I was getting prepped for a house cleaning session and decided to listen to something different while scrubbing.

Usually music’s playing, but I’ve listened to the same playlist for months and wanted to be entertained while cleaning the shower.

While scrolling through YouTube, I came across Sinbad the comedian. I immediately put him on, and laughed myself silly for the next 45 minutes.

Sinbad, also known as David Adkins, has made a career out of performing clean comedy, both on HBO and Comedy Central, and now on YouTube.

He’s had his troubles over the years, especially with not paying back taxes, but his sense of humor has stayed intact.

For instance, when you get older, you don’t want a young girlfriend. You want one that knows the signs of stroke.

Sinbad’s references to the 1970s pop culture are right on the money and hit home with those of us who loved Afros and bellbottoms. It’s a genuine pleasure to laugh down memory lane with Sinbad.

YouTube is a gold mine for up-and-coming comics. Gerry Brooks is an elementary-school principal who has on-the-money commentaries and “surgestions” for parents and teachers.

There’s a great series of things Southern women say, like “dern,” “how can I be out of hair spray,” and “bless her heart.”

I’m not quite sure why some young comics, like PewDiePie, are so popular, but they regularly rank up millions of views among teens.

Most comics got their start performing for family and friends, and most of us have one natural comic in our midst.

They’re the ones who make us chuckle in the midst of overflowing toilets, fender benders and cooking disasters. They ensure we know it’s okay to laugh at ourselves because the first laugh is always at themselves.

During a conversation with my friend Pat, I told her I couldn’t remember the last time I’d dusted the furniture.

“My living room looks like cocaine dealers live here,” she shot back, making me laugh and not feel so bad about being a rotten housekeeper.

Our brother Jeff has an incredible sense of humor. His blog, A Nerd’s Country Journal, included funny aspects of a self-described “techno-geek” living on a 100-acre Texas ranch.

One of his posts is legendary among family and friends – his detailed attempt at cooking a turkey, complete with a step-by-step narrative of just how wrong things could go.

My mom has a great sense of humor, and she’s the first one to laugh at some of the off-hand remarks she’s made over the years.

When I was having a tough day, she told me to keep all my chins up.

When I could tell she wasn’t listening to what I was telling her and wondered if we should have her checked, she put me in my place with a smile.

“I’m not senile. I’m just not that interested in everything you have to say,” she said.

Many years ago, our dad had a heart attack, and all of us were in the hospital waiting room, nervously waiting for the doctor.

My brother Joey picked up the pay phone, and I asked him who he was going to call since we were all there.

Without missing a beat, he said “Ghostbusters.”

All of us paused and then laughed until we had tears running down our faces. Joey gave us the relief we needed.

The next time you’re with the family jokester, make sure they know how valuable they are to the family.

They make fun of themselves, see the humor in the darkest of times and remind us that laughter is the best medicine.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.   

If there’s one thing people love to gossip about, it’s conspiracy theories.

From who really killed President John F. Kennedy to wondering if Big Foot wanders the Pacific Northwest, conspiracy theorists never run out of wild accusations.

Some of the theories are almost laughable – a Yeti, or the Abominable Snowman, roams the high Himalaya Mountains. People claim to have seen giant footprints in the snow that could only be attributed to an ape-like creature.

There are practical ways to explain these tracks, but the theory that a giant blood-thirsty creature roams the cold tundra is a much more attractive story.

People believe nobody knows everything that’s alive on this planet, so who’s to say there’s not an Abominable Snowman pack or a Big Foot tribe.

There are some who believe mermaids exist. Conspiracy fanatics claim we only possess a sliver of information about what lives in the depths of the ocean.

Therefore, mermaids could exist.

Except it’s impossible for fish and humans to mate.

But people still believe.

For decades, people have believed a giant dinosaur swims in the bottom of Loch Ness. People have trolled those waters with modern sonar equipment and found nothing.

So what, they say.

Hunters aren’t looking hard enough, they say.

But let’s be practical –store, hotel owners and restaurant managers near Loch Ness know that thousands of people come to their tiny town and spend a lot of money looking for “Nessie.”

What’s not a conspiracy is tourist dollars.

When my son drove through New Mexico, he found himself in Roswell.

After all, it’s not unbelievable that an alien spacecraft crashed in the desert decades ago and the government’s kept it quiet. It’s also not unbelievable that so many people could make a living out of plastic trinkets and Area 51 bumper stickers and T-shirts.

There’s more — a research facility in Alaska is a front for a mind-control lab, mattress stores are fronts for money laundering, and there’s a giant bunker underneath the Denver International Airport. There’s also a machine that controls the weather and chem trails in the sky are marking all of us with tiny metal particles so the government can track us.

Scary is that a giant sinkhole in Louisiana will eventually devour everything from Texas to Florida. According to the BBC, the coast of Louisiana is slowly disappearing, so thinking there’s a giant sucking sound coming for us has a ring of truth.

There’s one I do believe:  the government shot down United Flight 93 on 9/11. Everyone knew that flight was headed to Washington D.C. and would’ve destroyed the White House or the Capitol.

Shooting it down, even though Americans were on the plane, is a sad and horrible reality to accept. But I saw the video of the crash site right after it happened, and it looked like someone took a bulldozer and quickly cleared away some grass. It sure didn’t look like a jet, filled with fuel, crashed and exploded.

The latest theory is the involvement of the alleged sex pervert Jeffrey Epstein. The billionaire was found dead in his jail cell this past weekend while awaiting trial on federal sex trafficking charges.

The conspiracy theories started immediately because the word was Epstein could reveal the names of politicians, businessmen and other influential rich people who’d raped and taken advantage of underage girls on an island he owned in the Caribbean or at his residences in two different states.

Epstein was supposed to be under heavy guard and constant watch, but somehow he managed to commit suicide before he started talking.

Conspiracy theorists believe he was left alone on purpose so he’d die and not reveal any names of the rich and powerful.

They could have a point.

There’s a reason why people are quick to shout conspiracy theories. They are entertaining. It’s also easier to blame something strange when something scares us. Once we know what’s behind the curtain, most of the fun’s gone out of the magic.

In the case of Epstein, however, hundreds of women who were tricked and defiled will never get to face the beast who exploited them. For a little while, they thought they might get the chance to have justice served.

And now, we’ll never know the truth even though there’s plenty of evidence to prove this conspiracy theory true.

Just don’t ask me to accept there’s alligators in the sewers.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.  

 

It’s time to get back in the habit of getting up early. Summer break’s over and the 2019-20 school year is starting.

Most jobs don’t offer a “do-over.”

In the working world, usually the routine stays the same year after year.

Not in schools.

In August, children and teachers have the chance for a fresh start, change what didn’t work and keep what did.

There’s a few things to remember to keep the school year running smoothly, and let’s start with teachers.

If you’re only in that classroom to get a paycheck, get out. Retire. Quit. The kids can see right through your tired routine.

They only have one opportunity to be in the choir, learn about world history or experience life as a fifth grader.

Don’t ruin the experience and rob them of an education because you want one more year to pad your retirement check.

Do us all a favor and get out before the first day starts or change your attitude. Kids are counting on you.

Parents, know what’s going on in the school. All schools post events, grades and calendars online. Check those often, keep up and show up all the way to high school graduation.

Elementary open houses are a mad house, but often lonely halls on the high school level.

Those four years at the end of your child’s education are the last chance for you to actively be involved in your child’s life at a time when they’re deciding what to do as they step into the adult world.

Make sure they know you’re interested and involved.

If your child catches the bus, make sure they’re outside on time. If you drive them to school, pay attention to the drive-through lines and what the crossing guard tells you to do.

The lines are long, but they move quickly. Use that waiting time to sing a silly song together or give everyone some quiet time before the day begins.

Don’t start the day with a what-to-wear argument. Choose two outfits the night before, even if your child wears uniforms.

For kids, there is a big difference between the blue shirt and the red shirt. Put out two outfits before they go to bed and, in the morning, let them choose which one they want to wear.

Teens are old enough to make their own choices, but check their backpack and make sure that somewhat risqué T-shirt isn’t tucked down in the bottom. Yes, your kid will do that.

Make sure there’s a designated place and time for homework. That could be after dinner at one end of the kitchen table, but make sure your son or daughter understands homework gets done before goof-off time.

Everybody’s tired after a long day. But if you don’t make academics a priority, why should they.

Put down your cell phone and pay attention to your child. Those emails, Facebook posts and video games can wait. When you’re on your cell phone during family time, you’re telling them the phone is more important than they are.

I never thought I’d include knowing where to go in case of a school shooter and knowing the signs of a potential shooter would be on my back-to-school checklist.

But they are. Make sure your child knows it’s okay to report bizarre behavior, bullying in any form and to tell you if they feel uncomfortable or unsafe at school.

If your child does express concern, go to the school administrators and make sure the situation is handled early and promptly.

Most importantly, try to not miss the year. Yes, you have obligations, you’re exhausted and you need a break.

Forgive yourself if your best isn’t what you’d hoped and, just like as school starts over every year, every day is a chance to start over.

So pay attention and bravely face the hordes of frantic shoppers on the crowded back-to-school aisles.

You got this.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

 

 

 

Last week was my birthday. We held a quiet celebration at home because I deflected the attention.

Not because it was a milestone I’d rather not face.

Not because I don’t want to admit my age.

There’s no problem with admitting how old I am. I had no control over when I was born, so age doesn’t bother me.

Making my birthday public on social media fuels my paranoia. There’s no reason to willingly hand Big Brother too much personal information.

My grandson’s birthday is three days after mine, and his birthday is a big deal to him. So I decided to hype his birthday up and, as a result, slid mine into the background.

That was a choice I regretted. I should’ve made my birthday special the same way my mom did for every one of her seven children.

On our birthdays, she baked the cake we liked – white cake with chocolate icing for me – and made our favorite dinner – meatloaf and mashed potatoes were my choices.

After our grandchildren arrived, I started downplaying my birthday, thinking it was silly to celebrate “at my age.”

Everyone followed my lead to not make the day a big deal, so I got what I asked for. The day turned out to be just like every other summer day.

Honestly, I felt unimportant.

Later in the evening, I made a decision.

Forget downplaying my birthday.

Forget not wanting to call attention to myself.

Forget the silent martyr.

From now on, I’m going to celebrate whenever I can. Life’s filled with sad and tragic events. When the good things, both big and small, come along, we need to shout for joy and celebrate.

Celebrate: Getting out of bed in the morning. As a teen, getting up was torture. As an older citizen, getting up is still torture but mostly because my knees, ankles, thighs and back ache.

However, there are people who can’t get out of bed, so I need to stop whining and celebrate that I can put both feet on the floor all by myself every morning.

My family. When my boys were young, rambunctious and exhausting, I couldn’t wait for them to grow up and allow me to have some peace and quiet.

They’re grown, and the house is too quiet. There are times I’d trade everything for one afternoon of rocking my babies to sleep, reading them a bedtime story or listening to them and their friends play video games.

Celebrate your relatives. So many people don’t have the chance to see their families. Either their parents have passed away, live on the other side of the country or past misunderstandings have separated them.

Your parents will not live forever. Talk to them about their favorites growing up – songs, collections, musical groups, subjects in school. Just talk and listen. I’d love one more afternoon of talking with my grandparents or listening to my dad tell another corny Cajun joke.

Celebrate friends. At this end of the birthday spectrum, friends move away to begin a new chapter after retirement or, like me, become consumed with grandchildren or elderly parents. Many pass away, leaving us with regrets that we didn’t visit more often.

The key word is regret.

So from now on, jump in water puddles.

Play the radio loud and sing along.

Dance in the kitchen.

Take a chance.

Celebrate life.

Find a reason to laugh out loud.

And, most of all, celebrate your birthday.

Look out July 27, 2020. I’m comin’ for you, bells and whistles blazing.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Time is measured in a variety of ways – a grandfather clock ticking away year after year in the front hallway, an Apple Watch that not only marks time but also records the wearer’s heartbeat, blood pressure and steps taken.

Then there are the subtle ways – our hair that slowly turns from solid auburn to silver or the wrinkles that weren’t there a few years ago but now define our faces.

This week, I realized a back yard marks the passage of time.

Growing up, we lived next door to my grandparents. Next to their house was the “big yard” where family gathered every Sunday afternoon for a fun game of wiffle ball.

Our uncles taught us the game and allowed us to score runs around the make-shift bases. We cousins have fabulous memories of those impromptu games, all played in the big yard.

I went back to visit as an adult, and the yard that once seemed gigantic was actually small.

Grass now covered the bases, and those cheers and laughter were merely specters in my memory.

When my boys were toddlers, our back yard was filled with Little Tykes and Playskool riding toys. Blow-up wading pools filled out the space in the summer until, the biggest big-kid gift of all, a swing set went up.

My boys didn’t realize what a treat it was to have a swing set in their back yard. Growing up, our back yard was only big enough for a clothes line and a small patch of grass.

Didn’t matter because we could go to Oak Leaf Park where there were a dozen swings and slides and, our favorite, the now-banished merry-go-round.

But our inexpensive metal swing set was the highlight of our young family’s life in the afternoons.

Our boys would try for hours to see if they could swing high enough to do a loop-the-loop over the top, back to where they started.

Afternoons were spent seeing who could jump off the swing and land the farthest away from the letting-go point.

But time passes, and we replaced the swing set with a wooden fort where adventures were created in the covered sand box underneath the floor of the fort.

A ladder allowed the boys to climb up onto an enclosed area where they’d pretend they were pirates or figuring out how they could catch the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus.

About the time they outgrew the fort, we added a trampoline. The boys found they could do front flips, back flips and land on their rears and bounce back up.

The trampoline was popular all the way through their teenage years because they’d sneak out onto the roof of the garage, jump on the trampoline and bounce into the pool.

But teenagers leave home for college and their own lives. We left the trampoline in the yard until the springs rusted, and we had to take it down. The fort was a gift to a young family that needed a place for their growing children.

Then our grandchildren arrived, and we realized we needed to start the process all over again. In went a swing set, complete with a slide and teeter-totter, and my husband happily weed-eated around the four poles.

For the past few months, the swing set sat unused because our grandchildren outgrew the swings and slide. This week, the disassembled set went to the recycling center, and my husband finished putting together a new trampoline this afternoon.

The back yard was once again filled with the laughter of children, and I realized what goes around comes around.

The pendulum came back to where we started so many years ago but, this time around, I’m going to enjoy every minute until our back yard is once again quiet.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

 

I am the daughter of a dreamer.
My father dreamed big, saw himself not only achieving his dreams but going beyond what even he could imagine. He lived his life in a grandiose way.
When I was a young girl, he drove a big white Cadillac. Those of us old enough to remember The Beatles will remember the Caddys with fins gracefully sweeping up the sides and chrome bumpers as big as a kitchen table.
These were not economical vehicles – the car stretched at least a half block when parked and probably got 10 miles to the gallon.
Didn’t matter to my dad.
“Driving that car means I made it,” he said.
Successful, big-shot salesmen only drove a Cadillac. The grander the fenders and bumpers, the better.
When his business failed, which most of them did, he never looked back. He simply picked himself up and moved on to the next venture, telling us this new one would be the big break, the big deal.
There was no step-by-step progress for him. It was always the giant deal that was going to make him rich and successful. Others might question his methods, but my dad never doubted himself.
He was livelier than the other fathers, funnier and a much better dancer than anyone else we knew.
He could charm everyone from grandmothers to little children, and his charming Cajun phrases flowed like honey, even more so when he’d had a few beers.
When I got older, I gradually realized not all of his dreams were going to come true. In fact, most of them would never be more than the words coming out of his mouth. Most of them left us further in the financial hole.
I resented him for those dreams.
And because I resented those dreams, I had few of my own. Over the years, I took the safe, cautious path.
But a person who lives life to the fullest is impossible to resist. My dad was that way and charmed all his grandchildren. Pops was fun, gregarious and they knew he loved them without reserve.
He taught them to laugh and to appreciate the little gifts in life, like the small river that ran through some property he owned. Along the sandy banks of that river, they were pirates and explorers, conquering the mighty waters.
It was easy to catch his enthusiasm and he never lost that zest for life, even when his own was confined to an oxygen tank and a motorized chair.
All his life, he never stopped believing that one day, he’d make it big.
I thought about his dreams when considering what I want to do with the rest of my life. I find myself facing the second half of my time on earth, retirement coming sooner than I thought it would arrive.
Avenues that stretched out endlessly before me are narrower and with a definite end.
When I reached this stage of my life, I thought dreams would be silly and pointless. After all, my dreams growing up were simple goals, not unrealistic scenarios where I’d be a seasoned traveler, a writer who moved people to laughter or a person in the community my sons would brag about.
But I’ve traveled to a few places, I think I’ve put a smile on a few faces through this column, and I’ve never been drunk in my life.
My dad’s bravery and willingness to gamble on himself sustained him through the darkest times, gave him a reason to get out of bed in the mornings and put a smile on his face when I have a feeling he wanted to cry.
So maybe, just maybe, it’s time for me to start dreaming.
My dad would say… it’s about time.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Today we celebrate freedom. Cue the sparklers, turn on the grill and settle in to watch “Independence Day.”

According to www.history.com, the Fourth of July’s been an official American holiday since 1941, but most of us learned about American history in elementary school.

As a reminder, in 1776, delegates from the 13 colonies adopted the Declaration of Independence, demanding we be a free nation and not under British rule.

The founders of this country faced death to establish a country where people could rule together and not bow to a king. To make sure people never forgot tyranny, they passed the First Amendment.

This amendment establishes five basic freedoms:  freedom of religion, freedom of speech, freedom of the press, freedom of assembly and freedom to petition the government.

Freedom of religion would seem to be a given.

Unless one’s religion is different from someone else’s.

Then there’s a lot of finger pointing and explaining why they’re wrong and you’re right.

Freedom of speech is great in theory, but when confronted with racial slurs, bigotry, prejudice about others due to the color of their skin or their gender, many people want to put a gag on anyone pushing boundaries.

We supposedly have the freedom to say what we want as long as we’re not slandering someone else, but we’re paranoid about being politically correct in what we say and write.

Thanks to the internet and everyone having a cell phone, whatever someone says, whether they’re angry, young or intoxicated, can be used against them for years.

The press can be thanked for having the courage to report bravely about cover ups and wrongs, such as Watergate, harshly detaining families at the borders and brutal detention camps in Guantanamo Bay.

Despite the real press’s ability to expose wrongdoings, somewhere along the way, newspapers have taken a beating.

That’s thanks to agenda-driven bloggers and sloppy online posters who post whatever they want and pass gossip and innuendo off as journalism.

There’s no adherence to the journalist’s code of ethics, double checking facts or verifying sources.

Even news sources that are supposed to be unbiased put their own spin on the news, and readers must think deeply, research the facts and not accept someone else’s manipulation of the facts.

We’re supposed to have the freedom to assemble but seeing protesters with professionally made signs being egged on by hate groups makes it almost impossible for those with legitimate gripes and complaints to assembly peacefully.

We have the freedom to petition the government. Good luck with that. The last time I tried to get information out of the government, I had to fill out a dozen pages and wait six weeks for an answer. So, yes, we’re free to petition the government, but don’t hold your breath waiting for an answer.

These are simple and basic human rights, but they’re routinely denied, not just in this country but around the world.

Because we’re often shown only the bad side, it’s tough to be a flag-waving American. We see pictures of families detained at the border, a dead father and child in the water.

We hear about decades of racial profiling, poverty and homelessness. We question what kind of country allows these injustices to happen.

But then we see people of all color and cultures volunteering at the local food pantries, coming out in droves to donate and help when hurricanes hit and helping neighbors rebuild their flooded homes. We see communities donating bike after bike for a stranger they saw walking along the road and then paying for his funeral.

Yes, some of our freedoms have suffered, but they’re intact and being protected by most Americans who remember on the Fourth of July the price paid for freedom.

Working together, we can make sure that fight wasn’t fought in vain.

I believe in America. More importantly, I believe in Americans.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.  

My sons will be the first to tell you – I’m a nag. Not your ordinary mother who nags you about picking up your clothes, doing your homework or eating your vegetables.

I’m a superstar nagger.

My eldest son lives 8,000 miles away in the Philippines, but I nag him about calling more often and against getting any more tattoos.

Our middle son doesn’t take to nagging but I’ll gently remind him about the importance of yearly dental appointments and to call or text me once a month so I know he’s okay.

The youngest one gets the full brunt of my nagging, especially when he’s hundreds of miles away and living as cheaply as possible. I nag him about what he’s eating, where he’s washing his clothes, if he’s saving money – the list is endless.

I even nag our dog.

Whenever I hear someone nagging someone else, I feel comforted, knowing another do-gooder is also trying to straighten out someone else’s life with regular and non-stop life-improvement reminders.

Last week, I heard nagging from the last place on earth I ever thought I’d hear it – a rental car.

We were on a trip down the coast of South Carolina visiting the places author Pat Conroy described in his books.

I had a list of the different islands and towns he wrote about, and I was determined to check them off the bucket list.

We were on a long stretch of highway, and a message flashed on the dashboard:  the driver should consider stopping for a cup of coffee.

Not the icon for low tire pressure.

Not reminding us to stop for gas.

The car was nagging us to pull over for a caffeine fix.

Why in the world would a rental car think we needed coffee?

Maybe it was the length of time the car had been running without stopping. Maybe it was the number of lane changes. The traffic was heavy, and we’ve learned from Houston driving that you have to make quick moves to avoid getting stuck behind someone driving 10 miles below the speed limit.

Naggers don’t really need a reason to nag – we do it because we’re programmed to do so.

Electronics have made our lives easier and safer – smoke detectors and house alarms come to mind. When the batteries need replacing, they beep until you take care of business.

Our house alarm will call the police if we don’t key in the password within two minutes. My computer will lock me out if I type in the wrong password more than three times.

We don’t have to pay attention to daylight savings time – our watches and clocks automatically reset the time – and the refrigerator beeps if we leave the door open longer than 30 seconds.

I can set up apps on my phone to nag me about drinking more water, when it’s time to take a walk or it’s time to meditate.

But these reminders could go too far.

What’s next – apps to remind me to buy life insurance or get my prescriptions refilled?

Will my car refuse to start until I’ve assured the vehicle’s computers I remembered to turn off the lights in the house and I’ve got my wallet in my purse?

Come to think of it, having something remind me to pack my wallet wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

Having electronics tell you to pull over for coffee or remind you to call your mother so she stops nagging you might not be such a bad thing.

We professional naggers could use an apprentice.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

 

Even though I was born in New York state, I love reading about the South. I’m not a fan of novels that paint a sugar-coated picture – I gravitate toward novelists who write with care and honesty about people who understand that 90 percent humidity for most of the year is a given.

I remember picking up “The Prince of Tides” by Southern writer Pat Conroy many years ago and being hooked with the first line – “My wound is geography. It is also my anchorage, my port of call.”

As someone who loves magnolia blossoms and Spanish moss, I couldn’t put that book down, at times crying, and, at other times, re-reading passages until I had them memorized.

Conroy wrote of South Carolina’s Low Country in exquisitely chosen words and resonating phrases that made me want to visit the marshes and waters that formed this treasure of a writer.

This summer, I finally got the chance to visit Conroy’s hometown, Beaufort, S.C. The main reason was to visit the Pat Conroy Literary Center. In my hurry planning our trip, I didn’t read the center’s hours in detail.

We arrived in Beaufort on a Monday evening and were leaving Wednesday. When I looked a little closer at the website, I saw where the center was only open Thursday through Saturday.

My heart dropped. I had no idea how I was going to tell my husband I’d dragged him hundreds of miles to visit a center that was closed.

At the bottom of the site was a note that the center was also open by appointment. I sat down and wrote Communications and Events Coordinator Maura Connelly an honest email about my oversight, pleading for a short appointment to tour the center.

She wrote back within hours and invited us to come. A huge wave of relief washed over me, and we arrived 20 minutes early. So did she, and, with a smile, Maura welcomed us. The center is filled with books, some written by Conroy, but mostly books from Conroy’s personal collection.

The walls in the comfortable center are covered with memorabilia from Conroy’s early days including numerous photos and personal belongings, such as Conroy’s original thesaurus donated by a college friend.

Executive Director Jonathan Haupt came out of his office right after we arrived, and asked if he could take us through the center. He was knowledgeable, unhurried and warm as he described the center’s goals and Conroy as a person. He said they were doing what Conroy would’ve liked – spreading a love of reading and writing.

Haupt invited us to sit at Conroy’s desk and in his chair, and I thought I’d feel like I was sitting on a throne.

But that wasn’t quite correct.

Conroy, in his constant khaki pants, might not feel comfortable on a throne.

Perhaps he’d prefer sitting in the bough of a jon boat, trolling along a sea of grasses in the shallow marshes in the Low Country, the smell of shrimp and crabs a constant reminder of the connection between people and their personal geography.

Before we left, we visited a nature sanctuary and I thought about Pat Conroy’s life and the events and places that form all of us into who we are.

Walking along the boardwalk, the smells of the marsh filled my senses and, as a Cajun girl, I understood Conroy’s attachment to the Low Country because I’m attached to the bayous, lakes and lush greenness of home.

As we drove over the drawbridge leaving Beaufort, I thought about the kindness Ms. Connelly and Mr. Haupt showed us at the literary center, the loving way they are preserving Conroy’s memory and the elegant way they’re passing on a simple legacy:  words and stories are important.

The lifeblood of Southerners includes the waters, people, customs and culture of this beautiful land we call home and the stories we pass down from generation to generation.

I’m so grateful I found that shared connection in a prince of tides from the Low Country.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

There are casualties when vacuuming.

Dust bunnies, dog hair and M&M’s hiding underneath the couch are the usual victims. I didn’t expect my son’s first guitar to be on the injured list the last time I hauled out the vacuum cleaner.

Chris moved his guitars back to our house while doing some home renovations. Unfortunately, his empty house caught on fire in the middle of the night and everything – his clothes, furniture and the entire house – was destroyed.

After the shock wore off, I was relieved he’d brought his guitars to our house, some of which he’d had since high school. This Ibanez guitar was the first one we’d bought him in high school.

Chris was fascinated with the guitar ever since his older brother started taking lessons. Chris would sneak into his brother’s room and play around on the guitar. He was pretty good, and when his birthday rolled around, we bought him that Ibanez from a pawn shop and signed him up for lessons.

A quick learner with a natural aptitude for the guitar, Chris was lucky to take lessons from an incredible guitar teacher, Steve Nicosia, and played until his fingers bled.

Late at night, when the house was quiet, I could hear Chris in his room, strumming and practicing songs over and over again. I knew that Ibanez was his way of coping with an often-tough world, and hearing him bring music to life was an incredible gift for me.

The afternoon I broke the guitar, I was in a hurry. I knew when I propped the guitar against the wall it was a mistake. I accidentally knocked the guitar over with the hose of the vacuum cleaner, and the “crack” I heard was like a punch in the stomach.

I picked up the guitar and saw the neck was broken. Chris kept reassuring me it was okay, but I knew that guitar was dear to his heart. I looked up guitar repair shops and left messages with numerous shops.

The next day, a friendly voice called back and said he’d be happy to look at the guitar. No promises, but he’d let me know if the guitar was worth saving.

I found Neil Sergeant at Professional Guitar Repair. A smiling man with a blonde ponytail opened the door and welcomed me in. It was like stepping back into the 1960s – guitar cases were stacked on the floor and colorful posters from dozens of bands lined the walls. Dusty shelves held an ample supply of replacement guitar parts and every tool and oil associated with guitars.

Neil tenderly took the guitar from my hands and put it on a padded work bench. He ran his hands over the wood and noted the Ibanez was from the 1970s but seemed to be in pretty good shape.

A cracked neck is common, he explained, as he efficiently removed the headstock, pegs and tuners. As he worked, we chatted. He said he’d originally gone to school to learn how to build guitars, but, over the years, he became fascinated with repairing them.

Corporate America wasn’t for him, he said, and I caught glimpses of the 1960s culture throughout our conversation. Neil was open and honest, and seeing how he expertly handled my son’s guitar, a virtuoso.

There aren’t many sole proprietors around these days, and Neil Sargent is one of the guys that makes America run. He was so much fun to talk with, and I left there feeling like I’d rediscovered an old friend.

Fingers are crossed that Chris will be strumming that guitar again and teaching his children to play and love the guitar, just as he did.

That love can start with a beloved 1970s Ibanez guitar, expertly put back together by a cool cat named Neil Sargent.

         This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.