I’m a sucker for “life hacks” in magazines and on the Internet. If there’s an easier way to get dinner on the table, I’ll follow you on Twitter. If there’s a video on 50 ways to use WD-40, I’m all over that.

All that glitters isn’t gold, though. It’s not until you’ve been burned by some seemingly brilliant idea that one starts to question whether or not the idea was really that good.

One article that looked appealing was keeping pot lids in order. Mine are thrown in the middle of the cabinet, so I was eager for a better way.

The site said to take plastic coat hooks, measure the width of the lid and then stick the hooks to the back of the cabinet door.  

I had one of those plastic coat hooks a few years ago. It stuck to the door and then the hook snapped off.

If I followed this hack, I’d have broken coat hooks permanently glued to the back of our kitchen cabinet door and the pot lids would still be all over the place.

Keeping shoes in order is a tough one for me. Most of my shoes are either stacked on a shelf in my closet or shoved underneath the couch. So I looked with skepticism at the picture of a cubby holder with a hole for each shoe.

Most women I know kick their shoes off in the car or at the back door. If I had time to put each shoe in its own holder, I’d have time to grow my own crops and churn my own butter.

One hack looked pretty nifty – use muffin tins for all kinds of chores, including holding stuffed bell peppers in place for baking and as a portable ketchup, mustard and pickle holder at a barbecue.

After 25 years of use, our muffin tins have so many layers of baked on-grease that they’re brown instead of silver. There’s no way I’d put that gunked-up muffin tin out as a serving dish.

This one made me laugh out loud – clean out a plastic ketchup bottle and fill it with pancake batter for an easy and no-mess way to create round pancakes each and every time.

First of all, these people have obviously never tried to get anything back inside the narrow hole in the top of the ketchup bottle. It’s about as easy as scraping off the glue strip from one of those plastic coat hangers after it breaks off on the back of your closet door.

Worse, by the time you washed out the ketchup bottle, found a funnel and waited for the batter to slowly drip from the funnel into the bottle and then onto the griddle, you could’ve already had a 12-inch stack of flapjacks on the table.

Another hack advised breaking the ends off of store coat hangers and using the clips for potato chip bags. I tried that and all I got for my effort was a broken pair of scissors and two broken fingernails.

Another tip called for using a hanging shoe rack to store cleaning supplies. I don’t know what kind of dirt requires 20 different kinds of cleaners, but a bottle of Windex, a can of Comet Cleanser and a squeeze bottle of Ty-D-Bol are all I need.

And, last but not least, there’s a new attachment for your cell phone. You clip a tennis ball to it so you can take the perfect selfie with your dog. Like your dog would ever sit still when there’s a tennis ball in sight.

I guess the people who’d buy that attachment are the same people who have individual cubby holes for all their shoes, make pancakes with a used ketchup bottle and have a dozen bags of chips in the pantry sealed up nice and tidy.

I could save these folks a lot of time and energy – throw the shoes by the back door, use a soup ladle for the flap jacks and eat all the chips in one sitting.

That’s life hack advice I can use.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

      This weekend, our high school seniors will put a square hat on their heads and walk across a stage to accept their graduation diploma.

For some, reaching this goal has been pretty easy. For others, the finish line was as tough as running a marathon.

      The community will welcome these graduates as young men and women, not teenagers any more, and that safety net called “high school” suddenly vanishes.

       The responsibilities of paying their own way and deciding to go to college or get a job will smash into their lives like a piano dropped out of a second-story window.

      But all is not doom and gloom, Class of 2016. There’s a huge world of opportunity out there, and it’s yours for the taking.

      If you have the guts.

      But, first, let’s talk about all the perks of being a fresh-out-of-school young adult.

      You can go to the restroom without asking for a pass from a teacher.

      You can be late for appointments without providing a written excuse from your parents. 

      There’s no more assigned reading for a grade. No more trying to decipher the complicated works of William Faulkner or suffering through sonnet after sonnet, courtesy of William Shakespeare.

       You can choose what you want to read – TMZ online, Reddit or the latest graphic novel. Better yet, if you want to play games on your iPhone until 4 a.m., nobody’s going to nag you about getting up to catch the bus.

      Yep, the adult world is pretty laid back.

      Until you have to pay the mortgage.

      Or fix the leak in your roof.

      Or figure out how to fill out your income tax form all on your own.

      The adult world, you suddenly realize, isn’t all strawberry shortcake with whipped cream on top.

      There are responsibilities, some of which seem overwhelming.

      But for each one of the responsibilities you inherit as an adult, there’s so much knowledge you’ll pick up along the way.

      Paying a mortgage makes you realize that all those math and algebra classes you took in high school weren’t always a waste of time.

      Fixing the leak in your roof gives you the confidence to lay a new floor in the living room, build a piece of furniture or replace a leaking toilet.

      As far as filling in your income taxes, the main lesson you’ll come away with is the government gets a whole lot of money, especially your money, and that in itself will motivate you to get down to the courthouse and register to vote.

      And as a voter, you’ll see the American judicial system in action. You might get a jury summons and you’ll gripe and complain just like every other adult.

But when you’re in the courtroom waiting for your name to be called as a prospective juror, you’ll see why having a jury of one’s peers is so important.

You could be one of 12 people deciding whether or not someone walks out of the courtroom that morning or is handcuffed and led away to the county jail.

      You’ll see police officers in a role other than someone to hassle you when you’re out past your curfew. You’ll understand why wearing jeans and a T-shirt is unacceptable when interacting with judges, lawyers and other jurors.

      Regular people are there seeking a fair and just trial, and they deserve respect. If you don’t weasel out of jury duty, you’ll come away with a deeper understanding of civic duty, much deeper than you learned in that high school government class.

More than anything else, you’ll learn that at least one person had their day in court, all because 12 people decided to accept the responsibility of being an adult.

So welcome to the adult world, Class of 2016.

Go get ‘em.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

One of the television shows my Aggie Boy and I enjoy discussing is HBO’s “Game of Thrones.” Aggie Boy is a long-time science-fiction reader, and he gave me the boxed set of George R.R. Martin’s epic stories one Christmas.

He wanted to have somebody to talk with about the mysterious world where kings battle each other to see who will ultimately sit on the Iron Throne.

This week, my husband came into the living room as a new “GOT” episode was coming on. He said he wanted to see what we were talking about so he could join in on the conversation.

He’s heard me talk about Throne’s major character, Jon Snow, for weeks, and he was curious about the question my son and I had been hashing out for months – is Jon alive or dead.

“Well, he was alive and then he was dead and now he’s alive again,” I explained when Jon appeared on the screen. “That beautiful woman in the red brought him back from the dead, but she’s really not young and beautiful – she’s an old woman.”

I found myself explaining about Jon’s siblings – one lives in a tree, one’s in a medieval cult and the youngest just got captured by the worst of the worst rulers in “Thrones.” I started in on the story of the Lannisters where a brother and sister have three children together – two of which died violently – the youngest has been banished for killing his father and the other has a golden hand.

And then I stopped myself. Trying to explain family histories on “Thrones” is like trying to unravel a knot.

“Just enjoy the sword fighting,” I said. “I’ll tell you who to root for.”

Luckily the scene changed to one of my favorite characters, Tyrion Lannister. I launched into an explanation of how he’s really smart but he did kill his father but can now talk to dragons.

“Dragons?” he said.

I launched into the back story of Daenerys Targaryen and how she hatched three dragon eggs in her husband’s funeral pyre and how she was queen and now she’s not the queen, and then my husband yawned.

I couldn’t blame him. I sounded like I was explaining the ridiculous plot to a daytime soap opera.

Which is exactly what “Thrones” is, I realized — a pricey soap opera set in some far away land. I have no room to poke fun at my mom for being a constant “Young and the Restless” viewer.

The last time I visited her, we sat down to watch her soap. That show was one of my favorites when I was in high school, and I was surprised to see some of the same people still playing their devious roles.

“Isn’t that Jack Abbott?” I asked, spotting a familiar face.

“He’s such a snake,” Mom said. “He’s in the hospital, but it’s not really him. It’s an imposter pretending he has amnesia.”

And, bingo, there it was. The amnesia card. No soap opera is complete without at least one incident of amnesia.

And, come to think of it, no season of “Thrones” is complete without a beheading.

I was starting to feel a bit foolish, but then I realized nothing beats real life for crazy stories.

Let’s see – a man who was an Olympic gold medalist will become a woman and host her own reality show. A billionaire with a ridiculous comb-over who once hosted a television show will be running for president of the United States.

So maybe a world of fire-breathing dragons and people who come back from the dead – still sporting the best hair on television – isn’t so farfetched.

Hey, maybe Trump will sit on the Iron Throne.

Stranger things have happened.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

 

      The 3-year-old couldn’t decide. Did she want a cupcake with Superman icing or one with a purple sugar butterfly on top? She took her finger out from between her lips and pointed at the girly butterfly cupcake.

      “That one,” she said with a big smile.

      When we handed her the cupcake, she stuck out her tongue and licked all the icing off in one quick motion.

      That’s the way kids are, I thought, chuckling to myself.

      And kids are kids, even special needs children like the ones I was interacting with this past weekend at Gigi’s Playhouse, a 501(c)(3) charitable organization in Sugar Land.

      I know about Gigi’s Playhouse through Amanda Hudson. We’ve been friends for many years, and her granddaughter was born with Down syndrome two years ago.

Amanda and her family embraced their precious grandchild with love and a commitment to provide the best education possible for her.

      They helped open a center through Gigi’s Playhouse, a national organization of over 28 achievement centers that serves children and adults of all ages. They offer a variety of educational and therapeutic programs for free to families in an atmosphere and format where individuals with Down syndrome learn best.

      At Gigi’s in Sugar Land, the rooms are painted in bright pastels, and each room serves a special purpose. There’s the arts and crafts room where crayons, paints, stickers and pom-poms are within easy reach for the children.

      The toddler room is specially outfitted with safe toys to stimulate motor development but, at the same time, stimulate the child’s imagination with colorful toys and decorations.

      Professional therapists and teachers donate their time and knowledge to create stimulating programs and therapy sessions. I overheard a volunteer talking with a mom about the upcoming speech therapy session, and the volunteer patiently answered every question this mother asked.

      That’s because this volunteer has a child with Down syndrome, and she understood this mom’s need to find as many answers as possible.

      As her daughter was getting her face painted, one mom told us she’d come from the other side of Houston. She saw Gigi’s Playhouse online and couldn’t wait to bring her daughter to the carnival.

      Doctors didn’t know exactly what syndrome her daughter had, but it didn’t matter when that child was bouncing in the bounce house, a huge smile on her face. Nor did it matter that some children didn’t want to have their faces painted, but a big flower on the back of their hand was simply delightful.

      The youngsters at this carnival enjoyed the prizes they won at the duck pond, loved throwing the baseball at the empty paint cans and giggled with delight when they won a cupcake at the cake walk.

      But as much as the children enjoyed the carnival, the teen-age volunteers received just as much satisfaction. Many came because they wanted the service hours to fulfill a requirement for graduation, but that duty quickly vanished as the children climbed up on the teens’ laps and freely gave hugs.

      I volunteered because I thought I wanted to give back because my three sons and my four grandchildren don’t have disability hurdles to climb. I thought I was doing something for children in need when I got out of my car.

      But I was wrong.

      I learned that having a disability like Down syndrome doesn’t hinder a child from the pure joy that comes from having fun at a kid’s carnival. Those youngsters had given me more than I’d given them – the understanding that we’re all created special. Some a little more than others.

      If you’d like to volunteer at Gigi’s Playhouse or if you’d like to be involved in this worthwhile learning environment, email sugarland@gigisplayhouse.org or call 832-939-9919.  

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.  

Some of the best lessons in life are learned from the women in our lives. So it’s fitting that this week is not only Teacher Appreciation Week but also Mother’s Day.

I’m fortunate in that the males in my life were good role models, and I couldn’t be a mom without my three wonderful sons. But it’s been women who’ve created the most indelible memories for me.

First and foremost is my mom. She taught me to believe in myself, to love unconditionally and that no matter how much someone protests, offer them something to eat.

She’s doesn’t play favorites yet we all secretly believe we’re the favored one, an incredible balancing act she accomplishes every day.

My grandmothers were polar opposites. Marguerite always dressed in high heels, the latest fashions and smelled like Chanel No. 5.

She taught me how to sew, a skill I silently thank her for every time I thread a needle. She also taught me to put my feet up whenever possible to give my calves and ankles a rest.

My mom’s mother believed if she was wearing an apron and you were eating, everything was right in the world. From her, I learned the importance of filling a house with the smells of home-cooked foods.

My aunts were fabulous teachers, and their visits were ones I cherished. My Aunt Kathy taught me how to laugh at life and that pretty isn’t what’s on the outside. Aunt Claudia taught all of us that a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich is the perfect meal.

My Aunt Bev taught me how to knit, and she taught me to see the delicate beauty in antique china cups. She remembers my childhood, and she’s always willing to fill in the gaps.

But having a font of wisdom and knowledge doesn’t always come from the older generation.  

My two younger sisters not only shared a bedroom with me, they’re my confidants. Even though they know my most humiliating and embarrassing moments, they don’t sacrifice me for a cheap laugh.

      I’m blessed to have four sisters-in-law who love my brothers and me unconditionally. They taught me how to cook and season, set an elegant table, make sure our dog is part of the family and how to live prayerfully with a chronic illness.

My nieces are a reflection of their mothers. In them, I see strong young women who are charting their own paths, making smart life decisions and laughing at life when a curve ball comes their way.

From my daughter-in-law, I’m blessed to watch the loving seeds she’s planting in our grandchildren blossom. She’s brought new ideas and traditions into our family, and I’m thankful for her every day.

Even though my granddaughters are young, they’ve shown me it’s possible to love unconditionally. Seeing how they open their hearts without holding back has been a humbling lesson.

From my female cousins and friends, I’ve learned the cattiness depicted in the media between women is highly exaggerated.

I know I could call any one of them day or night and they’d be at my house in a flash, even if that meant showing up in a bathrobe and flip flops.

The female teachers in my life are made up of much more than someone in a classroom. The women in my life teach me life lessons every time we’re together, and I’m eternally grateful they’ve allowed me into their hearts.

So Happy Mother’s Day to all the moms out there, whether you’re a biological mom, a dad fulfilling that role, a step-parent, foster parent or someone willing to take on the title of mom.

By default, that makes you one of the best teachers around.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

 

One of the positives about going to the used bookstore is there’s so much more than book bargains. In addition to great prices on used paperbacks, bookstores have games, toys and nostalgic items.

I was in such an establishment this past Saturday on a hunt for bargain comic books. While sorting through excess issues of Superman, Wolverine and Batman, I saw a crowd of young people browsing through the vinyl records.

With music available for free on streaming services like Pandora and Spotify, it never occurred to me that young people would want to purchase old vinyl records. But that section of the store had the biggest crowd, and they weren’t baby boomers like me.

A story on CNBC last year states that vinyl record companies can’t keep up with the demand for vinyl records. The biggest buyers are the millennials because they feel the quality of the music on a digital file can’t come close to the depth of the tones on a vinyl record.

I thought I’d kept my old vinyl records, and I was so disappointed when I came home and realized I’d sold them years ago when we were downsizing. At the time, I thought digital was so much easier and we didn’t have a way to play vinyl records.

Now I’m wishing I still had them.

My first memory of vinyl records came courtesy of my Uncle Vinny. He was a teenager when we were growing up, and he had a stack of 45-rpm records he’d let us play.

I remember stacking the 45’s on a tube in the center of the record player and listening to Leslie Gore sing “It’s My Party” over and over again.

My mom got a stereo for Christmas one year; and if I listened to Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass belt out “A Taste of Honey” once, I heard that song a thousand times. Luckily Mom was generous, and she’d let us borrow the Philco and play records in our rooms.

My favorites back then were The Beatles, the Dave Clark Five and The Monkees. Before judging, remember, a 14-year-old girl can have eclectic tastes. I didn’t say good taste, I said eclectic. Still the albums not only had the dinner-sized plate records, there was a lot of information about the band on the back cover.

Part of the nostalgia with vinyl records also involves the beautiful art work on record album covers. My favorite cover was the ornate and quite colorful “In a Gadda Da Vida” from Iron Butterfly. Carol King reminded us that talent doesn’t always come in a glitzy package as shown on her folksy “Tapestry” album cover.

Nothing will ever beat James Taylor’s “Mud Slide Slim” album cover with Sweet Baby James sporting a slick smile and wide suspenders.

For simplicity, I loved the black-and-white “James Gang Rides Again” cover. Those first few notes from Joe Walsh on “Funk 49,” the first track on the album, are classic rock. Those guitar licks take baby boomers back to the days of platform shoes, wild hair and bell-bottom jeans.

As I walked toward the check-out line, I smiled at the millennials crowded around the vinyl record section because, despite a generation gap, they were searching for the same thing we boomers were looking for in music – to live in the moment when we believe we can be anything.

Instead of auto-tuned voices and micro-managed mega stars, let that music fill the air around us with strong, if not always in-tune voices, rockin’ guitar solos and thundering drums sets. Because that’s real and every generation seeks out the truth, even if it’s not perfect.

And maybe that gap between the generations isn’t as wide as we once believed.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

 

On early morning drives, I find myself marveling at the gorgeous colors in the sunrise. It’s as if the Good Lord took a paintbrush, dipped it in vivid scarlets and pinks and painted the skies, just to create a beautiful start to the day.

It’s unbelievable how quickly nature can go from majestic to malevolent.

That’s exactly what happened in Fort Bend County when over 20 inches of rain drenched our area in less than two days, bringing havoc, apprehension and devastation.

Yet in 2010 and 2011, Texas was in the midst of one of the worst droughts in the state’s history. I remember walking around our yard and seeing gaping ruts where the ground had separated due to a lack of water.

I never checked the weather report when planning something outside because it hadn’t rained in over three years. When the rains came back, I opened the umbrella I kept in my car, and it had dry rotted.

Now we flinch at the sound of thunder, and we keep our thumbs on our phone’s weather app, not because we’re secretly meteorologists. We know first-hand the blows Mother Nature can deliver when we least expect it.

No matter where you live, there’s issues with the weather. Growing up in New York State, I think about bundling up in a snow suit, snow boots, a scarf and gloves from November to April.

I can still picture my dad with a snow shovel, making a path to get the family car out of the driveway.

A Southern boy through and through, my dad finally decided he’d had enough, and he moved us all to Louisiana.

Welcome to hurricane season.

I remember riding in the back seat with my family through Gulfport, Miss. and seeing a line of palm trees slanted to the side. Dad said Hurricane Betsy had caused that damage, and I was awed at the power Mother Nature possessed.

Still because there wasn’t a major hurricane when I was in my teens, I didn’t take the storms as seriously as I should have. It wasn’t until Hurricane Allison slammed into Houston that I saw exactly how a few days of violent, unrelenting rain could turn peoples’ lives upside down.

My aunt and her family were flooded out of their house one year, and I can still picture her in her driveway, tears streaming down her face, as she watched her family photos, furniture and belongings floating in the flood waters of the Comite River.

So when Hurricane Katrina hit the New Orleans area and people came to Texas, I saw that same lost look in their eyes that I’d seen in my aunt’s.

Desolation. Hopelessness. Fear.

I hoped I’d never see those emotions again as communities made strides after Allison and Katrina to put in bigger and better pumping stations, and the weather models became more and more sophisticated. We’re usually not surprised by huge storms, but Mother Nature can be a crafty witch.

We saw this rain storm coming, but few of us realized just how powerful the system was and how hard it would affect families here in our area.

But we’ll dry out, rebuild and start over. As they always do, firefighters, police officers, EMS personnel and community and Red Cross volunteers will rally, take care of those affected by the storm and make sure no one’s left without food or shelter.

People whose homes are dry will take in neighbors and relatives until they can return to their houses. The gumbo, enchiladas, kolaches and chili will flow and the best in people will be revealed.

That’s what we do, as many times as it takes for as many people who need help.

And one morning, when I see clear skies and a beautiful sunrise, I’ll stay positive that we’ll overcome and be stronger than ever. All the proof I need is in the faces of the survivors.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

For almost 20 years, we were known as the two Denises that lived on Copperwood Lane. We had a lot in common – our eldest boys were the same age, and my boys adored her daughter. The four of them, along with neighbor Ashley, grew up together, through good times and sad times.

Angie lived a few blocks over and connected with us through her younger son. Our three boys were part of a large ensemble that hung out throughout elementary, middle school, high school and college. Even though their life journeys took them on different roads, the three boys have never lost track of each other.

Denise, Angie and I didn’t keep up as well as the boys.

Sure we exchanged notes on Facebook and the occasional email, but it took the passing of Denise’s mom to make us acutely aware we needed each other’s company, and time wasn’t on our side.

Denise invited us to her home in Blanco for the city’s annual Wild Woman Weekend. I went back and forth about whether to go, thinking I should stay home and catch up on household chores. But Angie asked if we could ride together, and I decided a car ride with a friend I’ve known almost 30 years and haven’t seen in almost 15 was something I needed to do. House chores, I reasoned, would be there when I returned.

So Angie and I set out early Saturday morning and found our way to Denise’s beautiful home in Blanco. When we pulled up, hugs and smiles enveloped us, and we agreed we hadn’t changed a bit.

Of course we had, but being together again was too special to ruin with reality. Denise had signed us up for a cooking event that morning, so we hurried into Blanco for our first Wild Woman excursion. I figured we’d sit in the audience and watch a chef cook.

Not wild women, it seems.

Angie and I teamed up with Lindsey, Denise’s daughter, and we clicked like clockwork. Our dish of baked salmon with orange dill sauce, baked asparagus and pan-fried potatoes won first place and earned all of us an apron. Denise was our biggest fan in the audience, taking pictures and encouraging us every step of the way. She did the same thing for me years ago when I accidentally put a perm in my hair instead of a body wave.

Afterwards, we strolled around the courthouse lawn, visiting with vendors selling everything from lavender plants to original pottery.

We made our way to the bowling alley, and relaxed while listening to the sounds of bowling balls hitting the wood, people laughing and beer bottles clinking.

We left there, walked the town square and ended up having burgers at the Redbud Café, listening to a singer who sounded just like Patsy Cline.

The best part of the weekend, though, was Sunday morning. We talked for hours over bacon and eggs about where we are in our lives right now and acknowledging the choices we made in the past got us to where we are today. And for all of us, that place is a satisfying one.

We compared our bone density readings, the books we’ve read, religion and politics. We laughed, shed a few tears over parents who’ve passed and bragged unashamedly on our grandchildren.

Mostly, we’re thankful our boys, now grown men, have remained friends. Their friendship drew us together years ago and once again this past weekend. I have a feeling we three wild women won’t wait another 10 years to get together again.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

I watched a short YouTube video of the late Etta Baker playing the Piedmont blues on an acoustic guitar. The smile never left the 85-year-old’s face as she strummed and picked at the strings.

Her hands reflected a lifetime of hard work and plucking at a guitar in her scant spare time. Late in life, she was recognized and heralded as one of the blues greats. Ms. Baker played all of her life until she passed away in 2006 at the age of 93.

Listening to her, I was swept back to the days when my youngest boy was a teenager and played an acoustic guitar constantly. I’d sit at the bottom of the stairs and listen to him play tunes over and over until he had the finger picking just right.

Today, he’s a husband and father of four. He and his wife have a busy home life that includes plenty of time with the children and tending to the barnyard animals. Throw in a day job and commute along with renovating an old farm house, and their days are packed.

The guitars that were in his hands constantly are now put to the side as parenting and home-owner responsibilities take the front burners.

I wonder how many people have musical instruments tucked away in the tops of their closets, waiting for when they tell themselves life will slow down and they can start playing again.

There’s probably hundreds of us with a half-finished project stuck in the back of the laundry room. Maybe it’s a blanket we started to crochet or box of dried-up paint and a half-painted canvas.

Eventually we forget about those projects because we don’t have time for activities that don’t get the floor mopped or earn us overtime at work.

There’s also bills to pay, grass to mow, homework to check and the dog begging for an evening walk.

We need our jobs so we can put food on the table, and that means not only buying the food but cooking it, serving it and then cleaning up afterwards.

By the time most people finish with their “have-to” list, there’s little time for the “I wanna” list.

Life, we say, gets in the way.

Where we’d once sing the entire “Rubber Soul” album in our rooms – rewinding over and over to listen to “I’m Looking Through You” at least five times in a row – we now might put some earphones on and listen to John, Paul, George and Ringo while folding clothes or loading the dishwasher.

We hide away the things that once gave us immense satisfaction and pleasure because, as an adult, there’s never a right time and there will never be enough time.

Every once in a while, though, we can think back on a time when we did have enough time and little inhibitions. I’ll admit to dancing in my room as a teenager to “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction” like I was Mick Jagger on the stage.

I’d be shaking my shoulders, trying my best to master the Mick swagger, snapping my fingers and head back and forth as if the whole world was my stage.

Now the only dancing I do is if I get in the shower and the water’s too cold. But maybe it’s time to dance whenever the music’s poppin’.

As Ms. Baker got to the end of the song, I made a quiet wish that my son finds his guitar, heads out to their front porch and plays a chorus or two of “Blackbird” so his children can hear and know the musical talent that lies in the strong hands that tuck them into bed at night.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

One of my favorite shows on television is “Black-Ish.” The comedy features a wealthy black family living in Los Angeles and the way they handle life with four children and quirky in-laws.

“The Cosby Show” was the first to break that 1970s “moving-on-up” stereotype with the father as a doctor and his wife as a lawyer. There was humor in the show, but seldom did the writers venture into uncomfortable subject areas like “Black-Ish” does most weeks.

A recent episode was entitled “Hope,” and it caused quite a bit of reaction from viewers. The show opens with Andre and his family watching a riot in Los Angeles after a white policeman is acquitted of shooting a young black man.

The real question the show brings up is “how do we explain bigotry and hate to our children?” In light of the bombing in Brussels this week, the question is one all of us, no matter our skin color, find ourselves asking.

Bigotry isn’t new nor is killing in a deity’s name. In many religions, like the Aztecs and the Mayans, historians have found numerous accounts of human sacrifices to the gods because people believed a human sacrifice and a good crop went hand in hand.

Time hasn’t brought enlightenment because here we are in 2016 with extremists sacrificing innocent women and children to appease some god or to fulfill some expectation of their beliefs. Thousands of us are at a loss as to how to explain these extremists’ motives.

The “Hope” episode of “Black-Ish” took this situation on with the parents coming face to face with having to explain ugly truths to their children.

Sooner or later, all parents face this dilemma, whether it’s explaining why we can’t afford new cars like other families or why a family member’s actions seem odd. The hardest is explaining death to a young child.

It was in that self-examination where I realized perhaps I didn’t believe the same things I believed when I was young, and that time and life experiences changed my naïve view of the world.

I remember taking my middle son to see “A River Runs Through It” because I wanted to see the mountains and rivers of Montana. I didn’t expect to see a story line about a son dealing with the effects his drinking would have on his family.

On the way home, my son and I talked about alcoholism, and I explained what it was like growing up in a home where a father has a problem with alcohol.

Having to explain how my father came to abuse alcohol wasn’t easy, but I found myself understanding why the more my son and I talked.

We went from what it was like to see a father drunk to how proud I was of my dad when he stopped drinking for good.

And I saw my son’s innocence slip away.

But, curiously, not in a bad way. He came to understand that all people have their faults, but they can overcome them if they are willing to walk the hard road. The talk benefitted us both and allowed us to understand human frailty a little more.

And so it was with the writers on “Black-ish” as they crafted a script that did its best to help parents explain to their children why people do bad things to others, just because of the color of their skin.

If only they could write a script explaining why people killed innocent men, women and children, all in the name of religion, then that would truly be hopeful.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.