One of the best inventions of the past 20 years has been the GPS, Global Positioning Service. A GPS allows someone with internet access to find anything on a map – a city, a highway, a restaurant.

The service on my phone shows road construction, radar stations and heavy traffic. The only drawbacks are if I’m in a remote location and the GPS signal is lost and the inability to see the big roadmap picture.

Sometimes, I want to see all of the city instead of one route, but that complaint is miniscule compared to the good that I get out of modern technology.

My mom and I took a trip from Baton Rouge up to my sister’s house in Alexandria, located in central Louisiana. Interstate 10 has become a nightmare with stalled traffic, endless road construction and 18-wheelers that blast regular cars off the road. I try and avoid I-10 whenever possible.

For the trip to Alexandria, we took the old highway, 190, through some small towns over to Interstate 49 north to Alexandria. It’s a pleasant drive although the concrete on 190 is rough on tires and there’s not much to see past shut-down nightclubs and gas stations.

Mom and I had a terrific visit with my sister, her husband and three of her five grandchildren. Because I don’t like to drive at night, we decided to leave late in the afternoon. At the end of my sister’s driveway, I put our ending location in the GPS system, and off we went.

I saw the entrance for Interstate 49 coming up, but the GPS had me travel further on the highway we were on and meander down the state instead of going out of our way to the interstate. My mom pointed out the turn, but I explained what I thought the GPS had in mind.

After about 30 minutes, it was obvious we were on a different highway than what I’d thought we’d be on.

“You missed the turn,” my mom said. “Maybe we ought to go back.”

By this point, we were a good 40 miles away from the interstate, and I didn’t want to double back. The GPS had us headed in the right direction, so I decided to stick with technology.

“We’ll be fine,” I told her. “The GPS knows what its doing.”

Instead of a crowded interstate highway, we were on a smooth, two-lane country road. We drove past acres of sugar cane, their tall stalks swaying in the wind underneath a blue sky packed with puffy white clouds.

Instead of name-brand gas stations and convenience stores, we saw small towns with local hardware and mom-and-pop stores.

Weathered signs offered home-grown watermelons and vegetables, and trucks, their fenders speckled with mud, filled the parking lots.

Tidy homes greeted us along the way, the siding painted in different hues of white, yellow and beige. At almost every house, flowers dotted the neatly trimmed yards and most of the back yards had swing sets or trampolines.

I saw a few clothes lines in the yards, and some had clothes swaying in the wind. The crops changed from sugar cane to corn, and I marveled at the endless rows of tall stalks of corn reaching for the sky.

There were massive live oak trees, their elderly trunks thick and dark. They seemed to hug the homes underneath their sprawling branches. A gently rolling levee separated the simple houses from the river, and I thought about how close the people here were to nature.

Sure, we could’ve taken the interstate and gotten home about 10 minutes earlier. But we took the comfortable back roads through towns that had stood guard for dozens of years. The trip was relaxing, and the sights gave us a chance to talk about the old days and how her grandparents and parents made life work through the good times and the hard times. That was a conversation we might never have had not we traveled the comfortable, country roads of central Louisiana.

Perhaps the GPS knew what it was doing all along.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

I’m addicted.

Not to drugs, alcohol or “The Queen’s Gambit.”

I’m addicted to sales.

Big sales.

Ten-percent-off sales are ordinary.

Ninety-percent-off sales are for bottom-of-the-barrel shirts and pants that remain unclaimed through back-to-school sales, winter sales, spring sales and summer sales. These are the true rejects of the fashion world, so getting something from that pile is way too easy.

What gets my brain doing cartwheels is a solid 75 percent off the sticker price.

We sales addicts don’t want to cheat anyone – we want a great deal we can brag about for decades.

A few years ago, I was in an antique mall in Baton Rouge, La. with my mom. I was looking for some vintage china cups and saucers to replace some I’d given away.

Mom and I were enjoying browsing the shelves, remembering when we’d used those items in our every-day life.

I spotted three black cup-and-saucer sets on a dusty shelf in the back of the store. The design on each was similar, and the black color was intriguing. Most china cups and saucers are white with flowers. These, I knew, were different.

The price was on the bottom of one of the saucers — $6. I looked at the other two – same price. Normally these kinds of cups and saucers go for $20, so I knew I’d found a great deal. I told Mom we’d hit gold, and it was time to go.

We gathered the sets and carefully took them to the front counter. The lady who owned the shop smiled as she rang up my bargains.

“The man who owns that booth generally knows his antiques,” she said. “But he doesn’t know how to price china cups. You got yourself one heck of a deal today.”

I felt like a college football player who just made an interception and ran the ball 50 yards for a touchdown.

My Aunt Bev taught me the value of a good sale. One year, my sisters and I went with her to an estate sale, and she told us to look around, make a note of anything we liked, and then get a bidding card.

I spotted a battered tin tray holding four lead crystal wine glasses and six yellow etched champagne glasses. I wrote down the lot number.

Next, a small wicker basket caught my eye. Inside were linen handkerchiefs, some with delicately embroidered edges.

There were also about 50 antique postcards. Some had personal notes and some were brand new. And, again as instructed, I made note of the lot number.

The auction flew by, and at the end, Aunt Bev wondered who’d gotten those glasses.

“I did,” I proudly told her.

“How much?” she asked.

“Five bucks,” I replied. Then I told her I got the wicker box for the same price, and she told me I’d done quite well.

We put the glasses on a bar shelf after checking they were worth over $50. The wicker basket ended up on a shelf in my closet, and I forgot about it for almost 30 years.

A couple of months ago, I got the box out and started looking at the postcards, wondering if they were valuable. I opened up eBay, and the first postcard I found was worth $2.60. The second was worth $10. The third was 50 cents. All total, there was almost $100 worth of antique postcards.

The same held true for the handkerchiefs. One antique hankie was worth almost $12, and there were about a dozen in the box. That’s not a lot of money, but the amount of money isn’t the point.

It’s the thrill of the hunt.

It’s the powerful adrenaline rush a die-hard shopper feels when he or she finds a genuine bargain others have walked past.

So call me an addict. I’ll wear the label proudly over the name-brand jacket I found for half price at a resale shop.

Did I hear someone say estate sale?

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Baby boomers take a lot of good-natured ribbing about being fuddy-duddies. Take one of my favorite commercials, Dr. Rick with Progressive Insurance, on “unbecoming your parents.”

His funny and clever clues for new homeowners to see if they are becoming their parents rings true. If you have too many pillows on the couch, try to fix leaky plumbing or can’t pronounce “quinoa,” you could be in trouble.

I seldom recycle a sturdy cardboard box because that box will be good for something one day. I turned shoeboxes into a holder for gravy and taco packets, and I covered a few with wrapping paper to hold small toys.

The latest item to come under fire is the minivan. A minivan owner might as well walk around with a sign around his or her neck proclaiming “I’m a nerd.”

Rubbish.

I’m here to sing the praises of the bashed minivan or, as it’s often called, “The Mom Car.”

We purchased a minivan the second year they came out. We had three children: two toddlers in car seats, and a third grader who played sports.

Our sedan was too small and it was almost impossible to get a third child in the middle of the back seat without kids climbing over the seats and punching each other.

When I saw how the side doors opened on the minivan and how easy it was for the kids to climb in by themselves, I was sold.

Let’s not even talk about backing up or parallel parking. With the spacious window of the minivan and the height of the seat, I could see everything all around me.

The minivan fit my personality. My wardrobe back then was Mom jeans and a T-shirt, sweat pants and a T-shirt or shorts and, you guessed it, a T-shirt.

A recent article crucified women who dressed like that, and I felt bad for the thousands of moms out there who are lucky to get out of the door with their shirt on the right way when they’re trying to balance kids, snacks, an oversized purse and car keys.

In a minivan, it didn’t matter if the vehicle was filled with toys, pillows and empty juice packets. It also didn’t matter if you wore your pajamas or the kids had on just a diaper and slippers because minivans were invented for the mom who used her shirt to wipe her kid’s nose.         Minivans, I salute you.

While we’re at it, here’s to plastic containers that do triple duty. Not only do they hold Cool Whip or soft-spread margarine, these plastic containers are perfect for leftovers. Sure nobody knows what’s in them, but that’s part of the fun of leftover night – mystery meals.

There’s no way I’m recycling a plastic container until I’ve reused it at least three times. In fact, they’re perfect for holding the extra ketchup packets from fast-food joints.

The red plastic bottles don’t reflect how much ketchup is in the container, so I’d usually pull the bottle out and find one of the boys had put an empty bottle back in the refrigerator rather than go to the trouble of throwing it away.

Ketchup packets to the rescue, and I knew they were in the old Cool Whip bowl in the pantry.

I love my imitation-leather purse with a dozen pockets on the inside, the mismatched plates and bowls in the cabinet, some of which were grocery store specials, and our scuffed-up Pyrex baking dishes.

Even though I don’t have small children and we sold the minivan years ago, I still drive a mini-van style vehicle because I’m basically a nerd mom who morphed into a nerd grandmother.

So here’s to misunderstood minivans, mom jeans and empty Cool Whip containers. Long may you serve the overworked and overtired moms of the world.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

We grew up hearing my mom singing. “The Sound of Music” album was a constant play for her. I loved hearing her sing – she has a true soprano voice, but she never believed she was a good singer.

She thought the glory belonged to her older brother, Ray. I remember hearing him singing opera as he came down the staircase at the Eade house.

Ray had a booming voice and confidence. He never pursued a career in the arts, but younger brother Vincent did.

Vincent was the lead singer in three popular bands, and I loved listening to the 45s he played on the family record player.

Uncle Vinny visited us when I was a teenager, and I remember him sitting in our driveway, playing his guitar, and singing “Ventura Highway,” much to the delight of the fan-girls on our street.

Mom said all her siblings had beautiful singing voices, a genetic gift from her parents. My grandmother was often asked to sing the Arabic refrains at the Maronite services at the Catholic church.

Our grandfather sang all the time as he went about his duties in the store.

We didn’t know much about one of my mom’s brothers. When we were in elementary school, Marshall died at the young age of 21 from kidney disease.

My grandmother grieved for over 40 years, always wearing black or navy blue, seldom smiling.

A few weeks ago, my cousin, Jimmy, was cleaning out the third floor over the store my grandparents owned. The Standard Store has been in the same location in Olean, N.Y. for over 80 years.

My grandfather had everything in the store anyone could want – yarn, towels, candy, cigarettes, tools, kitchen items, knick-knacks, potholders – and the merchandise was stacked from the floor to the ceiling.

As a result, there’s lot of stuff in the attic. One afternoon, Jimmy found a white box, and written on the outside in my grandfather’s shaky handwriting was “Marshall talks and sings – this is good tape.”

We know no one’s heard those tapes in over 60 years, probably because the family’s grief was so deep, they couldn’t bear to hear Marshall’s voice.

The reel-to-reel tapes were in remarkably good shape, and our cousin Amy put the word out to see if anyone knew how to translate the tapes into a digital format.

Our nephew Adam came to the rescue. He’s a talented musician in Athens, Ga., and he thought he knew someone who could translate the tapes.

Adam was right – Jason Nesmith transferred the audio from the reel-to-reel tapes to a digital format, and Adam made a special trip to our mom’s house to play the audio file for her.

He couldn’t have given my mom a better gift. She heard her brother singing and his voice for the first time in decades.

We were struck by how clear and beautiful Marshall’s voice was, and all of us who watched the unveiling online were so moved as we heard this young voice singing about love and springtime.

Vincent remembered Marshall going into his room and locking the door, playing and recording music for hours. No one, however, knew what a beautiful voice he had until now.

Our family is extremely grateful to Adam and Amy for not giving up and bringing such happiness to our mom and uncles, Vincent and Bobby.

Adam uploaded the recording to YouTube, and I’ve listened to our young uncle’s clear voice so many times, happy, strong and confident. I’m so sad his dreams of singing professionally were unfulfilled.

We wish Mom’s only sister, Beverly, could’ve heard the tapes before she passed away last year.

Like Bev’s daughter, Amy, we’ve chosen to believe there’s an Eade chorus in heaven and, oh, how magnificent they must sound.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.    

Confession time.

I love muscle cars.

Maybe it’s because I was born when the Ford Mustangs were the bomb. Maybe it’s because there was no contest when comparing the front of a tricked-out Chevelle to that of my mom’s pea-green Vega station wagon.

I’ll also confess I went on a date with a guy because he drove a Mustang. I drove a few muscle cars, and I remember how cool the long stick shift on the floor felt when moving from first to second gear.

The first car I bought was a sensible Honda. She got me where I needed to go economically and without much fanfare. Our next vehicle was a sensible van. And then another sensible van.

I graduated to a sedan when the boys got their own muscle cars – a Camaro and a Mustang – and then back to an SUV when the grandchildren came along. Still, whenever a vintage muscle car passed me on the street, the envy reared back up.

A couple of weeks ago, I was riding my bike and saw a huge tree down in someone’s front yard. The homeowner was surveying the damage from the storm, and we started chatting.

I noticed he was wearing a Corvette T-shirt, and we discussed our mutual fascination with fast cars.

Jack told me about Bumbera’s Performance where we could see some muscle cars in the parking lot. Our 12-year-old grandson loves fast cars, and I thought going there would be a fun, quick outing.

One morning last week, I called to make sure they were open, and I told the manager, Sean, I was a muscle-car fan as was my grandson. He said to stop by any time, so we headed over there that afternoon.

The big red building on the frontage road was easy to spot, and we wasted no time oohing and awing over the restored Mustangs in the parking lot.

Pretty soon, a man came out and asked if I was the lady who’d called that morning. I said I was and he introduced himself as Sean and told us the cars out front were really cool, but he had something even better to show us.

Sean opened the door to the brightly-lit workshop, and the scene was like something out of a muscle-car dream. Cars in various stages of restoration were up on racks and along the spotless floor.

As we walked along, Sean explained what was happening to each one. An owner wanted his vintage Camaro upgraded, another Corvette had been repainted and the upholstery and insides were being replaced and modernized.

On every car, no detail had been overlooked, from the classic knobs on the old push-button radios – AM only, I explained to my grandson – to the dials on the dashboard.

With a wink and a smile, Sean said we weren’t through yet.

He took us to the spotless shop in the back where there was a genuine NASCAR race car.

The car looked just like they do in the movies – decals all over the sides and top, gauges and wires inside and a metal steering wheel.

“Want to sit inside?” Sean asked Alex. With a huge grin, Alex said “yes,” and Sean hoisted Alex in through the window. The amazed look on my grandson’s face was worth a million bucks.

Inside the shop, each car was painstakingly being restored and rejuvenated. That’s because of the outstanding workmanship at this family-owned business.

We wrapped up our amazing visit in the show room admiring a muscle car that was a work of art. I cannot thank Sean enough for the hour of magic he gave us. He went out of his way to show kindness to three strangers.

Sean made this senior citizen’s dream come true, gave her daughter-in-law and grandson an afternoon they’ll never forget and, along the way, made me the coolest grandmother on the block.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.     

Just when we think we’ve got a handle on covid, the media’s put out another scare – babesiosis. Not a fear of babies. This infection is spread by ticks, much like Lyme disease.

Like everything we’ve read and heard over the past year, this news was more “the sky is falling” reporting even though the disease is rare and most likely to happen in the northern woods.

Fear sells, and you don’t have to look far to find something to give you nightmares.

Billions of Brood X cicadas – that’s the number CNN is using – are swarming this summer after a 17-year hibernation. Videos show these bugs swarming over trees and bushes, much like locusts from the days of Moses.

Later in the broadcast, we learn they’re not dangerous but that’s secondary to words like “swarming” and “emergence.” The way the reporters describe the scene, the ground’s going to open up and armies of bugs will emerge like a tornado and strip the land of all vegetation.

Here in the South, we already have plenty to fear.

Let’s start with alligators in the streets.

Social media is filled with photos of alligators roaming neighborhoods.

Not swamps.

Not rivers.

The neighborhoods where our children ride their bikes.

They want us to picture giant alligators swallowing pets, possums and small cars.

Gators in the streets are rare, but that doesn’t stop us from getting the heebie-jeebies.

The real fear comes from things that are hard to spot and more common.

Like snakes.

The South isn’t like Ireland where there aren’t any snakes. Here in our humid land, water moccasins, copperheads and puff adders are in abundance.

According to fear mongers, these deadly snakes are at least 12 feet long and they’ll eat what the roaming alligators leave behind.

We have flying cockroaches. These aren’t bugs the size of a dime. No these brownish cockroaches that seem to be the size of your shoe are like flying kamikaze pilots when they come at you in the dark.

Once you see a cockroach dive bombing your head, all reason leaves your brain and you’re running for the house, vaulting over any alligators or snakes lurking in the back yard.

There’s spiders. Some people have an innate fear of these arachnids, but spiders aren’t on my list of fears.

If I see one, it’s an easy squash and into the trash. But when I saw a video of a spider giving birth to about a zillion baby spiders on someone’s living room wall, I had nightmares for a week.

Right now, we’re battling mosquitoes. After a few torrential rainstorms, the mosquitoes hatched in numbers that would equal the population of Miami. I cracked opened the door to let our dog out, and a dozen flew in.

We had another recent rainstorm that dumped more rain and that means in another week, just as this first wave of mosquitoes was waning, the second wave is coming.

I have a feeling they’ll be super androids compared to the bugs we had last week.

The South is also host to the most vicious of all insects and pests – the fire ant. Nothing can kill them. They survived 9-degree temperatures back in February, 100-degree Texas summers and massive flooding.

In fact, when the water rises, they group together to find a big stick and float their whole mound to higher ground.

I haven’t even mentioned web caterpillars in the trees that look like a nightmare from the “Body Snatchers’ movies.

There’s also stinging caterpillars that drop on your head if you sit underneath a tree, looking for shade.

So cover your heads, layer on the bug spray and wear long sleeves. From babesiosis to bugs, we’re in for an itchy, icky summer.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Last spring, teachers were heroes because they did the impossible when the pandemic shut the world down.

Educators started inventing ways to teach online when in-person classes were abruptly stopped.

Literally overnight, they had to figure out how to teach music, art, and biology through a computer screen.

Hours were spent modifying lessons for online use, posting those lessons and partnering with parents to complete the school year.

This year, schools decided to offer both in-person and remove learning, but administrators did not realize the huge burden they were putting on teachers.

Imagine teaching 20 fidgety students on a Zoom session while keeping an eye on the 10 who are sitting in your classroom.

Can’t ignore the online students.

Can’t ignore the ones sitting right in front of you.

And administrators are blaming you for students who didn’t bother to show up and for failing grades.

In the spring, YouTube videos flourished with parents realizing how they’d taken for granted the difficulties educators faced every single day.

Unfortunately, those brief few weeks when the world thought educators were heroes didn’t last long.

The lessons teachers learned about themselves, however, will last a lifetime.

You can accomplish more than you ever thought possible.

If you handled an online class while simultaneously teaching in person, nothing can stop you. You reached deep into your tool box to teach, and you did so with grace.

You learned you will always be asked to do the impossible by those without a clue as to what you do.

Parents should’ve realized teaching requires intelligence, patience and the skills to teach a difficult subject to all the different learners in the class.

Administrators should’ve learned to think twice before assigning ridiculous paperwork to already overworked teachers, especially a supervisor who has not stepped foot in a classroom in more than three years.

You taught every single day to students wearing masks while you had to wear one as well. A teacher knows whether or not a student is learning by the discouraged or triumphant look on their face.

Eyebrows don’t tell that story.

The community demanded ridiculous goals from you and, to make things worse, the powers that be decided it would pay exorbitant fees to testing companies to tell parents what you could’ve told them for free – kids are not where they’re supposed to be.

Teachers have the answer:  let educators teach students instead of teaching to a test and they’ll all be caught up in 12 weeks.

But the year wasn’t a total wash. Students learned something about teachers.

They learned their teacher would endure anything to make sure their students received a good education.

Teachers demonstrated when life blows up in your face, you gather up the pieces and keep going.

They learned they can count on their teacher to never give up on them.

Despite being exhausted, both physically and emotionally, teachers will spend the summer getting ready.

They’ll hang curtains in the classroom, create cozy reading corners and sit through online lectures to improve their teaching methods. They’ll have an online back-up plan ready just in case covid sweeps the country again.

They’ll do all of this knowing the community does not fully appreciate or respect them despite knowing how hard their job is.

They’ll do it despite knowing they’re not being paid what they’re worth.

They’ll do it because they love being an educator. They love your kids. They live for that one moment when a student’s face says “I got it.”

Teachers, you survived.

And if no one’s told you lately, thank you for never giving up.

Thank you for the generous heart you bring to your students.

Thank you for doing the impossible in an impossible year.

Forget Superman and Wonder Woman. The real superheroes are in our classrooms. They wore a mask instead of a cape.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

This week, the Class of 2021 will finish up their high school careers a lot differently than what they imagined when they started.

Their freshman and sophomore years were what we see on television – lively pep rallies, exciting football games, and first loves.

Last year, their traditional path was blown to bits.

Schools did their best to celebrate those seniors and spent the summer preparing for a year where no one knew what was ahead.

Almost every day was a new administrative hurdle, and the year started with mandatory masks in the classroom and scrambling to find internet access and laptops for virtual learners.

Students spent the year in front of a computer screen by themselves or sitting in almost empty classrooms while wearing a mask for eight hours.

It would be easy to feel sorry for these teens. They lost a year they can never get back, but they also gained more than any other class has in the last 50 years.

They found resiliency. These teens attended classes despite not being able to see their friends’ or teachers’ smiles.

They learned. They wrote the dreaded English research paper, debated the pros and cons of the American Revolution, either in person or on Zoom, and dissected a frog, either virtually or in the classroom.

They learned to live with uncertainty. No one knew how bad the coronavirus was going to be, especially with cable news outlets broadcasting the daily death toll every minute of every day.

No one knew if they’d have classes or athletic events, yet these teens still decorated banners and posters for the halls.

They matured. Social media is full of “Karen” videos where grown-ups refused to wear masks in stores and made the lives of minimum-wage employees miserable.

Teens working in retail and the food industry learned to take the verbal assaults of these militants and held their ground with maturity and a calm most of us could never achieve.

These teens learned they can obey rules that seemed overkill to them at their invincible age and still get the education they needed.

They learned responsibility. Those who checked in for their virtual classes on a regular basis earned their grades.

Those learned they could take care of their own lives without an adult looking over their shoulder. They found the answers when struggling with homework at 2 a.m. and found creative ways to complete group projects.

There were many who didn’t step up. They did the bare minimum, seldom checked in at school or spent the past year playing video games.

A huge number of teens grew discouraged or were overwhelmed with taking care of younger ones at home and let their studies slide.

There will always be people who do not rise to the challenge – those people have been a part of every generation.

But for those who did what you had to do, congratulations. You now know you have the inner fortitude to conquer any task in front of you.

Class of 2021, hold your head up high when you walk across the graduation stage.

Whenever you face a tough situation in the future, remember you completed your senior year of high school, the year that was supposed to be one of fun, parties and celebrating your future, with dignity.

Be proud you didn’t crumble when the whole world was falling apart.

You persevered despite the overwhelming odds.

Nothing will ever stand in your way.

 

            Next week – a salute to teachers. This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

Mother’s Day with my mom and family was a blast. Brother Jimmy and his crew boiled shrimp, crab and lobsters, and we had fun playing games and visiting with our delightful cousin, Amy, who flew in from New York.

We didn’t use fancy dishes or plates, and we didn’t worry about what we were wearing. The conversations never stopped as we reached over each other for paper towels and bowls of butter.

The best family shindigs are ones where we don’t worry about impressing anyone else. But so many times, we work ourselves into exhaustion because we think we must have a clean house in order to have a successful gathering.

That’s just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to the long list of “you musts.” It’s time for parents to shred that list.

Magazines and websites try to make us feel guilty if we’re not entertaining like royalty is visiting.

The shame they create is tough to resist because we all want to be the best at taking care of our families.

One area where we’re shamed is the laundry. It’s not enough for them that we wash and sometimes fold our clothes. Now they want us to do laundry stripping.

This requires people to soak clothes in a special mixture of borax, detergent and baking soda for six hours, rinse, refill the tub and soak the laundry for another six hours.

Who has 12 hours to devote to one load of laundry?

Who can tie up a bathtub all day long and who wants the back-breaking job of hauling all that wet laundry to the washing machine?

Not me. Cheap laundry sheets in the dryer will have your clothes smelling just fine.

Unless there’s someone in your family with severe allergies, forget dusting furniture. During the pandemic, I decided to dust the shelves in our living room. The last time I’d done that was eight years ago when we moved in.

No one, and I mean no one, has ever looked on those shelves and no one ever will.

Don’t beat yourself up because the tables in your bedroom have a fine coating of dust on them. My friend Pat has a great rationalization for not hauling out a can of Pledge – dust serves as a protective covering for furniture.

Check picking your child’s outfits off the list.

Years ago, our eldest son was participating in the Cub Scout Pine Wood Derby race. I went early to set up, and my husband brought our two youngest boys later.

The kids showed up in plaid pants, striped shirts, tube socks pulled up over their knees and full cowboy get up – boots, hat and holster. Dad and sons were proud of themselves for getting ready all by themselves.

I worried the other moms would judge me. But our kids had a blast, clomping around in their boots, waving their hats, and were confident in the choices they made.

Cooking a magazine-quality family meal is always on the mom guilt list.

Growing up, one of us spilled a glass of Kool-Aid every single meal. We ate from plates my mom got using stamps from Winn-Dixie, and we our drinking glasses were washed-out jelly jars.

To this day, my memories of family dinners is one of fun discussions, great food and knowing our family loved each other.

And that’s what moms really want – for their families to love each other.

Remember, you don’t have to be perfect.

It’s okay to have an unorganized pantry. It’s okay to have peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches for lunch and dinner.

It’s okay to have a bowl of plastic fruit on the table.

So sit back, shove the unfolded laundry aside on the couch and watch “Moana” with your kids.

Perfect is boring. I’ll take a messy, spur-of-the-moment life any day of the week.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

We talk about giants in society.

They are the trailblazers, the ones who take huge risks and believe there’s no reason to live half a life.

They push limits and ride high in the saddle.

Bill Hartman was one of those giants.

We lost a titan this week, and the Texas newspaper world and the business community have both lost one of its greats.

A native Texan and Baylor graduate, Mr. Hartman wrote about the small-town communities where he lived and worked. He was much more interested in the youngster who earned a blue ribbon at the county fair than a big-shot politician.

He was involved in his community. According to the Fort Bend County Historical Commission’s Oral History project, Hartman served on the Rosenberg/Richmond Chamber of Commerce, the Rosenberg Rotary Club, the Economic Development Council, the boards of Polly Ryon Hospital and Richmond State School and was active with the Fort Bend County Fair.

Three generations of Hartmans served as president of the Texas Daily Newspaper Association.

He not only served as president of the Baseball Writers Association of America, he loved writing about the Astros from their press box. He prized his dogs and horses, and there were pictures and ribbons in his office reflecting a love of riding and competing.

When I started at this newspaper, I had no idea the owner had an office right next door. We seldom saw him, but we knew Mr. Hartman critiqued and read everything we published.

His keen eye for prose and style earned my respect, but I was also terrified of him.

The first time I got a letter from Mr. Hartman, my hands shook as I opened the envelope. My column was a good one, he wrote, and closed with “keep firing.”  I framed that note and kept it over my desk for years.

When I criticized a big box store in town, he sent me an email – next time, include the offending company’s name.

Call ‘em out when they do right and nail ‘em when they do wrong was the message.

He was an outstanding writer. For years, he covered the Masters Golf tournaments from the sidelines, just as he did the Astros.

Well into his 70s, Mr. Hartman wrote a popular weekly Sunday column, “Sunday Slants,” and I loved reading about his family, the people he admired and the causes he championed and condemned.

There was no guessing where Bill Hartman stood on an issue, and he was never afraid to call out the weasels in public office and those who tried to slide underneath public decency.

He was an outstanding editor. Years ago, Lee Hartman asked me to write a story about a deaf baseball player on his son’s team. The father was also deaf and Lee thought the story was one I’d like to write.

Before the story was published, Lee said his dad wanted to read it first. I sweated and inspected every word in that feature story. I sent him a final draft and was shaking when I saw the editing marks on the page. All the changes Mr. Hartman made were absolutely right on the money. He trimmed the fat so the prose was lean and accurate. The parts he cut needed to go as they detracted from the main story.

I still have the marked-up page and reference it as to how to make a story pop off the page. The lesson – keep my eye on the heart of the story.

As the years passed, Mr. Hartman and I formed a friendship. He insisted I call him “Bill,” and I would but I was never comfortable doing that.

You see, Bill Hartman was a man who earned the esteemed title of “Mr.”

There are few people these days who can point to a lifetime of service to their community and a commitment to small-towns that are the country’s lifeblood. His many newspaper’s main directive was to cover those communities with dignity and thoroughness. Never forget the little guy and gal counted.

My condolences and prayers are with the Hartman family. Your dad and grandfather loved you all and left an enviable legacy in capable hands.

Keep firing, bh.

You’ll be missed.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.