One of the big trends in decorating is minimalism.

Less is better, they proclaim.

Get rid of all the knick-knacks, clear off all kitchen and bathroom counters, and donate or throw away everything extra in your house.

I bought into it for a while, especially around the Christmas holidays. My husband would get down all the boxes of decorations, and I’d only use about half of them. After a couple of years, he only brought down a few boxes.

There were reasons I didn’t get into the holiday spirit. Replacing the regular towels with green and red ones was ridiculous, I told myself. My husband didn’t care if the soap dispenser had reindeer on the front. Frankly, neither did I.

The boys were grown and gone, so the primary reason for decorating was no longer valid. Our grandchildren enjoyed seeing the lights and decorations, but the gifts under the tree were the main event.

Plus, decorating is a lot of work. We had to haul all that stuff out of storage, unwrap dozens of ornaments and gee-gaws out and then rewrap everything in a few weeks.

People didn’t come to visit our house, and the months-long Covid quarantine made the feelings of isolation worse. It’s much easier to just leave things as they are.

Why bother, I told myself. One day, our sons will have to deal with all that “stuff” when we’re no longer around. It’ll all end up in a garage sale or in the trash.

Bah, humbug, I know.

But this year is different. People are celebrating together. In stores, people are talking to each other and smiling at strangers. The Christmas songs are playing, and I can hear people humming along, myself included.

We’re back with our families, sharing meals and holidays. There’s not a hesitation when thinking about attending a concert or football game. The libraries and restaurants are open, and we’re back at meetings and parties.

It’s time to celebrate and pull out all the stops.

This year, I’m asking my husband to haul down all the boxes of Christmas decorations, and I’m putting everything out.

There’ll be red and green candy-cane towels in the bathrooms. For the next month, a Christmas rug will replace the brown one in front of the sink.

Every strand of twinkling lights is going on the tree. In fact, I’ll probably buy a few more so our tree will look like downtown Houston on a Saturday night.

I’m going to put every single ornament we own on our Christmas tree, not just a few for that minimalistic view. I ordered two boxes of silver tinsel, and I’m going to drape every branch so the whole tree will sparkle.

I’m going to haul out the rolling pin and cookie cutters and the grandkids and I will make some Christmas cookies. There won’t be any limits on how much sugar and sprinkles they can put on each cookie either.

There’s so much sadness and fear in the world – wars, poverty, climate change.

The sentiment “good will towards all” is especially true for those struggling with sorrow. Many of our friends and families have lost loved ones, jobs, friendships and connections.

As we’ve learned, tragedy can strike without warning, so when we can celebrate, pull out all the stops.

Drag out all your Christmas decorations.

Drape garland and tinsel everywhere.

Play Christmas music loudly and hug as many people as you can.

Embrace the holiday with every bit of twinkling lights and garland you can find.

Don’t hold back. Drape that tinsel and layer on the ribbons and garland.

Christmas comes but once a year.

Make this one count.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

It’s Thanksgiving, a day to show gratitude for the people and events in our life. I am truly grateful for family and friends every moment of every day.

I’m thankful for good health, a roof over my head and a warm bed at night because I know there’s so many who don’t have those comforts.

But as is my way, this column will be about giving thanks for the little things, the sometimes overlooked good things that make every day a little bit easier. If the list makes you smile, I’m thankful for that.

Seat warmers in my car. The vehicle we bought a few years ago had seat warmers. When the salesman pointed out this feature, I laughed. I live in Houston where shorts are the daily attire 10 months out of the year.

But when these cold spells hit, I’ve got the seat warmer cranked up to the highest level it’ll go. My bum has never been happier.

My fridge’s ice maker. There’s a scene in the third “Back to the Future” trilogy when Doc Brown builds a gigantic machine and it churns out one ice cube.

If only Doc could see how much I appreciate sticking my glass in the door of my fridge and instantly being rewarded with either ice cubes or crushed ice.

Many of us remember filling ice cube trays with water and carefully finding a place in the freezer where they wouldn’t tip over.

In a family of seven children, chances were high you’d pull out the tray and find someone had put the tray back without water and, hence, no ice cubes. For that reason alone, I appreciate the automatic system that churns out an entire container of ice overnight.

Leaf Blower. I’m not a big believer in sweeping, especially the patio or front porch. But the first time I turned on a leaf blower and felt that power in my hands, I was hooked.

I remembered when my dad got a leaf blower for Christmas, and he used it to blow all the wrapping paper into one corner of the living room.

He was always quite the inventive one.

Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. The first time I looked up a recipe for homemade macaroni and cheese, I shut the book and reached for the blue and yellow box in the pantry.

For we baby boomers, nothing beats that orange macaroni and cheese, Campbell’s Chicken Noodle soup and red Kool-Aid.

Anything by Hostess. I understand Twinkies are nothing but empty calories. Ho-Ho’s aren’t a laughing matter when you realize what that cream filling is doing to your arteries.

Still, I’ll take a Ding Dong over a slice of pumpkin pie any day of the week.

Democratic check-out lines. My hat’s off to the stores who have one line for checking out because the next person in line is the next person called to the cashier.

I have an uncanny knack for getting in the wrong line every single time in the store. Yesterday, I had the chance to get in a longer line, but I took the short line.

The woman in front of me questioned every single item she was buying – could she return it, was that the right price. By the time I realized what she was doing, all the other lines had at least five people in them.

So thank you to the stores who have one line for check out. You get my business and my money.

The pots and pans are washed and put away, and it’s time to settle back on the couch with the remote control, a glass of Kool-Aid and a bowl of Kraft mac and cheese to watch “A Christmas Story.”

Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours, and may the blessings in your life shine on you every day.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Tee Jolie was running.

Not jogging.

Not trotting.

She was running so hard, every breath felt as if she was being stabbed. She prayed her legs would hold out. She’d worn sneakers that morning because walking five blocks to her office was too hard in the heels her boss, Martin, demanded women wear.

She wanted to tell him she wasn’t some idiot from the fifties. Shoes didn’t define a woman just as Martin wearing his blue-tooth headphone didn’t make him important.

He’d come on to her a few days after she’d started working in the office.

“Hey, Tee Jolie, I know you’re new to Savannah,” he’d said. “As your boss, I feel it’s my responsibility to make sure you’re acclimated to this area.”

Martin’s breath smelled like the onions he’d had on his lunch sandwich. Tee Jolie noticed there was a bit of lettuce stuck between his teeth. Looking at that made her stomach turn over. She knew men like Martin. Knew them well. He didn’t notice the revulsion in her eyes.

He didn’t notice she’d backed away from him.

“We’re right here on the coast, and there’s a lot to see in the historic downtown area,” he continued. “I’m a good tour guide.”

What made him think she wasn’t from Savanna? She had a Southern accent, but it was from Louisiana, not Georgia. If this ape thought he could introduce her to history, she could tell him a few things about New Orleans that might cause hair to grow back on his sweaty head.

She’d told him maybe another time – she was still unpacking. But that evening, she was hungry and still hadn’t found the box with her kitchen skillet and potholders. So she’d checked online and found a small restaurant down by the docks. She’d taken an Uber to the restaurant and had decided to walk to the dock, the smell of the bay irresistible to a Cajun girl.

Luckily, there was a full moon tonight, so Tee-Jolie could see where she was going. Unfortunately, so could the person following her.

The running footsteps were getting closer. They were heavy, not a woman’s, she knew from her racing days. Tee Jolie picked up the pace. She was glad she hadn’t dropped out of that Pump-It-Up class a few months ago. The hard workouts had been paying off. She’d always enjoyed running and had completed a marathon when she was in college. But she’d kept running, using the solitary times to think and dream.

Tee Jolie knew she couldn’t keep running much longer. She needed to hide somewhere, but this isolated street didn’t offer much refuge.

There was a sign up ahead. What was on it? Dead End? She wondered briefly if she should take it. If it was a dead end, maybe she could find a better place to hide. In the movies, there was always a dumpster or trash cans along the dead-end street.

Tee Jolie made the decision and made a hard right down the street. About 20 feet in, she stopped dead in her tracks and listened. She could still hear the footsteps, but they were slower. Whoever was chasing her wasn’t in as good a shape as she was.

She pictured whoever it was taking in deep breaths, holding their side as the stitch started setting in because they weren’t used to taking deep breaths.

“I got you now, you creep,” Tee Jolie thought, and silently thanked her aerobics teacher for pushing her. She looked down the street, an alley really, and noticed it wasn’t a dead end. There was a faint light at the end, maybe from a partially opened door. She’d rather be in a building instead of out in the open.

“Be quiet, girl,” Tee Jolie thought. The street was dry, unusual for Savannah which had more than its share of spring showers. She quietly moved down the street toward the light.

That’s when she heard the footsteps stop. She froze in place, looking at the light. She thought she could reach that door in half a minute, but was she far enough away from the entrance to beat whoever was following her?

She took off running as fast as she could when she heard the footsteps start again behind her. Tee Jolie got closer to the light and saw it was a door. Just as she reached the door, it suddenly slammed shut. Tee Jolie froze in place, but the footsteps kept coming closer.

She looked around, desperately looking for a way to defend herself. She’d been so scared she hadn’t taken notice of what was around her. Tee-Jolie had to find something in this alley she could use as a weapon.

She saw some empty soft-drink cans and crumpled fast-food wrappers. Then she spotted a glass beer bottle. Tee Jolie rushed over and picked up the bottle by its long neck just as she felt a presence behind her. She hit the end of the bottle on the street, leaving a sharp end, and then turned to face whoever or whatever was coming down the dead-end street that, she laughed to herself, wasn’t really a dead-end. Would that be the metaphor for her life? Tee-Jolie Broussard had escaped the hell hole she’d grown up in and an abusive husband. Would her life really end up a dead end?

Tee-Jolie held the bottle with the jagged end facing whoever was coming down that alley. The rasping voice wasn’t loud, but she knew that voice. She’d heard it for two years and then, the last six months, in her nightmares.

“Once something’s mine, it’s mine,” the voice two feet away from her said.

“How did you find me,” she asked her ex-husband, her voice a little shaky.

He was still trying to breathe normally, she noticed. She looked closer at him, her eyes readjusting to the moonlight. He didn’t have a weapon – of course he wouldn’t. His hands could inflict plenty of damage.

“This is a dead-end street,” he said between gasps of air. “Just like your life, Tee-Jolie. A dead end.”

That was it. She’d heard enough. She lunged forward and plunged the end of the broken beer bottle into his neck with as much force as she could manage. He shrieked in pain and fell to his knees.

Tee-Jolie backed up, watching the blood ooze from his neck, covering the front of his shirt. His eyes filled with anger then shock then defeat.

He rocked back on his heels, and Tee-Jolie came closer.

“This is a dead end for one of us,” she said quietly. “Guess which one.”

There’s a proverb that it takes a village to raise a child. In the case of helping a young person grow from a Tiger Cub to an Eagle Scout, it takes the determination of the young person, a supportive family and countless caring adults.

I was fortunate to attend an Eagle Scout Court of Honor with Troop 941 in Fulshear. Will and Robbie Stomierowski, Grant Nowotny, Ryan Burdette and Luke Stoddard were being recognized for this achievement.

Having a court of honor for one Scout is something to celebrate. Having five reach this pinnacle from one troop at the same time is an incredible achievement.

Since 1912, only 2% of enrolled Scouts have become Eagles, and the road isn’t easy. Scouts have to serve as a Life Scout for at least six months, demonstrate Scout spirit and leadership within the troop, and earn a minimum of 21 merit badges.

These merit badges aren’t earned in one afternoon. For instance, Scouts spend three months earning a financial planning badge and a personal fitness badge.

The would-be Eagle also has to do camp at least 20 nights with the Scout troop. These hours are from teens who are active in the school band, play sports, take AP classes, and have after-school jobs.

Their final step is completing an Eagle Scout project. The Scouts have to raise the money for the project, round up others to help and then complete the work. The projects these five undertook are benefitting this county every day.

Will built a bird sanctuary at a local park, and Luke created a fully outfitted campsite at Long Point Ranch. Grant restored a historic bell that was previously in the belfry at Fulshear United Methodist Church. He also built a seating area for the cross.

The new Daily Park in Simonton received two Eagle projects. Robbie built three benches at the park around the lake and Ryan built and installed Barred Owl houses.

Looking at those boys at the front of the room, I imagined all the people standing behind them, the wind beneath their wings, to coin a cliché.

There’s Darren McCarthy, Parks and Recreation Director for Fort Bend County, who found numerous Eagle Scout projects that would not only help the Scouts achieve their goal but also benefit the community for free.

Fort Bend County Commissioner Vincent Morales Jr. made time to talk with each Scout before signing off on the paperwork.

There’s Hannah Muegge, director of charitable activities at the James B. Harrison Foundation’s Long Point Ranch. They’ve encouraged these Scouts to enrich our area with their Eagle projects. All three were at the Eagle Court of Honor, further giving their support.

There’s the neighbors and friends who lent their expertise in everything from wood working to engineering. There’s Scout leaders who show up every week, on campouts and on Sunday afternoons to keep the Scouts on the right track.

I’ll give my husband Rick a pat on the back as he serves as a coach for the troop. Each new Eagle Scout honored him with a mentor pin as he helped them chart and complete the steps to Eagle.

I’m happy girls are now allowed into the Scouting program, and even prouder our 9-year-old granddaughter joined Scouts. She wanted to become an Eagle Scout, and I know she’ll achieve her goal.

When she’s standing in front of her fellow scouts, her grandfather tying her blue Eagle neckerchief around her collar, I’ll not only see her but the dozens of people behind her who helped her achieve her goal.

It’s all about the village helping rear the child.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

 

 

 

 

Did I miss something?

Did I blink my eyes and Thanksgiving came and went without my noticing?

I ask these questions because the store shelves are filled with Christmas decorations and gifts. The fall and Thanksgiving decorations are already 50 percent off, and it’s two weeks before turkey day.

We sure are in a hurry.

I understand that feeling as I’ve always been in a hurry. I was that kid who, a week before Christmas Eve, carefully and stealthily unwrapped and rewrapped every present under the tree.

The thoughts “hurry up and grow up” went through my mind a lot. Whenever I’d ride in the front seat of my mom’s car, I’d sit up as tall as I could so other people would think I was a grown up.

My 15^th birthday couldn’t come fast enough because I could get my drivers license. I was the first one in line that day and the happiest person walking out of the DMV office, license in hand.

I couldn’t’ wait to be 18 because I could vote. I remember the grown-up feeling I had standing in the voting booth in Louisiana as the heavy curtains closed behind me. The feeling was even sweeter as it was a presidential election year.

I couldn’t wait to have children and then I couldn’t wait for them to grow up enough to have a conversation with me. I couldn’t wait for them to go off to college and now I have a hard time waiting until the next time I can see them.

I looked forward to turning 55 because most restaurants and stores offered a senior discount. No shame on my part in asking for the reduced rate either.

But the big discounts were still 10 years down the road. Instead of wishing I was old enough for that discount, I should’ve enjoyed having knees that didn’t ache every time I stand up.

When Covid hit, we were in even more of a hurry. We wanted a vaccine, stores to reopen and to go to concerts. We couldn’t wait until we were able to attend a live football or basketball game.

I remember thinking when life opens back up, I’m going to savor every single moment of being with others.

At the beginning of the lifting of restrictions, I did just that. We lingered with friends, made more trips to see family and didn’t mind standing in line talking to a stranger. We’d longed for human companionship and we finally got it.

But it seems we’re back to being in a hurry again, especially where holidays are concerned.

In the middle of June, it was get out of the way, Fourth of July, because Halloween is coming. As soon as the noise of the fireworks died down, store personnel were setting out candy for Halloween.

Halloween night, they were hauling all the plastic skeletons out of the store because Christmas was coming.

Forget Thanksgiving. The countdown has already begun to Christmas and, if I look hard enough, someone somewhere is counting down the days until New Year’s Eve.

We’re missing so much because we’re in a hurry to get to the next event, the next holiday, the next milestone.

I’m going to give thanks every day until Thanksgiving and celebrate all the days in December instead of wishing it was Christmas morning.

Because the day comes and is over, just like every single one before it. All those days we missed what was right in front of us because we were so busy looking ahead.

Not this year.

This old soul has learned the meaning of the word “savor.” That’s exactly what I intend to do.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

Recently, my grandson asked if we had any party favors for his upcoming birthday celebration. I told him to look in a cabinet in the hall. That’s my catch-all place for things that don’t have a home anywhere else.

A few minutes later, he came running back into the kitchen, claiming he’d found all kinds of treasures.

“Show me what you found,” I said smiling.

He held up a plastic bag with three jumbo packages of straws in it.

“Why do you have so many straws?” he asked.

“Well you never know when you might need a straw,” I replied. “Maybe they were on sale and that’s why I bought so many.”

Then he held up a bag filled with empty grocery-store plastic bags.

“Why are you keeping all these plastic bags?” he asked.

“You never know,” I told him. “I might need a bag to put your muddy shoes in it or I might want to put all the mismatched socks in one of those bags.”

“But so many?” he said.

I hung my head in embarrassment. It was time to ‘fess up.

The real reason for the plastic bags was I’d heard stores were going to stop making plastic bags. Shoppers would have to bring their own bags in a move to save money. I wanted to have some in case that prediction became a reality.

A plastic bag stuffed with other plastic bags might’ve been a bit overkill.

The real reason I had all those plastic straws was because I’d heard a doomsday report about plastic straws being phased out. We’d have to use metal straws – how to sanitize those will never be clear to me – or paper ones that fall apart after one sip.

So I stocked up.

Shortage reports always get me and I fall for them every single time. This phobia started when I was a teenager.

I heard a news report that there was going to be a trucker strike and 18-wheelers wouldn’t be rolling across the United States.

There would be shortages in canned foods and household goods. But the only thing I heard was there was going to be a toilet paper shortage.

I begged my mother to stock up on the Charmin. There were seven children in our house. Just thinking about running out of toilet paper was a nightmare scenario.

When she brushed off my panic, I took matters into my own hands. I saved my money and bought a few rolls to keep in my closet.

But the trucker strike didn’t happen and everything was fine. My dad, however, thought my irrational fear about the toilet paper was hysterical. So for Christmas, he gave me a four-roll package of toilet paper.

Whenever there’s a gasoline shortage, or just the threat of one, I immediately fill up my car and never let the tank get below three quarters of a tank. I start looking for a gas station when the tank is half full.

Paranoid? Maybe. But I won’t be the one running on fumes when the gas shortage does happen.

A couple of years ago, I heard there was going to be a shortage of chocolate close to Halloween. I think there’s still a few Hershey’s candy bars somewhere in that closet along with the drinking straws and plastic bags.

There are times I didn’t panic.

I did not stock up on toilet paper during Covid.

I also did not hoard hand sanitizer.

I didn’t stockpile bottled water this summer because I heard Sprite was going to stop making the green cans, so I bought a few cases of those.

You never know – those cans could be worth money someday.

So could those straws and plastic bags.

Who’s laughing now?

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

When I was young, I thought a monster lived in my closet and an alligator lived under my bed.

At night, I’d stand in the door, take a deep breath and run to the bed, making the last step in one giant leap.

All I could imagine was a hungry gator lurking underneath my bed, jaws open, ready to snag my foot if it hung out over the mattress. An arm would be just as tasty, I’d think, so all arms, legs and feet had to be tucked inside the sheet before I could go to sleep.

I outgrew that fear, but there’s no shortage of things to be afraid of these days, especially as an adult.

A new one for me is the fear of microplastic particles. These are small pieces of plastic we eat without knowing it.

These particles can be found in seafood, the air and in drinking water. If you heat your food in plastic in the microwave, they claim you can accidentally ingest microplastics. They say they’re not dangerous, but the seed of fear has already been planted.

This latest news announcement adds to the other claims of doom, destruction and catastrophes we hear about almost every day.

Some of these are real – Covid showed us we needed to pay attention to germs and wash our hands. Flu season sidelines most of us from time to time, and hurricanes and tornadoes are nothing to ignore.

My car beeps if I’m too close to the center line, the side line or any line. It beeps if someone is walking behind my car or another vehicle is behind me.

While I appreciate these warnings, some fears have been blown up to boost TV ratings and get people to click on their internet articles.

Shark attacks are one of these hyped-up fears.

Sharks have always been in the waters. After all, they date back to the prehistoric times. But if you listen to news stories, sharks are trolling the shores every minute of every day, their teeth ready to rip your legs from your body.

There’s a murderer on every street corner. Thieves are lined up at mall parking lots to follow you home so they can rob you in your driveway. Every rain storm could potentially become a named storm and destroy everything in its path.

Many of us have a fear of bugs, spiders and other crawly things.

Those aren’t just bees in your yard – they’re killer bees.

Those wooly caterpillars you see are a step away from the Monster from the Black Lagoon.

Any snake is a deadly one.

Okay, that one might be true.

There are the big real dangers out there – being in an automobile accident, a plane crash or even falling in your home when you went to reach for that bottle of ketchup on the top shelf of the pantry.

Yet I was able to move past all these dangers when I came across an article that reading fiction books is dangerous. Yes, reading – sitting in a chair with a Kindle or book in front of you is dangerous.

Books can trigger emotional problems, like a book about a cheating spouse can cause someone who’s been cheated on to head down a spiral.

I’ll admit that reading a Stephen King novel about a rabid dog, vampires or serial killers gives me the heebie jeebies, but in a good way.

Reading isn’t unsafe unless one considers opening the brain to new thoughts dangerous.

As in most things, a lot of these fears are groundless.

There’s no alligator under my bed. Not enough water and not enough room.

There’s no monster in my closet. She wouldn’t have enough room because of all the boxes and shoes I’ve got shoved in there.

Our dog is an excellent snake hunter, so I don’t have to worry about a snake sneaking up on me.

But just in case, I will keep my eyes peeled for anything slithering near my back door.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Twenty-five years ago, Thursday, Oct. 2, 1997 to be exact, this newspaper published my first column.

It began with “I’m somebody’s daughter, somebody’s sister, somebody’s mother.” Those descriptions haven’t changed.

Devoni Wardlow had the Thursday space, but she was moving on to a new chapter in her life. She encouraged me to apply for the job, and I submitted three columns. Managing editor Bob Haenel said I had the job.

The first few weeks were spent finding my groove. I wrote about my oldest son giving advice to his younger brother at his first dance – always act cool, keep asking girls to dance and have confidence.

For years, I wrote about the letters to Santa we published each December. I still remember the strangest advice a young girl gave to St. Nick – “Don’t drink the milk. I spit in it.”

The people I crossed paths with often made it into my column – Kit who worked in his family restaurant in West Virginia and mesmerized our sons with stories of the mountains. Rosie who has cut my hair for 30 years and would never use Aqua Net on my hair despite my writing she did.

Because I’m the biggest klutz around, I wrote about my missteps, embarrassing moments and cringe-worthy incidents. There was no shortage of those.

My youngest sons were in elementary school when I started, and my eldest was in junior high. Those boys provided me with more examples of failed motherhood than I could’ve possibly hoped for.

There were times when I didn’t think I had anything to say, and many of you would probably agree I should’ve taken a sabbatical that week. But I am proud to say I never missed occupying this space for the past quarter century.

I wouldn’t have that opportunity if it wasn’t for the owners and editors of Hartman Newspapers, and I thank you for sticking with me all these years. My husband and family faithfully read what I write and know when the computer keys are clacking, mom’s working.

I owe a huge debt of gratitude to former editor Bob Haenel. He pulled me out of the pit of despair more than once and believed in me when I didn’t. We all have heroes in our lives – Bob is mine.

I’m not well versed in politics, so I leave those column inches to those who are smarter than I am. My goal has always been to connect with other people, and humor is my favorite entry point.

But my favorite columns ae about the people in this community.

Because of them, I always have a feeling of sincere gratitude. The people who’ve overcome incredible obstacles keep me going. Whenever I want to give up, I think of how they didn’t stop.

Neither should I.

Their voices and stories play in my head all the time, and I’m thankful they allowed me to write about them. Trusting someone to tell your story correctly takes courage.

Mostly, I owe you, the reader, for taking time to read what I’ve written. Without you, there would be no reason to type out these words.

You’ve been with me as I did my best to take three boys from rambunctious toddlers to capable, grown men.

You’ve been with me as I navigated the waters of becoming a grandmother, teacher, and now retiree. The time has flown, but I’m so glad I had you as company along this fun and unpredictable ride called life.

I’m still somebody’s daughter, somebody’s sister and somebody’s mother. I’m also somebody’s wife, grandmother, aunt, cousin, friend, neighbor, and co-worker.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

There’s a new library being built out in Fulshear. I see the construction as I pass by the site, and I know it’s going to be quite grand.

I’ll miss our small little library where we know the librarians by name, they know our children, and the perfect book is never more than 25 feet away.

Libraries hold a special fascination for me. Not big, impressive buildings, but the cozy places, the one-room libraries. They’re slowly being replaced by bigger, sleeker and more modern libraries.

They have their appeal for sure, but my childhood memories of the library were created years ago. It’s what I picture when I think about the perfect place to curl up with a book.

The main library in my hometown was built in 1909, and I rode my bike there at least once a week, my yellow cardboard library card with the metal plate in the middle tucked in my pocket.

The only area I was allowed to visit was a small section on the first floor, but that didn’t matter. All the treasures I wanted were there.

When we moved to Louisiana, the Baker Public Library was a small, two-story building with the library on the first floor and meeting rooms on the second.

I felt important because I knew the Dewey Decimal System and how to look up books and magazine articles.

The librarian was an elderly lady, just like the stereotype one sees in movies. She had silver hair and reading glasses that hung around her neck, suspended by a silver chain.

I thought she lived at the library because, if given the choice, I’d probably choose the same.

In high school, I remember sitting at a library desk, an encyclopedia open in front of me, while I painstakingly copied down information for a book report.

All of us were careful to give the correct attribution because to not state where you got your information would result in a failing grade.

Two things I love about libraries are how they smell and sound. There’s a musty smell mixed with printer’s ink, glue that binds the books together, and the rich smell of the wooden shelves.

Today’s modern libraries have electronic books and metal shelves. They might be cheaper, but they don’t have the same feel of a bound book or the smell from the dozens of wooden shelves in the library.

Footsteps often echoed in the library because there wasn’t any carpet, just linoleum. I remember hearing the librarian’s thump, thump as she’d stamp books being checked out.

There was a card in the back of the books. She’d take out the card, stamp it and the card glued to the inside back cover of the book so you’d know the due date.

If the book came from the adult section – we all tried sneaking those in with our Hardy boys’ books – the librarian would pull it out, cluck her tongue and the book was returned to the adult part of the library.

Most times, she’d recommend books for us to read, based on what we were checking out. That’s how I discovered mystery writers like Phyllis Whitney and, as a teen, the master of all storytelling Stephen King.

Books that aren’t checked out for a while are often sold to help generate funds for the library. I’ve picked up quite a few gems over the years, and I always wonder how a particularly well-written book could go unnoticed for so long.

Then I smile, feeling like a pirate who discovered a long-lost treasure.

Whenever we go on vacation, I always find the town’s library and stop in. Most have a “Friends of the Library” sale, and I can usually pick up a paperback novel or magazine to read.

There’s no stopping progress, and I’ll be a frequent visitor when this new library is open for business. Until then, I’ll be content with the coziness of our neighborhood library.

If you haven’t visited yours lately, stop in. Browse the bookshelves, ask a librarian for a recommendation and see if there’s a book sale going on.

You never know what treasures you might find.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

In my hometown, schools were named after a saint or a city. Here in Texas, schools are named after people who’ve positively contributed to the educational system.

The history behind the names of some of the older schools in our area is a rich and diverse one. Some are named for those who enhanced the community outside a classroom.

One is named after Taylor Ray who was instrumental in establishing a school district in the late 1800s.

Manford Williams was determined to improve education when he saw the system needed assistance. He helped form the Lamar CISD and served for 26 years on the school board.

Campbell Elementary was the first school named after an educator, Bess Campbell. People still talk about the positive influence she had on their lives.

Cora Thomas was born and reared in Fort Bend County and taught for 38 years. Irma Dru Hutchison helped open Lamar Consolidated High School and taught for over 30 years.

I feel honored to have met some of the people who have schools named after them. Adolphus Elementary is named in honor of the late judge Jim Adolphus who was always a supporter of the educational system.

Culver Elementary is named after another judge, Thomas Culver, who supported the law, education and his family. I took a group of Cub Scouts to visit his classroom one afternoon, and he called out a friendly greeting to me and the Scouts from the bench.

Lindsay Elementary is named after the late Kathleen Lindsay. Although she wasn’t an educator, she was a pioneer in all aspects. She was one of only three women in her graduating class from the University of Texas’ law school in 1939.

She helped open Richmond State School and was instrumental in starting the Fort Bend County Library system, an idea of the Share-a-Book Club. They started with a bookmobile, and now there are 12 branches celebrating the system’s 75^th birthday.

In life, Mrs. Lindsay was the definition of grace and culture, and spending time with her was always a pleasure.

Such is the case with one of the newest elementary schools in Lamar CISD, Phelan Elementary.

Maxine Phelan is an educator who taught at Lamar CHS for many years. When I first came to this area, I was told she, Mike Cooper and Richard McDaniel were the epitome of excellence. Having met Mike and Maxine, those accolades are well deserved.

Maxine and I have become friends, and I know first-hand why her former students and colleagues respect and admire her.

The first few years of teaching were rough for me, but Maxine constantly told me to stay the course and showed me how to reach students in a positive way. That encouraging nature is evident in every aspect of her life, from school to church to family.

She is generous and kindhearted yet she knows when it’s time to get tough. Teachers not only have to teach the curriculum, but they’re often a coach, counselor or referee.

They’re supposed to have all the answers for parents, the community and their administrators.

That’s an almost impossible request because they’re dealing with human beings. Little ones who cry, laugh, act out and bring all their emotions with them to a safe place – a teacher’s classroom.

The positive impact teachers have on a student, a school and a community lasts a lifetime.

Just ask any student who was fortunate enough to have a seat in Ms. Phelan’s classroom.

To all the Knights at Phelan Elementary, know the original knight in shining armor is about 5 feet tall, has a razor-sharp mind and a generous heart.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.