“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. 

It’s difficult to find things to be happy about right now.

The coronavirus is spreading like wildfire, the Texas Education Agency said kids will be going back to school in the fall even though there’s no vaccine or end to the pandemic – what about teachers, youngsters and staff who are in the danger range – and racism is alive and angry in our midst.

If I choose not to read or listen to the news, I’m a frustrated coward, ignoring the hateful bigotry in our country or the latest ridiculous plan legislators have to open the schools.

If I’m not cleaning my house, I feel lazy.

If I’m not exercising, I feel like a failure for the extra weight I’ve packed on while quarantining.

If I eat cookies, I feel bad about those who don’t have enough to eat.

And that doesn’t even begin to touch global warming, pollution or littering.

I walked around my house, telling myself I should clean something or gather up outgrown clothes to donate when things open up.

I straightened some pictures on the wall, and then I noticed them – the rocks.

There’s a dozen or so small rocks in a plastic basket on a table in the hall. It’s a collection of rocks I’ve gathered for years. I pass the box all the time, but today, I stopped and sorted through the stones.

I’ll admit to being a rock hound. With two geologist brothers, the interest comes naturally.

If there’s a rock pile on the side of the road and there’s time, I’ll pull over and rummage around because even the plainest rocks have their own quirks and beauty.

In some, it’s a ribbon of pink or red that runs through the center, or a well-worn spot that allows you to use the rock as a worry stone. I have a couple of heart-shaped rocks as well as one that looks like a car.

At the bottom of the box was a piece of quartz, a gift from a friend.

Sections of the quartz are clear, some are milky, and the pyramids fit together beautifully. I held the rock up to the light and was delighted to see something so simple reflect such beautiful light.

Digging through the box a bit more, I found one of my favorite rocks, one I’d forgotten I had – a geode.

The prettiest one I have looks like hardened mud on the outside, but there’s deep white and purple amethyst quartz crystals on the inside. They look like tiny diamonds inside that tough outer shell.

Another geode is polished, and the glassy browns, beiges and scarlets blend together seamlessly.

One afternoon when our grandchildren came to visit, they discovered the box. They thought the driftwood and some polished stones I picked up at a rock store were cool, but they fell in love with the geodes.

The thrill of finding a treasure inside a plain rock is one I wanted to share with them, so I bought a couple of geode kits.

They had a blast putting on the goggles, finding old socks to put the geodes in and choosing the biggest hammer in the workshop.

It took a while to figure out how to hold the sock without smashing their fingers and numerous blows with the hammer to get the geodes to open up.

But break apart they did, and the youngsters absolutely loved seeing the beauty that was hidden inside a plain rock.

There’s a lesson there, of course, that we shouldn’t judge anything or anyone by its outside appearance. Just because something is plain and ordinary on the outside, or even ugly, doesn’t mean you can’t discover true beauty inside.

The next time you’re on a lonely road, look for the rocks. Stop and rummage through the pile. As in life, you’ll find some plain stones, but remember while you’re looking, you’ve got hope. And in today’s world of doom and gloom, sparking a bit of hope is what we need.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Parents have a lot of responsibility – the safety of their children, preparing nutritious meals and making sure the Tooth Fairy shows up and pays up.

With three boys, we had our fair share of Tooth Fairy duties. I was on the ball with the oldest son. I couldn’t wait for him to go to sleep so I could slip a dollar underneath his pillow and quietly and gently take his little tooth.

I was the first one up because I couldn’t wait to see his face coming into the kitchen with the money the Tooth Fairy had left him.

With the second child, I was still diligent – making sure I snuck upstairs after he’d gone to sleep, sidestepping his clothes and empty cereal bowls, and then sliding the money quietly underneath his pillow.

I wasn’t quite as on the ball with the third child – if he wanted to wear his water boots to the grocery store, so be it.

If he wanted a hot dog for breakfast, at least he was eating something. I let my guard down, and that included Tooth Fairy duties.

The first time I earned a D-minus in Tooth Fairy apprenticeship was when he lost his third or fourth tooth.

I had good intentions of putting money under his pillow, but I fell asleep before he did. The next morning, I heard my son upstairs yelling about not finding any money under his pillow and I panicked.

I grabbed the two dollar bills off the counter – where I’d put them so I wouldn’t forget – and ran up the stairs.

He was on his hands and knees on the floor, looking for the money.

“Did you check underneath your pillow?” I asked?

He assured me he had. With the money hidden in my hand, I reached underneath his pillow, pulled out the cash and held it up.

“Hey, you must’ve missed something,” I said.

He yelped for joy and thanked me.

I felt like a heel.

Did this Tooth Fairy apprentice vow she’d never disappoint her child again?

Yes.

Did she forget the next time?

Of course.

A few weeks later, I remember waking up to the sounds of my youngest stomping around in his room yelling “where’s the money?”

My stomach flipped over, and I knew I’d forgotten again.

Thinking fast, I grabbed a five-dollar bill out of my wallet. This was twice the going rate because I figured I had a guilt fee to pay. I held the money out as I walked into his room.

“Hey, look what I found in the hall,” I said.

He was standing on his bed –the sheets and bedspread on the floor – and I could see he was close to tears.

“The Tooth Fairy must’ve dropped this on her way to your room last night,” I said as I gave him the money.

The look of relief on his face was immediate, and I felt awful.

The Tooth Fairy’s apprentice remembered every single time after that, and the youngest kid got a huge raise each and every time. Guilt will do that to an apprentice.

This past weekend, our grandchildren spent the night, the first time in months.

While we were eating dinner, our 7-year-old grandson held out a small tooth in his hand and said it had been loose. He hoped the Tooth Fairy could find him at our house, and we reassured him she could.

The apprentice was being offered redemption, and this time, she’d better get it right.

Not trusting myself to get upstairs before he woke up – James is always the first one up – I called all of the grandkids into the kitchen for a snack. While they were enjoying their ice cream, I snuck upstairs and put the money underneath James’s pillow.

Everyone headed to bed, and as I was cleaning up the kitchen, I heard James come thundering down the stairs, three dollar bills held up over his head.

“The Tooth Fairy already came,” he said.

“You must’ve been first on the delivery route tonight,” I said.

I think the Tooth Fairy’s apprentice has finally learned the ropes.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

One of my family’s favorite movies is “Fiddler on the Roof.” The 1971 musical features a half dozen memorable songs, from “If I Were a Rich Man” to “Tradition.”

As I’ve been following a friend’s unlucky dating adventures, one song that’s stuck in my head is “Matchmaker.”

Three daughters start off wishing the town matchmaker, Yenta, will find them the perfect man. As the song goes on, they realize the perfect match could be a nightmare.

Today’s singles don’t rely on Yenta to find them a mate. They rely on social media to find the ideal companion, and I’m not sure if that’s a better avenue than the old-fashioned matchmakers in every family.

Many Sunday afternoons were spent in my grandparents’ kitchen after Sunday dinner discussing the possible matches they could find for the unmarried people in the family.

“What about Mary’s son?”

“He’d be a great catch. He is 50, though.”

“Even better. He’s got a lot of money in the bank.”

I’ll admit to playing matchmaker for my sons. I thought I was dropping casual hints.

“Hey, I saw – insert name of eligible girl here – in Mass last Sunday. She’s single, you know,” I’d say. All they’d do was roll their eyes.

As the years went by with no mention of a girlfriend, I’d do my best to drop a hint about the eligible girls who were slowly but surely disappearing from my Aggie boy’s dating pool.

Usually I’d open this newspaper and see an engagement announcement for one of the girls he’d gone to high school with. I’d call him and, without even saying hello, start in with my best matchmaker voice.

“Your future wife is about to get married to someone else,” I’d say. There would be a long sigh on the other end of the phone.

“This makes about five girls who are now married to someone else and probably someone else will be spoiling my future grandchildren,” I’d say.

The Aggie boy would usually hang up at that point.

Once I asked him why he trusted an online dating app to fix him up with a girl when his mother could do the same and for free.

He did admit that the girls I chose were nice looking, smart and, let’s not forget, Catholic.

“And what’s wrong with that?” I demanded to know.

Another eye roll.

Other moms played matchmaker as well.

Years ago, I had dinner with a friend, and she looked upset. She said her daughter had just broken up with a boy she’d been dating for years. The light went on in my matchmaker brain.

“How old is your daughter?” I asked. She replied with the same age as my son. I whipped out my phone and went to the gallery.

“See this face,” I said, pointing at my Aggie boy. “He has a good job and he’s never been married.”

She took out her phone and showed me a picture of her daughter.

“She graduated from Baylor,” she said.

“Mine graduated from Texas A&M,” I replied.

We both breathed a sigh of relief we wouldn’t have to bridge the Longhorn rivalry.

“We’re Presbyterian,” she said cautiously.

“We’re Catholic. Close enough,” I said. We texted the pictures of our children to each other and I promptly texted her daughter’s picture to my son.

“Look this girl up on Facebook and do it quickly before another one of your wives marries someone else,” I texted.

That’s probably the pushiest I’ve ever been, but I now realize it was all for nothing. The Aggie boy found a wonderful woman all on his own, and they adore each other. How he managed to do that without his matchmaker mother remains a mystery.

I still have two unmarried sons and both have had less-than-pleasing results with dating apps. Maybe it’s time I remind them they have a reliable Yenta right underneath their noses.

“Oh boys, have I got a match for you…”

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Finally the Internet got something right.

We’ve all skimmed through dozens of online “facts”– there are reptilian humanoids in high government positions running the world, Elvis and Tupac have been spotted in a washateria eating peanut-butter-and-banana sandwiches and time travelers can be seen in old photos using cell phones.

There’s one I can say actually happened to me:  if you leave your clothes in a dark closet for three months, like say during a pandemic, they shrink.

At least three sizes.

The last time I put on a pair of dress slacks was Friday, March 8. In those 13 weeks, those jeans shrank. I can’t button or zip them. Same goes for the skirts in my closet. All my shirts refuse to button and even my shoes are pretty darned snug.

It has to be because they haven’t seen daylight.

The reason couldn’t be that I’ve been stress eating for the past three months. There’s no way that a steady diet of the comfort foods from my childhood — Cocoa Krispies, meat loaf and Kraft macaroni and cheese — caused me to put on a few pounds.

As an experiment, I tried on all the shorts in my closet, and the only ones that fit were the ones with an elastic waistband. I think elastic has some magical properties that lack of sunlight causes the material to relax and stretch more.

There are a few superheroes in my wardrobe. Socks are immune to any effects of daylight. They all fit the same way they did before they were stuck in my drawer for three months. Same goes for towels and washcloths.

My mascara and eye shadow are in the same spot they were three months ago. Ditto for my lipstick. I haven’t had to take the cover off my deodorant for at least three months. There are a lot more gray hairs in my brush, though, so that’s an oddity that needs investigating.

I think the batteries in our house have been affected, especially the batteries in the television remote control. We’ve had to change those a couple of times during the pandemic when we normally only change those once a year.

Although how sunlight got to the remote when it’s been either in my hand or on the couch underneath an empty bag of Doritos is a mystery.

The internet says a lack of sunshine can cause the human body to adjust in strange ways. Somehow the pandemic affected my grocery-store buying routine, and bags of Oreos and Doritos jumped into my basket when I was adjusting my face mask.

They brought along some friends. There’s two bags of Hershey’s Kisses and a huge box of instant mashed potatoes on the top shelf of the pantry that were mysteriously in my grocery bag when I got home.

Something strange is going on in our freezer because I always have ice cream for the grandchildren. They haven’t visited for weeks, yet a whole gallon of Blue Bell Cookies and Cream ice cream has vanished.

Even I have to admit I’m stretching this theory when claiming lack of sunlight affects ice cream in a dark freezer.

It couldn’t be that someone is like a fish out of water now that there’s no routine, and food seems to be the only constant.

It couldn’t be that the best companion when watching four back-to-back seasons of “30 Rock” is a jar of peanut butter.

It couldn’t be that someone gets bored at night and sneaks vanilla ice cream and chocolate syrup for a pick-me-up snack.

Or a mid-morning snack.

Or a mid-afternoon snack.

I wonder if the reptilians are behind this…

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

I’m starting a new chapter in life – retirement.

Where did the years go?

My first grown-up job was as a secretary at the Baton Rouge Exxon plant. I loved new technology and was eager to put what I’d learned in school to use. I was also ready to start getting a paycheck.

I remember looking at the older secretaries and wondering why they were still there. I arrogantly thought they should retire and make room for the young ones. After all, we knew everything and they were dinosaurs.

We young ones would gripe about them at lunch and claim if we could retire, we’d do it in a minute. Walk away from the grind and spend our days doing what we wanted to do. Forget work.

Now I’m at the other end of the spectrum, and I know why older folks are reluctant to leave their jobs.

Retirement is scary. For many, work defined us, gave us a purpose.

All that changes when we clean out our desks and leave.

But even though our daily routine is changing, most of us still have some fire in our belly. That doesn’t change because we’re no longer punching the clock.

Young people think they have a corner on the market when it comes to passion for changing the world.

That’s a trait embracing each and every age group, from my mom’s generation that taught us how to recycle, value democracy and to fight for what we believed in to my generation that learned presidents weren’t to be trusted.

Those old secretaries might not have known how to use a word processor, but they taught me how to be professional in a world where women were second-class citizens.

What goes around comes around. I had to smile when I overheard two millennials talking about the quality of vinyl records. Those of us who owned Santana’s “Black Magic Woman” 45-record could’ve told them that.

The world still grieves for injustices. My generation remembers being saddened when The Beatles broke up and heartsick when John Lennon was killed. We grieved through the assassinations of John F. Kennedy, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and Bobby Kennedy.

We survived hip-huggers, go-go boots and pet rocks. We were lucky enough to see an astronaut walk on the moon and watch a young Luke Skywalker harness the power of The Force.

Now we’re wondering why a younger generation pays big bucks for Spanx when we threw those miserable girdles out back in the 70’s.

Those of us calculating our Social Security numbers can bring some old-fashioned common sense to the world, just as our grandparents and parents did.

The back-yard garden, the one our great-grandparents tended, has made a huge come back in the past few months. Young families are learning the satisfaction of growing their own cucumbers, tomatoes and squash.

We old folks have a Mr. Coffee or percolator in the kitchen, and we chuckle every time we spot someone with an expensive throwaway coffee cup. We’re enjoying home-brewed coffee the exact strength we want for about 20 cents a cup.

The peaceful protest marches of the 1960s actually brought about change. Integration in the 1970s taught us we could only learn acceptance when we got to know people of a different race or culture.

And a comfortable, well-worn flannel shirt is worth hanging on to season after season.

Maybe the old ways aren’t so bad after all.

 

    This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Bad things happen.

They always have.

They always will.

I wanted life to be a smooth ride. I knew bad things would happen, but I didn’t want there to be tragedy.

I found out early that’s not how life happens.

When we’re young, bad things are the monsters hiding under the bed or in the closet. But then a divorce, an ill parents or financial troubles shatter our young worlds. We learn early that life isn’t fair, but we move on, a little less innocent.

In our teen years, we learn first-hand how cruel and vindictive our peers can be. We endured notes passed around the classroom and whispers in the cafeteria.

Our peers ridiculed us for our hair, our teeth, the way we talked, our clothes, where we lived – the list was endless.

The internet changed everything. Now there’s vicious bullying that’s belittling and cruel. The comments these anonymous trolls post are unfair, but somehow, teens lick their wounds and move on.

In the past, we learned we had to take off the rose-colored glasses.

These days, those lenses are shattered.

The coronavirus has changed our perception of what’s safe. I watch movies and see people in food courts, at concerts and walking down a crowded city street and think those days will never happen again.

And now racism and hatred have reared their heads again and torn our country apart. We tell ourselves this outrage over the brutal assault and murder of George Floyd is something new, but it’s not.

Brutality against people of color has been with us since the beginning of mankind.

But now, we can see what happened – there’s no denying. The footage of Mr. Floyd being smothered by a stone-faced police officer is excruciatingly painful.

I watched, thinking the officer would realize what was happening and stop. I thought his fellow officers would listen to the bystanders yelling for someone to help their friend and one of them would step in and stop their co-worker.

I hoped the bystanders would rush the officer and rescue their friend. But I realized they were probably terrified the same would happen to them. It must’ve been agonizing to watch their friend suffocate and they were powerless to do anything.

That must be how minorities feel when people in power pick on others, whether that’s on the playground or on a city street where the stakes are literally life and death.

Bad happens.

Those who lived through the Depression never wanted to go back to rationing, living in fear and sending their boys off to fight in a war.

Those who lived through the Civil Rights movement never wanted things to go back to how they were before leaders demanded equal treatment and dignity.

The black-and-white photos of lynchings are beyond horrific, and it’s the faces of the men and women who are watching young men of color hanging from a tree that make you believe in evil.

Somehow, we find ways to live with the bad.

We avoid the bullies on the playground, learn that gossip fades and we can live without social media.

Educators teach tolerance and acceptance in school, and leaders like Malala who advocate for children to be taught so they don’t repeat the intolerance invasive in their midst.

We listen to the words of leaders who advocated peaceful solutions.

“Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere,” stated Dr. King in his “Letter from a Birmingham Jail” which should be required reading for everyone.

The late Nelson Mandela said peace is an environment where all can flourish and John Lennon asked us to imagine a world where we all live in peace.

I’d like to imagine a world where we all live together in understanding, safety and equality.

I just pray it’s not a child’s dream any more.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

Snakes terrify me.

But they seek me out.

Which terrifies me even more.

On the other hand, my neighbor loves snakes. Arthur knows everything about them, from their coloration, to their habitat to whether or not they’re venomous or non-venomous.

It’s ironic that between the two of us, the magnet for snakes is me, the chicken, lily-livered screamer.

Last year, I went outside to check the pool skimmer baskets. But as I got closer to the pool, I spotted something – a long, black snake gliding along the top of the water.

I froze. My husband was gone and it was just the dog and me against the viper.

My sweet coward looked at me, lowered her head and slunk away to the back door.

So I called Arthur.

I hadn’t hung up the phone before he was running into my back yard, his twin boys behind him, yelling “Where’s the snake!”

“The creature’s in the water – kill it, kill it, kill it,” I said. Okay, I screamed.

“It’s a harmless water snake,” he said gently snagging the snake as it got close to the side of the pool.

He explained how harmless snakes are beneficial, especially as they eat vermin, such as rats and mice.

Blah, blah, blah.

Just kill it, Arthur.

His wife, Courtney, came over and we became a choir – “kill it, kill it, kill it.”

Now I know snake lovers and those who understand nature better than I do are cringing at this moment.

They’re the ones who agree with Arthur – snakes are an integral and important link in nature’s chain.

I understand that.

It doesn’t mean I want those important links of nature slithering around my house.

Or in my yard.

Or in my driveway.

Two weeks ago, I went down to get the afternoon paper. There, curled up by the mailbox was my living nightmare – a big, fat snake.

After I could breathe again, I hauled out my best snake weapon – my phone.

“Arthur, there’s a snake in the road,” I whispered.

In a flash, he was standing over the snake, and proclaimed it an innocent child of nature. He picked it up and asked if I wanted to touch the snake.

I’d rather touch lava.

He laughed and said he’d relocate the snake in the woods.

I watched to make sure he relocated that snake in the deepest part of the woods.

Last week, I was out for an evening walk. The weather was cool, the humidity non-existent, and the birds were singing in the trees.

I started down the driveway and there, right in my path, was a snake.

In reality, it was probably only two feet long. What I saw, though, was a viper 10 feet long with venom dripping from its gigantic fangs. I did the first thing that popped into my mind – I called Arthur.

“There’s a snake in my driveway, and I almost stepped on it,” I said, my voice quivering.

I’d barely hung up before he was riding his bike through the ditch into my driveway, his son right behind him.

“That’s a rat snake,” Arthur said. “They’re good to have around the house.”

“The only good snake to have around my house is a dead one,” I replied.

To which he laughed, reached down and picked up the snake.

At that moment, he became a god.

He proceeded to tell me all the good qualities about the snake, but all I could think was he better stay 10 feet away from me and not drop that slithering reptile.

“What are you going to do with that thing,” I asked, keeping my eye on him all the time.

“Put him or her in a safe place,” he said as we both said “far away from this house.”

I think those who aren’t afraid of snakes are the bravest people in the world.

I’m not one of them.

Instead, I’m a snake magnet.

As long as King Arthur’s around, I won’t be afraid.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

With Texas governor Greg Abbott opening the state back up, most of us can see our world turning from a shelter-in-place to a getting-back-to-normal world.

Because everything should be a learning experience, there’s a few things I picked up during this Covid-19 event.

I like my house.

Usually I’m gone from 6:30 a.m. until about 6 p.m. Monday through Friday, and I’m running errands on Saturdays.

Sundays were spent getting ready for the week, so my house was a stopping-off place.

I haven’t left the house much for the past six weeks. I’ve come to appreciate the comforts of home.  Our old corduroy couch is a quiet place to sit and watch television, read a book or just relax.

The back porch has become a serene spot to ponder life, especially in the morning. I love listening to the birds and the quiet before getting started on the day. I don’t know what bird is making what sound, but it’s a symphony that’s quite enjoyable.

Gray hair isn’t so bad.

I’ve spent years covering up the gray, but having the gray peeking through – okay storming through – hasn’t been as bad as I thought it would be.

This virus has me appreciating that getting older doesn’t necessarily mean I’m out of touch and old. I can still get out and walk, ride a bike and listen to loud rock and roll music.

I’ve learned I can stay out of my car.

From the time I started driving, I’ve always racked up miles. I love going places, and even though I’ve had a driver’s license longer than the internet’s been around, leaving the car in the garage has been a refreshing change of pace.

Families are fun.

It’s just my husband and me at the house, but I’ve been watching my nieces, nephews and cousins online as they recreate family time. My cousin Mike and his wife Katie hosted nightly Quarantine Olympics with their boys with hysterical results.

They had a whipped cream challenge where someone puts a mound of whipped cream on the back of their hand. Then they took their other hand, slapped at their wrist to make the whipped cream fly up in the air and then see who could catch it in their mouth.

We learned video games and Netflix series get old so we hauled out our bikes and rode around our neighborhoods. We had sing-a-longs, played Monopoly and Clue and realized our family members are pretty cool people.

I like cooking.

Okay, that might be a stretch, but I actually enjoyed the smell of home cooking – meatloaf in the oven, chocolate-chip cookies cooling on the counter and bacon frying in the morning.

Soon enough, it’ll be the smell of salad dressing and baked fish but, for now, I’m enjoying the comfort smells of my childhood.

We learned critical situations bring out the best and the worst in people. Neighbors helped neighbors, teachers learned a new way to connect with their students and we understood how invaluable grocery and pharmacy store workers, nurses, doctors, EMTs, police officers, fire fighters, Post Office clerks and sanitation workers are.

Politicians are wrong. Doctors are wrong. Newscasters are wrong. And, the biggest shock of all, the internet has false information. On the same note, politicians, doctors and newscasters are occasionally right. I’m still not sure I believe the things I read on the internet.

We lost beloved relatives and friends through this illness. So many lost opportunities and there’s no way to get them back.

But we learned to regroup, stand up straight and keep moving forward.

Family and friends are what’s most important – not shopping, eating out or running the roads.

Life is fickle and fleeting and often the best moments and aspects of life are right underneath our noses.

Soon roads will be congested and the lessons we’ve learned over the past six weeks will fade. Try to remember – out of all this chaos, you probably discovered what was most important in your life.

Don’t let it go.

 

  This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.