Although the coronavirus has us socially distancing, life goes on.

People have found ways to continue toasting happy events, and many of those ways are quite creative, even though they’re not what we initially had in mind.

My nephew, Ben, is engaged and had a big wedding planned for the first part of October. He and his fiancée, Shevy, had venues booked, and we were making plans to attend their wedding in Virginia.

Covid stopped all that.

Ben and Shevy had to cancel everything. As a family that loves to celebrate together, the news was disappointing. We also realized we wouldn’t be able to host a bridal shower for Shevy and scrambled for an alternative.

Showers are a big deal in many families, mine included. My mother’s idea of what makes a great shower and mine are often at opposite ends of the spectrum. A few years ago, she came over early to help with a shower I was giving at my house.

She was inspecting the plates of snack foods and stopped at the chicken-salad sandwiches.

“You didn’t cut the crusts off the bread,” she said, pointing at the triangles of sandwiches on the plate.

“And I don’t plan to,” I told her. To me, that was too much work and I had no intention of standing by the sink and cutting crusts off all those sandwiches.

“People know sandwiches have crusts,” I told her as I dumped some chips in a bowl and put a can of store-bought dip next to the bowl.

While I finished a few last-minute preparations, my mother quietly got a serrated knife out of the drawer and cut the crusts off the sandwiches.

People at the shower commented on how elegant the sandwiches looked. My mother smiled. I rolled my eyes. But the next time I hosted a shower, I grudgingly cut the crusts off because I learned that little extra step did give the sandwiches a fancy look.

My sisters-in-law, nieces and sisters go all out for showers, and I’m amazed at the professional level of culinary and decorating skills our nieces have demonstrated. They created original invitations, made party favors that matched the colors of the wedding and decorated their tables in an up-to-date, modern style.

Following their grandmother’s advice, they cut the crusts off all the sandwiches.

We have brilliant nieces.

But we were still stumped on what to do for Ben and Shevy. Sister Diane came up with a Zoom shower, yet we were quite nervous about how to run the shower. Zoom meetings are usually for business or school, so we weren’t sure what to do when.

Despite our worrying, the shower came off flawlessly. My sister found a game where people got points for finding obscure things in their home, if you consider a VCR obscure, and points for having more than 1,000 pictures on one’s phone.

Relatives from all over the country, including France were there, and it was wonderful to see everyone, even if it was electronically.

We laughed, played the game, watched Ben and Shevy open their gifts and because we were all in the same area – a computer screen – nobody was left out of conversations.

Nothing beats being at family functions in person, but the virtual shower was pretty simple. When the call was over, we were finished – no dishes or pots to clean, gifts to haul out to the car or leftovers to divide between the hostesses.

Preparation chores were non-existent – no bathrooms to clean, rugs to vacuum or furniture to dust.

Best of all – no cutting the crusts off the sandwiches.

I think we hit gold.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

The quiet.

An unfamiliar setting for me.

Most of the time, noise is comfortable – family conversation, the dog snoring, the hum of the air conditioner.

Over the past few months, though, the racket has grown disturbing. My husband suggested we take a morning trip over to Seabourne Creek Nature Park in Rosenberg to escape the news for a bit.

I love nature, but not necessarily the outdoors. There’s mosquitoes, snakes and the unrelenting Texas heat and humidity. But other places of interest were either closed or unavailable, so I agreed.

Seabourne Creek is located on Highway 36 within eyesight and earshot of I-69. I was surprised by the number of people in the park. I admired their toughness – the temperature was quickly rising, but they jogged along the pebble paths, oblivious of the sweat.

Our first stop was the butterfly garden. I remember seeing this patch years ago when there were only a few small plants. Now the garden is bursting with color – reds, yellows, greens, blues and purples. How those plants can grow in the brutal Texas heat is beyond me, but the dozens of butterflies seemed quite content to feed.

Families were at the park, mostly around the lake fishing. Dads and moms were baiting hooks while their children did cartwheels, spinning to a stop when they heard a fish jump in the water.

Couples were seated on park benches watching the birds and enjoying the shade. One pair told us some pretty birds were over by the lake, so we headed there. I was hoping for some photos and my bird-watching husband was looking forward to seeing some songbirds.

On the walk to the lake, I noticed for the first time how quiet the park was. Even though the freeway was close by, the sounds of civilization were non-existent.

No trucks lumbering past, no car horns, no radios blaring. Just birds rustling in the trees, tiny frogs calling to each other and the crunch of the walking path gravel underneath our feet.

When we came to the educational garden, my husband and I separated, and I was all alone with the plants. Although I didn’t know the names of any plant or bush in the lush garden, that didn’t matter. Volunteers had listed the names of all the plants on signs, along with botanical information, and I silently thanked them for their tedious work.

Taking pictures of the flowers, hoping to catch a butterfly sipping on nectar, I realized how weary I’d become of the news and the world. Turn on the television or the radio, and all we hear is bad news, and that’s all there seems to be.

A hurricane decimated central Louisiana, quiet magnolia-lined streets and a laissez-faire way of life left in shambles.

Around the world, unemployment numbers are high, many businesses have closed down and there doesn’t seem to be an end to this pandemic. I feel guilty for having a roof over my head and pessimistic for the future.

But here in this park, where the entrance is free and the prairie is wide open and constantly blooming, the quiet gave me hope.

A belief that volunteers will make sure we have a quiet sanctuary where we can catch our breath and recharge.

A reminder that getting back to nature is the jump start we need to believe that the world will go on, change and renew.

A kick in the pants that there is good in the world.

We just have to go find it.

And often, we find that good in the quietest of places.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. For photos of Seabourne Creek Nature Park, visit Denise Adams’ Facebook page. 

There are few genuine things and people in this world. Such was the case with William “Junior” Hartlage who passed away this week.

Years ago, photographer Russell Autrey and I came up with an idea for a special section in this newspaper featuring cowboys.

Fort Bend County was changing. Acres of open prairies and pecan orchards were giving way to master-planned subdivisions and four-lane highways.

I’d seen young cowboys at the Fort Bend County Fair and wondered how they stacked up against the seasoned cowboys in the county. As a city girl, I was enamored by the cowboy mystique. They could rope cattle, fix fences and work year round, regardless of the Texas heat or the bitter cold spells.

Editor Bob Haenel gave us the green light to profile young cowboys and weathered cowboys. I wanted to find a genuine cowboy so I went to the one person I knew would have the answer – Frank Briscoe Sr. at Fort Bend Feed and Farm Supply in Rosenberg.

I went into the store, greeted by the rich smells of leather and sounds of chirping chicks, and asked Mr. Briscoe if he could recommend someone for the story.

“Junior Hartlage,” he said with his drawn-out Texas twang. I called Mr. Hartlage, set up an interview and headed out to the country.

He was tall and soft spoken, and welcomed me into his and Charlotte’s comfortable home. Junior, as he asked me to call him, told me stories of growing up in Fort Bend County when the county was farmland as far as the eye could see.

They had cattle drives across open acres where houses in New Territory now sit side by side. He remembered sleeping under the stars near Sugar Land, listening to coyotes howl at the moon.

If I wanted a feel for what life was like for a cowboy, he asked me to come with him while he vaccinated some cows.

We went outside and stood on a narrow wooden platform with stairs on each end. The farm hands would steer a cow into the chute, close the two ends, and Junior would give each cow a shot.

I stood back a bit because I’d never been that close to a cow, especially one that wasn’t happy about being in the chute.

All of a sudden, a cow reared up and knocked Junior off the platform. He fell onto his back into the dust as the crew wrestled the cow under control.

Junior picked up his hat and stood up. As he knocked the dirt and dust off his jeans, he looked straight at my face and pointed his cowboy hat at me.

“You don’t tell my wife about this,” he drawled.

I assured him I wouldn’t and I didn’t. At that moment, I thought Junior Hartlage was the toughest guy I’d ever met.

The story was complete after interviews and photos with the young cowboys, and they said there’s no other life they would wish for themselves.

They talked of how ranching was in their blood, and that was exactly what Junior said when I was leaving his place.

Russell and I finished the story, confident that the Texas cowboy mystique was aptly being passed down to young cowboys who loved the lifestyle they’d chosen.

Junior was the real deal, a genuine cowboy, and I was so glad I got to meet him.               He sat tall in the saddle and quietly commanded respect, a respect he’d earned from a lifetime following his dream, something few people get to do.

Junior Hartlage was the real deal.

You’ll be missed, cowboy.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Between hunkering down for Hurricane Laura and isolating from the coronavirus, watching movies my main escape path.

Throw in two nasty national party conventions, brutality in the streets and worries about schools reopening, and shutting out reality is a priority, not a luxury.

Since they haven’t made a lot of movies in the last six months, revisiting the oldies is something I’ve come to enjoy. I think every family has a list of favorites, and the “Hebert Nation” is no different.

So here’s a partial list of my family’s top movies, and if you haven’t seen them, why not give them a chance.

First is a musical from 1971 – “Fiddler on the Roof,” and the Heberts know all the words to all the songs.

The movie is about a Jewish family in 1905 in Russia. Father Tevye is a poor milkman with only daughters and he dreams of one day being a rich man.

Our dad identified with Tevye as he always dreamed of being rich and had three daughters who married who they wanted, not who the father had chosen.

The movie’s theme of prejudice against the Jewish people in the village still rings true as we watch minorities continue to fight for equality and justice. But mostly the songs are fabulous and will make you laugh and cry.

Another favorite is “Princess Bride.” I had to admit a few weeks ago that I’d never seen this 1971 movie. My sisters set up a three-way movie night so I wouldn’t remain ignorant, and I thoroughly enjoyed the flick.

The film’s about a beautiful young woman who has to wait for her one true love to find her. The movie has one-liners that fit into life’s daily conversations:  “Inconceivable” and “My name is Inigo Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die!” Yes, that second line will actually fit seamlessly into a conversation.

The comedy’s is a little dated, but not knowing about “The Princess Bride” definitely puts you at a disadvantage when someone says “You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.”

Although musicals aren’t for everybody, they are a fun escape. If you can’t spend a couple of hours with Gene Kelly and Debbie Reynolds as they tap and sing their way through the raindrops, then you really need to get out in the next rainstorm – which is probably today – and twirl around a bit.

Another favorite is “Seven Brides for Seven Brothers.” Not as well-known as some of the other MGM musicals of the 1950s, “Seven Brides” is a perennial favorite of the Hebert girls, and at the top of my sons’ most-hated musicals list.

If you’re not tapping your feet during the barn-raising dance sequence, you need to go twirl in the rain and dance a little jig.

Sometimes snuggling up on the couch when it’s rainy outside is a good time to watch a drama, especially if there’s a good cry involved at the end.

Two of my mom’s favorite tear-jerkers were “Stella Dallas” with Barbara Stanwyk and “Imitation of Life” with Lana Turner. Stella Dallas was a street-wise gal who knew she’d never fit into the high-society lifestyle of her husband.

She doesn’t want to embarrass her daughter at her wedding, which Stella told her she wouldn’t attend, but her step-mother understands there’s no way Stella would miss her daughter’s wedding.

She orders the drapes to remain open to the street so Stella can watch Laurel get married. Just try and keep a dry eye during that scene.

“Imitation of Life” shows how women were battling prejudice against the races back in 1959 and how that hatred divided families. And, as in “Fiddler on the Roof,” these prejudices are not any closer to being solved.

So sit back, snuggle up under a blanket, and revisit the classics from the old days. As Tevye tells the audience, what’s always important is “Tradition!” Honor your family’s tradition by tuning in to a favorite flick.

Pass the popcorn please.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

 

I’m a weather junkie.

A Weather-Channel, radar-following, hurricane-tracker addict. The weather men and women on television are as familiar to me as my neighbors. I check the weather every morning and especially before heading out.

I particularly dislike driving in bad weather. When the rain starts pelting my car, I’ll usually find a safe place and pull over until the storm passes.

Sometimes, though, it’s hard to get away from the storm.

My mom and I were traveling along Highway 190 in Louisiana. It’s the old east-west route through the state, one I’ve traveled many times as Interstate 10 has become an orange-cone parking lot.

As we got closer to the Atchafalaya Basin, I noticed the tall trees on the side of the road were swaying, gently at first and then more violently.

The shorter trees were visibly shaking, and branches were pumping up and down like puppets on a string.

Dust-devils were kicking up and spinning on side roads, and I could feel the wind pushing my vehicle. That feeling made me sit up straighter in my seat and start silently praying Hail Marys.

My mom asked why I was being so quiet.

“Don’t you see how those trees are practically bent over,” I asked her.

“It all looks fine to me,” she said looking out the window. “Everything will be fine. God’s in control.”

I pulled over into a gas station’s parking lot to check the weather radar.

There was an ominous line of dark red and yellow a few miles north of us, and it extended all the way to Baton Rouge. Soon, the storm would catch up to us or us to it.

Ahead was a tall bridge, and I did not want to be at the top of that structure when a strong gust came through.

“I’ve never seen you like this before,” my mom said. “You’re usually the one in charge, the one who’s unafraid. I’ve never known you to be a chicken.”

She was right.

I was scared.

Scared of going over the bridge. Scared of being tossed around like a rag doll. Scared of having my mom injured.

Mixed in with the fear was the shame of being a coward.

The only thing to do was to keep going and hope we could get home before rain and lightning joined the wind.

I got back on the highway, marveling at my mother’s calm demeanor, her faith in me and the Lord.

We made it over the bridge, the wind not as bad as I’d feared, but I held my breath the entire time.

“Look ahead,” my mom said. “There’s clear skies up ahead. God is showing us the way. Just head toward that light. You can do it.”

Those words had the desired effect. I had a mission now, a goal to achieve, so I kept driving.

My hands were still gripping the steering wheel, my stomach was churning, and I kept going, not because I was brave, but because there was no other choice.

Perhaps when the storms come, it’s okay to admit we’re chicken. It’s okay to feel like a failure and okay to feel like we can’t take another step forward.

But when you do, when you move forward, even though every fiber of your being wants to crawl back to safety, you’re on the way to becoming a little bit braver.

My mom taught me a good lesson. Sometimes you just have to look for the clear patch ahead, ignore the chaos all around and just keep going whether it’s clear sailing or stormy skies.

Just keep going.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The first segment I heard on the radio this morning was a follow-up on the Beirut explosion. The damage caused to this beautiful city on the sea was intense, and the number of dead and injured was staggering.

That story was followed by a news report on the looting in Chicago, and listening to the gunshots and sirens made me even sadder for the world.

Then there was a story about Covid-19 and schools reopening and how sick teachers would be, the daily danger level, how kids needed to be back at school, that parents needed to be back at work and thousands of jobs were being lost and… I turned off the news.

Columnists have the flexibility of giving readers their interpretation of what’s happening in the world.

Was the bombing in Lebanon a case of careless storage or the work of a terrorist? I could spin that column either way and scare the fire out of everyone no matter what road I took.

I could write about the reckless looting in Chicago’s high-end shopping district and throw blame to both sides.

When it comes to reopening the schools, there’s enough arguments, pop facts and opinions to keep the internet spinning for months.

Many columnists, this one included, give out advice. If only people would learn to get along, we write, the world would be a better place.

Nothing anyone has ever written, not the Emancipation Proclamation or speeches from Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., has changed intolerant minds.

So what to write about. What could possibly keep your interest and not make you unwrap another chocolate bar or bite your fingernails any shorter.

Happy things comes to mind.

But, columnist, aren’t you being a Pollyanna? Aren’t you turning a blind eye to what’s going on in the world and isn’t it your job to write about current events.

Maybe.

But when the current events are as depressing as spilling a bottle of Big Red on your new white shirt, then it’s time to think about something cheerful.

So let’s go down that lane.

Puppies. With their little wagging tails and big eyes, puppies are absolutely darling. So, for that matter, are kittens. They like to go to sleep on your chest and make the sweetest sounds.

Until they relieve themselves on you. Or chew up your shoes or the legs on a kitchen chair. Or destroy your slippers.

Not so cute now, are they.

Sunsets are happy. The oranges, reds and yellows blend to close out that days’ woes in warm shades.

Unless you’re in Texas where the temperature is still in the upper 90’s as the sun sets, the oppressive humidity reminds you of a sauna bath and the mosquitoes are feasting on your upper arms.

Music usually makes us happy unless, of course, we listen to a song that reminds us of the guy who dumped us or takes us back to our high school days when we’re listening to a golden oldies station. Then we remember, sigh, we’re a golden oldie.

As if we needed any reminders.

So the question remains – what to write about.

The only thing I can come up with is hope.

I hope people continue to clean up the world and their hearts. I hope there’s a vaccine for this coronavirus, and I hope the world can return to a sense of normalcy coupled with an appreciation for the things we’ve taken for granted.

I hope we can learn to get along and I hope my great-grandchildren are able to live in a world without war, diseases, famine or prejudice.

This columnist refuses to give into despair for she knows there’s always two sides to every situation and every story.

We can continue to play with puppies and kittens if we remember that cuteness often comes with a few scratches.

And a sunset can either signal the end of the day or that a new dawn’s right around the corner. Life is, after all, a series of choices, and we can choose to find the happiness in life or drown in the despair.

I trust you choose wisely.

A columnist can, after all, hope.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald

In an effort to start getting rid of the extra Covid pounds – oh let’s be honest, the fall, winter and spring pounds – I laced up my sneakers and went out for a walk.

Barely a block in, my legs and knees started aching, and I limped back home.

“Old age,” I told myself.

“Years of not taking care of yourself,” the snide little voice in my head shouted back.

Both voices were correct, so I promised to walk more to get into better shape.

Each morning, I’d come limping back. I noticed, though, that my legs and knees didn’t hurt when I walked around barefoot.

My tennis shoes could be the culprit although I hated to blame something I’ve come to treasure – shoes.

For years, I thought buying shoes was practical. Find your size, try them on and buy the shoes if they fit.

I totally missed the boat.

Shoes aren’t just for protection. They’re optimistic, fun and shoes mark special times in our lives, from our first lace-up shoes to our favorite bedazzled flip flops.

They come in all shapes and sizes. There’s flats, high heels, sneakers, sandals and pumps.

You can try all of them on for free. In the shoe store, I used to slip on high heels and imagine myself on the red carpet at the Oscars.

Slip on sneakers and you can pretend you’ll be running a marathon. Reality sinks back in once you realize those high heels are almost $100 and a decent pair of running shoes is twice that price.

Most of us can remember our favorite pair of shoes as a kid. In “The Sandlot,” PF Flyers saved the day. I remember having a pair as a kid and believing I could run faster and jump higher because of those shoes.

I watched Cinderella try on that magic slipper and snag a prince and crying when Dorothy closed her eyes, clicked those ruby red heels together and said “there’s no place like home.”

Tap shoes are some of the best shoes a little girl can have. I spent many happy hours tap dancing around the house, down the driveway and on the sidewalk in front of our house. Best of all, tap shoes make noise and annoy parents and siblings.

But I grew up and, somewhere along the way, came to believe shoes needed to be practical, comfortable and quiet.

A few years ago, I stopped in the shoe store after a long, tough day and ran into a friend. She had the same tired look on her face I did and she told me shoe shopping is therapeutic.

As I looked at all the shoes, I remembered how much fun I had with my sisters and sisters-in-law shoe shopping. An hour later, I found myself a lot happier when I left, fancy shoes in a box. These days, I seldom pass up an opportunity to browse around a shoe store, even though the fanciest place I go is the grocery store.

I thought about my love affair with shoes while out on that painful walk. I started wondering when I’d bought the sneakers I was wearing. I know I had them in the last house we lived in, and that was eight years ago.

Maybe my limping wasn’t because of old age. Maybe the problem was my walking shoes.

That afternoon, I bought a good pair of sneakers – on sale – and tried them out. Not only did I make it down the block the next morning, I made it all the way around the block that evening without any pain.

Those new sneakers might not be made out of glass and they’re not ruby red, but they sure worked their magic on me.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Customer service is invaluable for businesses to stay alive. Surviving often comes down to outstanding customer service.

I had an unpleasant experience in a weeks’ time with a local business and a national chain. The chain rectified the situation with good customer service. The local one lost this customer who’d been going to their business since they opened.

Let’s start with the big box.

After weeks of research, I finally found a laptop to suit my new needs. I went to an electronics box store to try out the keyboards.

Since I used their store to test drive the laptop, I felt the only fair transaction was to spend my money with the store providing the service.

When the laptop arrived, the power cord wasn’t in the box. I called their customer service line.

After listening to their pre-recorded music and pressing “one” numerous times, I eventually got through to a real person, wishing they’d follow the procedure at this newspaper and have a real person answer and route calls.

Then the power went out and I lost the connection. A few minutes later, I called again, pressed all those buttons and a real person came on the line.

After pretending to listen to what I needed, he said he’d connect me with someone who could help me. Instead, he disconnected me.

I screamed at the phone and called back, pressing all the buttons again and listening to all the same pre-recorded messages and cursing the person who invented electronic routing.

A new representative said the problem wasn’t theirs. It was the manufacturer’s problem. I explained I didn’t order the laptop from the manufacturer – I ordered it from them.

At that point, he said I had two options – get a $25 gift card – the power cord is $30 in the store — or return the laptop.

“I want a third option,” I said. “I want you to FedEx the power cord to my house like you did the laptop.”

“That’s not an option,” was the reply.

“Then I want to speak to a supervisor,” I said.

“They’ll tell you the same thing,” was the reply. And he refused to connect me to a supervisor.

At that point, I was done. My husband said he’d take the laptop in the next day and either get a power cord or return the laptop.

In person, the store associates were polite, apologetic and ordered another laptop. It arrived two days later, power cord included.

Online customer service = F. In-person customer service = A.

My second frustration came from a local car wash. For Christmas, my son gave me a gift certificate for four deluxe car-wash packages. I went a couple of times to get my car serviced, but each time, the manager told me he didn’t have the staff on site and to come back.

I went last week and a new manager said he’d bought the business and wouldn’t honor the gift certificates.

I protested.

He agreed to one service, and I told him I didn’t think that was fair to get only one wash when four had been purchased.

My son earned the money for that gift by welding in 100-degree weather, often hanging from a scaffold 10 stories up. That money didn’t come easy to him and I wasn’t about to let his gift go, especially as there wasn’t an expiration date on the certificate.

I tried to bargain for at least two – the new owner wouldn’t budge. He made me give him the gift certificate – I took a picture of it – and I got one cleaning package.

I posted the situation on social media, and someone posted that their neighbor owned a new car wash in Fulshear on FM 1463. He wanted to give me four packages for free to make up for my bad experience.

From that post, at least five people said they’d now frequent the new car wash.

I was quite surprised, but realized this business owner lives in our community and owns a local business. I won’t make this new owner take on an extra burden, but he’ll get my business from now on.

There’s a simple solution to cleaning up the former business’s horrible track record and making a good name for yourself.

Do the right thing and the bucks will roll your way. Fry people, and bad karma rolls your way as well.

In these tough economic days, customer service is the one area that doesn’t cost a dime yet can mean thousands of dollars in good will and repeat business.

I know where I’m spending my money. Be careful where you spend yours.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

“I realized something the other day,” my husband said. “I’ve been married to you for over half my life.”

I couldn’t tell whether he was happy or depressed.

So I came up with the only answer I could think of off the top of my head.

“You lucky man,” I said with enthusiasm. “Think of all the things you’ve learned from me. You should be thanking the angels that you’ve known me for over 35 years.

We both laughed, although I laughed harder than he did.

It’s true he’s learned a lot in the three decades we’ve been married.

He’s learned that mathematically challenged people can be an asset.

The fact that I can’t remember the date of our anniversary means I never expect a gift.

He’s also learned not to argue with irrational people.

That would be me.

He realized my irrationality early on. When we got married, he had a well-behaved and quiet cat, the first cat I’d ever been around.

When I found out I was pregnant, I remembered hearing my elderly aunts repeating an old wives’ tale – cats will get into a crib and suffocate the baby.

At the time, there was nothing separating the bedrooms from the living room. I panicked and said I wanted a door blocking the hall from the rest of the house.

I told my engineer husband what my elderly aunts, and well-meaning cat-hating friends, had said about cats getting in a baby’s crib.

“I’ve heard that could happen,” I added.

“You’re being irrational,” he finally said in frustration.

“That’s correct,” I said. “And the only way to deal with irrational people is to humor them.”

The door went up the next week.

Over the years, I know I’ve spouted off useful, empowering words of wisdom, lessons that put his life on a more productive road.

Gems of knowledge that opened his eyes to truths he never knew his wife possessed.

I just can’t think of any of those gems right now.

His gems are easily recalled. First, remain calm in emergencies. One year, he went hiking in Arkansas. A few days into his trip, he called.

“Hi honey, it’s me,” he said, his voice calm and cool. “I’ve been shot. Don’t panic because I’m okay.”

I practically dropped the phone, but he explained a hunter didn’t see him and hubby was hit with some buckshot.

A trip to the emergency room ensured he was in no danger, but I don’t know very many people who could calm their wife down from the emergency room as a doctor removed buckshot from their body.

He taught me how to methodically put things together. Before we were married, my do-it-yourself steps included dumping the box out on the carpet, starting right in and ignoring the directions.

Husband taught me to make sure I had the right tools, to count the parts before I got started and to gasp, read the directions first.

He never spends time straightening up a closet or drawer because he keeps things neatly organized. Unlike his spouse, he always knows where his car keys and wallet are and he never loses a sock in the dryer.

I, on the other hand, have probably spent years cleaning up closets and straightening up my desk. I frantically look for my car keys at least once a week, misplace my wallet almost every day and there’s a gallon Zip-loc bag in the laundry room filled with mis-matched socks.

Some of us are lucky enough to get through life with a full deck of unbent cards in the original box while others have a 48-card deck of mis-matched, dog-eared cards in a Zip-loc bag.

Somehow, we’ve made it work for 36 years.

Maybe it’s because my husband is one lucky guy.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Some people fall asleep the minute their heads hit the pillow.

I’m not one of them.

I usually toss and turn, replay events over and over in my mind or worry about everything and everyone.

Having a set routine the 30 minutes before bedtime often works to convince my brain it’s time to sleep, but sometimes reading doesn’t do the trick.

A friend suggested downloading white noise onto my phone and using the noise to help me relax.

There are dozens of calming noises on the internet, from the quiet sound of rain falling to cars and taxis on a busy city street for those who prefer a metropolitan mix.

She was right – the sound of the rain was quite relaxing until an Amber alert went off on my cell and rattled my brain back to full awake mode.

Lying there, I found myself remembering the original white-noise generator – the attic fan.

Growing up in Baker, La., there were seven kids in a three-bedroom house, and it was tough to find peace and quiet, especially at bedtime.

That’s when my parents turned on the attic fan.

For those who didn’t grow up with one, an attic fan pulls hot air from the attic and, at the same time, blows cooler air into the house.

I have no idea if the fan saved energy, but the attic fan had one main benefit – the loud, rhythmic pulsing sound the fan made at night was powerful but soothing.

On hot summer nights, we’d lie down in the short hall of the house, shoulder to shoulder, turn on the attic fan and take turns yelling up into the fan and laughing as we heard our voices echo and rumble around overhead.

The only arguments were if we got kicked or someone was taking up too much space. But pretty soon, the loud thumping sound quieted us down, and we were calm in a short amount of time.

On a recent sleepless night, I found myself thinking about that attic fan and the other ways we found to chill in the summer. The handiest way was the plastic sprinkler we got from the hardware store.

The sprinkler was inexpensive, handy and a lot of fun until the yard flooded and we made huge mud holes. We loved sliding through the mud, but our mom wasn’t thrilled about all those muddy clothes.

Our neighborhood had a community pool, and we spent almost every afternoon there as did every kid in Baker Estates, our middle-class neighborhood.

I remember the pool opened up at 11 a.m., and we’d head off on our bikes as soon as “The Young and the Restless” was over.

We stayed at the pool until we were starving, and I don’t remember worrying about the heat as long as we could swim.

Seven kids and the summer break meant extra snacks. Watermelon was our number one choice, but that was only if mom had gone to the grocery store.

Occasionally we’d use the ice-cream maker, but none of us wanted to sit there for an hour and turn the crank. The worst part of home-made ice cream was after all that work, you only got about two cups of ice cream.

The one staple we always had plenty of was Kool-Aid.

My mom bought some plastic Popsicle containers from a Tupperware party one year. We’d carefully fill those up with Kool-Aid at night and the next day slurp those frozen treats up in the heat of the day.

But of all the ways we found to stay cool in the summer, nothing beat that attic fan.

Maybe I’ll give that white noise app another try and see if I can download the sound of an attic fan.

The noises from my childhood might be the perfect ticket to a good nights’ sleep.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.