In response to the Covid-19 pandemic, Fort Bend County is now under a “stay-home-to-save-lives” order.

To remain healthy, we need to remain home, stay away from crowds, avoid social contact with others and wait until the contagion period has passed.

I can handle this.

For months, I’ve told myself if I ever get the time, there’s a long list of things around the house I want to do. Now I’m forced to stay at home, so it’s time to get busy and start in on the list.

First of all, I have to find the list.

I think it’s underneath the stack of unread magazines and unopened mail next to my computer. Since they go back two years, it’s a good shot the list is buried in there somewhere.

I sit down to go through everything, and find myself paging through an Oprah magazine, wondering how her designers can get a room to look that put together.

“Get to work,” the little voice in my head whispers. It’s right – forget the list. I can look around to see what needs to get done.

But where to start. There’s something to be tackled in almost every room, so I decide to start in the kitchen.

Too overwhelming.

So I elect to start in our bathroom and choose the top drawer under my sink. There’s prescription bottles in here dating back three years.

Better find out how to safely dispose of those, I think. I head to the computer, but that nagging voice tells me to stay put and finish one job before I start another one.

So I keep going through the drawer, making stacks. Here’s one for all the little soaps I’ve picked up in our travels.

I’ve thought about throwing those away, but if we’re going to be short on toilet paper because of the coronavirus, then I’d better hoard those.

Same with the trial sizes of shampoo and toothpaste I’ve been stockpiling in that drawer. And the three half-empty jars of Vicks VapoRub come in handy when I’ve got a stopped-up nose or a visiting grandchild has a pesky cough.

I probably don’t need all these loose Q-tips and cotton balls, but with this virus and the shelter in place, I’d better keep them.

An hour later, I end up keeping everything that was in the drawer. But at least there’s some order to the stuff.

Feeling accomplished, I figure it’s time for a much-needed break. I grab a couple of Oreo cookies and sit down to take a quick look at the news.

It’s depressing and devastating.

So I decide to take on something manageable – organize the T-shirts in my closet.

I take them all off the shelf, thinking they’d look nice organized by color. All the white shirts to the left and the rest to the right. That doesn’t quite work because most of my T-shirts are white.

Stacking the T-shirts on the shelf in a variety of colors looks better. At least, that’s the rationalization I use before starting in on organizing my shoes.

But first, it’s time for a break.

I surf through YouTube for an hour, avoiding all news about the coronavirus, until I remember I’m supposed to be organizing my shoes.

I find the shoes are somewhat orderly.

Most of them are matched up, even the ones with the worn-down heels and the ones I never wear any more. I can probably skip this job.

“Slacker” whispers the voice inside my head.

With all the bad things happening in the world, having organized T-shirts and shoes should be the very last thing on my to-do list.

Congratulating myself for following the law of the land, I sit down at the computer to see what everyone’s posting on Facebook.

If we all do our part, we just might come through this pandemic a stronger nation.

“If you keep eating all those Oreos, you’ll come out a much rounder citizen,” the voice tells me.

“Yeah, but I’ll be a much happier staying-home-to-save-lives citizen,” I reply.

I wonder if there’s any chocolate-chip cookies in the pantry…

 

        This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

It’s the last day of spring break, and we just found out the schools are going to be closed for the next week.

My husband and I volunteered to take care of our five grandchildren since their parents are still working outside the home.

The grandkids come to visit often, so we’re familiar with their routines. We also reared three boys, five guinea pigs, two hamsters, a cat and a couple of dogs.

How hard can taking care of our beloved grandkids be?

Day 1:  The kids arrived at 7 a.m., ready to start playing, excited about being out of school an extra week.

As the day wears on, the news isn’t looking good about school returning next week. In fact, it looks like a lot of businesses and establishments are going to be shutting down.

News flash – there are rumors that school could be closed an additional week. No problem. Parents have created elaborate online schedules to keep their children on task, and they look easy to copy.

I’m a list maker. I should be able to come up with something for the next few days.

News flash – school’s out until Easter.

Kids celebrate.

I scramble for a game plan.

Day 2:  I have a plan. We’ll get up with smiles on our faces, have a delicious and nutritious breakfast and then spend 45 minutes reading.

Then it’s play time, a hearty lunch and they’ll quietly complete worksheets for another hour. After that, all the happy children will go outside to play.

The plan is a moot point about 10 a.m.

We had a pretty good breakfast if a pound of bacon and a half pound of powdered sugar on french toast is considered nutritious.

When it was time to read, somehow I was the one reading all the books while the kids curled up on the couch all around me.

I’ll admit, it was heavenly even though the 45 planned minutes were over in 20. I suppose I’m a fast reader but we did cover six books in that amount of time.

News flash – people might be forced to shelter in place.

My husband braves the grocery store and comes back with everything we need. In the meantime, I thought the children could straighten up their rooms.

That was pie-in-the-sky thinking. Instead of cleaning up their toys, I let them swim while I obsessed over grim Covid-19 news.

Lunch was Spaghetti-O’s and chicken noodle soup. Snacks were all the Doritos in the pantry and a few oranges thrown in to ease my conscience.

I did manage to get some worksheets printed out. The hour of after-lunch learning was over in 4 minutes and 29 seconds, and then it was time to eat again.

Dinner was spaghetti and meatballs, snacks were the crumbs from the Doritos bags, two bags of cookies and an apple with Nutella on it.

Hey, that’s somewhat healthy.

Day 3:  I don’t think I remembered to brush my teeth last night or this morning.

I don’t remember taking a shower last night either.

It’s hard to be sure since I slept in my clothes, falling asleep on my way from the laundry room where I just finished folding the 10^th load of clothes for the day.

Day 4:  Or is it Day 5? Maybe it’s the weekend.

Wait, it’s only Day 4 and there’s almost 30 more to go?

We’re gonna need a lot more Doritos and Spaghetti-O’s to get through this.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

I saw a tired woman in the grocery store doing her best to get her children to behave.

The kids were a bit rambunctious, giggling and chasing each other, and mom was unsuccessful in getting them to quiet down.

My first reaction was judgmental – that woman should either learn how to control those kids or leave them home.

My second reaction was shame. Has it really been that long since I was in her shoes and have I forgotten what it’s like to be overwhelmed and exhausted.

The answer is obviously yes.

Our son just moved into a house he’s been building for two years.  His previous home burned to the ground, and he lost everything. He’s been working shut downs and saving every penny to build a house for him and his children.

He moved in a couple of weeks ago and he’s slowly but surely furnishing the house. He let his children pick out the beds they wanted, and he posted a picture of their bedrooms on a family site.

My first reaction was pride – he’d accomplished what he set out to do after life dealt him a hard blow.

My second reaction was – why didn’t he make the beds before he posted the pictures.

My third reaction – shame on me.

This single dad is doing everything himself, from putting furniture together to cooking to making sure his children are safe and fed and I was worried about whether or not the beds were made for photos.

Many of us make snap judgments about what others are doing based on a single snapshot of their day.

The people in front of me in the grocery store line in the middle of the day using food stamps initially made me wonder why they weren’t working like other people.

Then I looked a little closer at what they were buying – formula and off-brand diapers. Perhaps that young mother was doing her best while trying to rear an infant, but my first judgmental reaction was “get a job.”

I see able-bodied people parking in handicapped spots, and I can feel my shackles rise because I have friends who need to park closer due to age or an illness. Here’s someone who seems to have it all together taking that spot.

Then I remember friends who have anxiety attacks and need to get out of a stressful situation in a hurry. There are autistic children and adults who have melt downs – not because they want them but because they can’t help it, and they need a close and safe escape route.

I remember the times I forgot my checkbook or my wallet at the grocery store. People behind would sigh loudly and angrily move to another line while I stood there embarrassed.

I remember changing lanes without checking properly because I was distracted, worried about a family member. Usually the person I’d almost smacked into would lay on the horn and scream obscenities at me.

As a young mom, one of my toddlers would throw a hissy fit in the store, and most people would back away with a glad-that’s-not-me look on their face.

But there would always be one person who’d smile and quietly whisper they’d been in my shoes plenty of times.

I need to be that person.

I need to be the person who reassures, not the one who steps in as the judge, jury and hangman.

Please, Lord, let me be that person.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

No bottled water.

No Germ-X.

No chicken-noodle soup.

That’s what I found in the three grocery stores I visited this week. The reason – the scare about the coronavirus, abbreviated to COVID-19 by the Center for Disease Control.

There’s now a confirmed case in Fort Bend County, and the simmering panic we’ve been reading about will probably blow into a full-blown fire right here in our own back yards.

We’ve been through viruses before. There was the SARS outbreak a few years ago that caused shortages in grocery stores, even though the flu – which has been around for centuries – historically affects thousands more than any virus so far.

But we panicked, clearing out grocery store shelves in case we were quarantined.

There was the Bird Flu, SARS, MRSA, the Swine Flu and the H1N1 virus.

This past summer, people stayed away from Texas beaches because we heard the waters were polluted with flesh-eating bacteria.

When it comes to the beach, I’m not easily scared.

We visited Gulf Shores, Ala. after the British Petroleum oil spill, and the waters looked the same as they did for the past 10 years. The only difference was I was the only soul on the beach except for the occasional person coming by in a haz-mat suit.

According to abcnews.go.com, we’ve worried about cell phones giving us brain cancer, getting a letter in the mail with anthrax bacteria and trans-fats in our food. We shouldn’t eat fish because of the high mercury levels, and vegetables are loaded with dirt and bacteria.

When a hurricane or bad storm’s coming, the weather folks go into overdrive, and people panic. Stores shelves are bare, there’s long lines at the gas stations and you can’t find a generator for hundreds of miles.

It’s good to be prepared for emergencies, but are we overreacting?

This week, I went to the store for a replacement bottle of hand sanitizer. I got a little spooked when the third store I visited had bare shelves. I looked online at Amazon, and the bottle of sanitizer that was $4 in the store a month ago was $50 online.

That’s what panic will do to us.

National Public Radio is practically dragging out the air horns and emergency broadcasting signal to tell us the sky is falling and we’re all doomed. Oh, I’m sorry, they say that every time a Republican’s in the White House.

On the other hand, what if we really do need to be prepared and COVID-19 could wreak havoc on the operation of the world?

If we quarantine workers, forget getting fuel at the gas pumps, groceries or pharmaceuticals. Stores will close until the emergency passes, and people who stocked up on bottled water and Chef-Boy-Ar-Dee canned spaghetti will be sitting pretty.

All of us who shrugged off the warnings will feel ignorant for not paying attention sooner.

So I find myself in the middle of the debate.

I’m angry at the media for causing public panic with phrases like “I’m not going to use the word pandemic, but we should be worried.” Announcer – you just used the word pandemic and raised the anxiety levels of every listener about 20 points.

I’m angry at people for not washing their hands throughout the day, coming to work with a cough and cold and for not examining every piece of news with a skeptical and informed eye and believing every bit of exaggerated news they hear.

But then I find myself in the grocery store at 6:30 a.m. with a dozen other shoppers. We’re all filling our carts with toilet paper, cans of beef stew and the biggest jar of peanut butter we can afford.

Here’s the best advice I’ve heard and read:  Wash your hands. Stay home if you’re sick. Wipe down door knobs and light switches with Lysol and, whether it’s the COVID-19 virus or a shortage of toilet paper, keep your wits about you.

Get the facts.

Make informed decisions.

And don’t panic.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

Fire has fascinated and terrified me.

As a kid, I remember toasting marshmallows on an open fire, learning to put the marshmallow next to some glowing embers and slowly letting it turn a caramel brown with warm insides instead of sticking the mallow into the flames and burning it to a crisp while the middle stayed hard.

I loved the sound of the log’s crackle and pop, watching in a hypnotic trance as they transformed from muddy brown to scarlet orange.

The smoke smell gets into your hair but you don’t mind because the feeling of comfort overwhelms you as the stars twinkle overhead.

Then there’s the terror of a house fire. I was visiting my grandparents many years ago, and my grandfather was sitting in his usual place near a big picture window that overlooked the street.

Across the street, a house was on fire.

“That thing’s really going up,” I said to him.

“Yes it sure is,” he calmly said, sitting there watching the flames against the dark sky.

A few minutes later, my aunt came rushing into the room.

“Dad, your house is on fire!” she yelled.

He shook his head in agreement and continued to watch the flames get higher and higher.

“You own that house?” I asked him.

He shook his head yes as my aunt continued to pace the room and curse the fire department.

“Why aren’t you more upset?” I asked him.

He shrugged his shoulders and sighed.

“What’re you going to do,” he said, resignation and acceptance in his voice.

Years later, after my grandparents had both passed away, their grand house at the top of the hill burned beyond rescue, the result of some druggies illegally in the house.

But small campfires are cozy and comforting on a cold night. It had been years since I’d sat around a campfire, so I was thrilled when my husband suggested building a small campfire pit in our back yard.

He’d been on a Scout campout and the outing reminded him how much fun youngsters can have around a campfire. He brought home some stones, a few logs and built a small fire ring in our back yard.

The grandchildren were visiting that weekend, and they were thrilled when he said we’d have a campfire and marshmallow roast. The boys from across the street came over, and we pulled some lawn chairs up around the fire.

As the flames danced, one of the boys decided to tell a scary story.

No campfire ghost story is complete without a flashlight held underneath a boy’s chin to illuminate the mental images he’s describing, and this night was no different. Except the “monster” in the story was a giant chicken nugget.

We all had a good laugh about the monster nugget, and then Luke passed the flashlight around the circle until each child had a turn at embellishing the story. While they waited their turn, the kids roasted marshmallows, each finding their favorite sweet spot in the flames.

Sitting outside with loved ones with no electronics, no television and no music reminded me that simple pleasures are always the best.

Movies can be great time distractions, rock music can get your blood flowing and television offers a few laughs.

But we made memories around that campfire, serenaded only by the crackling of the fire and the laughter of children as they used their imaginations to tell tall tales and look for fireflies.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

“Abby, stop running around.”

“Abby, stop fidgeting and come get in this picture.”

“Abby, Abby, Abby!”

We were visiting Goose Island State Park just north of Rockport. There were four young girls with their grandparents in the park, and one of the girls seemed to be in constant motion.

She had to be Abby.

“Abby, come over here and sit still.”

These orders were coming from her grandmother who was yelling loud enough for me to hear her even though I was standing on the other side of the Big Tree, the park’s’ main attraction.

A girl with a blonde ponytail and purple sneakers came racing past us with an iPad in hand, stopping to take pictures of the flowers, the leaves and the sky.

This was definitely Abby because her grandmother was yelling at her to stop running around the tree.

Her grandmother was also trying to get the younger girls to sit on a low-hanging branch so she could take a picture with her phone.

Luck wasn’t on her side.

Neither was Abby.

The three younger girls were bouncing up and down on the branch, and the grandmother was getting more irritated every minute.

“Girls, stop rocking that branch,” their grandmother whined. “I’m trying to take a picture and I want you all to smile so I can get a good picture.”

Whenever the girls managed to sit still long enough for her to take a picture, she wasn’t satisfied.

“That didn’t turn out because you were squirming around,” she told her granddaughters. “Now sit still so I can take another one.”

In the meantime, Abby had climbed up a tree and was swinging on a branch.

“Abby, come here,” the grandmother yelled, and there was an edge in her voice. I think Abby knew that Grandma meant business this time.

Abby climbed down and skipped over to where her sisters were posed. Orders were barked at Abby the whole time her grandmother was trying to arrange the girls for a pleasing shot.

“Stop moving. Stop bouncing that limb. Smile. Not that smile, your real smile.”

Under my breath, I mumbled some choice orders for the grandmother:  “let those kids be kids” and “an impromptu smile is 100 percent better than a forced one.”

After a few minutes, grandmother must’ve been pleased with the images because she told the girls to go play.

Not surprisingly, Abby came racing around us again, a huge smile on her face. On her second lap, she stopped, looked at one of old oak trees and began to climb up on one of the low-hanging branches.

I told my husband I was ready to go, and made my way to the exit past the tree where this rambunctious girl was perched on a limb, looking out over the world.

“Are you Abby,” I asked her.

She smiled and said she was.

“You keep being Abby,” I told her, softly enough so grandmother wouldn’t hear. “Don’t let anybody try to keep you from being you, okay?”

She smiled and said she wouldn’t.

We need to let young girls and boys be kids.

We need to let them run, skip, climb trees, be silly and not make them pose for a pre-conceived notion we have of what makes a good photograph.

Take photos of them hanging upside from a tree limb or lying on the grass looking up at the sky while they find animal shapes in the clouds.

Take pictures of them laughing, with chocolate ice cream on their faces and dirt on their noses as they enjoy those carefree and fleeting moments of being a kid.

And Abby?

You go, girl. Don’t let anybody or anything stop you.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Today, my youngest sister is celebrating a birthday milestone. Within the next month, three more of my siblings will blow out the candles on their cake.

We Heberts have always celebrated birthdays in a big way, mostly because there were seven children, and a birthday was the one day we could claim for ourselves.

Holidays, like Halloween and Easter, were shared, and we all got the same amount of loot.

But birthdays – those were special.

I still picture us as energetic kids, plastic streamers flying from our bicycle handlebars as we raced to the neighborhood swim spot.

The Baker Estates pool was our favorite summer hang out. All of us were expert swimmers, and my brothers could do back flips, half gainers and jack knives all day long off the diving board.

We moved through the different cycles of life together – graduations, dating, marriage, families.  Our children were born months apart so there was always a cousin to play with.

As our children grew up, we passed our childhood traditions onto them. There were Easter egg hunts, barbecues and crawfish boils and the never-ending basketball game in our parents’ driveway.

Then there came a time when the nephews started beating their uncles, and the driveway became center court for both nieces and nephews with the aunts and uncles on the patio, yelling plays and encouragement from the sidelines.

We celebrated high school graduations, then college graduations, engagement parties and weddings.

Nieces and nephews added children to the mix, and jobs, moves and time with our grandchildren and sons- and daughters-in-law pulled the seven in different directions.

Phone calls, text messaging and the internet helped us stay connected over the years but what hasn’t changed is celebrating our birthdays.

Our birthday traditions, friendly jabs and teasing has sustained the seven Hebert siblings for over six decades. I don’t know what I’d do without my siblings, and today, on my sister Donna’s birthday, is a good time to let them know how special they are.

Brother Jimmy is the most genuinely nice person I know, a master dentist and a sounding board without ever judging. He laughs at himself and makes us all comfortable when we make a mistake.

Brother Johnny’s unshakable faith inspires others on his radio broadcast, and his true voice accompanied by his playing the guitar to songs he’s written is always achingly beautiful.

Sister Diane is confident, extremely smart, beautiful and most outspoken and honest woman I know. I wish every day I could be as dynamic, energetic and selfless as she is.

She’s always the first to call on our actual birthday, and it’s always a joke when our brother Jimmy calls the day before. Her reply:  “Doesn’t count. You have to call on the actual day.”

Brother Joey is calmly patient with a dry and quick wit balanced by wood-working expertise and a selfless giving nature. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him angry or heard him say an unkind word about anyone, not even ex-LSU football coach Nick Saban.

Sister Donna is not only beautiful but she’s smart, sassy and not afraid of challenges. She can still turn heads and she’s artistic in everything she does. Whenever I need to vent, she listens without judging.

Our baby brother, Jeff, is a brilliantly gifted artist whose work deserves to be on display. His introspective and wise side balances out one of the wittiest and funniest people I’ve ever met. Plus he’s a fabulous dancer.

Their spouses are equally wonderful, and there’s no line between in-laws and siblings.

Life’s full of sadness and unexpected calamities. Never miss an opportunity to celebrate the extraordinary people in your life, especially on their birthday.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.                 

We’re a country of complainers.

Case in point – the Super Bowl half-time show with Shakira and Jennifer Lopez.

Critics say the dances were lewd, and women were exploited by the props and revealing outfits.

Those who liked the performance cited a lack of cultural understanding. The dances used are part of the Latin and Lebanese cultures, they said, and people should stop complaining and be happy those cultures were featured.

There’s complaints about the Super Bowl ad featuring Cpl. Kyle Carpenter and Johnny Cash’s song about the rugged flag.

Critics said the song was a slap in the face to Colin Kaepernick, the ex-NFL football player who took a knee during the “Star Spangled Banner.”

Others said the video was honoring a young man who served bravely in the military when asked to do so by his country.

Nobody wins this argument except the complainers.

If you’re on social media, more than half of the postings are complaining about something or someone. Whole neighborhoods complain about people who drive too fast or too slow in their neighborhoods or who – gasp – park on the street.

Their license plates are published and people are outraged at this despicable behavior. Seldom are the whistle blowers called out for being complainers.

Lines cause a great deal of whining.

People complain about waiting in line and lines that move too slowly. They complain if they happen to get in the wrong line at the grocery store, if there’s a line at the post office or if there’s a line at the DMV.

Many of us remember the days of standing next to the television set and rotating the rabbit-ear antennae until the signal came in clear enough for our parents to watch “Gunsmoke.”

We all muttered under our breath about our unfair parents and vowed we’d never make our children do that for us.

Yet we’re the generation that asks our kids to go find the TV remote control and bring it to us.

We complained when summer hit and the attic fan in the house couldn’t keep us cool. Then we got window air conditioners and complained the fans were too loud. We couldn’t hear Marshal Matt Dillon and Miss Kitty talking and the electric bill was too high.

So we got central air and heat and we still complained about the bill.

We complain about slow service in restaurants and baggers in the grocery store who put our produce in the same bag as frozen tater tots.

Restaurants are too cold, too hot, too slow or the food’s not up to our standards.

Maybe it’s time we stop complaining, swallow a dose of civility and have a reality check.

If you think the dancers at the Super Bowl half-time show were inappropriately dressed, you haven’t been to the mall lately to see what people wear out in public. It’s a lot less material than what I saw on television.

You might disagree with Colin Kaepernick, but we live in a country where we are free to disagree.

We can complain about the post office, but I can barely read my own handwriting – how they can read millions of personally addressed mail and still get those letters where they’re supposed to go astounds me.

The cable bill might be high, but no way I’m taking “Paw Patrol” away from the grandkids.

Road construction’s no fun, but it’s a short inconvenience for a much-better roadway.

Restaurant servers and baggers in the grocery store barely make minimum wage – let’s see how you’d handle rude customers when you’re not bringing home a decent paycheck.

It’s a lot harder to look past the inconvenience and understand why there’s a line, why people park in the street or why utilities cost so much.

Stop taking the easy way and, for heaven’s sake, stop complaining.

Instead, be grateful and use that waiting time to count your blessings.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

Photoshop is interesting software for enhancing photos. Changing color images to black and white is fairly simple and the removal of color changes the mood instantly.

Bare tree limbs against a blue sky looks quite menacing when the image’s in black and white, and I usually fall back on the color image to see the vividness in the photo.

When I ran across an article featuring colorized photos of Holocaust victims, I reluctantly clicked on the link.

When we look at photos from the concentration camps, they’re beyond horrific. Emaciated people lying side by side in wooden bunks with barely any room to breathe.

Their bodies reflect starvation and brutalization, and their faces are hopeless.

That’s the reaction seeing the photos in black and white. But a new effort has artists colorizing the black-and-white images.

The results demands that viewers see the photos in a new light – real people with freckles, dimples and deep brown eyes.

The website “Faces of Auschwitz” has a collection of the colorized photos, and they will make you cry in sorrow for the beautiful, innocent people who met such a horrific death.

The number of those killed in the Nazi death camps is staggering – approximately 1.3 million people were sent to Auschwitz and nearly 1.1 million were Jews. Of those 1.3 million, 1.1 million – 85 percent – were gassed, beaten to death or starved to death.

One fact will haunt you – 232,000 children were sent to Auschwitz, separated from their parents and either executed, made to work or used for experiments.

On a single day, Oct. 10, 1944, 800 children were gassed to death at Auschwitz.

How did the people who carried out these atrocities go home to their families at night?

How did they eat dinner with their children, play in the park with their sons and enjoy a warm bed, knowing that a few miles away, children were starving to death in the frigid cold.

This week was the observance of Holocaust Remembrance Day, a day to remember these atrocities so they don’t happen again.

What’s sad is most young people lack basic knowledge about what the Holocaust was and how many Jews and “enemies” of the German state were tortured and killed.

There’s an old saying by George Santayana: “Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”

We think mass political killings could never happen in these days of 24-hour news and information on every subject under the sun at our fingertips, but atrocities happen every day, and we either don’t know or turn a blind eye.

When most people don’t have a clue about events like the Holocaust, we are in grave danger of repeating these same crimes against those whose religious or political beliefs are different from ours.

Many years ago, I arranged for a Holocaust survivor to speak at a church in Richmond. We opened the talk up to the community, and we all left in shock as we heard this gentle woman describe how she had to learn to lie to survive.

I think of her often, even more so as I looked at those colorized pictures of the Holocaust victims.

Holocaust survivor Eva Mozes Kor said we see the world in color and the colorized photos bring these people and those events back to life for us. We must remember the evil people can commit if we want to stay off that path.

Ignorance and apathy are the first mile markers.

Hatred and envy ensure we stay on that road.

Learn your history.

Do not repeat the mistakes of the past.

And remember for those who are no longer here.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

Grown-up problems are tough.

There’s bills to pay, income tax woes and purchasing new tires for one’s vehicle.

But the worst grown-up problem is dealing with the “ick.”

It’s the yukky jobs no grown up wants to ever tackle.

I faced the “ick” this week when our freezer started acting crazy.

Instead of filling up the ice-cube tray with water and emptying frozen cubes into the ice dispenser, the water kept overflowing the tray and we’d find water all over the floor.

The inside of the freezer looked like something out of an arctic cave. But the worst was what our son discovered when he took a flashlight and looked up into the tucked-away water dispenser area to figure out what was going wrong.

He found the mother lode of ick.

Fifteen years’ worth of lime scale, mineral deposits and gunky stuff was all up in there. There was no way to see the ick because it was out of the line of sight.

So I started looking around the house at other hidden areas, and I saw quite a few housekeeping items to add to my ick list.

Since I was in the kitchen, I realized it had been a while since I’d swept or vacuumed underneath the refrigerator. When I got down on the floor and looked, there was so much dust under there, I thought I was looking into an abandoned mummy’s cave.

Standing up, I realized I couldn’t remember the last time I dusted off the top of the refrigerator. I’ve always rationalized that cleaning chore away with the fact that I’m only 5’2” tall and I can’t see what’s up there so it doesn’t matter.

It matters.

Same goes for the top shelves in the kitchen cabinets. I hauled out the step stool and looked – yep, lots of dust up there.

While I was on the ladder, I noticed there’s dust on the ceiling fan blades. Usually the fans are running because we live in the South where it’s hot most of the year.

Because it’s winter and they’re not spinning, I can finally see the layer of dust on top of the blades.

I took a long, hard look at the living room. I don’t remember the last time I took the cushions off the couch to vacuum, but I have a feeling it’s pretty grubby because the grandkids love to eat popcorn and cookies on the couch while watching television.

Then there’s the lampshades. I thought the bulbs were growing dimmer. Turns out, there’s dust on the lampshades. Since we never touch the lampshades, that ick layer has remained undisturbed for months.

A couple of weeks ago, I noticed the shower head didn’t seem to be putting out as much water. I put on my glasses and noticed mineral deposits were covering some of the holes.

We short people have a tough time keeping an eye on the shower heads, but some vinegar and a stiff brush took care of that problem.

I walked into the bedroom and looked behind the door. We never close that door, so, as a result, there’s a nice accumulation of dust and dog hair back there.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Just so it doesn’t appear our house should be visited by the board of health, I keep most areas clean. Bleach and Lysol are my big buddies on Saturday mornings when it’s house cleaning time, and the inside of the refrigerator gets a good cleaning once every couple of months.

This morning, I told my husband about the ick, and to tell the refrigerator repair people not to come. We’d be wheeling that fridge out and replacing it with a new clean refrigerator.

But by the time I came home, he’d completely taken apart the whole water dispensing section in the door of the fridge, cleaned and disinfected every inch of the water dispenser area and run bleach and water through all the tubes.

He got rid of the ick.

If only I can talk him into tackling the top of the fridge…

 

              This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.