In the movie “Field of Dreams,” one of the repeating lines is – “If you build it, they will come.” Here in Fort Bend County, the field has been built and, no doubt, they will come.

Over 70 acres of beautiful acreage was donated to Fort Bend County by Simonton native Dr. Harold Daily back in the mid-2000s.

The donation was particularly generous, especially as Fort Bend County was changing from rural to suburban. Thousands of homes are on the drawing board along with shopping centers and restaurants, and prices for land are soaring.

But Dr. Daily envisioned something different for his family’s land. He wanted a nature preserve with a playground and sports areas, particularly baseball fields, for children and families to enjoy.

Darren McCarthy is the Parks and Recreation Director for Fort Bend County. He’d previously overseen the Rosenberg parks system, but he saw the potential at Daily Park and wanted to be part of the experience.

He hasn’t been disappointed. The site has transformed and there’s more to come.

On site is a covered pavilion, complete with restrooms, picnic tables and barbecue stands. Open fields are perfect for kite flying, flag football games, soccer or baseball games.

Volunteers have donated time to developing the park. My husband, Rick Adams, is an active mentor for Boy Scouts looking for projects to complete their Eagle badge.

McCarthy said the Scouts have been instrumental in making improvements, thanks to Rick’s leadership.

These young men have added benches around the lake area and a walking trail through the woods near the lake. Future Scout plans include building a bluebird trail to attract songbirds to the area.

Master Naturalists are also on board to help with future educational projects, and plans are for a community center to be built on the property.

In keeping with Dr. Daily’s wishes, it was fitting that the official opening of the Abe and Lizzie Daily Park, named after Dr. Daily’s parents, took place with a friendly baseball game.

McCarthy said Dr. Daily wanted to see a ballgame at the park, and volunteers and county employees worked tirelessly to make his dream come true.

Tents were set up, youngsters were invited to play ball and officials were on hand under a hot Texas sky.

Throwing out the first pitch at the Inaugural Ballgame, presented by the Fulshear/Katy Area Chamber of Commerce, was Dr. Daily. McCarthy said the 95-year-old delivered Precinct 1 Constable Chad Norvell a solid pitch over home plate.

McCarthy said the park is a peaceful, natural oasis. The sounds of congested freeways and leaf blowers are a distant memory out here. Visitors can often spot a bald eagle overhead, and sunrises are spectacular.

Dr. Daily has a dream of having an all-abilities playground at the park, and McCarthy said he can’t wait to build this playground.

There will be at least three soccer/football fields and at least three baseball fields on the site. Forty acres of donated land are close to the Brazos River, and this area will remain undeveloped as a nature preserve.

Once the rains return to the area, McCarthy envisions a tranquil body of water where people can fish and relax under the shade trees that encircle the lake.

This beautiful nature area is possible because Dr. Harold Daily unselfishly donated family land to the people of Fort Bend County.

His dream was so people could step away from the hustle and bustle of life and enjoy the simple pleasures – an afternoon flying kites, walking the nature trails or leisurely looking at trees, butterflies, flowers and shy lizards.

Because of you, Dr. Daily, they surely will come. Thank you for your generous donation to generations of people in Fort Bend County.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.   

Some people like modern homes – grey cabinets and white walls, sleek furniture and little to no knick-knacks on the floating black shelves. Others prefer a beach-style home with turquoise, orange and yellow furnishings.

Others, like me, are what I’d describe as clutter decorators. Picture throw pillows, rugs, pictures on coffee tables, knitted blankets draped on the backs of overstuffed couches and walls painted in warm shades.

Clutter is comforting to me. I’m surrounded by “stuff.” Nothing’s expensive. In fact, most of the items wouldn’t fetch more than two bucks at a garage sale.

But they mean something to me and remind me of a special time or of the special people in my life.

There’s small frames containing pictures of my sons, my mom, sisters, nieces and nephews and small gifts from friends and family. I look at each one and remember when they gave them to me, and that memory makes me smile.

There’s a small photo of my dad with his three daughters, taken just months before he passed away. Although I think of my dad often, that picture reminds me how much he loved his girls.

Bookshelves hold my favorite books – most of the Stephen King novels, novels signed by James Lee Burke and a few precious books written by Pat Conroy.

I’ll actually take one off the shelf and re-read passages from time to time. Those books are familiar friends that keep me company on rainy nights.

My desk is an organized study in chaos. Notebooks are stacked next to each other and there’s quite a few because each one is for something different. One for trip ideas, one for my many failed diets and one filled with self-loathing entries.

There’s Post-It notes on every shelf – passwords and phone numbers I want to keep handy – and a special saying my brother wrote – “Don’t forget the sun is shining just because you’re in a tunnel at the moment.”

I’m also a self-admitted pen-a-holic. I have a variety of great pens in coffee cups and holders around my desk. There’s also a wicker box with scratch paper for quick notes I write to myself.

In our house, I’m the only clutter kook. I looked at the nightstands in our bedroom, and my husband’s has a lamp and two small books on it. They aren’t there for show – they hold down his phone cord so it doesn’t slip behind the furniture.

My nightstand has a Kindle, six paperbacks I’ve promised myself I’ll read, a back scratcher, a clock radio, lamp and an extra pair of reading glasses.

Instead of apologizing for the clutter, I’m going to embrace it and hope my way catches on as a new trend.

No longer should we clutterers apologize for the stacks of blankets in the corner or a curio cabinet filled with Precious Moments figurines.

We’ll no longer apologize for our rock collection – mine is in the family room – or bowls of Mardi Gras beads we snagged at a parade. We clutter because the clutter gives us joy.

I can hear people clucking their tongue and see them waving their finger at me – shameless, materialistic me. There’s actually a 12-step group, “Clutterers Anonymous.” But we’re not hoarders – those people need serious mental therapy – we simply like having familiar things around us.

In reality, we’re carrying out a positive service to the world.

We keep the landfills clear because all this stuff is in our houses, not the trash.

We help the economy. We’re the reason manufacturers make tiny spoons from every state, keychains with people’s names and cowboy salt-and-pepper shakers.

Cotton manufacturers love us because one can never have too many holiday throw pillows or shirts proclaiming “Mom and dad went on vacation and all I got was this shirt.”

For antique dealers, we are their bread and butter. Not only do we furnish them with things to sell, we buy most of that stuff back.

It’s time to accept a new mantra – Accept the Clutter.

Maybe I can get a pillow with that embroidered on it. It’ll fit right in with the other five pillows on that chair in the living room.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

I was cruising along Interstate 10 through Louisiana, headed home after spending a few days helping move our mom to a new place.

Tired but happy we’d accomplished so much, I didn’t think much when I came up on stopped traffic a few miles short of the Texas border.

Traffic on I-10 is always heavy, plus there was ongoing road construction. I wasn’t too worried. I had just finished lunch and was listening to my brother’s podcast. Probably they were moving trucks from one side of the interstate to the other, I thought.

After about 20 minutes of not moving, I checked online to see what was happening.

Google Maps showed an accident ahead. Not a big deal, I thought. Make sure everyone’s okay, clear the wreck off the road, and we’d be on our way.

I turned off the car and picked up a paperback book I keep in the car for emergencies.

An hour later, we were still stopped.

I tossed the book in the back seat and walked around the car to stretch my legs. I propped open my door, opened an audiobook and listened to that for a while.

Then I checked my phone for traffic updates but didn’t find anything new. Frustrated, I chunked the phone in the passenger seat, feeling my anger building.

Two hours later, we were still stopped. A man walked past on the shoulder of the road and I asked if he knew anything.

He’d heard two 18-wheelers had collided, and they were having trouble clearing the road because other cars were involved.

He also said the backup was 13 miles long.

My heart sank. We were trapped. There were concrete barriers on both sides of the interstate and no nearby exit.

Traffic is often frustrating. Besides traffic jams, there’s a variety of scenarios on the road where you want to take a baseball bat and bash in someone else’s taillights.

Like when you’re stuck in traffic next to someone blaring their sound system so loud, your teeth rattle.

Then there’s the person who tailgates your vehicle, believing they can bully you into moving faster.

It’s extra frustrating, as a friend posted to my Facebook page, when you’re stopped in traffic and when things start to move, there doesn’t seem to be any reason for why everything came to a complete halt.

Or when people finally get to the reason the traffic is stopped, they rubberneck, adding even more slowdowns.

At one point, the traffic started to move, but we went 10 feet and then came to a full stop again. It was like the traffic gods were dangling a candy bar in front of us and then yanked it away.

Frustrated doesn’t come close to describing how I felt at that point.

I was looking at the cars racing along on the opposite side of the road, seething inside because every one of them knew why we were stopped but they couldn’t tell us.

When people started moving – three and a half hours later – nobody touched their brakes until Beaumont where, oh happy day, there was another wreck that blocked all but one lane of traffic.

People zoomed past that wreck and the police cars without a backward glance.

I made it home as the sun was setting, 10 hours after starting what is normally a six-hour trip.

Then I found out my sister caught an early afternoon flight in Baton Rouge and was back home in Virginia before I’d made it to Houston.

Patience is a virtue, my mom keeps saying. All I know is the next time I drive to Baton Rouge, I’ll take my chances on the back roads.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

One of these days…

Yep, one of these days…

One of these days, I’m going to clean the dust off the top of the refrigerator.

I’m short so if I can’t see the dirt, it doesn’t exist.

That means the following areas are never dirty or dusty – the top of the fridge, the artificial greenery over the cabinets in the kitchen and the tops of picture frames. But they still get dirty and I know I need to clean them.

Sigh. One of these days.

One of these days, I’m going to learn how to bake bread.

I’ve been watching “The Great British Baking Show,” and these people not only know how to bake a loaf of bread, they whip up bakery goods I can barely pronounce. In a few hours, they create cardamom buns, focaccia, korovai and challah.

I think I want to bake bread, but when I see these people break out in a sweat from kneading sticky dough, I change my mind. Still, spending $10 on ingredients to get a $2 loaf of bread does call my name from time to time.

One of these days, I’m going to actually follow a healthy eating plan. I know what that plan looks like – low-fat food, lots of green, leafy vegetables, gallons of water and lean meats.

This healthy eating plan does not include french fries, cheeseburgers, chips, chocolate or crawfish etouffee. It also doesn’t include late-night snacks, the rest of the bag of Cadbury eggs from Easter or peanut butter on a spoon.

Healthy eating won’t happen as long as I’m watching that baking show with its chocolate cakes, puddings, scones and pies.

One of these days, I’m going to get my passport renewed. During the covid lockdown, I cleaned out the firebox in my office. Inside was my passport – only two stamps in there – but I noticed it had expired.

I read what one has to do to get a passport renewed, and, as expected, it’s a complicated process requiring all kinds of documents. For instance, my original birth certificate. I’m retired – like I know where my birth certificate is located. But one of these days, I’ll get over to the courthouse and renew my passport.

Because… one of these days… I want to travel outside the United States. I find myself daydreaming about visiting Switzerland like my good friend Patsy or seeing the sights in London like my friend Devoni.

All I have to do is get my new passport and then part with the money so I can hop on a jet to places unexplored.

One of these days, I’m going to visit the museums in Houston. I’ve visited the ones around here, and they’re fabulous.

But we live next to one of the largest and most diverse cities in the United States, a place that offers irreplaceable paintings, eons-old fossils and priceless gems.

There’s a museum that’ll take me back to the prehistoric days, one that showcases the atrocities of the Holocaust and one with funky cars painted in every color under the sun.

One of these days, I’ll drive to Austin and stand in the line at Franklin Barbecue. I’ll remember to bring a lawn chair and sunscreen and see why people are gushing about the restaurant’s barbecue brisket.

I love the barbecue eateries in our area, but to say I’ve been to Franklin Barbecue would give me some bragging rights among the pit masters.

Yep, one of these days I’ll hop in my car at five in the morning and go stand in that long line. Right after I get my passport renewed and clean the dust off the top of the dresser in our bedroom.

One of these days, I’ll quit daydreaming about what I want to experience, see, visit, and get with savoring the rich adventures waiting just around the bend.

Maybe that day is today.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Some movies are instantly recognizable with just one line – “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give…” “You’re gonna need a bigger boat…” or “Every time a bell rings, an angel gets his wings.”

Movies have given us quotable lines since talkies were invented. Those lines include “I’m gonna make him an offer he can’t refuse” from the original Godfather movie and, a personal favorite, “You’re killin’ me Smalls” from “The Sandlot.”

“The Wizard at Oz” has quite a few memorable lines, including “Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore,” and “There’s no place like home.”

The “Back to the Future” movies have dozens of great lines. My favorite back-and-forth comes from the first movie.

When Marty lands in 1955, Doc Brown is doubting the teenager came from the future.

Doc Brown:  “If you’re from the future, who’s the president of the United States.”

Marty:  “Ronald Reagan.”

Doc Brown:  “The actor? Who’s secretary of the treasury? Jack Benny?”

I was in a crowded movie theater, and the entire place laughed so loud, I almost couldn’t hear the next two minutes of the movie.

Some of my favorite lines come from the 1989 movie “Steel Magnolias. I’ve dropped the line “I love you more than my luggage” a few times in my life.

When I want a deep insult, this line runs through my head: “The nicest thing I can say about her is all her tattoos were spelled correctly.”

“O Brother Where Art Thou” is an Hebert family favorite. When the situation required it, which happens a lot more than I ever thought possible, I’ve muttered “You guys are dumber than a bag of hammers.”

I’d almost forgotten about a movie that has some of the best quotable lines of the past 50 years – the original “Ghostbusters.”

Written by Dan Akroyd and Harold Ramis, the creative screenplay is filled with snappy dialogue delivered by some of the best comics of the 1980s.

Bill Murray, Dan Akroyd, Ernie Hudson, Annie Potts, and Harold Ramis are perfect together. They serve up lines and someone else serves it back to score the point.

It’s easy to miss some of the funnier lines, something I realized when I watched “Ghostbusters” a week ago. I found myself laughing out loud, so I started writing down some of my favorite lines.

Here’s my top five:

“Back off, man, I’m a scientist.”

“We better split up. Yeah, we can do more damage that way.”

“You don’t act like a scientist. You’re more like a game-show host.”

“This is a sign all right. It’s a sign we’re going out of business.”

“I’ve worked in the private sector. They expect results.”

One of the best scenes comes when the ghosts have been let loose, thanks to an obnoxious EPA representative. The mayor of New York isn’t sure if he should listen to the Ghostbusters, who have a solution, or listen to the EPA guy who wants to throw them in jail.

Venkman, played by Bill Murray, tells the mayor “If I’m right, you will have saved the lives of millions of registered voters.”

The Ghostbusters got the green light.

My all-time favorite line from “Ghostbusters” comes toward the end of the movie.

After almost getting killed by the big bad Gozer, Winston, still gasping for breath, says, “Ray, if someone asks you if you’re a god, you say yes.”

The line I’ve used the most from any movie is delivered by Michael “Squints” Palledorous in “The Sandlot.”

He’s waiting for Benny to finish giving instructions to the new kid, Smalls, who hasn’t a clue about baseball.

When “The Jet” finally throws the ball, Squints can’t help but yell “It’s about time Benny. My clothes are going out of style.”

So the next time you’re in the market for a good laugh, you know who you’re gonna call.

Yep. Ghostbusters.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

We sat in the folding chairs in the cafeteria, waiting for the play to begin. Our granddaughter’s junior high had been practicing for months on their musical “Beauty and the Beast Junior.” We’d been hearing about the ups and downs of rehearsals, but there was always an excitement in her voice about the production.

And then it was opening night.

Little girls dressed in Belle costumes. Fidgety toddlers climbed in and out of laps up and down the row, and no one minded a bit.

White-haired grandparents waited excitedly for the lights to come up, and some brothers and sisters idly played on their phones, obviously dragged along by their parents to see sister or brother perform.

The lights dimmed and three young teens came onto the stage. The costumes were made by the students, with help from some parents, and the sets were also designed, painted and constructed by the students.

Nothing looked second-rate or hand-made. These young thespians took us on a journey with Belle and the Beast, their energy infectious. People laughed at the right times, clapped at the right times and, I’ll admit, we all teared up at the right times.

These teens immersed themselves in their roles and captured our hearts along the way.

We owe a debt to fine arts teachers who see the potential in our children. Our family can never repay retired theatre teacher Wanda Harrell. She coaxed a winning performance from two of our sons.

I will never forget sitting in the audience at Garcia Middle School and literally pulling back in awe when our middle son strode across the stage as Daddy Warbucks.

We had no clue he liked acting and no idea he could sing that well.

I attended every performance and cried through the entire last one. Those were tears of joy that my son had found something he liked and tears of gratitude for the teacher who nurtured our son to shine on the stage.

She did so with our youngest son as well and turned his buck-the-system personality into Harry McAfee, a conservative, jacket-wearing father. I saw every one of his performances and cried through the entire last one, just as I had for his brother.

There’s so much pressure on teachers and students to do well on standardized tests.

Achieve a 100 on math tests, make sure they’re in advanced classes and apply for college early and often.

We forget that kids need more than numbers on a test report.

They should learn to work with their hands to create art, sculptures and rocking chairs.

They benefit when they learn how to sing with their peers or play an instrument.

Their lives are enriched when they know how to bake, speak a different language or work behind the scenes for a theatrical performance.

They can learn to watch the cues and quietly change a stage from a forest to a castle in the dark and in minutes. Many will find they love creating a costume or transforming someone’s face from a person to a candle stick.

Scoring a 100 on a test is satisfying, but that feeling only lasts until the next test.

Watching an audience jump to their feet and applause with enthusiasm is a feeling that lasts all one’s life.

Fine arts classes nurture confidence, and that nurturing is even more important for those who struggle with academics. Students find success behind the curtain, behind the camera and behind a table saw.

And that’s what education is all about.

Thank you, fine-arts teachers, for giving our young people the opportunity to experience the nuances of life for those are what give us long-lasting satisfaction and joy.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Easter is coming soon and we’re all hoping for a more optimistic Easter than we had last year.

This year, the candy shelves are full, and shoppers can be a little more particular about what treats to pick up for the holidays.

To help save you money and time, here’s my top 10 list of Easter candies ranked from worst to best.

# 10 – Jelly beans. Unless you spend money for the top brand of jelly beans, the inexpensive ones are awful.

The taste stays on your tongue like glue, and the gummy residue sticks to your teeth. Don’t try convincing me that black licorice jelly beans taste good. Or coffee jelly beans. Some flavors need to stay in their original lane.

#9 – Anything nutritious. Sorry, but Easter is the one day when sugar highs should be allowed.

I know the dangers of sugar – some people equate it to heroin – but I’ll take my chances on the sweet train this one day.

#8 – Nestles Crunch. When I was a kid, that red, white and blue wrapper signaled the best candy bar on the shelf.

Not anymore.

There’s too much crunch and not enough milk chocolate. I’ll give them credit for their 1950s commercials where we’re reminded that “N-E-S-T-L-E-S – Nestles makes the very best chocolate.”

#7 – Cadbury Crème Eggs. I know Cadbury is, for many people, the pinnacle of top-notch Easter candy. However, that cream stuff in the middle is the messiest candy around.

If you bite into the egg, the gooey center drips down your chin, making a huge mess. Also, that fondant center is taking up space where there could be chocolate.

#6 – Off-brand chocolate. I’m a bargain shopper and try the off-brands before spending money on name brands. However, chocolate is one item where you get what you pay for. Off-brand chocolate has a waxy texture and taste.

There’s one exception to this rule and that’s the giant chocolate Easter bunny. It doesn’t matter how those taste, Easter baskets aren’t complete unless there’s a Peter Cottontail chocolate bunny in the fake grass. Besides, the only parts we ever ate were the ears.

#5 – Miniature candy bars. Not enough chocolate. When I look down and see there’s a pile of wrappers in front of me, I feel guilty.

In fact, a dozen of those candies probably doesn’t add up to one candy bar, and they still make me feel like I need to go to confession. Still, they’re great when you need a small chocolate fix.

#4 – Peeps. This admission will probably ban me from social media but there’s too much sugar and too much marshmallow. But I accept the unwritten rule that an Easter basket isn’t complete without those yellow Peeps.

#3 – Hershey’s Kisses – Just because they wrap the Kisses in pink and purple foil instead of the standard silver doesn’t make them any more special. Still, we all need those kisses sprinkled in the fake grass.

The downside, if there could be any downside to chocolate, is the holiday wrappers remind you how old those Kisses are when you find them in your robe pocket in July. But you’ll eat them anyway.

#2 – Reese’s Peanut Eggs – these are the same recipe as a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup, which I love. But for some reason, the Easter ones have a little too much peanut butter filling and not enough chocolate. A regular Reese’s Peanut Butter cup has the perfect balance of chocolate and peanut butter. So Reese’s stays at the top of the list.

#1 – Cadbury Mini Eggs – these delicious confections are the Maserati of Easter candy. That hard candy shell protects rich chocolate, and you can either chew them for an instant burst of flavor or let them melt on your tongue to prolong the sweetness.

You can only buy them at Easter, and I know people – me – who buy five or six bags so they can savor them all year long.

So happy egg hunting and Happy Easter! And if you can’t find any Cadbury Mini Eggs on the shelves, you’ll know who’s hoarding them.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

A good friend posted pictures about her fabulous trip to London. They saw the changing of the guard, the Crown Jewels and toured some of the most famous places in England.

Another friend just came back from Switzerland, and she said there is no way to properly describe the majesty of the Swiss Alps. Every shop had exquisite chocolates, and she said the food was wonderful.

My niece constantly scours travel deals and recently returned from trips to Denver and San Antonio. She posted photos of the snowy mountains and scenes from the leisurely boat ride down the Riverwalk.

Me? I took a trip to Louisiana.

Saw a chemical plant, a giant metal building shaped like an alligator and more concrete median barriers lining the side of the interstate than there are Thibodeaux’s in Breaux Bridge.

Not that there wasn’t excitement along the way. I narrowly missed a giant pothole between Lafayette and Rayne after watching the guy in front of me practically lose a back wheel when he hit the pothole.

I also patted myself on the back for having the foresight to get off I-10 before the Mississippi River bridge, thus avoiding sitting in a long line of traffic to get into Baton Rouge.

Not everything on the trip was sunshine and roses.

When I pulled over at a rest stop to catch a quick nap, a van pulled up next to me and blared rock music while they smoked and made sandwiches from the side door.

That 20-minute nap lasted about 5 minutes.

There was some excitement. I drove five miles over the speed limit, refusing to slow down to 50 when the traffic thinned out. That only lasted about a half mile, but I was pretty daring for that five-minute stretch.

Instead of staying on a crowded interstate highway, I took the 210 Loop around Lake Charles. Being that high over the water is always a bit nerve racking for me.

Not exactly on-the-edge living, but these days, that’s about as exciting as it gets.

When we were quarantined for Covid, I told myself when it was safe to travel, I wasn’t going to waste any time. I’d get out there and see the world.

First on the bucket list is a trip to any section of Route 66. The reason – I celebrated my 66^th birthday back in July and I want to drive on Route 66 when I am 66.

I settled on flying into Albuquerque and taking a drive northeast to Santa Fe and then circling back to Albuquerque.

I was ready to book our flights a few months ago after the summer holidays, and Covid reared its horrible head again. When the coast looked clear, it was snowing in Albuquerque, and I have no desire to sightsee or drive in the snow and ice.

Just when I started researching airline flights to New Mexico, gas prices and airline tickets shot through the roof.

The section from Albuquerque to Santa Fe looks promising, but the pessimistic side of me thinks we’ll go to Amarillo, take a look at all those Cadillacs stuck in the dirt and come right back to Houston.

But hope springs eternal. As of the date this column is published, I have 118 days to make that road trip from Albuquerque to Santa Fe a reality.

Seeing Big Ben or traveling internationally is pretty exciting, but as the song says, I’ll get my kicks on Route 66.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

When my boys were young, finding a place to get their hair cut wasn’t easy. I didn’t want to take them to a fancy salon, and there was no way I was going to cut their hair.

I still shudder remembering my dad sitting my brothers down on a stool, hair clippers buzzing, while he pretended to be a top-notch stylist.

He had one hand on their heads while the other dragged the clippers up and over their heads. He’d stop to take a sip of beer and totally ignored their wails.

Uneven doesn’t come close to describing those haircuts.

So styling my sons’ hair was never an option. Someone told me about the Richmond Barber Shop in the downtown area, so, when the boys were old enough, we stopped in.

The place was like stepping back in time. There were a couple of real barber chairs in the center of the room and a row of well-worn waiting chairs against the wall. The linoleum was faded and cracked, but there was a homey vibe that made us feel comfortable and welcome.

We took a seat and a man with a slight hump in his back greeted us. He was the owner and said it might be a little bit, but we were welcome to wait.

The boys were content – they were fascinated with all the pictures and seemed to enjoy listening to the men talk. The boys left there with quality haircuts, courtesy of the owner, Mr. A.D. Eversole.

Sadly, “Mr. A.D.” passed away after over 60 years of being in business in the same location, the past 20 with his grandson continuing the legacy.

The men who came for a quick cut hailed from all walks of life – former Houston Oilers coach Bum Phillips stuck his head in one day and told A.D. he’d be back.

Judges, politicians, businessmen, working guys – all came to the barber shop to hear the local gossip and get an old-fashioned haircut. Once I took my son to the bathroom in the back, and I had to chuckle.

There, set up in the corner, was a perpetual poker game, complete with mannequins and cards on the table.

When A.D. was a young teen, he contracted polio, and his life changed forever. When I wrote a feature about a polio survivors support group, I asked A.D. for his story, and he graciously shared that with me.

He was getting off the school bus, and remembers falling down. He was out for the next couple of days with a high fever.

When he woke up, he was partially paralyzed on one side. As a polio survivor, the symptoms of polio come back later in life, and there’s no way to compensate for the nerve damage polio caused.

A.D. cut back on his hours, but never lost that gentle smile. He was forthright in his business, steady in his demeanor and loyal as a friend. He was an outstanding listener and always remembered what his customers wanted. For my son, it was a buzz, and that chair was the only place my kid sat still.

Years later, I asked him why and he said Mr. A.D. told him he would cut his ear off if he didn’t sit still. He believed the barber, but he also loved him because A.D. liked him, and our son knew it.

A.D., I can’t thank you enough for enriching our family’s life. You will always be remembered with fondness whenever I see a red and blue barber’s pole or a beautiful hand-made bird house.

Those of us who visited the best clip joint in town were fortunate to have known you.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

The power hour of cleaning. Whenever I can’t sleep, I watch videos of people dedicating an hour a day to clean their house.

They start in the kitchen, taking everything off the counter tops, wiping down every surface, and they move on to the living room where they take the couch cushions off, vacuum every inch of the room – including curtains – and do the same in every room.

They call that their “power hour.”

I’m exhausted watching them.

I decided to do the same, so I set the timer on my phone for 60 minutes.

The first 10 minutes is spent convincing myself I’m going to really clean the house for sixty minutes straight.

Piece of cake, I tell myself. Then I start thinking about cake and have to mentally slap myself to get back to the job at hand.

The first thing I tackle is making the bed. Straighten the sheets, plump the bed pillows, throw the comforter on and toss two decorative pillows on top of that.

Dusting would be wasting power-hour time, so I move on to the laundry, checking to see how many more minutes there are in the hour – 50 is the answer

Since it’s just the two of us, it’s easy to sort the clothes – jeans, cottons and T-shirts are the first load and towels are the next load.

Going through the pockets, I find the grocery list I was looking for a few days ago, so I head into the kitchen to put those items on the list again.

While I’m in the kitchen, I decide to fix something to drink because cleaning is tiring.

That’s when I notice I forgot to turn the coffee pot off. Good thing I was in here, I think, and then decide to load the dishwasher since there’s just the breakfast bowls.

“You could do some power cleaning in your kitchen,” a voice in my head says.

Those people in the videos take everything off the counters and clean, but geez, there’s a lot of stuff on the counters. That would take at least half of my remaining time.

So I put that off and decide to vacuum. That’s not a weekly chore for me – it should be, I know – but the dog hair is starting to colonize in the corners.

Out comes the vacuum cleaner, but I notice the canister is full.

I take the canister apart, dump out the contents – geez, that’s a lot – and then spend a frustrating 10 minutes trying to put the vacuum cleaner back together again. Then I’m back in business.

I consider taking the couch cushions off but quickly talk myself out of that extra chore, because I’d have to change to the hose and that would eat up valuable power-hour time.

With the vacuuming done and the washing machine humming along, I start to convince myself I need a break, but promises were made this morning.

I look in my office. Straightening my desk out would take at least three power hours, so I decide to move on.

Looking at the layers of Legos on the dining room table, I tell myself the grandkids will have more fun digging through the piles than if I take time to sort them.

Thoughtful, that’s how I see myself.

Then it’s on to the grandkids’ bedrooms. I pick up the toys from the middle of the floor and wipe the toothpaste from the sink and the counters. I see a picture our grandson drew, and I decide to hang it up because I have an extra frame in my office.

Then I have to find a nail and the hammer, and that takes me back to the laundry room junk drawer. There’s the box cutter I was looking for last week and the bottle opener we needed yesterday.

I wander through the junk drawer for a little longer, trying to remember why I put some of the things in there.

And then the timer goes off.

My power hour is over but the furniture’s still dusty, I haven’t touched the mop bucket, the refrigerator is filled with leftovers and the bathrooms are calling my name.

But tomorrow’s another day, another chance to conquer the power hour.

Victory awaits.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.