This is the time of the year when thoughts turn to Christmas. We’re surrounded by decorations everywhere we turn. Hershey’s Kisses are red and green, the frozen cookie dough features Christmas trees designs in the center and egg nog’s taken the place of skim milk in the dairy case.

            I sing along with Christmas carols on the radio, wondering if this generation has any clue why they’re listening to somebody who starred as “Big Daddy” in “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof” sing “Have a Holly Jolly Christmas.” 

            I wonder what Southern children picture in their minds when they hear holiday songs about sleigh bells dashing through the snow. Most have never seen snow, they haven’t a clue what a sleigh is and the only bells they hear are at school when the school day ends.

            Adults are also at a loss when it comes to envisioning what Christmas songs promise. Most of us have never roasted chestnuts over an open fire, we’re not entirely sure what figgy pudding is and we gave up trying to figure out what “The Twelve Days of Christmas” is all about.

            The roads are clogged with angry drivers on their way to the malls where they’ll start checking off items on their Christmas lists. Most of those weary shoppers are already wondering how they’re going to pay off that credit card bill when it comes rolling in on the 15^th of January.

            That reality check starts to weigh heavily when we’re waiting in a long line, our coupons flashing on our cell phones, and we think we must be crazy to be out with all these crazy people shopping for a gift our crazy loved one will probably take back anyway.

            It’s easy to get lost in the commercialism of the holidays, especially with Black Friday sales, Moonlight Madness and everything seemingly 20 percent off. And, if we’re not careful, the Grinch can take over, and our holiday spirit can dash right out the window along with those 12 reindeer.

            But a good friend, Julia Worley, told me something that convinced me it’s not too late to keep belief in our hearts.

            She was at Rosenberg’s Christmas celebration and a young child came up to her after sitting on Santa’s lap. The child looked at her, eyes big and wide, and said “Santa’s real.”

            Julia said that one remark made her realize that little child is right.

I see Santa when volunteers stand up for children as court-appointed advocates. I see Santa’s face whenever I look at people assisting the elderly or comforting a forlorn teenager. I know I saw Santa this summer in the hearts of people who helped flood victims in Louisiana and Texas.

            Santa was riding along with the Cajun Navy in and around Baton Rouge and Lafayette. Here in Fort Bend County, he was in his jon boat, rescuing people, dogs and cats and then going back to help people see the damage the waters had caused.

The spirit of “good will toward men” was evident in the people who opened their closets and wallets and donated thousands of dollars, clothes, shoes and toys to the flood relief centers.

            The jolly elf was living in the hearts of the volunteers who staffed relief centers, making sure displaced people received food, vouchers and clothing to replace what they’d lost in an unprecedented flood.

            Many of those people are still trying to recover, and Santa’s elves are hard at work, hammering, putting up sheet rock and laying tile in rebuilt kitchens and bathrooms.

            Yes, dear child, Santa is real.

            If you know where to look, you’ll see him every day.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

            As I washed out an empty Cool Whip container so I could keep the left-over Thanksgiving gravy, a conversation I had with my dad ran through my head:

            “You’re cheap,” he said, watching me tear an old towel into cloths I could use for cleaning purposes.

            “I’m not cheap,” I countered. “I’m frugal.”

            “Cheap.”

            “Frugal.”

            I have to admit that I often wonder where’s the line between cheap and frugal and if I’ve crossed it. First, I seldom pay full price for anything. There’s always a sale, especially at the stores I frequent.

            Is there anybody who pays full price at Hobby Lobby for anything? Between everything being on sale at some time in a two-week period and the 40-percent-off coupon you can get on your phone or in the newspaper, I’d be crazy to pay full price.

            Even though there’s only two of us in the house, I still clip coupons. Most of the time, I forget them in the car, but I can’t bring myself to recycle the Sunday paper without looking through the coupon inserts.

            There’s nothing wrong with bargain shopping. My sons could recognize the word “sale” long before they could read, and they understood early what the word “clearance” meant at Target.

            There’s also the matter of clothes. I refuse to pay more than $20 for any item of clothing, except shoes because a gal has to have her heels. Besides, I’ll either dribble coffee or spaghetti sauce down the front of my white shirt so why would I buy expensive ones.

            I can count the number of times I’ve gotten a manicure on one self-manicured hand and I use a home perm kit to give my hair that extra bounce instead of paying $75 in a hair salon.

            We’ve never had a housekeeper or a lawn service, we eat leftovers until they’re all gone and chicken is a staple in our house, not steak.

            I found a great, easy recipe for pizza, so we’ve stopped ordering take-out. We go to the movies before 6 p.m. so we can get the matinee price and I always ask for the senior discount, even though I’m not quite ready for Social Security. One never knows where that age limit starts and I want to take advantage of it if I can.

            We had a minivan years ago with 140,000 miles on it and we decided it was time to buy a new car. I had a trip to Baton Rouge planned, and I wanted to put the mileage on the old van instead of a new vehicle. Despite my husband’s warnings, I drove the van to Louisiana.

            On the way back, my son and I had to stop every 50 miles because the engine was overheating. My son loved it because we waited for the engine to cool down at truck stops, and I think he ordered a chicken-fried steak at every single one.

            I finally pulled over in Beaumont and my husband came and got us. All because I didn’t want to put 600 miles on a new vehicle.

            So when my dad accused me of being cheap, I had to admit he wasn’t far off from the truth. But this was a case of the pot calling the kettle black. I once caught my dad cutting out cardboard inserts for his shoes because he didn’t want to buy a new pair.

            “Dad, that’s the definition of cheap,” I remember telling him.

            “No, that’s being smart because I like these shoes,” he countered.

            “Cheap,” I said.

            “Frugal,” he said.

            Either way, both of us were happy we had a few extra coins jingling in our pocket at the end of the week. So perhaps there is something to this cheap, I mean frugal, way of living.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

           

            “Come on, you stupid thing, work!”

            “Why do you have to be so difficult!”

            This was the one-sided conversation I was having with my cell phone when it refused to send a text message.

            After holding the phone closer to my mouth and yelling louder, I realized just how ridiculous I sounded. I was having a conversation with something that could never talk back.

            I do that quite a bit.

            Talking has always been one of my strongest qualities, if I can define talking a good bit of the time as a quality. My mom said I started young. I begged for a Chatty Kathy doll when I was a little girl and it was my favorite doll.

             My relatives also knew how much I loved to talk. One afternoon when my great-grandfather came to visit, he watched me for a while, stood up, put his hat on, and walked out mumbling something about someone being a talking machine.

            That machine’s been running for quite a while, grand-dad.

            So it shouldn’t come as a surprise that I can talk to anything if there’s not a person around.

First, there’s our dog.

            I realized how much I talk to her when I read an article about how dog owners tell their dogs good-bye when they’re leaving and when they’ll be back. The article pointed out that dogs can’t tell time, so it’s pointless to tell the dog your travel plans.

            Doesn’t matter. Whenever I leave Channell in the morning, I scratch her behind her ears as I tell her what I’ll be doing all day, what errands I have to run and when I’ll be back.

            She never answers, but I think she understands me.

            I also talk to other drivers when I’m in my car. They can’t hear what I’m saying, but that doesn’t stop me from pointing out everything they’re doing wrong.

            Like to the person in front of me at the ATM machine.

            “You should’ve had that card out of your wallet before you got up to the machine,” I’ll mutter. And then when they drop their card and have to put their car in park, retrieve their card and start all over, I’m questioning their IQ level.

            I also freely dispense driving tips to other drivers, even though the windows in my car are rolled up.

            My favorite lines to yell out at the top of my lungs are:  “Are you kidding me!” and, as they go roaring around me:  “Somebody better be bleeding in that car.”

            My sons shake their heads and remind me that what I’m saying is pointless. The other person cannot hear me.

            Doesn’t matter. I still talk to trucks, SUVs and 18-wheelers.

            That’s just the tip of the iceberg.

            I talk to my pants. “You buttoned last week – what’s wrong with you today?!”

            I talk to the lock on the front door. It tends to stick, so I pretty much yell at that lock with an added kick at the bottom of the door to make sure that lock knows I mean business.

            I talk back to the radio announcer in the morning.

            “Is that all you can talk about is bad news?” I’ll grumble as Steve Inskeep reports on wars, famine, politics and the persecuted.

            With the television remote control, I mostly call out “Where are you?” It never answers, but I have hope because now the remote has voice command. Maybe one of these days I’ll yell “Where are you?” and I’ll hear a mechanical voice answer “Under the couch cushion.”

            But of all the things I talk to that can’t talk back, my dog is the best. She listens without interrupting, she wags her tail when I sound excited, she doesn’t repeat any gossip I tell her and she models great behavior when trapped with a Chatty Kathy – just keep your mouth shut.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

                I’m writing this column with the presidency in the balance. When this column runs, there will be a new president of the United States. Months of campaigning will thankfully be over.

But right now, there’s a small slice of time before I know for sure who the winner is.

I’ll be glad to see this election end, simply because there’s so much hate and vitriol in the campaign. My mind reels as to what reasons we can give our grandchildren as to how we sunk so low in this country that the two candidates for president wouldn’t even shake hands at a nationally televised political debate.

                But then I think back to a conversation I had with a group of teens this morning. They were worried that this these two are the worst candidates this country has ever put on the ballot. I told them people worry about the competency of the candidates during every presidential election.

                I grew up in a house where we had a picture of the president and the pope side by side in the kitchen. I believed the president was right up there with the pope when it came to respect, honesty and dignity.

                Then Richard M. Nixon came along, lied to the American people and our trust in the White House was forever tarnished. So my second time in the voting booth, I pulled the lever for Jimmy Carter, worried sick about the ability of a peanut farmer from Georgia to run the world’s reigning super power.

                But guess what. America didn’t fall apart.

                Later, I weighed voting for an ex-Hollywood movie star, Ronald Reagan, over Carter, but I’d watched us fail miserably to rescue Americans held hostage in Iran. Reagan promised he could keep us safe, so I pulled the lever for him, worried sick about a guy that starred in Hollywood westerns to sit in the Oval Office.

                America not only did well but we regained our position as the world’s super power.  

                Over the next few elections, I felt fairly confident about the men running for office.

                Until Bill Clinton won.

                As I watched Clinton and Gore on the stage, balloons and confetti falling all around them, I thought our country was in a heap of trouble. What in the world did these two inexperienced politicians know about running a country?

                Over the next eight years, the United States didn’t fall apart, despite Whitewater.

                When George W. Bush ran against Al Gore, I was torn. Here we were again, two men with faults and strong points running for office. When Bush won the race, I hoped our country would survive.

                We did, despite No Child Left Behind.

                And then a young Barack Obama ran for president, the first African-American to be a contender for the highest office. When he won, I was terrified some lunatic would try and assassinate him. I worried he was too young for the job, and I worried the old guard in Washington D.C. would do everything to discredit him.

                They tried, but he earned respect from those who doubted a person of color could serve as president. Our country survived, despite Obamacare.

                Here we are again, with two people running for the presidency, both with major faults and both with major strong points.

                No matter who takes the oath of office on Friday, Jan. 20, 2017, this country will survive. It might not be a pretty survival. There will be resentments, threats of voter fraud, people on both sides of the political aisle refusing to get along and people wringing their hands, worried sick our country will fall apart.

                But we won’t.

                We will survive.

                We always do.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

            There’s a new television show on NBC, “This is Us.” The story revolves around now-grown triplets and their parents. The children – Randall, Kate and Kevin – have grown into adults with their own problems and successes. The show goes back and forth in time between Randall, Kate and Kevin’s parents, Jack and Rebecca, and their parents.

            The show is extremely well written, acted and directed, and it’s pulled me in since the first episode. What’s most intriguing is how the characters from three generations are authentically linked.

The children swear they won’t repeat the mistakes their parents made, a promise their parents made about their parents. That generational connection rings true with so many families, no matter their culture or race.

            This show also makes me think about the ties that connect me with my family. I immediately thought about my grandfather during one episode that featured Jack’s grandfather arriving in New York City as a young man.

            My grandfather also came to this country as a young man and said seeing the Statue of Liberty was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen in his life. He believed America was the land of opportunity, and he reared his children to believe they could achieve all their dreams if they worked hard.

            The story also includes the family’s fascination with the Pittsburg Steelers professional football team. Football played a huge part in my family, both on my mom’s side and my dad’s. My dad loved the New Orleans Saints. He kept up with their trades and he knew all the players. Every summer, he’d say “This is the year. This is the year the Saints are going to the Super Bowl.” As a typical teenager, I’d roll my eyes and mutter that the Saints would never go to the Super Bowl. I swallowed that humble pie and toasted my dad up in heaven when the Saints not only went to the Super Bowl in 2009, but they won the title.

            On my mom’s side of the family, the Buffalo Bills were the favored team since we lived less than 100 miles from Buffalo. They were also big St. Bonaventure basketball fans since that college was in our hometown, and I still find myself rooting for the Bonnies whenever I see they’re playing. Even though my uncles didn’t play football in high school or college, they loved playing Wiffle ball on Sunday afternoons. After going to Mass and then finishing Sunday dinner, my aunts and uncles would clean up the kitchen. The aunts gathered around the kitchen table for a cup of coffee, and our uncles sprawled out on the living room couches to watch professional football on television.

            We knew our uncles would be more than happy to engage in a quick game of Wiffle ball during half-time, and everybody played. Those were great memories, and that love of sports continues with my generation and the next.

            My family believes the LSU Tigers hang the moon. And the stars. And, probably, the universe. Purple and gold aren’t just colors on the color wheel, they’re sacred colors to be used in every aspect of one’s life – coffee mugs, outdoor furniture and, especially clothing.

            Almost everyone in my family owns purple hoodies, jackets, shirts, pants, socks and T-shirts. Christmas trees are not complete unless there’s at least a dozen LSU ornaments on the tree.

             Even though we live in Texas, the traditions live on. We still follow LSU basketball and football but have combined that with keeping up with the Aggies. There’s maroon A&M ornaments on our Christmas tree every year, and basketball season’s not complete unless we’re watching my husband’s alma mater, the University of Kentucky, work their way up the Final Four ladder.

              Because this is us.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

           

One of the games I love playing with little ones is hide and seek. Not that I enjoy looking underneath every bed in the house for my giggling grandchildren but because of how they believes they’re invisible when they’re standing in the middle of the room or behind the curtain with their sneakers plainly visible.

And so it is with people in their cars. We think when we’re in our vehicles, nobody can see what we’re doing. That might be true if our windows are tinted midnight black with a reflective coating Superman couldn’t see through, but not all of us have that luxury.

Most of us are quite open to the world in our cars, but we forget that from time to time. Like I did the other day.

It was one of the fresh fall afternoons when the air was crisp and the mercury had dipped below scorching. I rolled the windows down and enjoyed a cool breeze on the way home from the grocery store.

No car ride with the windows down is complete without music blaring, I thought, so I slipped in a familiar Barbra Streisand CD.

All the lyrics came back and I started humming along. But then, I couldn’t resist and I found myself singing along. Pretty soon, I was belting out the songs, word for word with the diva, not a care in the world as I drove down the highway.

Was I off key?

Oh yeah.

Did I care?

Not in the least.

Because for those few minutes, I felt free and young and talented and totally uninhibited.

Until I stopped at a red light and noticed a car next to me. Immediately I shut my mouth and pretended I didn’t notice the driver giving me a funny look. To cover up, I started talking to myself.

Now 20 years ago, that would’ve gotten me an even stranger look, but with hands-free cell phones, I looked totally normal having a pretend conversation when there wasn’t anybody in the car with me.

The driver next to me didn’t have to know I was covering up the fact that I was pretending I was standing on a stage, belting out pitch-perfect songs to a packed audience.

I kept on pretending like I was talking – really singing the chorus quietly to myself – and I’d glance over every few seconds to see if he was noticing anything.

He could’ve cared less about me because he had his own show going on. First he took a few selfies, complete with Elvis Presley lip curls and a cavalier raised eyebrow.

And then he did something that made his opinion totally worthless – he started looking up his nostrils in his rear-view mirror and, believing he’d found something, went on an exploratory mission to find it.

And I thought singing in my car was a little off.

But people do all kinds of crazy things in their car, thinking nobody can see what they’re doing. They pluck their eyebrows, floss their teeth, and cram handfuls of popcorn, Fritos, Cheetos, and Doritos in their mouths while sitting in traffic.

I’ve seen women put on mascara and eyeshadow while waiting for the light to turn green, and men shaving in their cars – yes shaving – when waiting in traffic.

Once, while driving on Highway 59, I saw someone reading the newspaper and another driver – who came whizzing by me – with a paperback book propped up in the middle of the steering wheel.

I suppose they thought nobody could see what they were doing in their vehicles. They, like my little grandchildren, were invisible to the world.

But it’s a free country, and an imagination is a wonderful asset. Especially when you’re behind the microphone, er, I mean the steering wheel.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

            The audience in the auditorium quieted down when the B.F. Terry High School choir members began to walk onto the stage. There were red, white and blue decorations around the room, and a prominent American flag hung from the ceiling.

            The concert began with over 100 students slowly and reverently singing “The Star Spangled Banner.” We usually sing that song before sporting events, and many of us forget the meaning behind the words.

            I found myself doing the same, glancing down at the program to see what songs were coming up. But then a big screen came down from the ceiling, and a grainy black-and-white video began playing.

            The video was Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s “I Have a Dream” speech. The film from 1963 showed thousands of people in Washington D.C. listening to the civil rights leader talk about his many dreams. One was for people to be judged by the color of their character, not by the color of their skin.

            He also hoped his four children would one day hold hands with white children, and I thought about that dream as I looked at the choir students on the stage. Black students stood shoulder to shoulder with white students, brown students and students with disabilities.

            At the end of the speech, the screen came up, and two dozen young teens began the “United by Love” performance. The idea for the concert came from choir directors Rhonda Klutts and Marlayna Shaw, and they said their students immediately embraced the idea and concept.

            Songs were chosen for their meaning about acceptance and understanding. The words from “Colors of the Wind” set the tone –if you “walk in the footsteps of a stranger, you’ll learn things you never knew you knew.”

            The choir, and indeed the school choirs in our diverse county, reflect those lyrics. There were faces from all ethnicities in the choir on the stage that evening, just as there are in our grocery stores, churches and the hallways of our schools. Many people still judge others by what’s in their shopping cart, the language they’re speaking or the clothes they’re wearing, but our children understand how to get along with each other. They seem to accept and celebrate each other’s customs and cultures.

            So why is it so hard for adults?

            In between songs, students read narratives about equality, getting along, acceptance and forgiveness. They asked for members of the military, police officers, law enforcement, fire fighters and EMS personnel to stand and for the audience to thank them for their service.

            They then recognized any families who’d lost a loved one while serving our country, and there was somber applause for those who stood. What a contrast to some of the disrespectful shenanigans politicians and professional athletes are engaged in these days.

            Toward the end of the concert, I thought about all the grievances and differences we have in this world –someone’s skin is darker than ours, someone wears a hijab or someone speaks with an accent – and realized these teens are onto something with their concert.

            We have to move on to a better world and that starts with each individual person, each individual heart and each individual hand reaching out to someone else in love, understanding and peace.

            At the end of the concert, almost 200 students stood around the auditorium, shoulder to shoulder, and sang “When You Believe.” I don’t think there was a dry eye in the full house at that point because there really can be miracles when we believe and act on those beliefs, just as these teenagers showed us.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

            Maybe it’s because the weather’s cooling off or because the smell of soups and stews is in the air, but I’ve been picking up cookbooks lately, browsing for recipes.

            I’ve never been a gourmet cook. In fact, I’m not much of a cook period. Our kitchen is small for a reason – I don’t want to spend any more time in there than I absolutely have to.

            But as we’re empty nesters and all my friends want to talk about is their blood sugar levels, cholesterol and lipids, I’ve started to examine my eating habits a little closer.

            And I have to admit that my days of driving through a fast-food joint and picking up fries and a burger are probably over. The days of adding a milkshake to that order are definitely a memory. But instead of whining over the grease I won’t be licking off my fingers, I decided to see if there might be something to actually turning on the stove and cooking something for dinner.

            I started online by searching for “quick meals” and the first item was from Country Living. I could deal with that, I thought – fresh vegetables and healthy eating. The first dish called for red peppers and tons of onions, and that was out. I dislike onions and hate red peppers. Plus it was cooked in a cast-iron skillet, and I don’t have one of those.

            It got worse – “Pierogies with Sausage, Cabbage and Pear.” I have no idea what “pierogis” are and I don’t see cabbage working in partnership with pears. So on to the next recipe.

            “Thai Noodle Soup with Shrimp and Pumpkin.” First, I’ve no clue what Thai noodles are, nor have I ever seen those in the local grocery store where I shop. Secondly, I’m not a fan of eating pumpkin. Those are for carving up and putting near our front door on Oct. 31.

            And shrimp goes in etouffee or deep-fat fried with lots of breading and hush puppies and fries and … wait a minute. I’m supposed to be thinking of healthy foods. So I decided to switch tactics and typed in “quick healthy meals.”

            The first site that popped up was from the Food Network. I’ve watched cooking shows on that network, and they look pretty complicated. But I thought the “20-Minute Chicken” might be worth a look.

            I was wrong.

            This was for 20-minute chicken thighs with couscous and dill. I don’t have a clue what couscous is and dill is what I associate with a pickle. Then I saw grape tomatoes and that made me think about watermelon and how much I miss summer meals like barbecue and burgers and more barbecue.

            The next day, I went to the library and the friendly librarian pointed me in the direction of cookbooks. I quickly got lost in the dozens of cookbooks on the shelf to fit every dietary need. There was a totally gluten-free cookbook, three or four for vegans, a paleo diet cookbook and a dozen or so dealing with just chocolate.

            As much as I wanted a chocolate cookbook, I settled for one with 300 easy and healthy recipes. Didn’t matter that there was a picture of cupcakes and pizza on the front – the book claimed to be healthy.

            I opened it to a random page and found prosciutto and arugula pizza. Again, not a clue what those two ingredients are. But I checked the price —   $20 a pound for the prosciutto at an online store. That’s more than steak.

            And I don’t have a clue where to find arugula in the store. But I wanted to give the cookbook another try, so I closed my eyes and randomly picked a page, and “Indian Chicken with Cucumber-Mango Sauce” popped up. There were six or seven ingredients, but the recipe looked easy enough. Sitting down, I started making a list with all the ingredients I’d need. All was fine until I got to the last item on the list – thinly sliced fresh mint. I don’t have a fresh mint plant.  I think I saw some mint plants at the hardware store, but that’s 20 minutes away.

            Sighing, I opened up the pantry and saw a box of Trix cereal. Let’s see – it’s colorful, it’s cheap and it’s already here. And for a continental flair, I’ll have breakfast at night instead of early in the morning and really shake things up.

            As they say in the fanciest kitchens in the land, dinner is served.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

A recent article from ScienceNOW stated that male babies leave traces of their DNA on their mother’s brain, and those traces can persist for decades.

As the mother of three boys, that revelation could explain a lot about why I do the things I do. But first, let me state I believe girls are as capable as boys in every regard – brains, competence, caring, logic and a thousand other characteristics.

There’s always exceptions to the perceived rule. Not all girls love pink and lace and not all boys like camo and mud. But my experience as a parent showed me that there was a difference.

Before I had children, I thought I could raise my offspring the same – no gender-biased toys for my kids, I said. When they were young, that logic worked. They loved the stereotypical girl toys as much as their stereotypical boy toys.

But after a certain age, it was clear the boys didn’t like the same things their mother liked. But there were similarities.

We understand and speak the same language – one-syllable words and short sentences do the trick with boys and me. Phrases such as “stop it” and “drop it” come out of my mouth a lot more than logical, sensitive explanations.

Whenever someone’s trying to make sure they’re being deliberate and thoughtful in their explanation, I often want to blurt out “can you just cut to the chase?” Now I know the reason – boy DNA in my brain.

My sons also used everything as a weapon. A stick wasn’t a stick – it was a machine gun. A rock was a grenade. And a tree was for climbing and a safe place to throw rocks at passersby.

The boys and I differ in that I think sticks are just sticks, but I have been tempted to throw a rock through a driver’s car window as he comes tearing down my street going 90 miles an hour.

And then there’s a tolerance for dirt. If I’d let them, my boys would go for days without bathing. They reminded me of our dog – if there was dirt or mud, they were rolling around it.

Perhaps that explains why I can go without dusting the furniture for weeks and why, when the boys came in with muddy jeans, I wasn’t at all concerned. Dirt and mud, I told myself, wash out.

My sons and I both love comic books and super heroes, but I didn’t get that love from them – they got it from me.

I’d rather spend an afternoon in the comic-book shop than I would a department store, and I was the first one in line when the first Spiderman movie came out. I shrugged it off as making my sons happy, but they knew I was the one who wanted to see that movie.

Before I pass myself off as a woman who lacks female DNA, there are things I do my sons never understood. They never quite got why I teared up at the end of the book “Laura Charlotte” by Kathryn Galbraith.

The children’s book is about a little girl and her flannel elephant. The grandmother and Laura Charlotte’s mother figure prominently in the book, and their multi-generational affection for each other makes me sob every time I read the book to my boys.

But my nieces understood how important that female connection is in a family and how much strength we girls get from each other.

My nieces also understand why I’m sniffling at the end of “Fiddler on the Roof” and why lipstick – not plastic X-men – is a required item in a purse.

Maybe having a little male DNA in my brain isn’t a bad thing. And maybe, if the universe is balanced, there’s a little female DNA in my sons’ brains, courtesy of their mom.

But, for me, I’m a blessed woman having had the privilege of parenting three boys. Now I know I’ll have a piece of them with me all my life.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

            I pulled into the driveway as the sun was starting to set, happy to finally get home. As the garage door went up, I noticed something moving by the threshold – a snake.

            Panic immediately set in because I have a gigantic fear of snakes. And now one was between me and my back door.

I didn’t know if the snake was poisonous or harmless – as if a snake could be harmless, I thought with a shiver running down my back.

            I sat in the car, motor idling, watching the motionless snake. Maybe it was dead, I thought.

            And then it started to slither. Not very far, but just enough to let me know it was alive and waiting for me.

            As I watched that snake, the irrational fears took over. The three-foot long brown snake suddenly grew to about 10 feet in length. I couldn’t see the snake’s head, but in my imagination, the head turned and the fangs were bared, poison dripping from each sharp tooth. The venom was burning into the concrete as the snake tried to hypnotize me with its snake eyes.

            I forced myself to return to reality and looked across the street to see if my neighbor was home. Arthur loves snakes and is my go-to person whenever I spot something reptilian in our back yard and my husband’s not home.

            Arthur’s rescued me before. My husband was out of town one evening, but he’d told me to call Arthur if I saw any critter in the back yard that bothered me. I went out to empty the pool’s skimmer basket, and that’s when I saw something black and thin swimming across the water.

            I pulled out my cell phone and called my neighbor.

            “Arthur, there’s a snake in our pool,” I said, my voice shaking. “Can you come over and get it out?”

            I’d barely gotten the second phrase out of my mouth when Arthur came running up my driveway, his twin 8-year-old boys right behind him.

            He leaned over the pool and smiled.

            “It’s just a water snake,” he said. “Perfectly harmless.”

            To which I gave a very logical reply.

            “Good,” I said. “Kill it. Kill it dead and kill it quick.”

            He told me that snake wouldn’t hurt anything and was actually beneficial to our back yard. The snake, he said, killed rats and other undesirables lurking in our back yard.

            “That’s nice,” I said. “Kill it.”

            Being the animal lover he is, Arthur got the snake out of the pool and relocated it to the furthest reaches of our back yard. That had to be hard to do when an irrational woman was screaming “Kill it Arthur! Kill it!”

            But tonight, Arthur wasn’t home.

            My husband wasn’t home.

            It was me and the snake.

            I had an advantage, I thought. I was in my car. That vehicle weighs 2,000 pounds, much more than a snake. One push on the accelerator and I could squish that snake flatter than, well, a snake.

            Almost as quickly as I thought about using my car as a battering ram, my hopes were dashed. The snake was right next to the small step up into the garage and the car tires would go right over the reptile and he’d be free to chase after the car and the driver that tried to kill him.

            And then I knew what I had to do. The only way to get in my house safely was for me to get out of my car, run into the garage, get the hoe and hack that snake to death.

            After five minutes of trying to talk myself out of it, I finally opened the car door, put my foot out and touched the toe of my sneaker to the concrete. And then the snake did a remarkable thing.

            It slithered away into the grass.

            It was safe. I was safe. No harm. No foul.

            I pulled my car into the garage, ran into the house and slammed the door shut. I knew that I’d come a long way toward conquering my fear of snakes, just by putting my foot out of the car.

            But between you and me, dear reader, I’m not sure I conquered anything. Let’s just say in the battle between woman and snake, hesitation was the definite winner.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.