Another school shooting.

Another group of high school teenagers, scarred forever.

Another round of asking “why” and never receiving acceptable answers.

In Parkland, Fla., a psychopath opened fire at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School and killed young teenagers who had their whole lives in front of them.

He killed teachers who were educating young people, preparing them for college and the opportunity to raise a family and experience life.

There’s no reason for this vile person’s actions that will ever make sense to the world.

Watching teenagers file out of a school, their trembling hands on the shoulders of the student in front of them, running while armed police officers and S.W.A.T. teams with loaded rifles and guns, directing them to a safe spot, is a sight that’s becoming common place in American schools.

The scenes brought back memories of the Columbine High School shootings. I was home that day and watched with horror as teenagers fled for their lives against the two monsters that opened fire in their school.

There were strange kids in my high school class, and I grew up in a blue-collar city where people went hunting all the time. Almost every family had guns in their homes, and they were readily available to them.

Nobody ever brought a gun to school and opened fire on their classmates.

Something has changed in the past 20 years where deranged young people went from dreaming up a nightmare scenario to actually carrying it out.

Is it violence in video games? I’ve seen some of those first-person shooter games, and they’re gruesome. The player hunts down other players and shoots them, the blood flying everywhere on the screen.

Have these games anesthetized our young people to the damage a gun does to a human being? Is there no clue about the permanence of death and the scars they’ve inflicted on the school, the families, the town, the nation?

Do we blame social media? Twitter, Instagram and Snapchat remove the personal from conversations and interactions with each other. Cyberbullying is rampant, and when people make mean comments, we pay scant attention.

The next time you read a story online, scroll down and read the comments. You’ll be appalled at the filth people post anonymously. Their political and angry agendas are there for the world to see, and we just let it pass, citing freedom of speech.

So what’s the answer? Do we take away guns? Do we limit social media? Do we make every comment posted online transparent?

What about teens we suspect could be dangerous – are we unfairly labeling them if we report them to the school authorities as a possible unsafe person?

We’ll raise the same questions – how did he get the AR-15-style semiautomatic rifles, what pushed him over the edge, what was his home life like, was he bullied.

The bottom line is this psychopath, this brutal murderer, made the choice to take a loaded weapon to a high school of innocent people and open fire.

He changed the lives of every person in that school, from the principal to the custodian to every teacher and every single student.

He altered the lives of the families of the students in that school, and he shattered the fragile illusion we had that our children are safe.

This violence has to stop.

We have to take a hard look at our young people, figure out why they’re so angry and address the problem instead of burying our faces in our cellphones.

America, it’s time to wake up.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

February is a busy month in our extended family. There are over 10 birthdays in this short month, and another three at the beginning of March.

When there’s seven siblings plus spouses, over 25 nieces and nephews and that many more children of our nieces and nephews, it seems the Heberts are celebrating year round.

But February boasts its own jam-packed month of cake and candles. We loved the major holidays, but birthdays had a special significance because it was the only day of the year that belonged to just us.

We had to share Christmas and Easter with each other. That was fine because we learned to share early on, but my mom always made us feel special on our birthdays.

She let us choose what we wanted for dinner. That might not seem like a big deal, but this was before pizza chains delivered to your front door and restaurants were on every street corner.

Mom worked all day in an office and then came home and made us whatever we wanted on our special day. One of us wanted her spaghetti while another wanted beef stew. She obliged, never complained, and she always baked our favorite cake.

At the time, I didn’t appreciate how hard that must’ve been on my mom, but I appreciate her more and more every year for putting herself second and for making us feel loved and spoiled, if just for one day.

She did have one trick up her sleeve to make life easier, and that was the decorating. My youngest sister’s birthday starts off the parade, so mom decorated early for her special day. The kitchen had crepe paper from one end of the dining area to the other, happy birthday banners on the walls and a pretty tablecloth.

Those decorations stayed up until the end of March.

It might seem odd that someone’s kitchen would be festive for six weeks, but I thought my mom was quite ingenious for making the best use of her time and energy.

I tried to make our sons’ birthdays special, and that was a little harder with our youngest two. Our middle son’s birthday is five days before Christmas and the youngest one’s is on Halloween.

When they got older, we sometimes went roller skating or bowling. But most of their parties were at our house. We usually had a hot-dog roast in the back yard, complete with a campfire, and at least five bags of marshmallows, bags of chocolate and two boxes of graham crackers.

One year we went to a friend’s camp, and the pond had been drained. The boys had tons of fun wallowing around in the mud. I’m not sure their moms were thrilled, but the boys had a blast.

Then there was the year we had 30 first graders over for a pirate party, and the skies opened up to relentless rain. Luckily, we had a big carport, so we played “Walk the Plank” underneath a covering while lightning and thunder reigned.

For our youngest boy, we usually had his party the weekend before Halloween, and we stayed away from costume parties so there was a difference between Halloween and his birthday. Except for the year he was Wolverine, and I don’t think he took that costume off for weeks.

For children, being invited to a birthday party is the highlight of their year. But so many parents these days throw elaborate parties for their youngsters and can only invite three or four guests.That robs other children of the opportunity to feel special by being invited to someone’s home and to someone’s party.

I’d much rather have 30 kids running around in my back yard, eating home-made cupcakes and drinking Kool-Aid than spoil six of them in a pink limousine.

You might be dreading the cleanup, but follow my mom’s lead – leave the decorations up year round and then all you have to do is get the marshmallows, chocolate and graham crackers ready.

After all, children don’t really care about a limousine. They care that they were invited somewhere.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

 

The end of January marked the 21^st anniversary of the animated television series “King of the Hill.” Written by Greg Daniels and Mike Judge, the show followed the Hank Hill family through their daily lives in a small town in Texas.

The show remains popular on YouTube with some of the better episodes racking up thousands of views.

In real life, I’ve met people like Hank Hill, a down-home type who’d rather sell propane than work on Wall Street, Dale Gribble, who believes every historical event has a conspiracy theory attached to it, and the naïve yet loveable son of Hank and Peggy, Bobby Hill.

I’ve been a fan of animated cartoons since I was a kid. I remember getting up early on Saturday mornings to watch our favorites – Southern sheriff “Huckleberry Hound” and the dim-witted cavemen Fred Flintstone and Barney Rubble.

One cartoon pre-dates most of the others – Popeye.  Some of his cartoons go back to the mid-1930s, and the backgrounds and animation are still as richly detailed as when they were drawn. The brutal fighting and the cavalier way women are treated make us cringe, but back then, Popeye made me actually consider eating spinach.

When I got a little older, I loved watching the “Rocky and Bullwinkle Show.” Witty and funny, Rocket J. Squirrel was the smart one and Bullwinkle his dull-witted yet loveable sidekick.

The segment “Hey Rocky, watch me pull a rabbit out of my hat” never got old. We knew Bullwinkle would never pull a rabbit out of that hat, but we could always hope.

It wasn’t until I was a bit older that I came to value Mr. Peabody’s dry wit and his escapes through history with young Sherman.

I enjoyed the “Fractured Fairy Tales” segments on the Rocky and Bullwinkle Show, but I appreciate them so much more now that I’m older.

As told by the iconic voice of Edward Everett Horton, the fairy tales never turned out the way they did in the fairy-tale books. The wolf wasn’t big and bad and Red Riding Hood wasn’t an innocent little girl skipping through the forest.

My sadistic side loved “Tom and Jerry.” The mouse always got away with pulling the wool over the cat’s eyes, but Tom never stopped trying to catch Jerry. What’s amazing is the creators, William Hanna and Joseph Barbera, wrote these entertaining shorts without any dialogue.

The backgrounds and sets are richly drawn, the colors deep and gorgeous, and the musical score ranges from classical music to violins, flutes and bassoons written especially for the cartoon. There’s some disturbing racial stereotypes in some of the cartoons, but the action always centers on Tom and Jerry.

But of all the cartoons, I’ll always take time to watch Bugs Bunny. Voiced by the multi-talented Mel Blanc, that  rabbit is smart, witty and always gets the last laugh, especially over Daffy Duck. My all-time favorite skit is the one between Bugs and Daffy when it’s rabbit season vs. duck season. If you’ve never seen the episode, jump onto YouTube, take a look and make sure you watch to the end when Bugs turns rabbit season into goat season, pigeon season and dirty skunk season.

Bugs will lead you to another animated cartoon with no talking, only beautiful music – the never ending battle between Wile E. Coyote and the Road Runner, with a little help from the Acme Company. That in turn, will lead you to two of my personal favorites in the Bugs Bunny catalog, the loud-mouthed Foghorn Leghorn and the volcanic Yosemite Sam.

Whether it’s laughing at Bugs or agreeing with Hank Hill, nothing beats watching these richly drawn, funny and timeless characters.  So do yourself a favor – hop on over to YouTube and take a stroll down Loony Tunes Lane.

That’s all folks.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I love reading self-help and advice columns like “Dear Abby.” I’ve got a lot of work to do on myself, and the only one who can accomplish anything on this fixer-upper is me.

Dear Abby’s been around for decades, and the daughter, Jeanne Phillips, now pens the column after her mother, Abigail Van Buren, passed away.

I thought about what I knew as a mother versus what I know as a grandmother, and realized my thoughts and beliefs about what’s important and what’s not important have changed as my boys went from Matchbox cars to their own car notes.

So in no particular order, here’s my own take on what I knew as a mother and what I know as a grandmother:

Your face will freeze like that. If I said that phrase to my sons once, I said it a million times. The phrase was a way I thought I got their attention. That’s wrong.

As a grandmother, I know to break into a huge smile when I see that face and then sincerely compliment them on their comic ability. Then I should ask how many more impressions they can do and they should start with me.

You’re going to spoil that baby by picking him up too much. As a mother, I thought I needed to raise my sons to be self-sufficient. If they were overtired, they needed to go to bed and tough it out until they fell asleep.

As a grandmother, I know nobody likes to cry themselves to sleep. Nobody. So why would I let a child lay in bed for an hour crying? Instead, rock that child to sleep, hold and rock and sing quietly to them until they quiet down.

You better straighten them out. As a mother, I thought I had to bird dog my sons every minute. If I didn’t pay attention to their every move, monitor their friendships, go through their backpacks – yes I did that on a regular basis – and make sure I knew what they were doing every minute, I was a failure as a parent.

As a grandmother, I still think parents need to bird dog their children but allow them to make minor mistakes because that’s often how we learn best. I wouldn’t let my grandchildren run out into the street, but a little dirt and grime didn’t hurt anybody.

There are starving children in China, so you need to clean your plate. As a mother, I thought I was instilling a sense of guilt into my boys so they’d eat their healthy dinner and not sneak into the pantry at night for a Pop Tart.

As a grandmother, I know children do not equate the Brussel sprouts on their plate with starving children in China. They’re not ever going to eat Brussel sprouts. There’s a huge range of vegetables out there that kids like so I fix those.

If they want a bowl of Cocoa Puffs before bedtime, I’m good with that. And instead of guilting them about cleaning their plate, we talk about ways to support hungry children, like offering to share their lunch with a hungry classmate.

Have you lost your mind? I used that line every single day when my boys were young. Of course, when you’re looking at the entire bathroom covered in soap, a mother’s thought is that their child was either possessed by the devil or they’ve lost their minds.

As a grandmother, I tell them how thoughtful they are to try and make sure all the walls in the bathroom are cleaned. And then I sing to them as they get the soap off the walls. Sure it’s a mess, but nobody’s crying at the end of the bath.

They say with age comes wisdom. I don’t know about wisdom coming with age, but patience and not sweating the small stuff sure does.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

 

 

 

Coughers, unite!

You know who you are. You’re the one hiding at the end of the church pew so you don’t have to climb over 10 people when you feel a coughing fit coming on.

You’re the one with a pocket full of Hall’s cough drops and quietly eating them like Life Savers because you’re desperate to stop the constant hacking and coughing.

We hide, we sniffle, we hold our breath until the sensation passes and then, bam, the tickle starts in our chest and gallops up through our windpipes like an out-of-control locomotive.

People look at us as if we should be able to control the cough. Trust me, if we could control that coughing, we’d have done it long before your dirty look shamed us into hiding.

I spent a week on the couch right after Christmas with the flu. Chills, fever, body aches – I had the whole checklist. But the worst and most persistent symptom was a hacking cough that decided to stick around after the fever subsided.

Two weeks later, I’m not coughing as much but the monster’s still a squatter in my lungs.

The cough’s an unwelcome tenant I want to evict but it’s proving difficult to get rid of an annoyance that reminds me it’s here every five minutes.

My mom has remained vigilant about my coughing ever since I told her I was laid up on the couch.

Our daily phone calls have a checklist – what was her blood pressure in the morning and if I’m over the flu. Not five minutes into the call, I’ll start hacking away.

“You still have that cough,” she’ll say.

At this point, I think I’m going to have this non-stop cough for the rest of my life.

“You need to take something for that,” she’ll say.

That’s an understatement.

I’d gone to the doctor when I first got sick in case there was something to lessen the symptoms. The doctor prescribed “pearls” for coughs.

For some people, the pearls work like a charm. For others, not so much. I’m in that second category of not finding relief with the pearls.

I tried every home remedy I knew to help with the cough, starting with hot herb tea with honey. That remedy worked as long as I was drinking the tea, but there wasn’t long-lasting relief.

Staying hydrated was another suggestion, so I drank gallons of water but all that did was make me cough in the restroom.

I tried slathering Vick’s Vapor Rub all over the bottoms of my feet before I went to sleep. All that did was ruin a perfectly good pair of thick socks and make our bedroom smell like a eucalyptus factory.

The Internet was filled with all kinds of alternative medicines to take, most of which I couldn’t pronounce, but I thought were worth a try.

Either those remedies could only be found in Sweden or everybody else read the same articles I did and bought out the store.

If prescription drugs and online remedies couldn’t help, then I knew I had to find a middle ground that could offer some relief.

It was back to the drugstore, where I picked up some NyQuil in a dual package – one side for daytime, the other side for nighttime.

The nighttime meds did help with the cough. But the lingering side effects made me feel like part of the Zombie Apocalypse for an hour after I got up.

The DayQuil worked better than the herbal tea and the pearls, and they’ve been my lifeline for the past week.

Coughers, you have nothing to be ashamed of. Once the flu symptoms are gone, give it three weeks and you’ll be back to your old self.

Until then, please pass the NyQuil.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I’ve been known to complain about lousy service in a restaurant. I’ve also been known to write nasty letters to companies when I feel I’ve been taken advantage of. But when companies go above and beyond, I like to commend them in public.

A few weeks ago, my mom had a bad reaction to some medication she was taking to prevent a stroke. The doctor followed a good path – start with a low-cost, frequently-prescribed drug and see how it works. Mom noticed some gradual shortness of breath, but she didn’t think to blame the medication.

Until she ended up the emergency room with internal bleeding.

A few tests and scares later, Coumadin was found to be the culprit. For most people, this drug works, but it didn’t for her. The doctor called in the only alternative, Eliquis, a relatively new drug, to the on-site pharmacy, a facility she’s used many times in the past.

It was 15 minutes until closing time on a Saturday night so I walked over and picked up her medications.

The clerk handed me the bag, and I walked out as they locked up behind me.

It wasn’t until I got Mom home that we saw the note in the bag – “Out of Eliquis. Did not fill prescription.”

I hit the roof – the pharmacy sent my mom home without a needed medication over the weekend. I called the nurse’s station and told them what happened, and Lane Regional Medical Center’s social worker, Florence called me.

First she apologized. Then she said she would get Mom the new medication that night, but there were a few bumps.

The Eliquis cost $450 without the insurance company’s approval. With that approval, the cost would be $140 a month. Still high, but a lot better than $450. She told me she wasn’t going to stop until she got that approval.

The problem was getting that approval on a Saturday night with two hours before the pharmacy closest to Mom’s house closed.

Florence kept in constant contact with me while she found the right person to approve the meds and then stayed on hold for 45 minutes until she got the approval.

I walked out right before closing time with Mom’s new prescription, and we paid $140, not $450, because Florence didn’t give up.

That’s going above and beyond for a patient to solve a potentially life-saving issue.

Our second encounter was when we decided our grandchildren needed an indoor activity on New Year’s Day since the weather was 40 degrees and raining.

Since we live on the far west side of the county, we found Times Square in Katy was open.

Not only did the attendants greet us with a smile, but they helped me figure out the most economical way for all four of the children to bowl and then got us set up in a separate room with bumper pads. The manager came over with a ramp for the young ones, and everyone had a great time.

That’s going above and beyond for the customer when the only place the employee wants to be on a cold holiday is home in front of the TV.

Lastly, I went to see a movie at the AMC at Katy Mills, a last-minute decision. About half way through the film, the sound became garbled, and the screen froze. The manager came in and said they were having sound issues but were working the problem.

Then he personally gave every customer a free pass to see another movie at another time or we could go see any other movie playing at the theater at that time. After a couple of failed attempts, the manager returned and said he was giving everyone their money back. Oh, and keep the free pass.

In all these situations, the businesses treated the customer with respect, not rudeness, with a polite apology even when the mishaps were not their fault and, most importantly, offered a remedy.

I’m through with companies that treat the customer like an afterthought instead of a priority. There are so many businesses here that treat the customer like a valued human being, and those are the places where I’ll spend my money.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

A new year has rolled in, bringing with it frigid arctic temperatures and hopes for a prosperous, happy 2018.

People used to publicly post their resolutions to the fridge with a magnet. Now we use social media, and the usual lofty goals are there – lose weight, eat healthier, work less and play more.

One of the more creative online resolution prompts was to use one word as a mantra for the coming year. “Enough” was a popular word as was “joy” and “pray.” It’s a pretty good suggestion, but I have a hard time narrowing down my life’s path to a one-syllable word.

Others are choosing to let go of the negatives in their lives and embrace the positives. That makes sense until we realize the negatives and the positives balance each other out. As much as I hate it when things don’t go my way, the different path brings challenges that make me a stronger and humbler person.

Some people want to sleep more – good luck with that if you have a toddler – while others want to learn a new language. I’d settle for understanding what emoji’s are all about.

I used to make a list of resolutions every New Year’s Eve and tape it inside my medicine cabinet where I’d see it every day.

The list didn’t change and neither did the fact that I failed at those resolutions by the time Valentine’s Day rolled around.

A few years ago, I changed my approach – I wrote down a believable list that won’t set the world on fire but is achievable. This year, I’m continuing the tradition.

I came up with three doable and achievable goals for 2018. While three resolutions might make me look like a slacker, I can say with certainty I’m going to achieve these resolutions.

Resolution Number 1:  Clean out the pantry.

I hate to admit it, but there are spices in my pantry from when we moved to Texas 30 years ago. I have no idea why I bought turmeric or sage, but they’ve been taking up space in the pantry so long, there’s dust on the bottles.

I am never going to cook anything that requires an exotic spice, so out they go. Salt, pepper and Tony Chachere’s are all I need.

Resolution Number 2:  Throw away orphan socks.

When the boys were young, they believed the clothes dryer ate their socks. That belief was right up there with the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus.

We repeatedly told them if they took their dirty socks off at the same time and put them in the clothes basket at the same time, they’d get both of them back.

We might as well have talked to the empty clothes basket. Dirty socks ended up under the kitchen table, in front of the television and in the toilet.

They believed, and probably still do believe, that the dryer eats their socks. Funny but that same dryer never eats my socks or my husband’s socks. But I’ve noticed when the grandchildren come to visit, the dryer’s appetite for socks kicks into overdrive.

I’ve got a nice stack of mismatched toddler and kid socks in the laundry room. If the mate to that Bob-the-Builder sock hasn’t shown up in the last two years, something tells me it’s never going to materialize. So out they go with the spices.

Resolution Number 3:  Watch for blue skies.

As I write this, I haven’t seen a blue sky in at least two weeks. I find myself standing by the window, hopelessly searching for a little sliver of blue. Yesterday, I found a faint patch of blue in the distance, and I could feel my spirits lift.

In 2018, I’m going to keep looking for blue skies, both out the window and in my life.

Even when it’s gloomy outside, even when life’s handing us hurdles instead of blessings, I need to keep in mind that the blue skies always return if we’re patient and we never stop looking.

So 2018, bring it on. Let’s see what you’ve got.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

The year is ending in just a few days, and not a moment too soon. Two-thousand-seventeen was a year of the unexpected, the unknown and who-the-heck-knows. Personally, it’s been a year of poignant regrets and letting opportunities slip past.

In the unexpected category, the worst was Hurricane Harvey. No one predicted a horrific flood that would devastate thousands of people and homes. Harvey was a brutal reminder that Mother Nature is not always a benevolent entity.

We started 2017 with a new president after a stunning and unexpected election upset in 2016. It’s still too early in the West Wing game to see if that unexpected means more jobs or bread lines or whether we’ll be at war when summer arrives.

As a voracious reader and writer, I’m glad newspapers are defying the odds and holding on to readers. People are finally accepting that something worth having is worth paying for.

This publication continues to be the source that connects us and does so by letting you know what’s going on in your community. Social media is incredibly inaccurate, so having a printed voice of reason is an invaluable lifeline.

We lost so many people in our midst this past year, from close relatives to community leaders. Too often, I saw their obituary long after the funeral, missing the opportunity to say “thank you.”

There’s one opportunity to say thank you I don’t want to miss, and that’s to our district attorney John Healey. John’s been in that office for most of his political career, and whether or not you agree with his politics, he’s been a steadfast public servant, one whom I appreciate.

My association with the Healey family is personal – John and his wife, Theo, were the first people we met when we moved to Fort Bend County 30 years ago.

They lived across the street, and Theo and John were the ones who told us where the closest grocery store was located, how to find the nearest Catholic church and were the ones we called whenever we needed something. They also treated our boys with love and kindness from the time they were in elementary school through college. John and Theo, thank you for your friendship and for being our port in the storm when we needed you.

To friends and co-workers I’ve neglected, thank you for not judging me too harshly when I put our relationships on the back burner. Know your friendship is what gets me through the day.

I’ve also neglected to tell my family how much I appreciate everything they’ve done for me and the entire “Hebert Nation.” Through good times and sad, our family’s always stayed united, and I know that’s a rarity these days. I’m not letting 2017 slip away without a big “you’re-the-best” shout-out to my crazy, loud but always dependable family.

At the top of the list is my incredible mom who listens to me whine almost every single day without judgment. She understands I need a sounding board, and she’s a wise, always-there ear for me. Thank you, Mom, for being you, my role model, my friend, my voice of reason and my touchstone.

To my husband who talks me off the ledge, takes care of so many details, both big and small, and always does so without asking or demanding thanks, I appreciate what you do for me, our boys and our grandchildren and pray you’ll continue to put up with me for another 33 years.

If you have people in your life you appreciate, those who’ve been there when the unexpected happened, don’t let the year end or begin without telling them thank you. I can think of no better way to ring in 2018 than with a thank-you to someone you love.

I hope 2018 presents you with more blessings than sorrows. Most of all, I hope this coming year allows you to grab every opportunity that comes your way and gives you the awareness that life, with all its unexpected hurdles, is absolutely wonderful.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

In less than a week, it’ll be Christmas Day. People all over the world have been preparing to celebrate the birth of Christ or planning for the biggest shopping season of the year. Christmas songs softly play over store loudspeakers and on the radio 24 hours a day.

One of the highlights for so many is attending a Christmas concert. Nothing beats hearing little voices singing “Jingle Bells” or “Frosty the Snowman.”

Professional choirs are stunningly beautiful, but hearing youngsters sing with a childlike belief truly makes the season bright.

Many of our school choirs give public concerts in December. Rhonda Klutts is the choir director at B.F. Terry High School, and we’ve been friends over 20 years. I first met her when the choir was singing at a funeral, and I was so impressed that these young people held themselves together to honor a slain classmate.

Every year during the Christmas holidays, Rhonda and her varsity choir visit area nursing homes, singing and visiting with the residents. They also visit elementary schools, and it’s not only their pleasure to spread Christmas cheer, it’s a treat for the young ones to see the “big kids” singing.

The teens enjoy eating lunch out during this Christmas tour, and one of their stops over the years has been the food court at First Colony Mall.

It’s centrally located, and the choir usually stages an impromptu concert before they leave the food court, always to cheers and applause from the diners.

They were preparing an acapella version of “Carol of the Bells” when the mall manager walked up and told them they were not allowed to sing without prior permission. She did allow them to sing one song since they were already in place, but that was it.

Rhonda said they left, embarrassed because her choir wasn’t sure why they weren’t allowed to sing again, especially since they’ve sung two or three songs in the food court before.

I spoke with the public relations representative for First Colony Mall, and the mall has a new policy that groups must get permission before singing. I understand that policy. So does Rhonda.

It was the way in which they were treated that’s caused the embarrassment.

In the mall’s defense, their reps simply stated policy to Rhonda and enforced it. In the choir’s defense, they wanted to sing for the crowd and spread Christmas cheer as they have for years.

I’d think that after the summer public relations fiascos, executives would understood the delicate balance between how not to treat customers.

Second guessing how to treat customers usually reveals a better path both parties could’ve followed. Had the mall general manager taken Rhonda to the side and told her they had a policy about impromptu singing without prior permission, the choir would’ve understood.

If the choir would’ve known they needed permission, they’d have asked in advance.

But when it’s Christmas and a choir wants to stand in one place and spread good cheer, something they’ve been doing for years, I don’t see what harm could’ve come from a two-minute song in the food court.

Knowing the rules ahead of time means nobody gets feelings hurt. But rolling with life is the difference between making memories and creating hurt feelings.

Allowing the choir to sing “Carol of the Bells” wouldn’t not only made the teens feel proud, the people in the food court would’ve appreciated seeing teenagers engaged in a wholesome endeavor, and the mall management would’ve come off as generous and understanding.

But neither result happened, and that’s a shame for everyone.

May your holidays be filled with opportunities to make new memories as you celebrate the holiest season of the year with your family and friends. Merry Christmas!

This column originally appeared in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

We received a Christmas card in the mail over the weekend from someone we’ve been friends with since our boys were in elementary school.

On the left-hand side of the card was a short, hand-written note about what she’d been up to recently.

I recognized my friend’s handwriting, and then I thought about the few times I actually write to someone else. I jot down quick notes – the grocery list, phone numbers and reminders to pull something out of the freezer – but most of my communication is done on my cell phone via a text message.

I fear we are losing the art of the hand-written note. We’re relying on technology that might not be around years from now, and we’re missing out on collecting some of the most precious pieces of memorabilia we can possess – hand-written letters.

There’s a gray metal box in my closet filled with hand-written letters. The ones from my dad are irreplaceable because he didn’t write that many to me.

My dad had a distinctive handwriting – the letters were larger than life, as he was, slightly slanted, and his bold signature rivaled that of John Hancock’s.

I also have letters from my grandfather. English was a second language to him, and I remember watching him write letters in Arabic to his family back in Lebanon, moving his fountain pen over the onion-skin paper from right to left.

I know his letters to me were a labor of love because he had to compose a letter to his granddaughter in English all the while writing backwards from what he’d been taught as a child.

My Grandmother Marguerite’s letters were always chatty about her life, and she asked about everyone in the family. She had a distinctive ending quote she included in every letter– “remember to have fun along the way.” I think of her every time I stop my routine and engage in something silly.

We’re fortunate my mom is still with us, and her handwriting’s always been a bit hard for me to read. Still, I have all the birthday cards she’s written to me, and there’s no way I’d ever toss those.

I’m glad she hasn’t resorted to texting because her cards and letters to me are worth their weight in gold. They’re a small piece of her she shared with me.

These days, writing a letter is becoming passé because we communicate electronically in an instant. We compose a quick text – even using the letter “k” instead of typing out “okay.” Commas and periods are seldom used, and let’s not even talk about spelling.

With handwriting, the personality of the writer comes shining through. I can underline the words three times for emphasis, circle important thoughts and use colored ink when I want to make the letters fancy.

My handwriting’s gotten sloppier over the years, and I blame writing down people’s comments and thoughts during newspaper interviews for the decline in my penmanship.

I’ve used a recorder in the past, but when I take the notes by hand, I can circle important things people say, put stars next to stand-out quotes, and the personality of the person I’m interviewing comes alive through hand-written notes.

Little by little, we’re losing that special part of ourselves by typing and texting instead of indulging in writing someone a long letter on special paper and including our signature at the end.

The next time you want to connect with someone, get out some paper, scavenge around in the junk drawer for an ink pen and put your thoughts down on paper.

You never know – that letter just might find a home in someone’s treasure box.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.