955 he was one of the leaders in the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People. But King decided to follow a non-violent path for racial equality, and he was rewarded with having his home bombed, being arrested over 20 times and assaulted at least four times.

  At the age of 35, King was the youngest man to receive the Nobel Peace Prize, and he turned the $54,000 in prize money over to the furtherance of the civil rights movement. In 1968, he was senselessly assassinated, and the world lost a peaceful visionary.

  Over the years, I forgot most of what I knew about Dr. King. I mentally put him in a narrow category as a civil rights leader and felt sad when stories surfaced of his supposed extramarital affairs.

  But one day, I decided to read some of his writings to see for myself what King had to say and pulled up one of his most famous writings, “Letter from a Birmingham Jail.”  I read every word, and was absolutely fascinated.

  King wrote the letter in 1963 while sweltering in a hot jail cell in Birmingham, Ala. The letter was written in the margins of newspapers and on the backs of legal papers and quietly smuggled out.

  The letter was not only an incredibly insightful reflection on the country, King’s words became the philosophical foundation of the Civil Rights movement.

  King wrote he was in jail because injustice was there and he couldn’t sit idly by and watch what was happening. “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere,” he stated, and whatever “affects one of us affects us all.”

  King describes the anguish Negros endured when they saw their mothers and fathers lynched. He wailed about the 20 million Negros living in poverty in an affluent society and how he had to explain to his 6-year-old daughter that she couldn’t go to a public amusement park because she was the wrong color.

  I was so moved by “Letter from a Birmingham Jail,” I read the entire “I Have a Dream” speech. It’s easy to come away with only the last few lines but that’s unfortunate because one misses some of the best civil rights thoughts ever put down on paper.

  “Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksand of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood,” King states. He warns of drinking from the cup of bitterness and hate and urges people to rise to newer heights and not hate people for the color of their skin.

  His hope is deeply rooted in the American dream that all men are created equal and that, one day, the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together.

  As many of us relax on a national holiday, let us remember the words of Dr. King. If we can take a nation that’s still divided 40 years later and bring her together, there will be a “beautiful symphony of brotherhood.”

  And from that vantage, all people can sing together “let freedom ring.”
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald newspaper.

 

 

 

  I’m in search of the perfect tree. The criteria is simple – the first few branches ought to be close to the ground and the bark should be fairly smooth. The branches should gently expand to allow an adventurous 5-year-old to wedge her feet into the crevices so she can proceed upward.

  In short order, I’m looking for a suitable climbing tree.

  When I was young, there was a small grove of small trees between our house and my grandparents’ house. My friends and I loved playing there because the trees offered a shady retreat as well as a great place to hide from the world.

  For hours, we’d wage war with our plastic army soldiers, dig holes and then line the holes with tin foil to make lakes. When we tired of playing in the dirt, we’d find a tree to climb and go as high as we could.

  I don’t know what kind of trees grew in that stand, but there were enough branches in each tree to let us shimmy our way up at least 15 feet above the ground. We made more than our fair share of climbing mistakes, but, as time went by, we learned a few things.

  The first rule of successfully climbing a tree is making sure there are enough crevices and branches to use as foot and hand holds. The second is understanding that when you find a level, sturdy branch, it’s time to stop, sit and dangle your feet in the open air.

  Once settled, I’d daydream about adventures I wanted to take and far-off lands I’d one day visit. Up there, on top of the world, I was a princess or what I wasn’t most of the time, brave. Eventually we outgrew climbing trees, but memories of hours spent up in a tree always made me smile.

  When I became a mother, my sons loved nothing better than climbing trees, and they were much braver than their mother. They weren’t satisfied until they climbed as high as they could, and nothing thrilled them better than swinging on a rope anchored firmly to a sturdy branch.

  So it was with great satisfaction I heard my granddaughter declare she was looking for a tree to climb. And like all former tree climbers, I began my search for the perfect tree for her to climb.

  That quest was harder than I thought it would be.

  First, the trees in newer neighborhoods are nothing more than saplings, and I didn’t find any that could support the weight of a small child. Older trees in established neighborhoods have had all the lower branches trimmed away, and those with real promise were safeguarded behind formidable fences.

  I found myself constantly evaluating every tree I saw. They were either too tall, the trunks were too thick to climb up or the branches were too spindly. Finally I found a tree for her to climb, but, unfortunately, there was a huge mound of ants at the base of the tree, and neither one of us wanted to risk the bites.

  My granddaughter was disappointed, but her parents came to the rescue. Early one Saturday morning, they headed to Brazos Bend State Park where there are hundreds of majestic trees with low-to-the-ground branches.

  Within minutes, my son, his daughter and his young son were up in the branches while mom, eight months pregnant, remained on the ground, cheering her family on to greater heights.

  When I heard my phone beep with a picture of them snuggled in the branches of a tree, I smiled, the tears forming in my eyes because, thanks to their parents, my grandchildren discovered a wonderful secret.  

  They knew what it felt like to touch the sky.
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

For many of us, part of starting a new year is making a list of personal resolutions to improve or add something to our lives. One of my favorites that doesn’t include throwing away all the cookies in the pantry is redecorating.

  Unlike exercising or being nice to grouchy people, spiffing up our living space takes more than willpower – it takes money.

  Magazines and websites feature thousands of ideas to update and “evoke the essence of the aesthetic,” but some are quite deceptive in how much they’ll set you back. One of the most mentioned do-it-yourself spruce ups is replacing the pillows on the couch.

  The  last time I shopped, one new throw pillow from the local craft shop was $19.95. That’s right – almost twenty dollars for some sequins, pom poms and stuffing. By the time I finished updating the five pillows on my couch, that simple spiff-it-up tip would set me back over $100.

  That’s why I’m always a sucker for magazine articles about people who update their houses with recycled items. These articles promise readers pie-in-the-sky results if they can “reclaim elements” they’re already using.

  “Shabby chic” is the name decorators gave to a trend that’s nothing more than taking old stuff, making it look even older and then claiming you meant to put that chipped and dinged up coffee table front and center.

  The frosting on that old cupcake, though, is finding ingenious ways to incorporate natural items like branches, pine cones and rocks into your decorating palette.

  One article advocated using geodes for a natural look on an entry table. I love geodes as nothing’s prettier than blue and purple geode crystals, but I priced geodes at a rock shop – they’re $250 for one the size of a softball.

  I decorated our mantle with branches from a yaupon tree one year, but when the bugs decided to vacate the bark and take up residency in our living room and the red from the berries permanently stained the paint, I went back to artificial greenery.  

  One theory is universal – a bold splash of color is what every room needs. Orange pillows on the couch are perfect, one article stated, but there’s no way my Aggie boys would ever allow me to have anything orange in the living room.

  Another decorator used sand to cover the top of an entry table to give a house a nautical feel. With two grandchildren under the age of 6, that sand would be everywhere except on the top of that table.

  To top it off, the decorator stood two canoe paddles against the wall to add to the nautical feel. Our grandchildren would think we’d put two battering rams in the house – not a great idea for anyone with imaginative children.

  Outfitting a home office generates over half the decorating articles. The start of a new year is when many of us try and get organized in the spot where we pay our bills or the kids do their homework.

  I thought I’d try and update my office area as well, perhaps finding something a bit fancier for my pens, pencils and scissors than old, chipped coffee mugs.

  But then I priced home office knick-knacks — $12.95 was more than I wanted to spend for one cup holder, and I wasn’t willing to fork over $10 for a special container to hold paper clips when a lopsided clay bowl my son made at Boy Scout camp works just dandy.

  Sitting back in my office chair that’s about 10 years old, I realized I really am a down-home, green decorator. My decor won’t make the shiny pages of “Better Homes and Gardens” magazine, but it suits my re-purposed aesthetic just fine.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.