I grew up Catholic. Hand-picked flowers on the altar in our living room to Mary every May, eating fish on Fridays during Lent and weekly visits to the confessional. I can instantly recall the smell of the oils the Altar Society ladies used on the pews and the scent of incense the priest would waft over the congregation on special holy days. I can’t hear the phrase “the peace of the Lord be with you” without instantly replying “and also with you.”

Despite the ingrained Catholicism, I haven’t been to Mass in a couple of years, and I no longer feel guilty about not going.

My reasons for not attending Mass have nothing to do with my faith. That is strong and intact. I believe in God. I believe in Jesus being our Savior, that Mary is a patron saint for mothers and that St. Anthony has always helped me find all lost things and will always do so. I say a rosary every morning and I talk to God every day, much as a daughter would talk to her father.

Belief isn’t the reason I don’t attend Mass any more. It’s the people, and it’s uncanny the way something happens every time I go to Mass to convince me that a fancy church building isn’t the place for me.

This break came a few years ago. A deacon in the parish I attended for over 20 years was fired because of some petty people who worked in the church office. This deacon encouraged my son to return to the faith. He held our congregation together during tough times and he lived the words of Christ, even while his son was dying of cancer. His booming voice and boisterous spirit infused all of us with the belief that God was truly alive. When the smear campaign happened, hundreds of us stood up for him, but the bureaucracy had their way and many of us left that parish, heartbroken.

We moved, and I thought I’d start over. I went to a smaller Catholic church and attended a youth Mass one Sunday. I approached the woman in charge and told her I was new to the parish and that I had 25 years of experience teaching CCE to teens. She looked at me and said “that’s nice,” and walked off. I was stunned as religious education teachers are hard to come by. I continued to go to Mass there, but I stood in the back of the church where every week, something happened where I could fill a need with the other quiet people standing in the back. I figured God was trying to tell me to stay there.

But the call to pass on my faith pulled at me. A few months later, I saw there was a ministry fair. I told the ladies at the table what had happened and told me they needed me in the parish. I gave them my email address and cell phone number. I went into Mas that day hopeful, thinking of the lessons I’d taught that were my favorites and that I could resurrect them.

I never heard from the parish.

So I went to other Catholic churches, always standing in the back, never feeling part of the church family. I didn’t reach out but no one reached out to me either. When an announcement was made that a new church was being built in my city, I rejoiced, thinking this was a fresh start. Then I saw the list of those in charge of religious education, and it was the same small-minded, vindictive people who’d been at my previous parish.

After months of smoldering resentments, I talked to the deacon who’d been wronged, and he told me I shouldn’t let people keep me from celebrating Mass. “Forgive, my daughter,” was his advice. I tried but resentments are difficult to dissolve.

But I thought a new church would be a good start. My first time to go to the new church, I hadn’t made it to the back door when my cell phone rang. It was a friend needing someone to talk to.

The second time was today. I sat down, four chairs from the aisle with an empty seat between me and the couple at the end. A woman came in and sat to my right. Before Mass started, a woman and her daughter looked to see if they could sit on our row – this church is pretty packed. I asked the woman to my right if she’d move over. She refused.

Stunned, I stepped out of that row and told the mother and daughter they could have my seat and that empty one to my left. The mother didn’t want to take my spot, but I assured her I wouldn’t be there long. I stood in the back again, and five minutes later, my son called, and I left, talking to him as I made my way back to my car.

Now some would say this was the devil, seeing if he could get me to stop believing. I disagree. I could never be anything but Catholic, the doctrines, rituals and tenants part of my religious fabric. I still look to former priests, people in my family and religious leaders for inspiration because these few live their faith every single day.

But organized religion is ruined for me because of people. People like the woman who wouldn’t give up her seat this morning because the mother and daughter were foreigners. The petty church leaders who fired a wonderful deacon because they were jealous of his popularity and his unencumbered spirit.

I know all churches are filled with sinners looking for redemption. I also know there are genuinely good and kind people not only sitting in the pews but on the altars, in the pulpits and in the religious education classrooms. They spread the word of God in their words and actions every single day.

But I’ve encountered too many people who say the words of God but don’t live them. The biggest difference between me and the front-row sitters is that I know and admit I’m a sinner. I know I need God in my life every day to steer me toward where I can be His servant and how I can best serve him.

And that’s not from a church pew.

I shall continue to find ways to live as I think God would want me to – to constantly be on the lookout for ways I can help people in need, whether that’s taking time to listen to a friend in trouble, helping someone financially or giving up my seat to someone whose skin color is different than mine. Whether or not they believe in God doesn’t matter to me – their actions matter, and one does not need a religious affiliation card to have a caring and kind soul.

When I taught CCE, one of the questions I always asked the teens was if Jesus attended Mass today, where would He sit? Some said Jesus would sit in the front. Others said in the middle. Invariably, one would say that Jesus would stand in the back. I agreed. Jesus, I think, would be in the back with those who feel unworthy to be inside, those looking to quickly leave when they feel overwhelmed. If Jesus could rescue one – just one – then it would be a good day in heaven.

So I worship and pray by myself, but I’m not alone. God is with me every moment, every hour, every day. My faith is unshakable. I pray for those I love, my enemies and those in need of a kind word, a smile and encouragement.

And try to never forget the sad feeling of being alone in a church filled with people but feeling totally at peace when alone with God.

“I have your chair,” my cousin, Sylvia, told me at a recent family reunion.

My face must’ve registered confusion, so Sylvia reminded me that she’d borrowed the chair from me over 20 years ago.

At the time, Sylvia was teaching pre-kindergarten, and she said she was looking for a small chair for students who needed a little quiet time. She spotted a rocker in my living room that belonged to my then 6-year-old.

I’d gotten the chair when Nick was a toddler, and he spent many hours rocking in that chair, turning it upside-down to serve as a mountain and covering the chair in blankets to use as a fort. Now he was too big for the chair, and I knew Sylvia would take good care of it.

I told her to take the chair, but asked if I could get it back when she was finished.

She agreed, and 30 years later, Sylvia remembered her promise. The reason I was getting the chair back was because Sylvia was retiring after 30-plus years as a teacher. The teaching profession is losing one of the best educators around because Sylvia’s a born teacher who absolutely adores her students, always has a smile on her face and believes children learn best in an atmosphere of understanding and love.

For over three decades, she was an enthusiastic teacher for 4-year-olds. She sang songs with them, got on the floor and played games and taught thousands of children how to be happy and successful.

She also taught them how to be a good friend and how to manage their emotions.

One of the tools she used was the rocking chair. She transformed our plain chair by painting it grass-green and adding hand-designed iguanas and red-and-yellow snakes on the arms and back.

The chair was nicknamed the “peace chair” or, as Sylvia laughed, the “place-to-get-your-stuff-together” chair. When youngsters needed time to calm down, she gently guided them to the chair, and told them to spend some time thinking and rocking.

And rock they did. The paint on the sides of the arms is worn away from little fingers holding on tight to the arms as they rocked.

“They’d rock like maniacs in that chair,” Sylvia said with a laugh, and she said it wasn’t unusual to find a child wrapped up in his or her favorite blanket, rocking away until they felt safe and secure again.

I’m so happy that chair provided comfort to so many youngsters, because that’s what a rocking chair is all about. A rocking chair is also the best place for a parent to snuggle up with a colicky baby or calm down a screaming toddler.

No matter our age, we can sit in a rocking chair and rock away our problems and worries. It doesn’t matter if the chair’s padded and located in the living room or it’s an old wooden chair on the back porch.

I brought the chair home, and our grandchildren came for a visit the next day. The minute our 2-year-old grandson saw the chair, he said “mine,” and sat right down. With his little fingers, he traced the colorful snake design on the arm of the chair and then settled in with his favorite stuffed animal.

Something tells me that little green chair will always be needed, whether it’s in a living room or a classroom. And a child will know that if they need to get their “stuff together,” nothing beats that back-and-forth rhythm that only a well-loved rocking chair that’s just the right size can provide.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

 

As a lover of words, I find myself scouring the Internet for interesting articles after I’ve finished the printed newspaper and the latest book I’ve checked out from the library.

I’ll read the top news stories and, when I’ve finally had enough of the shenanigans of the people we elected to pass laws in this country, I look for off-beat and quirky articles.

I came across a link for a blog posting the writer’s opinion on the top overrated tourist destinations in the country. As we’re planning a trip to the New England area, I clicked on the link to see if the writer mentioned any cities where we’re headed and if we should rethink where we want to visit.

Glancing over the list, I realized I’ve been to a lot of the places he mentioned. As I kept reading, I found myself disagreeing with most of the things in the essay.

But by the time I got to the last paragraph, I realized this guy is the biggest snob I’ve come across in a long time. He gets his kicks, and attracts blog readers, with ridicule and a snarky attitude.

He mentioned that Asheville, N.C. was “sadly average and overpriced.” Our stay there was luxurious and affordable, including my first experience with a bed and breakfast.

The owners of the B&B were some of the most gracious people I’ve ever met, and they treated my sisters, mom and me like queens.

Our primary reason to visit was to see the 250-room Biltmore, and the estate was overwhelming in its grandiosity and a glimpse into a part of our nation’s past. I found the place fascinating, certainly not average.

His disdain about Colorado was pure snobbery – “the state is too often either uptight or boring.” I’ve been to Colorado a couple of times, and “boring” is not a word I’d use to describe the rugged Rocky Mountains and some of the most colorful meadows and valleys I’ve ever seen.

He also bashed San Francisco with a snotty comment about the smell of body odor “rising off unwashed pavement.” One could say that about any sprawling metropolitan city, but if that’s all he concentrated on when visiting, then he’s missing what’s really beautiful about this coastal site.

I watched someone ride a bike up one of those steep hills, and my admiration grew for the people who have to walk or bike up those streets every day. The people in the shops were friendly and helpful and all told us to hang around and watch for the fog.

Watching the fog come in over the bay is truly a unique experience. That fog resembled a fluffy white blanket as the edge slowly crept toward the shore.

Boring? Not a bit.

But this Texas gal saw red when he bashed Austin as a “mildly entertaining town.” He’s obviously never watched the parade of creative types around the state capitol, attended an energetic “Austin City Limits” taping or eaten from one of the city’s many food trucks where one can order everything from spicy Thai to authentic Mexican to flavorful Jamaican.

Almost anybody can put on their snob hat and dismiss a city’s attempt to attract tourists or visits. That’s what sells these days – writing mean comments and hiding behind a cartoon picture on the Internet.

The real trick is to lose the snarky attitude and actually do what writers are supposed to do – dig beyond the surface and talk to the locals, the real treasure in every city and town. Through them, you’ll find the beauty and uniqueness everywhere you travel.

The next time you’re in Austin, Mr. Snooty Writer, get off that high horse, strap on some leather sandals and stroll around the capitol. While you’re there, pick up a “Keep Austin Weird” T-shirt and talk to the folks milling around the food trucks.

That’s where you’ll find what you’re looking for in these “underrated places.” The people are the real treasures, and they’re what makes any destination a memory maker.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

On my last trip through Louisiana, I came to a complete halt thanks to a traffic jam on the Atchafalaya Basin. There’s no way to exit once you’re on the 18-mile long bridge, and I could feel my frustration growing. After about 15 minutes, I turned off my car, got out and gazed out over the waters, reminiscing about my last visit to the Bayou State.

My husband and I spent a week in Abbeville because it’s near New Iberia, the city where stories about fictional detective Dave Robicheaux’s take place.

I’ve loved author James Lee Burke’s series ever since I heard the first book, “Creole Belle” read by the actor Will Patton whose true Southern accent makes Burke’s descriptions come to life. Patton does a masterful job of luring the listener into Robicheaux’s world, and it’s one I’ve entered numerous times as I’ve either read or listened to every single book about the lawman.

My husband’s a good sport and willingly humored my wish to visit New Iberia. One of the highlights was visiting the quaint “Books Along the Teche” bookstore where the friendly and knowledgeable owner personally knows “Jimmie” and understood my fascination with Burke’s novels.

I hoped to purchase a signed James Lee Burke novel, and luckily the bookstore had one. I hugged my book to my chest as we left the shop, and we spent the next few days exploring the sights in Cajun country.

One of our first stops was to the Acadian Village in Lafayette. Their purpose is to preserve early Acadiana heritage and to provide employment for people with developmental disabilities.

Ten acres of farmland were transformed into a quaint Cajun village with authentic homes depicting the lifestyles of the early Cajuns. We walked through each home, marveling at the ingenuity and resourcefulness of those early settlers who found a way to thrive in an often-harsh environment.

The next stop was Jefferson Island where we toured the Rip Van Winkle Gardens. The site featured beautiful flowers and exotic landscaping, and the Joseph Jefferson home reflected what it was like to live at the turn of the century when you had a little bit of money.

No visit to southern Louisiana is complete without crawfish, and we found a great restaurant, Cajun Claws, where the waitress didn’t offer a menu. There was only one choice, and that was hot boiled crawfish. Those mudbugs were seasoned perfectly, and we didn’t leave a claw unopened on that platter.

We stayed at a cozy bed and breakfast, Apartment A, in the heart of Abbeville, and proprietor Debbie Garrot made sure we had everything we needed or wanted. We left that part of Louisiana feeling recharged and ready to get back to reality.

As I leaned on the railing of the bridge and looked out over the swamp, I thought about that trip to Abbeville and understood why Cajuns are drawn back to their homeland. The briny smells of a bayou, the eye-watering scent of Tabasco sauce and hearing that distinctive south Louisiana accent calls Cajuns all their lives.

But now, Texas fills my heart, the grit and determination of the peoples who settled this land making me believe that anything’s possible, from taming oil gushers to maintaining dozens of cultures to creating modern, thriving cities out of mosquito-infested swampland.

In every state, one can trace the roots of those who settled the area and people who need to touch base from time to time with the influences that made them who they are. That pride not only calls us home but gives us the courage to strike out and carve a new path.

After an hour, the traffic started moving, and I climbed back in my car and headed west, leaving behind the cypress trees and magnolia blossoms. I was headed home where a meal isn’t complete without either barbecue sauce or tortillas on the table and the stars at night are big and bright.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

On my last trip through Louisiana, I came to a complete halt thanks to a traffic jam on the Atchafalaya Basin. There’s no way to exit once you’re on the 18-mile long bridge, and I could feel my frustration growing. After about 15 minutes, I turned off my car, got out and gazed out over the waters, reminiscing about my last visit to the Bayou State.

My husband and I spent a week in Abbeville because it’s near New Iberia, the city where stories about fictional detective Dave Robicheaux’s take place. I’ve loved author James Lee Burke’s series ever since I heard the first book, “Creole Belle” read by the actor Will Patton whose true Southern accent makes Burke’s descriptions come to life. Patton does a masterful job of luring the listener into Robicheaux’s world, and it’s one I’ve entered numerous times as I’ve either read or listened to every single book about the lawman.

My husband’s a good sport and willingly humored my wish to visit New Iberia. One of the highlights was visiting the quaint “Books Along the Teche” bookstore where the friendly and knowledgeable owner personally knows “Jimmie” and understood my fascination with Burke’s novels.

I hoped to purchase a signed James Lee Burke novel, and luckily the bookstore had one. I hugged my book to my chest as we left the shop, and we spent the next few days exploring the sights in Cajun country.

One of our first stops was to the Acadian Village in Lafayette. Their purpose is to preserve early Acadiana heritage and to provide employment for people with developmental disabilities.

Ten acres of farmland were transformed into a quaint Cajun village with authentic homes depicting the lifestyles of the early Cajuns. We walked through each home, marveling at the ingenuity and resourcefulness of those early settlers who found a way to thrive in an often-harsh environment.

The next stop was Jefferson Island where we toured the Rip Van Winkle Gardens. The site featured beautiful flowers and exotic landscaping, and the Joseph Jefferson home reflected what it was like to live at the turn of the century when you had a little bit of money.

No visit to southern Louisiana is complete without crawfish, and we found a great restaurant, Cajun Claws, where the waitress didn’t offer a menu. There was only one choice, and that was hot boiled crawfish. Those mudbugs were seasoned perfectly, and we didn’t leave a claw unopened on that platter.

We stayed at a cozy bed and breakfast, Apartment A, in the heart of Abbeville, and proprietor Debbie Garrot made sure we had everything we needed or wanted. We left that part of Louisiana feeling recharged and ready to get back to reality.

As I leaned on the railing of the bridge and looked out over the swamp, I thought about that trip to Abbeville and understood why Cajuns are drawn back to their homeland. The briny smells of a bayou, the eye-watering scent of Tabasco sauce and hearing that distinctive south Louisiana accent calls Cajuns all their lives.

But now, Texas fills my heart, the grit and determination of the peoples who settled this land making me believe that anything’s possible, from taming oil gushers to maintaining dozens of cultures to creating modern, thriving cities out of mosquito-infested swampland.

In every state, one can trace the roots of those who settled the area and people who need to touch base from time to time with the influences that made them who they are. That pride not only calls us home but gives us the courage to strike out and carve a new path.

After an hour, the traffic started moving, and I climbed back in my car and headed west, leaving behind the cypress trees and magnolia blossoms. I was headed home where a meal isn’t complete without either barbecue sauce or tortillas on the table and the stars at night are big and bright.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

This Sunday is Father’s Day, a holiday where we bestow garish ties, nifty electronic gadgets and barbecue tools on our dads. Heart-felt poems and gushing odes to fathers are plentiful on greeting cards and on social media. Often our ideal image of a father comes from movies, books and television shows.

The gold standard in the fiction world has to be Atticus Finch from the novel “To Kill a Mockingbird.”

Atticus is a single father rearing two children in a small Southern town. He stands up for what’s right and disciplines his children when they need guidance. Plus when played by Gregory Peck, what’s not to admire and love.

On the opposite end of the spectrum is Pat Conroy’s “The Great Santini.” In real life, Conroy’s father was an abusive drunk who beat his children and terrorized his whole family.

For baby boomers, there’s a variety of dad models to choose from, most of whom didn’t have a wife around to help with the children. Lord knows how that affected my generation. These single fathers include Steve Douglas from “My Three Sons” and Andy Taylor from “The Andy Griffith Show.”

I sometimes wonder how they’d handle the problems in today’s world. Opie never had a drug problem nor did Douglas ever face being unemployed, having his boys run away from home or talk back.

Currently the television show “black-ish” features a strong father who’s financially successful and absolutely adores his wife and children. Anthony Anderson plays Dre Johnson, the father on the show, and he cries when his eldest daughter goes off to college and worries he’s not teaching his children how to survive being a person of color in a mostly white world. Those are more realistic scenarios dads of all cultures and ethnicities face.

Probably television’s favorite father is Phil Dunphy from “Modern Family” who’s a child at heart, loves his family and struggles with being respected by his father in law. Of all the television fathers, I think I like Phil the best.

But as much as I like these programs, the fathers aren’t real. Movies, television and literature can’t nail down how real fathers shape and mold their children. They overlook the life real fathers face – a bloody trip to the emergency room, scrimping and saving for health care, clogged toilets and mowing the lawn week after week after week.

So in no particular order, here’s my list for the characteristics of an effective and good father.

They’re supportive. They back their child as they work toward becoming the best person they can be, cheer them for their successes and show them how to work their way through the failures.

They’re loving. They tuck their kids into bed at night, hold them tight when they’re scared and show and tell their children every single day that they’re special, important and loved. That doesn’t mean they’re softies – they discipline when the occasion requires tough love.

They’re dependable. They work. They come home. They show up. They’re sober. Day after day, month after month and year after year.

They say “no.” They willingly become the “bad guy” and tell their kids that they can’t stay out all night, they can’t do whatever they want and, no, they cannot eat that peanut butter and jelly sandwich in bed.

They’re respectful of themselves, their spouse, their in-laws, their job, their faith, society and their families. That doesn’t mean they’re pushovers – they’re quietly respectful.

They have a sense of humor. They make sure their children grow up with happy memories and they teach their offspring to laugh and roll with the punches when life throws them a curve ball.

They’re human. They admit when they’ve made a mistake, cry at graduations, occasionally burn the burgers on the grill and make at least one home repair job worse by attempting to do it themselves. But their children learn a valuable lesson – don’t be afraid to try, even if there’s a high probability of failure.

So to all the dads out there – and yes, that includes women who are dad in the family – Happy Father’s Day and may your burgers be perfectly grilled.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I’ve been reading lots of blogs online from women about getting older. Most are from women in their 30s who’ve found a terrific outlet for their feelings — blogging. Back before the internet, I wrote a column when I turned 50 — basically that the higher you climb the ladder of life, the broader your view gets (and, let’s be honest, your hips as well).

Life in your 50s brings an appreciation and acceptance of where you’ve been yet there’s still some excitement as to where the second half of your life will take you. Now that I’m in my 60s, I find there are things I still look forward to doing. As the author states in the original blog, you don’t shop at Forever 21 for yourself — now it’s for your granddaughter whom you fervently hope will have an easier time through those teenage years than you did.

You shop at the “older lady” sections of the stores but that’s okay because you do not give a damn what anybody else thinks. You wear what you like, a fashion style based on living through Birkenstock sandals, hip huggers and go-go boots. You either accept the gray hair or color it and you can dye your hair purple because, again, you do not give a rat’s patootie what anybody else thinks.

Each decade has its struggles and rewards. The 20’s are a time of accepting responsibilities, finding your own voice and figuring out what you want to do in life. The 30s are usually spent raising kids, going to PTA meetings, fitting the lawn chairs into the back of the van next to the diaper bag and deciding if the person you chose to spend the rest of your life with is worth ushering in your 40s. The 40s? A little more relaxing but those orthodontic bills are killers. As is the pain in your shoulder and your left knee.

And that brings us to the 50s, the 60s, the 70’s and the 80s. What I can tell you from this vantage point is to enjoy every single minute of whatever decade you find yourself in. You will never get them back – not that bar-hopping all-nighter you spent with your friends in your 20s, the hours in the ballpark on bleachers watching your child play ball in your 30s, the late-night talks with your pre-adolescent daughter in your 40s or the helping your son pack his clothes for college in your 50s.

Enjoy every single blessed moment because, truthfully, they’re gone before you can say “Steppenwolf” and remember, yes, we were born to be wild. At this point in our lives, that wild means getting real ice cream instead of low-fat yogurt, having a steak instead of baked chicken and wearing your sweat pants everywhere because you do not care what others think. And that, my dear friends, is heaven.

I stood on the sidelines at the Terry High end-of-the-year choir concert with the video camera rolling. Capturing the night for choir director Rhonda Klutts was my primary reason for being there and, frankly, I was running on empty. Walking into the auditorium, my head was swimming with my to-do list, and I wished I was headed home instead of heading to another event.

But I’d promised I’d go, so I reluctantly walked through the doors, telling myself I’d enjoy the music despite being tired and cranky. As the young men and women sang their hearts out, I found my spirits lifted and my batteries recharged.

Music has the power to re-energize us, and when it’s a live concert, the energy’s instant.

I’ve been to dozens of live concerts, the first memorable one being a John Denver performance when I was in my early 20s. I remember sitting in the dark as Denver’s voice washed over the crowd, wondering how anyone’s voice could be so crystal clear in person.

Denver’s performance was funny, moving and incredible, all at the same time. After that concert, I became a life-long John Denver fan, and the song “Poems, Prayers and Promises” still makes me cry.

In later performances, Denver sang “Sunshine” much slower than he did in his early career, and his later version of the song takes on a poignancy that’s missing from the faster, pop version. But even as he grew older, his voice remained crystal-clear, and I appreciated him much more the second time I heard him in concert.

I’ve seen James Taylor in concert twice – once when he was younger and the second when he was older. His voice deepened over time, but that clear, unique sound was still there. Like Denver, he slowed down some of the songs in his later years, and the result was gold.

“Sweet Baby James” was always a favorite, but when “Mudslide Slim” sang that melody all alone on the stage, just him strumming an acoustic guitar with each line slowly delivered to the audience, I was a blubbering fool by the end.

I’ve also been to local music concerts where I’ve been amazed at the talent here in our community. There’s also been a few where I literally winced when the singer was trying to hit some of the high notes, but more often than not, sitting outside underneath a sky filled with stars while being serenaded by guitars, drums and a silky voice is a blissful way to spend the evening.

As I relaxed and leaned back at the high school concert, I paid more attention to the singers on the stage. Some showed a bit of stage fright, but the encouragement of Rhonda Klutts and her assistant Marlayna Shaw was like a shot of adrenaline to those singers.

From my vantage point, I could see Rhonda’s animated face, smiling and her arms up in the air, encouraging those singers to deliver every note from the bottom of their lungs.

By the time they got to “Eagle’s Wings,” I don’t think there was a dry eye in the house. Not only was the song spot on, this was the last concert for the graduating seniors, the last time these young men and women would sing together on a stage.

I thought about how much they’d learned from their teacher, especially the lesson that music unites and encourages and will stay with them the rest of their lives.

On the way home, I rolled down the windows, turned off the radio and sang “Sweet Baby James” softly as the miles rolled past, my soul refreshed, my spirits lifted, grateful for the troubadours who lift us up in song.

Because, as James says, “singing works just fine for me.”

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

 

I read an article the other day commenting that people should stop saying they hate math or they’re bad at math because that way of thinking discourages young people, causing them to fear numbers. Instead, we should say we struggle with math but we’re always getting better.

My struggle with numbers is like the Geico lizard wrestling Godzilla.

I’ll say it up front – I hate math, I’m bad at math and I’m terrified of math.

It’s easy to figure out why my career path involves letters and words instead of numbers and equations. Writing an essay for school was never difficult, the paragraphs and words coming easily.

Not so with algebra, geometry and math.

For years, I blamed my teachers in high school. My geometry teacher, Mr. Deere, was absolutely awful. He showed up for class after the bell rang, gave our papers back late and spent most of his time sitting at his desk, looking at motorcycle magazines.

My algebra teacher was our head varsity basketball coach. It was like catching fish in a barrel to divert his attention away from equations and over to the game of the week. I remember writing notes to my best friend or reading a book while he dissected plays on the blackboard, the athletes in the room arguing maneuvers and strategy day after day.

In college, I only had to take one math class, and the teacher was rigid and strict. I wish I could remember his name because his ethics about teaching shaped my philosophy about how to be a good employee. He told us he would not miss a day of class because we’d paid for this class, and it was his obligation to be there. Not only was he in class every day, but he was a thorough teacher.

That class was the first time I felt comfortable with math, and I actually made good grades in that class. More than that, I understood the formulas and procedures because he made sure we got it. I left there feeling confident.

After that, I worked as a secretary, and math wasn’t a big part of my job, so that confidence slowly faded away. But my lack of math skills cost me money. I relied on “experts” at the bank and the credit union to keep track of my money and accounts. I couldn’t do my taxes, so I paid someone to do them for me, even though they were pretty simple.

One year, I got a letter from the Internal Revenue Service stating I owed them $500. I panicked and sent the check right in, never questioning their decision. Years later, I got another letter from them, stating I owed even more money.

By that time, I was married, and my math genius husband stepped in. He re-calculated my taxes from that year and deduced I didn’t owe the money. Instead, the IRS owed me a refund plus interest.

He explained the entire process – I pretended I followed the numbers – and said I should sign a letter to the IRS he’d written, demanding interest and my money back.

All I could see was myself behind bars, but I had faith in my husband, signed the document and sent it in.

A few weeks later, I got a check from the IRS and an apology for their mistake.

Math to the rescue.

Being married to someone who calculates numbers in their head as easily as I can sing “Happy Birthday” has been a blessing. It’s also a crutch because I pass over anything having to do with numbers to my hubby.

And my trusty phone that’s absolutely amazing at remembering dates, figuring out percentages when I’m shopping the sales, keeping track of my car’s mileage, timing how long I need to bake chicken, reminding me of important dates and keeping a working list of every phone number I’ll ever need.

Numbers to the rescue.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

            Spring is here. In Texas, spring usually lasts about two weeks and then we dive straight into summer for the next seven months. But it’s technically spring and one of the rituals of spring, besides driving around looking for wildflowers, includes spring cleaning. Growing up in the North, our spring cleaning meant airing out the house after months of the house being bundled up against the snow and sub-zero temperatures. Windows were included in the spring cleaning ritual as were putting away heavy coats, scarves and gloves until cold weather returned. 

            My mom tackled the chore with a vengeance. She’d vacuum the rugs and carpets and fill the clothes line in the back yard with freshly washed curtains, drapes and blankets.

            So whenever I hear “spring cleaning,” the old tapes start playing in my head, and I start making a list of things to clean. I looked online for some tips, and good ole’ Martha Stewart graciously provided a printable spring cleaning list.

            Immediately, I can scratch at least half of her items off my list. We don’t have window screens, nor do we have storm windows. She also recommends waxing wooden furniture with paste wax. Sorry, Martha, but spray-on Pledge has worked just fine for 40 years.

            She does mention dusting the ceiling fan blades. Since ours seldom stop spinning and they’re so high up, it’s hard to see if there’s dust on there. However, that could be an item I’ll add to the list. I’ll get to that task right after I find the ladder.

            Which brings me to Martha’s recommendation for cleaning out the garage. My husband is extremely organized and neat, so there’s no need to add that to my spring cleaning list. And since the garage is so neat, I’d hate to mess it up by dragging the ladder out.

            So I suppose the ceiling fan blades can wait.

            Vacuum and shampoo rugs are next on the list. I’ll vacuum but our carpet isn’t that old, so I’ll defer that chore for another five years.

            Martha also recommends washing comforters and drapes. We don’t really have harsh winters so there aren’t heavy blankets to wash and hang out on the line. Besides, we don’t have a clothes line and I don’t have a clue where to buy clothes pins other than an arts and crafts store. So I quickly scratch those off the list.

            As far as washing curtains, I have the perfect excuse – we don’t have any. Thanks to allergies, I took down all the curtains years ago. Faux wood blinds do quite nicely, but I have a feeling there’s a nice layer of dust on all of them.    

            I took a closer look and, yep, there’s a layer of dust on every single blind. But if I start cleaning those, I’m only going to stir up a lot of dust and that’ll send my allergies into overdrive. Maybe it’s best if I just leave that dust there as a sort of protective sealant.

            Same goes for dust on the furniture. That fine layer of dust protects the wood, or so I’ve convinced myself, so I’ll just overlook that particular spring cleaning job.

            Scanning Martha’s list, I find I can cross a lot of things off without a second thought – clean the refrigerator coils – I don’t even know where those are – and defrost the freezer. Once the words “no-frost” came into my vocabulary, I’ve never looked back.

            The chores I will put on the list are updating the first-aid kit and tucking the warm-weather clothes out of the way. As a Texan, that’s about three items of clothing in my closet. Easiest job on the list.

            So there’s my spring cleaning list. Now I think I’ll get out there and enjoy those milder temperatures before the 98-degree days arrive. That should be in about a week.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.