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. 

How does Janet do it?

Janet is my sister-in-law and the family’s official baker. Others in my family are good in the kitchen, but Janet’s often the one who arrives at gatherings with a plate of perfectly baked, delicious chocolate chip cookies.

In my roles as mom and grandmother, I’ve probably baked at least 200 cakes, dozens of cookies and an occasional pie. Most were courtesy of a box mix, but on special occasions, I go the extra mile and bake from scratch.

Last night, I wanted to make some end-of-the-school-year treats, so I decided to go old school, figuring I could probably still whip up a decent dessert.

I had a package of semi-sweet chocolate chips in the pantry, and I knew they’d print a cookie recipe on the back. Even though the ingredient list looked long, I knew I had everything, so I went to work.

First, the flour and sugar. The canisters on the counter were almost empty, so I decided to fill them up first. That resulted in my spilling flour all over the counter. Thinking I’d get a little smarter, I decided to pour the sugar straight into the measuring cup from the bag.

Mistake. The sugar came out in a rush and I spilled sugar all over the counter that mixed in with the flour.

The recipe called for ¾ cup of brown sugar, but after measuring, there was some left in the bag. I told myself it didn’t matter if I poured all the rest of that brown sugar in the bowl. I stacked the rest of the dry ingredients next to the bowl.

Then it was time to beat the butter.  I’d forgotten to take two sticks out of the refrigerator. A minute in the microwave softened the butter right up, probably a bit too much, but I confidently added the white sugar and reached into the fridge for an egg.

I accidentally dropped the egg, stopped, cleaned it up and went back to the recipe. But I’d lost track of where I was. Had I added the baking powder? What about the salt? The problem, I told myself, was too many ingredients.

I was facing a counter crowded with vanilla, oil, Crisco, measuring spoons, pot holders, cooling racks and the dinner dishes. I thought I’d added everything, so I moved on to the baking part.

The directions called for an ungreased cookie sheet, so I took them at their word. I finally got the cookies in the oven, set the timer and filled up another baking sheet.

I bravely and foolishly thought since I’d dragged out the baking pans, I might as well make brownies to go along with the cookies.

Luckily, I had a box mix for that and mixed it up – only two ingredients – whew.

I peeked in the oven. The cookies were as flat as a pancake.

“Maybe they puff up in the last couple of minutes of cooking time,” I thought.

That was incorrect.

When I tried to get the first batch of cookies off the baking sheet, they wouldn’t budge. I thought I’d have to get a hammer and scraper to get those cookies off. I quickly yanked the second pan out of the oven, took the raw cookies off and put some parchment paper down.

Back in the oven they went, and I put the crumbled cookies on a plate for my husband. He’s used to my disasters in the kitchen. I told him those crumbs would make great ice cream toppings.

He pretended to believe me.

When the last pan of cookies was finished – all as flat as a plate – I put the brownies in for the time called for on the box. Twenty minutes later, they seemed to be done.

I let them cool, but when I tried to cut them, it was like trying to cut mud. I added clumps of slightly underdone brownies to the plate of cookie crumbs and consoled myself with the fact that my husband would have a great ice cream sundae.

Everything tasted okay, but the kitchen was in shambles. I had flour, sugar and egg all over my shirt, I’d dirtied four baking pans, all the measuring cups, three bowls, a Pyrex baking dish and a dozen spoons and knives.

Home-made might sound heavenly, but the next time I have a desire to bake something special, I know exactly what to do.

Call Janet.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

I was in the doctor’s waiting room recently and, as always, there’s a variety of people anxiously awaiting their turn to see a physician.

On the couch to my left was a young couple. Both husband and wife were glued to their cell phones, seldom talking, but I’ve come to accept that as the new norm because they were probably texting each other.

On the next row over, a 60-something-year old man in designer clothing was filling out paperwork while his stylishly dressed wife waited next to him.

She kept tossing her hair back – that’s what caught my attention – and I watched them for a while as they went back and forth to the nurse’s desk.

She was holding something in her hand the whole time they walked around, and I realized it was a giant container of gum.

Sure enough, she was chomping away, and she did so the whole time we were all there – over three hours. Everybody, I realized, has their own way to cope with stress.

A middle-aged couple came in, and it was obvious they’d been in a motorcycle accident. The man was limping, carrying two scuffed-up helmets, and both he and his wife had huge bandages on their forearms and elbows.

Two EMTs accompanied them, and it wasn’t hard to figure out an ambulance had transported them to the office, not their Harley.

While I was busy observing other people, I kept hearing someone burping, and burping loudly.

My mom reared me to be polite, so I didn’t turn around at first. But after a half hour of non-stop burps, I looked to see who was belching with abandon.

It was an elderly woman, probably in her 80s, and she hadn’t a care in the world about venting the gas in her tummy.

She’d open her mouth, let out a loud burp and go right back to visiting with her son while eating a take-out dinner.

At first, I was embarrassed for her. It’s considered bad manners to burp that loudly in public without saying “excuse me.”

Maybe she didn’t realize what she was doing, but when she started issuing orders to the grown man and woman accompanying her, there wasn’t a doubt she had all her faculties.

And, in between the orders, she continued to belch without once saying “excuse me.”

Maybe she had the right idea.

At her age, who cares what anybody else thinks about a normal bodily function? She obviously didn’t, and she didn’t hesitate a minute when the nurse asked if she needed anything.

“An Alka-Seltzer,” I thought to myself.

“A blanket,” she said. “It’s cold in here.”

The woman was right – it was freezing in that waiting room, but she was the only one with enough nerve to ask for what she wanted.

A few minutes later, the nurse gently covered her with a warmed blanket that she settled into with, of course, a few more belches and burps.

Maybe we need to stop apologizing for things we have no control over. I find myself apologizing to people all the time when they walk in front of me, when I have to squeeze past them in the movie theater or when I do something I’m not sorry for but I feel I have to offer an apology.

The next time I feel a belch coming on, I’ll see if I can let loose and not say “I’m sorry” a dozen times.

Perhaps I can follow this woman’s lead, burp and keep right on doing what I was doing.

What’ll really happen is I’ll think about her when I burp, all alone in the living room, and then apologize to the couch.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

High school musicals and concerts are underrated.

Here in our community, music and theater lovers can find shows, performers and concerts that are right up there with anything you’d find in Houston.

Sure there’s a few off-key notes and missteps, but that’s to be expected from teens who are still learning the process.

I went to two free performances this spring – choir and band – and got more than I expected. The teens knew their cues, how to perform on stage and demonstrated proper theater etiquette.

Thanks to social media, I’m not quite sure audiences understand what they should do and shouldn’t do.

Almost everybody is recording the show on their cell phone. They seem to be totally oblivious to the fact that their cell phone lights up and is distracting in a dark auditorium.

They’re so busy recording, making sure the phone’s in focus and they’re getting the sound right, they’re missing the magic of the music.

Music has the ability to transport us to another place – sometimes it’s a calming place, if we’re listening to an orchestra, and other times it’s a place of excitement if we’re watching “Hairspray.”

Cell phones have created a barrier between us and the performers, and not just in the theater. We have a cell phone out all the time to capture every moment, and, as a result, we are losing the human touch.

At Little League baseball games, parents no longer visit in the stands. They’re too busy filming the game on their cell phones, uploading the pictures and videos to social media or checking their email for the latest buzz on an always updating news feed.

Few want to be bothered with talking to a stranger.

People walking or running around the park usually have ear buds on, listening to podcasts or music instead of the leaves rustling in the wind.

Maybe there’s no contest between bees buzzing and Lady Gaga, but we are sacrificing the interaction with the world around us for social media gossip that’ll be forgotten in hours.

Which brings me back to the band concert. After the first song started, I caught something out of the corner of my eye.

A woman on the third row, right in the middle of the theater, was leaning forward in her seat, her cell phone held above her head, filming the performance.

She didn’t just film one song, she filmed the entire concert. Four people behind her tried seeing around her arm up in the air, but they couldn’t, so they moved.

This woman never noticed there were other people around her.

That’s when I realized having cell phones out to record life was more the norm than sitting quietly and absorbing the music as an engaged group.

I struggle with finding the balance between capturing the milestone events on video and putting the phone or camera away to see everything with my eyes instead of through a lens.

I understand parents want to capture a special event so they can to watch their child over and over again. Those videos and films become more precious as the years go by. There are VHS tapes I have of family Christmases from years ago I guard with my life.

The video, however, was secondary to being there with my family, interacting, talking, gossiping and eavesdropping on all the other conversations around the room.

It’s easy to capture every moment of our lives on video and share it on social media. We have to be careful that in sharing every morsel of our lives we no longer have a private, personal life.

But I still want memories on film, so I have some advice.

Film the show, but do so as quietly as you can. Greet those sitting around you and ask if your filming will be disruptive.

Position the phone between your chin and your chest so as to not block others behind you. Dim your screen if you can.

And, look up from time to time.

It’s a beautiful world out there.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

They’re little.

Tiny almost.

No bigger than the head of a pin.

But when they bite, that attack can swell up to the size of a lemon.

I’m not talking about mosquitoes.

I’m talking about those little black gnats that crawl all over your face, up your nose, and in your eyes the second you step outside.

Annoying doesn’t even come close to describing their effect. As if we didn’t have enough aggravating situations in life.

Traffic for one. If I had a dollar for every orange cone in the state of Texas, I could retire a billionaire tomorrow.

Just about the time crews finish a section of road, the cones go up on the next section, and there’s gridlock traffic all over again.

Near our house, they rerouted traffic to the shoulder for a quarter mile. We drive over rumble strips cut into the asphalt while they’re working on the west-bound traffic.

The noise from the tires bumping over the rumble strips would wake the dead.

Anybody driving on Highway 59 can attest to the headache around narrow lanes with concrete barriers on both sides of the road.

I feel like I’m being squished through a sausage maker, especially when there’s an 18-wheeler barreling past me.

Once we get to where we’re going, we get to stand in long lines and deal with people who do not understand the concept of the next person in line should go to the next open cashier.

Not the person on their cell phone who runs up to the check-out lines and believes because they were already in motion they should go next.

Wrong.

Wait your turn because your behavior is annoying.

People talking loudly on a cell phone in a waiting room or in line is annoying. You might think you’re talking quietly, but you’re not.

Everyone five feet around you can hear everything you’re saying and, sometimes, we can hear the person on the other end of the conversation.

In no particular order, here are some other things that are annoying:  having it rain right after you washed your car. Pulling up to the ATM machine on a Friday afternoon and finding out it’s out of cash. Finally mopping the floor and then having the kids run in with muddy shoes.

Repeating yourself to someone who’s distracted but assures you they’re paying attention. Getting stuck at a red light next to a teenager blaring music so loud, your car vibrates.

Waiting for a delivery that’s supposed to come between 9 a.m. and 6 p.m., and you get a text message at 5:55 p.m. that the delivery is postponed until the next day.

Reading comments online about who lives and dies in “The Endgame.” At this point, if you haven’t seen “The Endgame,” time’s up for asking people not to reveal the ending. You’ve had plenty of time to see it.

A mosquito in the bedroom at night is annoying as are mosquitoes almost all the time. Sure, those insects are great for the birds, but explain that to the itchy red bump on my cheek that’s right next to the gnat bite on my forehead.

There are some ways around the annoyances. Stay off of Highway 59 and take Highway 90 instead. Enjoy the few minutes the car and floor are clean instead of concentrating on the dirt. Stop reading online comments about movies or shows until you’ve seen them.

And buy “Bugg” or use vanilla – both will repel those annoying little gnats.

When someone pulls up next to you at the red light blaring their music, crank up your radio and blare NPR back at them.

Hopefully it’s during pledge week – that’ll annoy anybody.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.