Technology is fantastic. In a matter of seconds, we can find out how to unclog a sink, build a house and power wash an elephant.

One of the best technology advances is Google Maps. With a few clicks, we can find our way to the most out-of-the-way places without getting lost or frustrated.

There are times, however, I miss getting verbal directions from a person, especially Southerners.

Former Fort Bend Herald editor Bob Haenel always gave me accurate, country-slanted, directions.

When I first started the job, I had an interview in Needville. I’d never been there, so I asked Bob how to get to this particular address.

He told me to head south on Highway 36 until I saw the Needville city limits sign.

“Then turn left at the light,” he said.

“Which light?” I asked.

“The light,” he replied.

He was right.

Here’s another Haenel direction. I asked him for how to get to a place out in the country, and he thought for a second.

He grabbed a piece of paper and started sketching out a map. As he drew, he told me stories about the houses and people I’d pass on the way.

Google Maps will send me past stores that sponsor the site, but nothing can compete with directions that are complete with family and town histories.

My husband and I speak two different languages when it comes to directions. He uses words like “north and south, eastern corner and parallel.” I use phrases like “across from the grocery store, next to that car dealership and the place with the ugly paint job.”

Right after my dad passed away, I was driving to College Station with my youngest son. I was lost in sadness and suddenly realized I didn’t know where I was. My husband was out in the woods, but I called him anyway.

“I’m lost and I need you to tell me where I am,” I said. Even now, I’m embarrassed that I expected him to know where I was a hundred miles away from him.

He must’ve sensed how upset I was because he calmly asked me to describe what I was seeing and the turns I’d made.

“Just keep driving because I think you’re on the right road,” he said. “I won’t hang up until you see a sign.”

In a couple of miles, I saw the sign for College Station and breathed a sigh of relief. There’s no way Google Maps is that understanding.

Years ago, my son bought me one of the first GPS devices manufactured, a TomTom GPS. That little invention was great until I’d decide to take a different route.

“Recalculating route,” Tom would state in that robot voice.

I’d keep driving, unable to turn it off, and Tom would repeat “recalculating.” After the third time of recalculating, I swear I heard him sigh.

Ole Tom went a little too far one time, and I threw him in the trunk so I wouldn’t have to hear him yelling “recalculating.”

Luckily, the new GPS apps reroute without giving you the obnoxious reminder that you turned the wrong way. They seem to understand you’ve changed your mind and are polite enough not to point out you’re not following the correct directions.

I’m still a bit skeptical about the GPS. Last month, I was going to a retiree dinner in north Houston, and Google Maps sent me an hour out of the way. I didn’t feel stupid as two other people said Google had done the same thing to them.

Every once in a while, I’ll get out a paper map so I can keep my map reading skills sharp. I figure it’s a lost art, much like churning butter.

There’s a feeling of power knowing where I’m going because I figured out how to get there.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Whenever the Hebert clan gets together, family “remember-when” stories always come up.

I’m guilty of telling stories I think are funny but are often embarrassing to my brothers and sisters.

On a recent Zoom call, one of my siblings joked I had “revisionist history” recall. I was telling a story that didn’t put him in the best light, even though he was only 7 years old when it happened.

I thought a lot about that comment and made myself a promise. From now on, my nieces and nephews, siblings and in-laws will hear stories that spotlight the goodness in our family.

I’ll tell them how their eldest uncle was one of the most respected members on his high school football team despite being one of the smaller players.

He worked his way through dental school with a young family, built a thriving practice and is in the top tier of his profession. He volunteers at his church and is a tireless helper in the community.

Another brother was one of the top geologists in his office before retiring. He taught himself how to play the guitar, and sings and writes beautiful music when he’s not sharing his faith on the radio waves.

Our middle sister had a reputation for taking care of bullies for all of us when we were kids. She still does that but through civic organizations and as the extremely capable person who handles benefits for her company.

For years, her and her husband’s comfortable home has been open to all who need shelter and a home-cooked meal. They are two of the most respected people in their town and in our family.

The little 7-year-old boy grew into a teenager who stepped in as a male role model when my oldest son was a toddler. Whenever I was scared to stay by myself, he came over, often sleeping on the couch, just to keep me company. He fixed my car and did my home repairs when I was a single mom, and he did all that without complaining.

He handles adversity with grace and is admired by his three beautiful daughters, sons-in-law and adorable grandchildren.

One of the stories I told about our youngest sister is when she was 4 years old and my mom wouldn’t make her compete in a beauty pageant because she was shy. My sister would’ve won that contest hands down.

What I need to tell is how she always helps kids be the best they can be, from her own to the hundreds of pre-schoolers she taught to the high-school teens she encourages to find their way in a grown-up world. She’s strong, active in the community and could still win a beauty contest.

Not only is our youngest brother an outstanding and gifted artist, he’s an incredible story-teller with an iron-clad memory about most things, but especially comics. His Nerdmudgeon podcast about the Marvel Cinematic Universe is entertaining and intelligent.

He is a gifted writer and can dance better than John Travolta. He’s compassionate with a quick, sharp, witty sense of humor.

My siblings listen without judging, love without limits and are respected in their families, their fields of work and their communities.

When I tell family stories from now on, I will concentrate on making sure our cousins, nieces and nephews hear the positive accounts. Those endearing tales far outnumber the embarrassing ones.

I’ve learned it’s much better to praise than humiliate. The heart and head thrive when nurtured with love.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Hello America! It’s me, Thanksgiving, a day to remember a time when the Pilgrims and Native Americans shared food.

We know that story has been embellished over the years but celebrating that special turkey dinner is now a 200-year tradition.

Sadly, I feel I’m in the shadow of my older, more popular sibling, Christmas.

The reasons are understandable. Last year, Covid robbed people of getting together at the biggest family celebration of the year, so people are anxious to put up Christmas trees and holiday lights.

Most of all, Christmas offers presents.

But I have a lot to offer you!

First, the food is outstanding on Thanksgiving. Turkeys are the main attraction, and they bring along their two favorite buddies – gravy and bread stuffing, or dressing as Southerners like to say.

In fact, people have taken this side dish to a culinary level unimaginable 200 years ago.

There’s oyster dressing, cornbread dressing, bread dressing, sausage dressing and even vegan dressing. People put everything in dressing from walnuts to pecans to cranberries. And dressing isn’t complete without its favorite companion, mashed potatoes.

Today’s the day when you can eat marshmallows as a main dish without any guilt. Any other day, you might feel a tad embarrassed to slather roasted marshmallows on a pan of sweet potatoes, but not today.

And desserts! Let’s examine those for a second. There’s pecan and apple pie and both bring along their favorite companion, a scoop of vanilla ice cream.

But the star of the dessert table is pumpkin pie. Nothing beats a slice of creamy, orange pumpkin pie with a big dollop of whipped cream on top.

I’ve seen pumpkin in coffee, candy and tea. There’s pumpkin vodka, ice cream, cookies, candles, room spray and car fresheners. You can thank me, Thanksgiving, for bringing pumpkin to your attention.

In all honesty, I’m not a fan of some of the side dishes. Green-bean casserole is one of them. At no other time of the year would you take two cans of green beans, drown them in cream-of-mushroom soup, dump an entire can of fried onion rings on top and serve that as a nutritious side dish.

Same goes with ambrosia. Mixing together coconut, pineapple, mandarin oranges, cherries and whipped cream and calling that a healthy side dish is stretching things a bit, don’t you think?

But they’re both yummy and a Thanksgiving tradition.

Thanksgiving isn’t complete without the smell of fresh, hot rolls. I know it’s tough to find time to mix yeast, flour and water to make home-made rolls the size of a softball, so it’s okay to open a box of pre-made rolls and stick them in the oven for 7 minutes. The smell’s still the same and you need something to sop up all that gravy.

And let’s not forget the decorations! Most of you can remember being in the school Thanksgiving play and either wearing a pilgrim hat or a headband with feathers. You can thank me for that memory.

If you have children, chances are good they drew at least one turkey using their hand as the template and you’re still displaying that on my day.

Just remember, without me, you wouldn’t have pumpkin pie, the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade and three, count ‘em three, NFL football games in one day.

But who am I kidding. Christmas is the big dog in this winter holiday fight. All I’m asking for is a smidge of respect, America.

So when you’re eating that turkey sandwich on Friday, turkey gumbo on Saturday, turkey quesadillas on Sunday and another turkey sandwich on Monday, you can thank me.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

I particularly dislike – okay hate – call routing. That’s the official name for when someone calls a phone number and an automated system sends callers to the right extension.

In theory, it’s supposed to save time.

In theory, it’s supposed to be more efficient.

In reality, call routing is frustrating for the customer and a waste of positive customer relations for the company.

Recently, I needed to make a dental appointment. Our former dentist sold his practice, so I was looking around for someone new closer to home.

A friend recommended her dentist. I called the number and got this familiar message:  “Please listen carefully as many of our options have changed.”

I’ve never understood this warning.

Few people memorize call options. This office has already wasted time with options I never realized I had.

Usually one of the “press this number” options is where I want to go. In the dental office, making an appointment was one of the last choices after I heard about all the services this dental office provides.

Pressing the number for appointments gave me the lovely opportunity to choose again from a new set of choices. I kept pressing zero until the system decided I was probably an idiot and passed me on to a real person who scheduled my appointment.

I’ve gotten so frustrated with call routing that when I have the option to say something, I yell all kinds of names to get a real person – “manager, operator, human!”

If that doesn’t work, I press zero repeatedly, hoping the system will malfunction and connect me with a human.

Sometimes this works.

But the caller never wins because that human says they’ll connect me with someone who call help me. You guessed it – I’m back in the call routing line.

The call routing people are crafty. Not only are you stuck on hold, they make you listen to advertisements for their company.

“If you’re interested in our low-interest credit card, stay on the line…”

“If you’d like to speak to an associate about trade-ins, stay on the line…”

“If you’d like to speak to a real person, you’re out of luck. That’s not one of our options.”

Last week, I called a doctor’s office for my mom. These people took the prize for the most convoluted call routing I’ve ever experienced.

First I had to choose if I wanted to talk to a doctor, wanted information about their new procedure – that was a 30-second sales talk – or billing. If I was experiencing a medical emergency, I was supposed to call 911.

I wondered how many people call the doctor’s office while they’re having a heart attack and stay on the line, waiting for the right number to press.

For heart patients, dial two. For test results, press three. For the cardiology lab, press four. Doctors should press six, and pharmacies seven. There wasn’t an option for appointments, so I listened again.

I tried to sneak through and pressed six. That took me back to the main menu.

I guess the call routing geniuses figured out a real doctor would have a secret number to call and not get stuck in the call routing line.

Hanging up, I called back and didn’t press any buttons, hoping the system would connect me with a real person.

That resulted in getting me disconnected.

By the time I got through the call routing routine and a no-nonsense switchboard operator came on the line, it was 4:01 p.m. She said the doctor’s office closed at 4 p.m. and to call back tomorrow. My frustration level was off the chart at that point.

Not all phone calls are best handled by a computer or machine. Sometimes, that gold ole human touch is what’s best for business.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

For the first time in years, I was taking an airplane trip by myself.

No friend to help me navigate crowded concourses.

No husband to blindly follow. I was flying the post-Covid-era skies all by myself.

The voice inside my head talked out of both sides of her mouth.

“Stop being a whiny-baby,” was one. This voice was the strong side, the one who believed I could not only navigate the airport but easily sail through the TSA screening line and baggage pick up.

This voice reassured me I could probably put the plane on auto pilot at 30,000 feet and make small talk with passengers as I passed out coffee and peanuts.

Then there was the other voice.

“You. Cannot. Do. This. Alone.”

This sneaky voice told me I’d forget something at the security check point.

The voice said I was going to miss my connection because I couldn’t maneuver the Atlanta airport all by myself.

This voice said I’d never remember my gate numbers, even though both the boarding passes and seat numbers were on my phone and written in the notebook I had in my purse.

Then the voice whispered “What if your phone dies? What if you lose your purse? What if you lose your wallet with all your identification and your credit card?” This voice had the “what ifs” down to a crippling science.

The whiny voice had an ally. My connecting flight in Atlanta to Greensboro, N.C. was a tight fit.

When I made the connection, I was a little concerned, but it was the last flight out of Atlanta to Greensboro.

I was determined to watch our grandchildren play in their soccer game that morning. So I rolled the dice, hoping the flight from Houston would arrive in Atlanta on time.

While waiting to board the plane to Atlanta, I was chatting with a pilot. I asked him about connections in Atlanta since that was his home base.

“I tell people if they don’t have an hour and a half in Atlanta, they’ll never make their connection,” he said.

I had 50 minutes.

The whiny voice practically smiled.

I thought about having to spend the night in Atlanta. The whiny voice told me there wouldn’t be a room available since the World Series games were in Atlanta that night. The voice told me I could try sleeping on the floor, but I’d probably get mugged.

I texted my youngest sister in North Carolina and told her I’d call if I missed my flight, which was probably a safe bet to make. She texted me back:  “If you run into a glitch, you are a smart, capable woman and you will figure it out!”

The relief I felt was instantaneous.

My strong voice took center stage. She reminded me of the many times I’d stepped up in tough situations and figured it out. The results weren’t always pretty, but I’d always come up with a solution.

I’ll always struggle with the two voices in my head. Sometimes that whiny voice will be louder, the one that’ll cause me to doubt my decisions and every choice I’ve made.

But then I’m going to remember – I made that connection in Atlanta. True, the flight attendant closed the main doors behind me when I got on the plane to Greensboro, sweating after riding the train from literally one end of the airport to the other and running for the gate, hauling my suitcase and a heavy backpack.

I didn’t lose my phone or my boarding passes. I’d made the trip home without any worries because I listened to my strong voice.

I’d still rather have my husband with me on my travels and I’ll probably be happier if my future flights are non-stop.

But just in case my phone dies, I lose my purse or there is a tight connecting flight, I’ll listen to my strong self.

She not only believes I could figure out a solution, but I could also step into the cockpit and land that plane with my eyes closed.

She just might be right.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

There are songs that, when you hear them, cause you to stop in your tracks, close your eyes and become one with the music.

“Black Velvet” by Alannah Myles is that song for me. The song, released in 1990, was written by Canadian songwriters Christopher Ward and David Tyson.

One afternoon, “Black Velvet” came on the radio when I was in the car with my eldest grandson. I immediately turned up the volume and started tapping on the steering wheel with the beat.

He looked at me, questions in his eyes.

“This song is about Elvis Presley,” I told him.

A blank stare.

“People used to paint his likeness on black velvet,” I said.

Still a blank stare.

“What’s black velvet?” he asked. “And who’s Elvis Presley?”

How do I explain the impact the Elvis Aaron Presley had on an entire generation? How do I sufficiently explain the effect this sexy country boy from Mississippi had on the rock and roll scene back in the day?

Elvis was a little before my time but there’s no denying his explosion on the entertainment scene changed music. There were talented Black artists who wrote and sang these rock-and-roll songs before Elvis. This Mississippi singer had the opportunity to make it on the national stage.

Songs like “Nothing like a Hound Dog,” “Love Me Tender,” and “Jailhouse Rock” might seem old-fashioned these days, but when they hit the airwaves, they were like a seismic jolt.

My mom said the heart throbs for her generation were Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin in their tuxedos and smooth voices. When Elvis showed up in jeans and a slicked back, black pompadour, the girls went crazy.

When he shook those hips on the Ed Sullivan show, the network refused to let him be filmed from the waist down.

The first time I heard “Black Velvet,” I didn’t know what the song was about. Then one day I saw a black-velvet painting with Elvis’s likeness in an antique store.

That’s when I knew – people loved this man so much, they’d paint his likeness on one of the most luxurious fabrics in the world. Velvet suits Elvis’s voice perfectly. That Mississippi twang was a totally Southern voice, dripping with sugar, a little bit of whiskey thrown in for effect.

“Black Velvet’s” lyrics sum up Presley’s presence. Elvis did have that “little boy smile,” and he did establish a new religion – rock and roll that brought a whole generation to their knees. His songs were raw, full of emotion and light years away from any of 1950s tunes.

He reinvented himself in Las Vegas in the late 60s and early 70s, where his sold-out shows brought in over 2.5 million fans. His private retreat, Graceland, brought in over half a million visitors yearly before Covid. The only other house to see more visitors is the White House.

As the song says, Elvis was gone too soon. He died on Aug. 16, 1977 at the age of 42. He was in the midst of another comeback, having switched from jeans to white, jewel-studded jumpsuits.

His fans still grieve for him, whether they remember him from his go-go movie “Viva Las Vegas” to his surfer flick “Blue Hawaii.” Some might remember a trim, black-leather clad King still sporting his signature lip curl, long sideburns and growly voice.

Still others picture Elvis performing in Las Vegas, overweight and bloated, but where the women still screamed his name. Still others will remember Elvis whenever they see his likeness painted on black velvet.

There’ll never be another one like The King.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Halloween is a fun event, especially for children. Many of us remember picking out a special costume, dressing up and walking the neighborhood, knocking on doors and saying “trick or treat.”

Back then, Halloween was all about free candy. The scary part didn’t occur to us, but it did to Hollywood. Producers did their best to capitalize on the fright with movies like “Nightmare on Elm Street” and “Scream.”

Parents pushed back, asking for friendly Halloween stories. Witches went from the “Wizard of Oz’s” terrifying Wicked Witch of the West to the sisters on “Charmed.” Vampires no longer lurk outside your window to suck your blood. Now they’re a heart-throb in young-adult romance novels.

Perhaps the change has been because grown-ups don’t like to admit when they’re scared. Deep down, most of us are still kids scared to turn off the lights at night.

Sure ghosts and abandoned houses are scary. But when it comes to really scary, here are some adult things I’ve found to be the most terrifying.

Transmission trouble. Someone telling me they’ve seen a ghost would make me curious. Having a mechanic tell me I need a new transmission is downright terrifying. That repair costs more than the contents of my house.

Check engine light. When that light comes on in my car, I hit the panic button. The problem could be something simple chances are it’ll be an expensive fix. If that light starts blinking, then we’re talking major scare. I tried putting black electrical tape over the light, but my husband said that wasn’t a real fix.

Home repairs. The last time we had a plumber come out to change out some faucets, the bill was over $500. When our air conditioner went out, that cost was in the thousands. So whenever, I hear an appliance complaining, my checkbook starts choking.

The second gray hair. The first gray hair was easy. I’d always said I’d let my hair go gray gracefully. Then my hair exploded in iron-gray strands. Forget aging gracefully. I called Rosie, my friend and long-time hairdresser, and we’ve been banishing those grays for years. I have no plans to stop.

My first grown-up paycheck. I’ll admit I cashed it and asked the banker for all 1’s. That was quite a stack. But when I looked closer at that paycheck and saw all the deductions, I realized the government would be taking a good chunk of my money every single paycheck for the rest of my working life.

My first varicose vein. My first varicose vein showed up when I was 16 years old. My after-school job was standing on my feet for hours working the snack counter at a movie theater. I thought it was just a couple of blue lines, nothing to worry about.

Three kids later, the sides of my knees looked like a road map. I had them checked out and no worries. But I quickly discovered, just that first gray hair, if one shows up, the rest of the whole family’s on its way.

There’s a few other things I’m afraid of. At the top of my fear list is snakes. Any snake, any size, any color. I don’t care if they’re “good” snakes.

As far as I’m concerned, the only good snake is in somebody else’s yard.

In the next town.

In addition to snakes, most people are scared of at least three of the following horrors:  spiders, germs, heights, needles, airports, doctors, zombies, thunder, cockroaches that fly, bats, dogs, ticks, bears, flesh-eating bacteria, sharks, lizards or that balding spot on the crown of your head.

They say to conquer your fears, you need to face them.

I’m all for that.

Unless it’s a snake.

Then I’m running for the hills.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

Plain or fancy, I love museums and historical venues. They allow visitors to walk through time, seeing first-hand the tools, clothing and books people used in their every-day lives.

Museums often get a bad rap for being quiet and, let’s face it, boring. I’ve been to some of those. But museum curators have gotten smarter over the past 20 years, and today’s museums are vibrant, interactive places to visit.

One of the best exhibits I’ve ever toured was the King Tutankhamun display back in 1977. The New Orleans Museum of Art sponsored the event, and over 650,000 people visited. Luckily, I was one of them.

We were fortunate to see the actual King Tut mask that appears in so many photos. Dozens of displays showed what life was like over 3,000 years ago in Egypt. There were plates, combs, vases and a variety of items people used, and probably took for granted. Today, they’re priceless pieces of history.

There are fabulous museums here in Fort Bend County, especially here in Rosenberg and Richmond.

The George Ranch Historical Park is offering Texian Market Days this weekend. If you’ve ever wondered what it was like to watch real cowboys in action, make sure you head out that way. The historical reenactments are phenomenal.

The Rosenberg Railroad Museum has evolved into an incredible visitor’s stop. You can stand on the corner of the museum and imagine how life must’ve been like back in the days when farming was the main source of income.

I had the pleasure of visiting the newly renovated Fort Bend Museum in downtown Richmond, and those who worked on the remodel did a fabulous job. The museum has an open-air feeling, and the exhibits highlight contributions from Fort Bend’s ancestors from all cultures and races.

You’ll find out there was once a prisoner-of-war camp in downtown Rosenberg during World War II and read about the contributions of Hispanic, Black and Anglo settlers to this area. Life wasn’t easy, and the museum does a thorough job of showcasing their contributions.

The group I was with enjoyed a presentation by Jessica Avery, program coordinator at the museum, on some of the haunted houses in this area. With Halloween right around the corner, the presentation was especially interesting.

I knew about some of the spooky places, like the Fort Bend County Jail, but I had no idea there were so many other supposedly haunted places in town. If you want to know more, be sure and sign up for one of the ghost tours the museum is offering before the end of October.

Other areas in the county are striving to bring the history of all cultures to life. Bates-Allen Park in Kendleton is where former slaves would meet to wash clothes while barbecuing and picnicking together. People are working to enhance the park, and it’s worth a leisurely drive to enjoy the park’s quiet and beauty.

If you want to venture into Houston, most of the museums in H-Town are free on Thursdays. Call in advance to make sure, especially if you want to see a special exhibit.

A visit to the Museum of Natural History is worth the drive if you love nature’s gems as is a walk through the Fine Arts Museum if you love works of art. The Holocaust Museum is a somber visit – prepare yourself before visiting.

But there’s no need to venture further than 30 miles from your front door if you live here in Fort Bend County. Find out about the history here in your own back yard with a visit to one of the many museums our county has to offer.

And sign up for that ghost tour – you’ll never know what frights you might encounter.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

In the South, family stories are passed down from generation to generation.

No one told Southern stories better than the late Jeanne Robertson.

She was Miss North Carolina in the 1963 Miss America pageant, where she was named Miss Congeniality. With her constant smile, it’s easy to see why. Robertson retains the title of the tallest contestant as she was 6’2” tall.

Many of her shows are now on YouTube, and Robertson is warm and friendly as she weaves her stories of how Southerners handle life.

Some of Robertson’s videos have millions of views because she is so relatable. Her most viewed video is “Don’t Send a Man to The Grocery Store,” and it’s worth every minute of listening time. You’ll particularly enjoy the segment if you’re a right-brained person married to a left-brained person.

Southerners have a particular way of telling stories that put them in their own special category, and Robertson was an outstanding humorist. Perhaps it’s her beautiful Southern drawl, but it’s also in the way she sets up a story and then closes with an unexpected zinger.

One of my favorites is “Don’t Mess with Teenage Hussies” – the punchline at the end is priceless.

Her talk about her Grandma Freddie’s trip to the Holy Land rang true for me. Her grandmother was a public speaker who gave speeches to church groups about a trip to the Holy Land.

After her grandmother passed – bow your heads here, Robertson would say – Robertson found out her grandmother had never been to the Holy Land.

She’d bought a box of slides with scenes from the Holy Land and told stories to groups like she’d been there. The punchline at the end is totally unexpected yet makes sense if you’re from the South.

My grandmother also told stories with flair and drama. I would beg her to tell them over and over. She obliged, and every time, the story became a little grander.

My favorite was about a relative who was reaching out on her death bed for her long lost love. The story was dramatic, filled with lost love and longing.

My mom called foul.

“I was in the room when she died,” mom said. “No reaching, no gasping.”

I much prefer my grandmother’s telling and, as far as I’m concerned, my grandmother’s story is the one I believe to be true.

Robertson’s mother told her early in life to choose a humorous lens through which to look at life. I’ve found if you choose that path, mistakes in life are a lot easier to accept.

When I visited my son in Taiwan years ago, we went to a spa separated into sections for men and women. The last thing my son said to me before he went to the men’s side was “By the way, it’s a nude spa.”

It took me about 20 minutes to get up the courage to get in the inside heated pool. After a bit, I was okay with being au natural.

There was also an outside pool and, frugal person that I am, I wanted to get my money’s worth. So I went outside, in my birthday suit, and saw women sitting around the pool.

In their bathing suits. All staring at this naked American.

I could’ve turned around and run back inside, but with my chins held high, I walked straight and proud to the end of the pool area, looked around, nodded, and then walked back into the dressing area. I tell that story at family reunions, not with embarrassment, but with laughter at myself.

I choose humor, just like the late Jeanne Robertson did, to remember life. Do yourself a favor, find her clips on YouTube, and enjoy some down-home funny stories told by a master humorist.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

I come from a Catholic family. We have over 25 first cousins on my mom’s side and about the same on my dad’s side. I’m blessed with 16 nieces and nephews who’ve grown into friends and, best of all, I have six siblings – four brothers and two sisters.

The boys – Jimmy, Johnny, Joey and Jeff – are incredible men. Talented and thoughtful, they survived having three sisters.

Like their brothers, Diane and Donna are creative and caring. More than that, they are strong women and my best friends.

We’ve shared rooms and shoes. We’ve shared clothes, from high school sweaters and skirts to maternity pants and tops.

For many years, we took “sister trips.” We’ve been on a night-time ghost tour in Charleston, played laser tag in Las Vegas and enjoyed a late-night snack on china plates and real silverware at a bed and breakfast in Ashville, S.C.

Most families have a member who’s the firecracker, the one who keeps things lively. Diane, my younger sister by five years, is that for us.

When people asked if she was Denise’s sister, she’d say, “No, Denise is MY sister.” That confidence has served her well.

She studied computer science, graduated from LSU with honors while married with three children under the age of 3. I remember going over to their tiny apartment and seeing her holding a baby while cooking dinner, a textbook propped on the cramped counter.

She is her company’s benefits manager where she knows the rules and never forgets employees are people. She’s held state offices, has volunteered with Child Advocates and has achieved milestones in a field often dominated by men.

All of her children played soccer, and Diane and John never missed a game. For years, Diane was the mom with the camera, and she photographed her children and everyone on the team.

She loves her fantastic children and grandchildren with all her heart and soul. Diane is the person you want on your side because she never gives up and will never surrender.

I owe her an apology because I teased her about having thick, curly hair. Sis, I’d give anything to have your hair and those hazel-green eyes.

Donna is 10 years younger than me but that age difference has never seemed important to us. We connected as sisters and now as friends.

When she was 4-years-old, there was a beauty pageant in town in her age group. I saw the posters and told my mom Donna would win. Donna has the softest brown eyes, gorgeous, thick hair and a smile that lights up any room.

On the day of the pageant, Donna saw all the people in the audience and got stage fright. Those big brown eyes filled with tears. My mom took one look at her scared little girl and told her she didn’t have to be in the pageant.

I was livid. I knew my sister would win and I thought my mom should’ve made Donna compete. Mom did the right thing as Donna didn’t need that beauty pageant trophy – she’s won many more accolades.

Donna taught pre-schoolers for years, and we loved hearing her stories. I envied Donna as it takes a loving adult to get down on a little one’s level with a smile.

She’s now helps high schoolers believe in themselves and find the right secondary education fit. She connects with teens in a special way, and her three now-grown children are incredible humans.

Donna’s always gotten appreciative looks from people as there’s a charisma about her. Not just her beauty but from a light that shines from inside.

Neither Diane nor Donna suffer fools easily – they are just as likely to put someone in their place in the grocery store line as they are at a town meeting.

They’d both give me the shirt off their backs – which they unknowingly did when I raided their closets – and they’ve forgiven me my many transgressions.

I couldn’t ask for better friends than my beloved and delightful sisters, and I thank the heavens every day for putting these smart, generous and quick-witted women in my life.

And for the record, Donna would’ve won that beauty pageant hands down.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.