Every December, the debate bounces around in my head – artificial tree or real tree.

Those who have an artificial tree love the low-maintenance pluses. I’ve always enjoyed having a real Christmas tree – either cut down at a tree farm or purchased from a local nursery.

I grew up with having real Christmas trees except one year. My mom wanted to follow a trend in the 1960s and bought a silver artificial Christmas tree.

We didn’t speak to her for a week.

But with so many singing the praises of their artificial tree, I decided to take a hard look at the advantages and disadvantages of putting up a real Christmas tree.

Pine needles are sharp and they clog up the vacuum cleaner. The pesky needles that escape the vacuum worm their way into the carpet so they can puncture the bottom of your bare foot, even in July.

We walk past the tree and handfuls of needles fall, giving up needles like it’s a drunk Cajun throwing beads in a Mardi Gras parade.

Real trees don’t grow evenly, despite being trimmed during the year. We always get the tree home and discover huge bare spots. Usually we can put the hole next to the wall. Other times, we let the shortest grandchild hang as many ornaments as they want in that spot.

Sometimes the branches are heavy enough to support our bigger ornaments and sometimes the ornaments slide right off because the branches are weak. Some years, I’ve had to put the bigger ornaments back in the storage box.

Real trees are a nightmare for those with allergies. Artificial trees cure this problem, but they also don’t have that fresh tree smell. Of course, if you get your tree at the hardware store like we do, the tree was cut back in July and the smell is long gone.

Real trees are never the right size. They’re either too tall or too short. If you find one that seems to be the right size, the price is astronomical and you find yourself standing in the parking lot muttering you’d only spend that amount once if you had an artificial tree.

Artificial trees are convenient. When you’re ready to put up the Christmas tree, you climb the attic ladder, get the box down and you’re ready to decorate.

Real trees require a trip to the tree lot, rain or shine.

Then you have to tie the tree to the top of the car and hope it doesn’t fall off. Ours did one year when my husband was out of town, and I thought I could tie it on by myself.

Luckily a Good Samaritan stopped and tied the tree back on the roof of our van after the tree went sailing.

After Christmas, there’s the problem of what to do with the tree. Artificial trees go right back in the box. That task takes less than 30 minutes.

Those with real trees feel bad about leaving the tree by the curb for the trash collector. Some neighborhoods and local nurseries have recycling programs, but you have to cut the tree up and tie the branches in bundles.

See note about sharp needles on real Christmas trees.

In the end, artificial trees are convenient, neater and more economical.

Real trees shed all over the place, they’re uneven, dry out in a matter of hours and shed worse than the family dog.

They’re messy, always a surprise and require running one more errand during a busy holiday season.

The evidence is clear.

I’m sticking with the real tree.

 

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

The only time I’ve ever ridden a horse was about 20 years ago. We were headed to Scout camp in Colorado and had a free afternoon before activities started.

I thought it would be a good idea to go on Rocky Mountain National Park’s guided horseback ride.

I told the cowboy I wanted the oldest, slowest horse he had because I was scared of getting on the back of a 2,000-pound animal.

He assured me the horse I was riding was just what I wanted. She was until the end of the ride and spotted the stable. All of a sudden, my horse started galloping, and I hung on for my life.

That incident replayed in my brain as I was driving to Dallas early Saturday morning to be a spectator at a Buck Brannaman horse training clinic.

Even though I don’t know a thing about horses, I know a little about horse trainer Buck Brannaman.

Buck was a child roping star whose mother passed away when he was young. He and his brother were left with an abusive father who beat them on a regular basis.

A coach saw whelps on Buck’s back, and the boys were removed from the home. They went to live with foster parents Forrest and Betsy Shirley who embraced the brothers and gave them and 17 other boys a safe and loving home.

From the Shirleys and other legendary horse trainers, Buck learned how to teach horses in a gentle yet firm way, and over the past 20 years of holding clinics, his devotees grew.

He was inspiration for the novel “The Horse Whisperer” and a major contributor to the movie starring Robert Redford.

In 2011, director Cindy Meehl filmed a documentary about Buck that won Best Documentary at the Sundance Festival.

My sister-in-law recommended the film, and sitting in the movie theater, I realized what Buck was saying about horses could be applied to teaching, and his advice served me well over my career.

Over the years, I’ve been watching Buck’s schedule to see if I could ever attend one of his clinics as a spectator. Most were out West or overseas, but when I saw one was within driving distance, I marked it on my calendar.

Although this city girl felt a little foolish going to a horse clinic, I wanted to see and hear the genuine Horse Whisperer in person.

I got to the arena during the lunch break and happened to see Buck near his truck. I hadn’t waited almost 10 years to let the opportunity to speak to him pass me by, so I walked up to him, heart pounding, and thanked him.

I told him that his documentary positively influenced the way I handled teaching. He taught me when a student is having a bad day or is labeled as troublesome, there’s a reason why and it’s not fair to hold that reason against the child.

Every student can be successful if the teacher finds out the students’ strengths, encourages good behavior and discourages unproductive behavior.

He smiled when I told him of my long-time admiration, and I walked away knowing that five-hour drive was worth it. He was gracious, unassuming and nice, as genuine as he was on the DVD I’ve watched at least a dozen times.

That afternoon, I saw first-hand what simple yet effective teaching is all about. Buck started the session on horseback in the middle of the arena, surrounded by people of all ages on their horses.

Three songs played over the loudspeaker as Buck demonstrated what he wanted the riders to do – use soft hands, lead the horse, stay calm and, most importantly, enjoy the ride.

Buck says he doesn’t help people with horse problems. He helps horses with people problems.

This quiet cowboy makes everyone believe they can be more than they thought they could be if they trust their horse and the good people who come into our lives, whether they’re a friend, foster parent, teacher or horse whisperer.

Thank you, Buck. Thank you for making me want to be a better person and showing me the way to reach that goal.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

In the winter, the house gets darker earlier. To make our living room a little brighter, I turned on the table lamp, but nothing happened. The lamp was plugged in, so, in my best Sherlock Holmes manner, deduced the lightbulb was dead.

In the past, a burned-out light bulb was no big deal. All I’d do is go to the store, pick up a yellow and blue pack of GE bulbs and be on my way.

Not anymore.

Lightbulb manufacturers decided to ramp up their selections to the same level as measuring isotopes in plutonium.

Oh how I miss that old basic box.

One-hundred watt bulbs were for areas where we needed heavy-duty light. Sixty-watt bulbs were the standard for reading lamps, and bulbs for the refrigerator were in a special box marked “appliances” for those of us who had trouble figuring out what bulb to buy for the fridge.

They also offered colored lightbulbs for Christmas and a yellow lightbulb that supposedly repelled mosquitoes.

My parents installed one of those lightbulbs on the patio, but all that ever did was make our back yard look like a school bus was parked back there.

Consumers now have to know what size lightbulb base they need — 12mm, 14mm, 26mm or 39mm and that doesn’t include European sizes.

No longer can you waltz into the hardware store and pick up a box of lightbulbs.

Buyers also need to know if they want a compact fluorescent lightbulb or one with a filament, the number of lumens they want and the temperature scale.

If that sounds like space-age jargon, you’d be correct, but that’s just the tip of the iceberg. There are incandescent, halogen, and LED lightbulbs.

Recently I decided to pick up some extra bulbs for the lights over the bathroom sink. I knew to take the old lightbulb with me for comparison, but I might as well have been holding a metal bottle opener.

I stood in front of the display and was overwhelmed. I kept comparing the old bulb to the boxes on the shelf, and nothing seemed to match.

I finally asked an associate to help me.

“Hmmm,” he said, looking at the old lightbulb like it was from the Stone Age. “What temperature do you want?”

“I thought these things came in watts,” I said.

“These days, brightness is measured in lumens and can run from 80 lumens to 3,000,” he said. “The temperature is measured in Kelvins and runs from classic warm white to cool daylight.”

He saw the confused look on my face.

“I just want a lightbulb that looks like this one,” I said holding up the old bulb.

“They don’t make those anymore,” he said.

I grabbed a box that looked like it would work.

“What about these?” I asked.

He looked at the instructions on the CFL – compact fluorescent light – and frowned.

“You have to handle these carefully as they contain mercury,” he said, an apology in his voice. “Also you have to recycle them.”

He looked at me, his customer, standing there with a burned-out, ancient lightbulb in her hand and a vacant look on her face.

“You could always buy a smart lightbulb,” he said with hope in his voice. “They connect to an app and you can change the color of the bulb with the touch of a button.”

Thirty minutes later, I walked out of the hardware store with a new lamp, lightbulb included.

There’s a ton of jokes about how many engineers, Aggies or psychiatrists it takes to change a lightbulb. All I’d like is a lightbulb that, when it needs replacing, doesn’t require a master’s degree in engineering.

By the way, it takes five Aggies to replace a light bulb – one to screw in the lightbulb and four to rotate the ladder.

 

This Aggie Mom’s email is dhadams1955@yahoo.com.

If there’s one thing we’re all thankful for this year, it’s that 2020 is almost over. That end can’t come fast enough as this has got to be one of the worst 12 months on record.

All of us have years that try our limits, whether it’s financial hardships, the death of loved ones or plans that didn’t go the way we wanted.

But 2020 was not only the sour apple pie of bad years, it had a bunch of rotten cherries on top.

I read a suggestion that instead of giving thanks, we should list what we’re grateful for this year. Many people keep a gratitude journal or they post what they’re thankful for, and that practice keeps them in a consistent thankful and serene state of mind.

There are quite a few things I’m grateful for this year – we had some Covid cases in our family, but none were serious. There were financial setbacks, and those remain tough, but we’re getting through those.

Our family is still strong, our mom is maintaining her independence and sense of humor and there’s a roof over our heads.

I’m always grateful for health, friends, family and faith. But because this is 2020, here are some of the little things I’m not only thankful for but also grateful for.

The ice maker in our refrigerator. I didn’t realize how much I relied on sticking a glass underneath the in-the-door dispenser and instantly enjoying a glass of ice water and crushed ice. That is until the ice maker broke.

I remember filling those old silver ice-cube trays with water – and the frustration when someone uses the last few cubes but doesn’t refill the tray.

Going to the movies. I took for granted that any day of the week, we could take in the latest Hollywood blockbuster at the local cinema, snack on a bucket of hot, buttered popcorn and enter a magical world 30 feet high.

I took for granted the thousands of artists and technicians who worked behind the scenes to create alien worlds and people so we could go beyond our wild imaginations, whether that’s behind the walls of Hogwarts Academy or on the bridge of a star cruiser in a galaxy far, far away.

The library and the printed word. The libraries here have been closed during the pandemic, and I am beyond sad. I took for granted leisure time walking between the shelves at the library, pulling out books that looked interesting and taking home the ones I wanted to spend hours reading.

Sure book stores are still open, but it’s not the same experience as in the library. Browsing in a store doesn’t come close to the quiet of the library building, the smell of those old books and the knowledge that if I don’t like the book, I can return it without having lost any money.

I miss taking my grandchildren to the library for Story Time and seeing the amazed looks on their faces as the librarian enchants them with a story. I’ve been checking books out online and having the librarian bring them to my car, but that’s not the same experience.

And since this is a time for giving thanks, the next time you have non-contact delivery of a library book, consider leaving a bag of chips for the librarian who’s getting your books, checking them out for you and then walking out to your vehicle – no matter the weather – so you can continue to enjoy the printed word.

People. Sure they can be rude. Sure they can be obnoxious. And, yes, they can be overwhelming. But people are the ones who give the best hugs. They’re the ones who, when they smile, light up your life.

They’re the ones who hold your hand when you’re scared, chat with you while you’re waiting in line and remind you that we come in all shapes and sizes and our individuality is what makes us who we are.

And when they’re no longer with us, the missing seems like a bottomless pit. And that’s when we have to remember to celebrate the here and now, not the what we lost, even in the midst of a changed reality.

I’m grateful that 2020 made me remember what’s really important in life. Perhaps 2020 wasn’t as bad a year as I thought.

Happy Thanksgiving!

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

 

 

Turning on the news these days is like opening a bag filled with meat that’s been sitting in a forgotten ice chest for three days.

Awful.

To describe the surge in coronavirus cases, reporters use phrases like “skyrocketing and unprecedented reported cases” and that officials are “extraordinarily distressed” and “in crisis.”

In Texas, coronavirus cases are up over 11,000 and Fort Bend County reported an increase of 54 cases. There are hospital beds, but there won’t be for long, states worried news anchors.

College students in California are being told to stay put for the holidays, and rumors are circulating of a shutdown tougher than the one we had in March.

Elementary students are falling behind in school, teens feel isolated and alone when they’ve chosen virtual learning over face-to-face class time and college football stadiums are the loneliest million-dollar places in town.

Beloved personalities like Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg and Congressman John Lewis passed away.

On the entertainment front, “Jeopardy’s” Alex Trebek, “Black Panther’s” Chadwick Boseman and musicians Doug Supernaw and Eddie Van Halen passed away as did NBA superstar Kobe Bryant and former Miss America Phyllis George.

We had a full moon and Friday the 13^th on the same day, and not one but two hurricanes caused significant damage along the Gulf Coast.

Hurricane Iota is slamming – yes, that’s the word the weather people use – through Central America, and we’re running out of names for hurricanes for the first time ever.

But my youngest granddaughter has not let the bad news get her down. At the age of 7-1/2, Katherine is an optimistic and happy child. She looks for the good in people and in every situation that comes her way.

Rainy day? She’s in the middle of the yard, covered in mud from head to foot and perfectly happy.

On cold days, she loves drinking hot chocolate with about 50 marshmallows in the cup. While others see a rocky road, she sees opportunity for painting those rocks and turning them into works of art.

We had to go to the grocery store while she was visiting this past weekend. I have a selection of masks in my car featuring flowers, animals and super heroes. She chose one with bright yellow flowers.

As she pushed the basket down the aisle, she enthusiastically greeted every person who came her way.

Her smile and happy attitude came through the mask as her voice carried genuine happiness. Most people wished her a great day as well, and one young woman was particularly taken with Katherine’s cheeriness.

“Well good morning to you too,” she said as she stopped and looked at Katherine. “You sure are in a good mood.”

Katherine didn’t miss a beat.

“I am because it’s a great day and I hope you have a great day too,” she said bouncing up and down. The woman laughed out loud and told Katherine her day was definitely better because she was lucky enough to have met her.

I learned a lot from my granddaughter that day. Happiness is ours every single day if we allow ourselves to find the joy.

If we allow ourselves to wallow in the sad, that’s where we’ll stay.

We can spread that happiness by still wishing other people a good day and refusing to isolate ourselves any more than we already are.

We need each other. We need to look for the good because the wonderful is out there. Sometimes all we need is a young child to remind us that happiness starts in our hearts and to not let a mask or gloom and doom steal our joy.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

“You got a surprise in the mail,” my husband said as he put an envelope on the kitchen counter.

Curious, I picked up the letter.

“Congratulations. You’ve been selected for jury duty.”

My stomach sank and I banged my head on the counter. I don’t know of anyone who likes to be summoned for jury duty.

We claim we want to fulfill our civic obligation, but when it comes to actually carrying out that duty, we’d rather have a root canal.

The first time I received a jury summons was in Louisiana. I was barely an adult, so the notice thrilled me. The government believed I was adult ready.

We assembled in a courtroom – just like on television – and there were attorneys chatting around two tables. At the head of the room was a judge sitting behind an impressive raised desk.

The counselor from my high school was sitting in the front row, dabbing at her eyes. When the prosecutor announced we’d be hearing a case about a murder, I knew exactly who they were talking about – the counselor’s late husband.

He’d been killed during a robbery, and we all knew about the tragedy because it happened when I was in high school. The prosecutor asked each potential juror if they’d ever heard of the case and I told him I did and why.

The prosecutor dismissed me, and I later found out the accused tried to assault the bailiff and his own lawyer during the trial.

Conviction. A slam dunk for the jury.

The next time I was summoned was in Fort Bend County. The case involved drunk driving.

The prosecutor asked if any of the prospective jurors abstained from alcohol. I was the only one who raised my hand, and the prosecution dismissed me from that trial as well.

When I received this latest jury summons, I was a little leery. We’re still in a Covid-19 quarantine state, and I remembered that the courthouse was packed on jury days.

The letter assured us that officials were taking all precautions, but if anyone felt uncomfortable, they should notify the court.

I didn’t have a valid reason for not going, and I knew I’d feel like a bum if I didn’t fulfill my civic duty. So I got up early on jury day and headed to Richmond.

Everyone had to wear a mask, and there were blue x’s taped on the floor six feet apart all the way from the front door to the jury assembly room.

The process was orderly and organized, from the x-ray machines to the clerk who took our temperatures.

People are usually sitting side by side, but every other row was roped off. Blue painter’s tape created a box on the open rows where people could sit about six feet from each other. The room was filled, but I didn’t feel uncomfortable.

Every step of the process was explained, either by a video or by court officials who were professional, courteous and humorous when the situation called for that.

Five hours later, all but 15 of us walked out of the justice center, and I have to say I felt both relieved and disappointed. All we had to lose was time, but the person on trial stood to lose or gain their freedom.

To know that 12 people are in charge of someone’s fate is a tremendous responsibility, and even though we might complain and look for a way to weasel out of jury duty, the experience was informative and something Americans are charged with doing.

Because of Covid-19, defendants have been waiting months for their day in court, and they deserve a fair trial and to be judged by their peers.

They, and the jurors, attorneys, judges, clerks and deputies, deserve a safe environment to conduct business.

You, the citizen, deserve to see the court system at work.

When you get that summons in the mail, don’t worry. Pack a water bottle, some snacks, a sweater, a book and a comfortable mask.

All you have to lose is some time.

All a defendant has to lose is their freedom.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

While looking at the upcoming weather change, I decided to wash the quilt on our bed. It’s too bulky for our 25-year-old washer to handle, so I searched for a nearby laundromat.

When I was in college, going to the laundromat was social time. The room was filled with college students, none of whom knew how to properly wash clothes.

Music was playing from somebody’s boom box, and we’d argue the pros and cons of the Rolling Stones vs. The Beatles.

I wasn’t sure what to expect when I went into a laundromat all these years later, and I was quite surprised by what I found.

The days of shoving everything that was dirty into one small machine were over. Modern washing machines are stainless steel and can handle different size loads of dirty clothes. Dryers are quiet and efficient.

Also, I didn’t need a roll of quarters. Patrons insert a credit card in a machine on the wall, key in the amount they want put on the card and go from there. I didn’t figure this out on my own – the nice lady working there helped me out.

I’d forgotten to bring laundry detergent, but another machine sold Tide pods along with Skittles and Gardettos.

I loaded the comforter into a machine and settled in with a library book, but the people were a lot more interesting than the “whodunit” in my lap.

There was a tired young mom with three baskets full of toddler clothes and a middle-aged man who paced the aisles. I noticed there was a piece of masking tape stuck to the back leg of his jeans with $1.00 printed on it.

An older gentleman came in the back door with a clothes basket filled with Tide pods and Zip-loc bags.

Each bag had bottled water, crackers and chips. He left the plastic basket on the folding table and walked to the machines where the young mother was waiting.

He inserted a laundromat debit card, she thanked him, and he kept walking around, inserting the card in machines where other people were waiting.

When he sat down at the folding table, I asked him if he was a volunteer. He smiled and started talking.

He said he volunteered with “Hope Impacts” to help the homeless in Katy. He said those down on their luck could come to Kingsland Baptist Church on Tuesdays and Thursdays for a shower, a hot meal and change of clothes.

The ministry also offers assistance with medical and dental care, counseling and skills to help in job searches.

More importantly, those down on their luck also see a friendly, non-judgmental face and someone to treat them like a human being.

My reporter’s cynicism was in full alert, but when I saw this man helping people in a dignified way, my faith in humanity was restored.

I thought about the many ministries here in our area that help with the invisible people of society. I’ve seen the good these organizations, some of which are Helping Hands, Lunches of Love, Attack Poverty and Common Threads, accomplish with dedicated volunteers and monetary donations.

There are dozens of church and civic groups that reach out to those down on their luck, and this is the time of year when the need grows.

Being grateful is a state of mind that is nourished by helping others. If you feel a little low in that department, consider reaching out to some of the incredible organizations here in our community.

Do some research and find a group you feel would best be served by your help, either monetarily or in person.

The people you help could be those you’d never guess are down on their luck. When we all work together, we can help make this world a lot better place.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

It’s been at least 15 years since I’ve visited a Little League ballpark and yelled “batter, batter, batter swing.”

When our boys hung up their baseball mitts for the last time, I thought those days were over, but I got a chance to sit in a Little League ballpark this week. The game brought back wonderful memories of watching kids play the all-American sport.

Baseball’s been in my family for as long as I can remember. My uncles loved their baseball trading cards, and they’d play wiffle ball in the side yard every Sunday afternoon.

Nieces and nephews joined in and learned early how to hold a bat, run to first and how to round second base.

Our eldest son loved playing baseball, and we started with T-ball at the T.W. Davis YMCA in Richmond. The younger boys would jump around on the playground while their elder brother learned how to bunt, steal a base and catch an infield fly.

His younger brother loved baseball as well, and the parent friends we made on that team remain friends to this day.

Our youngest son enjoyed the guitar more. He was a good sport and seldom complained about heading to the ballpark to watch his brothers play.

There were times I resented packing up the lawn chairs, snacks and gear and driving to the park. I imagined myself sitting home and relaxing instead of sitting outside on either a hot, sticky night or a cold, drag-the-blanket-with-me night.

Years later, I got to sit home, but I realized how much I missed the game when I went to watch my neighbor play ball at George Park in Richmond this week.

The last time I went to George Park, there were a few soccer and softball fields and about four baseball diamonds. Today, there’s fields everywhere, from beginning T-ball teams to parent-pitch to pre-teen teams.

The old wooden bleachers are now actual seats, and the lights shine just like at a high school field. The umps have matching shirts, and sponsor signs line the fence with some of the same businesses when our boys played.

Our neighbor Kyle’s team is the Astros, and those kids were ready to play. One young girl on the opposing team was the catcher, and she didn’t miss a throw. I cheered when she got on base, sliding like a champ into that bag.

Some of the kids struck out, and the coaches talked to them as they came back to the dugout, usually with their arm over the kid’s shoulders, and it was obvious fall baseball is one of learning more than winning.

And just like when my boys were up to bat, when Kyle stepped into the batter’s box, I held my breath.

When a ball came his way, I crossed my fingers as he ran as fast as he could to the fence and threw the ball to the cut-off man in time to make the play.

The sigh of relief I felt so many times came right back as if I’d never left the ballpark.

Some things have changed – there’s electronic scoring instead of a paper book, the bats are all high-end metal sluggers and people in the stands were wearing masks.

What’s the same is the enthusiasm the kids and parents have for one of America’s favorite games. Young girls and boys were learning the value of being on a team where sportsmanship counts and it’s possible to win and lose gracefully.

There’s nothing like baseball.

Kyle’s got a game Friday night.

I wouldn’t miss it for anything.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Achieving the “gotcha” moment seems to be the new level of success.

From presidential and vice-presidential debates to the highest courts in the land, setting a trap for someone and springing it is what now serves as entertainment.

This week, I’m listening to the senate hearings for Supreme Court nominee Amy Coney Barrett. If a senator isn’t showboating for him or herself, they’re grandstanding for their party.

They also spend a lot of their allotted time complaining about everything from voter suppression to Covid-19 precautions.

When they do ask a question, it’s not to get information. It’s to score points for their party and to try and nail Judge Barrett.

The search to find the best judge to sit on the highest court in America shouldn’t come down to party lines. The search should involve asking potential appointees tough, relevant questions about their qualifications and how they view the Supreme Court’s role in America.

But that doesn’t make senators look important.

That doesn’t allow them to score “gotcha” points.

That doesn’t allow them to bully and trip up whoever’s sitting on the hot seat.

Getting the facts apparently doesn’t get good ratings, and these hearings are being broadcast live on television, radio and social media.

 

The Rise of Karens

It’s not just politicians who are taking advantage of a television camera.

Look the popularity of “Karen” videos on the internet. One video of women acting badly has over 2.1 million viewers. That’s over 2 million people who want to see someone acting poorly and getting slapped down.

I never seem to have witty words instantly come out of my mouth like in the movies, and I’m usually so flabbergasted I don’t even think about getting my phone out.

Instead, I bolt up in bed in the middle of the night, slap myself on the forehead and mutter “I should’ve said that.”

We’re not stopping to consider how these women got to the point where they’re almost incoherent and in a rage. They probably believe they’re retaliating in the only way they know how.      The best way comes courtesy of Christian Cooper, an expert bird watcher in New York City. He was confronted by an out-of-control white woman who called the police and said an African-American man was threatening her and her dog.

For her “Karen” attitude, she was fired from her job and ridiculed on social media. Mr. Cooper refused to press charges, saying Ms. Cooper had been punished enough and she apologized for her rude and offensive behavior.

He’s one of the few people to refuse grabbing for the gotcha moment. Instead, he turned to compassion and understanding.

We don’t have to be a Karen to remember how to handle a situation where we want to blow up. My former neighbor, Helen, had a distinct flair for knowing how to act dignified in any situation.

She had a fabulous wardrobe, but my favorite item in her closet was a dark purple cape. Not a cape like a superhero would wear, but a fashionable shawl she wore to stay warm in restaurants.

Helen went to visit her husband at his office, and the two had a disagreement. She described what happened.

“When I’d said my piece,” she told me, “I stood up, took another puff off my cigarette, rubbed it out in the ashtray and stood up.”

And then the crowning moment.

“I looked at him straight in the eye and said ‘Don’t come home until you have a better attitude.’ I took my cape and flipped it over my shoulder. And then I walked out of his office without looking back.”

All I could do was look at her with my mouth open. Helen didn’t call her husband names. She didn’t throw anything at him or belittle him. She stood up for herself in a dignified way.

They made up that evening, but, as far as I knew, he never picked a fight with her in his office again.

“Gotcha” might get a lot of likes on YouTube and raise the ratings on a news program. But nothing will ever take the place of common courtesy and positive assertiveness.

And walking away with your head held high and a cape tossed over your shoulder.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When I was a teenager, going to high school football games was the highlight of the week.

I was in the pep squad, and we cheered on the Baker Buffaloes from wooden stands on Friday nights. We memorized hand signals and cheers and erupted into screaming applause when one of our players made a huge play.

As an added bonus, whenever we made a touchdown, the buffalo on the wooden scoreboard would snort smoke from its nose. Yes, football in a small town was exciting and memorable.

Later, we had season tickets to Louisiana State University football games, and those games are as clear to me today as they were 30 years ago.

Charles “Charlie Mac” McClendon was the head coach, and we all held our breath when the “Golden Band from Tigerland” marched on the field before every game, snapped their instruments into place and played four notes.

Instantly, thousands of fans were on their feet, cheering the Tigers, sticking with them through thick and thin.

The LSU stadium is nicknamed “Death Valley” although I thought the name “Deaf Valley” was a better one. The cheers were so loud, you couldn’t hear the person next to you, even if they screamed into your ear.

I learned the different penalty signals and grew to appreciate a collective “boo” whenever the refs made a bad call. For LSU fans, that was every single time the Tigers received a penalty.

Their rivalries with Ole Miss and Alabama remain legendary, and I vividly remember one match up against Alabama when we got drenched but stayed the whole time because the game was so exciting.

I thought about those days while watching Monday Night Football with my eldest son. He and his brother have Fantasy Football teams, and they watch games differently than we did back in the days of the Steelers.

The internet defines fantasy football as “selecting real players to create fake teams that earn points based on real players’ performances on the field. If your fake team scores more points than other people’s fake team, you win (and get to rub it in their face on Tuesday morning).”

That definition comes nowhere close to how complicated fantasy football is. Even after numerous explanations, I’m still not sure how it works except one doesn’t cheer for a team. You bet on individual players.

My son tried to explain the process, and he probably thought he was watching the game with a first-grader.

“So what team are you pulling for,” I asked as I sat down.

“Neither one,” he said, his phone in his hand. “I’ve got players on both sides.”

He showed me this complicated table on his phone with percentages, numbers and names.

My mind wandered and I remembered becoming a fan of the Pittsburgh Steelers back in the 1970s.

There was a young, brash Terry Bradshaw who broke all the conventional rules. The Steelers had the powerful Franco Harris and “Mean Joe” Greene. They were unstoppable, and it didn’t matter that we lived in Louisiana. The Steelers were my team, and that team won the Super Bowl.

I know fantasy football is complicated fun and perhaps the individual is more important than the team these days.

But…

I wouldn’t trade one minute of sitting in Death Stadium, one hour of cheering on the Baker Buffaloes or the love I still have for the Steelers for all the digital numbers on an iPhone.

For me, it’s all about the team.

I still believe in the Texans, the Cowboys – yes, you can like both – and I pray LSU beats Alabama until the end of time.

For this football fan, the team is ultimately more important than the individual.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.