Road trips are a wonderful opportunity to stop at places you normally wouldn’t think of as being a destination.

I try and deviate from the I-10 concrete whenever I go to Louisiana so I can experience the small towns and back roads.

One year, I took Highway 77 North into Baton Rouge instead of I-10. Even though the road had lots of turns, I saw a slice of Cajun Country I would’ve missed barreling along at 70 miles an hour.

The wooden farmhouses were situated back from the road, surrounded by waving stalks of sugar cane and rusted sugar cane pots. Cows and horses grazed in nearby fields and cattle egrets soared above the cut fields, knowing they’d find tasty morsels left by the harvesters.

But I was in a hurry traveling through Cajun Country around lunch time this past weekend. I started thinking about boiled shrimp and crawfish, and I could practically smell cornbread baking in the oven. I saw a sign for Breaux Bridge and decided to exit the interstate.

Anyone familiar with Cajun history and Louisiana knows Breaux Bridge is the self-proclaimed “Crawfish Capitol” of the state. As soon as one leaves the interstate exit ramp, it’s not hard to understand why they think their crawfish is the best.

Every inch of ground within eyesight of I-10 is covered with junky crawfish and MardiGras trinkets designed to take money from tourists.

The traffic’s bumper to bumper, chain fast-food joints are jammed in back to back, and that little-town charm is nowhere to be seen. Perhaps deeper into the city the old Breaux Bridge lives, but I was in a hurry and grabbed something at the first place I saw.

I wish I’d waited because the next exit heading east was for Henderson, and that’s a much better representation of what the area used to be like than the commercially-packed Breaux Bridge exit.

Down a narrow two-lane road in Henderson, travelers will see simple homes owned by folks who make their living from the rivers and lands in and around Breaux Bridge. Youngsters still ride their bikes down this road, although they’re careful to watch for people headed to Pat’s of Henderson at the end of the road.

Pat’s is a well-known staple for true Cajun foodies, and it’s relaxing sitting on the deck, watching jon boats go by, fishermen lazily casting their lines into the water.

As I pushed my way back into the merciless I-10 traffic, a box of greasy fries and shrimp next to me, I thought about a trip we made to Yellowstone National Park years ago. I’d picked up a Yellowstone Park travel guide book, and the man who wrote it  knew the backroads of the national park.

We followed his advice and were always pleasantly surprised. One afternoon, while waiting in grid-lock traffic in the park, I read his entry about a side trip inside the park.

We were nearby, so we followed his route. At the end of the one-lane road, we walked about 50 yards along a path worn down by deer and other critters and found a beautiful waterfall and a small lake filled with crystal-clear, icy-cold water.

I wrote the author a letter, thanking him for his advice that allowed us to experience the simplistic beauty of Yellowstone the way it was meant to be seen – quietly and up close.

I thought about that trip to Yellowstone as I passed the exit for Henderson., regretting I hadn’t waited and gotten off at that quiet exit. I knew the poet Robert Frost was right: “I took the road less traveled, and that has made all the difference.

      This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald

 

 

I was walking through a box store and noticed all the Christmas merchandise was marked down to 60 percent off. Right across from the remnant tinsel and ornaments were racks filled with bathing suits.

The temperature is still in the 40s and we’re looking at bathing suits?

I shouldn’t be surprised at how holidays are on super-sonic speed in the stores. Clerks are rolling in dollies on Dec. 26 and replacing bows and tinsel with Valentine candy and hearts.

Managers will say it’s because people want to get started on their holiday decorating projects. I can understand needlepoint kits to make stockings for the family – not that I have any idea how to even begin making one of those – but most of the offerings are just to take your money.

Do we really need a dancing Santa, 15 holiday pillows or a Frosty the Snowman cookie jar? And the prices they charge for holiday items is highway robbery.

I found a Thomas Kinkade village centerpiece for $149.99 with an additional $20 for shipping and handling. I paid that much for a living room chair.

My friend claims centerpieces take up space on the kitchen table where he can spread out his newspaper in the morning. Ever since I almost caught my sleeve on fire at a friend’s house while reaching over her centerpiece, I’ve sworn off having anything higher than a bowl of artificial fruit on our table.

But still the list of new trinkets and decorations grows each and every year. Walk into any store a month before a major holiday, and you’d be amazed at the decorations you never dreamed you need to have.

The Fourth of July requires a red, white and blue tablecloth, matching napkins, napkin holders, red and blue plastic cups and plates and centerpieces made out of stainless steel pails with American flags stuck in the middle.

Doesn’t matter that most of us have hot dogs, chips and watermelon — foods that never even touch a plate — for our Independence Day picnics.

No matter what the season, if you think the holidays are being rushed, you’re right. Christmas shopping starts right after the Fourth of July firework stands roll out of town, and St. Patrick’s Day shamrocks appear on the shelves the evening of Feb. 14.

It’s only two weeks past New Year’s Eve, but the shelves are already crowded with pink heart-shaped boxes and artificial roses. We’re drooling over boxes of chocolate-covered cherries and pecan clusters.

As we do most things, we’ve moved past the little box of chocolates. Now you’re encouraged to order a 36-ounce Whitman’s giant sampler for only $30.

But it’s not just your honey who deserves that Whitman’s box. No, we’re horrible people if we’re not buying a box of chocolates for our mother, father, daughter, son, cousin, mail carrier, the person who cleans the offices where you work  and even the dog.

Yes the dog.

You can order a “Love and Kisses” Valentine gift box for your dog for just $9.95 filled with organic cookies for Scamp.

But what about Whiskers?

Fret no more. You can get a gift basket for your cat, filled with treats and a fun toy, for just $20.

That’s before shipping and handling.

And this for an animal that’ll roll around in anything dead and a feline that spends most of its time licking the kitchen floor.

But as someone who abhors the cold weather and loves the heat, I’ll admit to being a little happy seeing those beach towels and bathing suits in the stores.

If I can just walk past those chocolates…

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

About eight weeks ago, my sister, Diane, and my mom were watching television. All of a sudden, my mom’s speech became slurred. My sister looked over and Mom’s face was drooping on one side. She immediately knew Mom was having a stroke.

Luckily Diane’s company, RoyOMartin in Alexandria, La., is a major supporter of preventive health care. Earlier this year, employees created a video highlighting the signs of a stroke using the acronym F.A.S.T.

F.A.S.T. stands for the three major signs of a stroke – facial drooping, arm weakness, speech difficulties and, last but most importantly, time.

Diane said when she saw Mom’s difficulty in speaking, the video flashed through her mind. She immediately got Mom to a nearby emergency room.

In less than five minutes, Mom was receiving the proper medical treatment. Luckily, she only had a TIA, commonly called a mini-stroke; and because of my sister’s quick thinking and knowledge about what to do in case of a stroke, Mom went home the next day.

Six weeks later, Mom suffered a stroke and, once again, because my brother, Joey, and his wife knew what to look for, Mom was immediately taken to the hospital with a mild stroke and received the right care.

Two weeks after the stroke, she was dismissed from the rehabilitation center and threatening to start driving again.

While we’re all relieved about Mom’s amazing recovery, we know that knowledge and quick thinking are the two paths that probably saved her life.

So often we brush off minor aches and pains when we’re younger, thinking we’re made of steel and nothing can keep us down. That’s true to an extent – the young human body is capable of amazing regenerative capability.

When we hit our 40s, that regeneration takes a bit longer, but we still think we’re somewhat invincible.

But we become a little more careful, pass on that extra scoop of vanilla ice cream and promise ourselves we’re going to start exercising and eating better.

But past 50, it’s time to take things a little more seriously. After 60, we’d better be paying attention to all that advice because we’re not Superman or Wonder Woman any more. But accepting our mortality is a little harder.

I went to dinner with friends not too long ago, and the conversation turned to bone density. Two friends’ mothers had problems with brittle bones, so my friends all had their calcium levels checked.

For 10 minutes, the conversation revolved around bone density levels, medications they were taking and upcoming diagnostic tests.

Finally, I’d heard enough.

“We sound like a bunch of old people,” I said. “When we were young, we used to make fun of people who got together and only talked about their aches and pains. Now listen to us – we’ve turned into them.”

They laughed and agreed. We were quiet for a minute, and then one said “So what’s your LDL levels?”

Sigh.

We can’t avoid getting older, so the least we can do is be knowledgeable about what to do when the unexpected happens.

Education is key to living a healthy, long life, and I credit my siblings with knowing what to look for and what to do for Mom when an emergency came up.

They acted immediately and with knowledge to get the proper medical care for Mom, and that’s the reason she’s up, moving around and resuming her daily activities.

I’m glad my siblings knew what to do in an emergency because the life they saved was our mother’s. Learn the facts because the life you save may be your own.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Tomorrow is the first day of 2016, and we all know that after we eat the last slice of pecan pie and finish off the eggnog, it’s time to make our New Year’s resolutions list.

I’ve had highfalutin’ resolutions – lose weight, make myself into a likeable person – and I’ve had the meager resolutions – lose one pound and trim my toenails.

But I’m not one to tell you how to live your life. When I look back on mine, the missteps have far outnumbered the high jumps. I’ve stumbled and fallen more than I’ve run across the finish line with a ribbon on my chest.

So this year, my resolutions aren’t grandiose and they could be, in the words of Mary Poppins, pie-crust promises that are easily made and easily broken.

But they’re doable.

First, clean the hair out of our hair brushes.

I ignore that job until I can’t drag the brush through my hair. But the soap dispenser is right next to the sink, so excuse time is over.

Next, I’m going to match up all the socks in my sock drawer and throw out the ones that have no partner. Maybe they can find their “sole-mate” in the singles pile.

Maybe one of my resolutions should be to stop making stupid puns.

Back to the list. One of my resolutions is to clean out the vacuum cleaner bag. My husband cleans it out every single time, but I let the bag fill up so it feels like I’m dragging around a 250-pound critter instead of the vacuum cleaner.

This is one we did a couple of weeks ago, but I don’t think we quite finished the job – clean out the medicine cabinet. When our granddaughter needed some antibiotic cream for a cut, we pulled out the tube but realized it was out of date.

So we went through the medicine cabinet and it was embarrassing how many medications had expired. We looked at the U.S. Food and Drug Department’s website and found ways to dispose of medications and for the closest controlled substance public disposal locations for those that could be toxic in landfills.  

Now all of those resolutions are pretty much work, so I’ve got a few that won’t cost a dime and are actually fun.

First, I’d like to visit the butterfly garden at Seabourne Creek Park in Rosenberg again. Volunteers work year round on that garden, and it’s an easy stroll from the parking lot to the garden. There’s nothing like being surrounded by flowers and butterflies to make your worries disappear.

While I’m in Rosenberg, I’d like to stroll the downtown streets and visit the shops. It doesn’t cost a dime to window shop but I’d love to see what’s inside some of the stores.

Living as close as we do to Houston, there’s a lot of free activities I’ve shied away from, but 2016 seems like a great time to start.

There’s browsing through the eclectic vintage shops in Montrose and the pricey shops on Kirby. The underground tunnels in Houston sound fun, if I can just figure out how to get down there. And it doesn’t cost a dime to stop and listen to a street musician instead of hurrying past them.  

Personally, I’m going to apologize to the people I’ve angered. Whether or not I meant to cause harsh feelings doesn’t matter at this point – an apology is long overdue.

Apologizes don’t cost a dime but the rewards of clearing the slate last far beyond swallowing my pride and taking responsibility for my words and actions.

Happy New Year to you and yours and may 2016 be a happy one!

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

It’s Christmas Eve and I hope you’re relaxing in your living room with the lights of the Christmas tree twinkling in the background, your shopping finally finished.

If you’re anything like me, your living room will be far from that tranquil scene tomorrow morning. Many of us will face hills of discarded wrapping paper, cranky children wading through that paper and at least two sticky spots where somebody spilled egg nog.

Instead of snow falling outside, we’re running the air conditioner, wearing shorts and our flip-flops are by the back door.

No designer Christmas tree in our living room – there’s ornaments held together by hot glue, macaroni angel ornaments that are over 30 years old and most of the McDonald’s Happy Meal ornaments from the last 20 years ago.

Some of the ornaments are hanging by paper clips because, despite buying a new box of hangers every year, I can’t ever find those boxes when we’re decorating the tree.

There’s red, blue and purple miniature colored lights on the top two thirds of the tree, but the bottom is solid white lights. The reason is simple – I forgot to buy another strand of colored lights. Instead, I bought three boxes of small white ones, but we’d already put the colored ones on the tree so we left them alone.

I don’t think Martha Stewart would approve but the tree has a quirky look I’m starting to like.

This year, though, the Christmas tree stands straight and tall. That’s because I wasn’t involved in putting the tree in the stand. Usually I’m the one holding the tree while my husband attaches the trunk to the stand.

He’ll keep asking if the tree is straight, and I think it’s straight until he says he’s finished. Then I step back and realize I wasn’t holding it completely straight. I’ll go down with the ship proclaiming the tree – no matter if it’s at a 15-degree angle – is completely straight.

My daughter in law, who’s a lot taller than I am, stepped in to hold the tree which she did perfectly. She’s now earned the permanent title of Santa’s helper.

There’s curling ribbon on all of the presents, and that’s been my decorating stamp for the past decade. I’ve tried other embellishments, but they didn’t work out.

There was the year I used twine as ribbon because I saw it in a magazine. We had to get my husband’s Swiss Army knife out to cut the strands off every single package. I thought I was going to get strung up by that twine by the end of the evening.

Another year I thought about using real ribbon until I saw satin ribbon was $2 for 10 feet of ribbon. And then I found curling ribbon – 500 feet for $1.88. We have every color of the rainbow of curling ribbon.

I did wrap the presents that go out of town in a different color paper but only because I bought a jumbo roll of green wrapping paper three years ago. That paper never runs out no matter how many presents I wrap.

When there’s no longer presents underneath the branches, the tree will look lonely, but the smiles on the faces of the people I love when they open the boxes will remind me that gifts aren’t meant to stay pretty under the tree – they’re not worth anything until the recipient sees what’s inside.

But tonight, before one of the holiest days of the year, I’m making myself stay awake until I hear Santa’s sleigh pass overhead.

And then I’ll pray “Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.”

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

We were at a friend’s house for dinner not too long ago, and as soon as we finished the main course, the hostess cleared the table.

We joined in, thinking it was time for dessert and coffee. We helped slice up the cake; but as soon as the first person finished their dessert, the hostess once again jumped up and started picking up plates and forks.

I felt a little sad that we were missing out on one of the best parts of dinner – the after-the-meal conversation.

Here we were, grownups in a world filled with political upheaval, terrorism, the fate of the Astros, LSU and Aggie football but we weren’t taking advantage of an opportunity to let our food digest as we leisurely discussed and solved the world’s issues.

Growing up, lively discussions were as much a part of the Hebert Sunday dinner as mashed potatoes and gravy. Even though politics are supposed to be a taboo subject, we Heberts did not follow that particular rule because it was ever so much fun to rile up the relatives.

My grandmother, a staunch Democrat who grew up with Franklin D. Roosevelt, was a first-hand witness to the Depression.

She said if we put a Republican in the governor’s office in Louisiana, we’d all be “goose steppin’ down Canal Street.” Throw in my brother, who was president of the Young Republican’s Club at our local high school, and those dinner conversations could get quite heated.

But the best person to egg on was my father. He grew up in the Eisenhower days and firmly believed the Communists were behind every political malfeasance that came to light.

The words “it’s a communist plot” were his final answer to every political argument we had around that oval dinner table.

To this day, 15 years after Dad’s passing, whenever we hit a stalemate when debating the quandary of what the world’s coming to, the final word will be “well, it’s a communist plot.” That releases the tension and everybody’s on good terms again.

And then there’s the family story of the true definition of heartburn. One Sunday over dessert, my grandmother said heart burn wasn’t really in the heart. We all nodded in polite agreement and then moved back to the conversations we were having.

“Yep, heartburn really isn’t in the heart,” my grandmother said to the ceiling.

“I didn’t know that,” said my mother, the eternal peacemaker.

Once again, we all went back to our conversations.

“That’s right,” my grandmother said. “Heartburn really isn’t in the heart.”

At this remark, my sister buried her head in the napkin, but we could see her shoulders heaving with laughter.

And then my middle sister, who’s always had a rebel streak, made a statement.

“You know, heartburn isn’t really in the heart,” she said with a straight face.

My grandmother agreed with her wholeheartedly, looking at her like she was a genius. At that point, we all had to leave the dinner table with our napkins over our mouths so Grandma wouldn’t see how hard we were laughing.

Now whenever there’s a lull in the conversation around the dinner table, someone invariably says “You know, heartburn isn’t really in your heart.” And that starts the laughing all over again and the need to explain the joke to newcomers.

I thought about those dinner-table conversations as my friend was hurrying to clear off the dessert plates so I stopped her.

“Sit down, let’s talk and we’ll clear the table together later on,” I said, putting my hand on her arm. “I’ll tell you all about heartburn. Did you know it’s really not in the heart?”

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

“Do you have your tree up?” my mother asked last night.

“Ma, it’s the first day of December,” I replied, a bit of exasperation in my voice. “Of course I don’t have the Christmas tree up.”

When it comes to holiday decorating, I’d definitely make Santa’s naughty list. I don’t have tubs filled with Christmas decorations up in the attic, I don’t own Christmas towels and there’s not a 12-foot inflatable Frosty the Snowman in our garage.

“But it’s already December,” my mom said.

I reminded her that we’re still eating Thanksgiving turkey and Halloween Kit-Kat bars so it’s inconceivable that we’d have Christmas decorations up on the first day of December.

The truth is, I’ve never been a holiday decorator. When the boys were young, I relied on them to make our holiday decorations in school. For years, most of the ornaments on our tree were either made from macaroni, construction paper or were the feature of the week in a holiday Happy Meal.

I’d hang their construction-paper rings on the tree and convince myself garland and tinsel would detract from the boys’ glitter-heavy hand-made stars and Popsicle-stick Christmas trees.

When we lived in Pecan Grove, we felt the pressure to outline our yard with lights. Luckily my husband took care of stringing the lights and running the extension cords. We met the bare minimum, and I was happy with that situation. When over-sized lollipops were big in yard decorations, I wanted to get a few. A friend told me how to use wrapping paper, twine and a big dowel rod to make them. I thought they were pretty nifty until the boys decided to stage a full-out battle in the front yard using the lollipops as battering rams.

One year, I bought a couple of light-up reindeer for the yard. Because I’m basically a cheapskate, I bought small light-up plastic reindeer. The neighbor’s son came over and asked why we had had dogs instead of reindeer in our yard.

“Those are reindeer,” I told him.

“Those are the size of a puppy,” the 8-year-old said.

From then on, my husband christened them the “rain-dogs,” and they’ve been a staple in the Adams front yard for many years.

But it’s not just the outside where I slack off. Inside decorations are pretty much limited to the tree, a nativity set and occasionally a miniature winter village for the writing table.

A few years ago, the lights burnt out on the cord, and I couldn’t find replacement bulbs. I boxed the set up and forgot I didn’t have bulbs. But I keep getting the box out of the attic year after year, smacking myself in the head for not finding the bulbs and the box went back in the attic after the holidays.

I keep seeing knick-knacks in the store to put on shelves, but there are some items on our shelves that haven’t moved in years. I’m certainly not going to box them up and replace them with ceramic Santas and Rudolphs for three weeks and repeat the process.

In my defense, I did put garland and twinkling lights around our front staircase banister when the boys were young. Although it looked nice, the only real benefit was the pointy garland kept the boys from sliding down the banister when they thought I wasn’t looking.

But I’m not a humbug – I insist we have a real tree and I get choked up up the first time we turn on the tree lights. Late at night, I’ll curl up on the couch and think about past Christmases and I can almost hear my sons’ voices asking me if Santa will bring them what’s on their list.

But the tree’s not going up until the first weekend in December. Or maybe the second. Or the third…

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Thanksgiving always brings up memories of the many blessings I have in life – family, health, friends and a roof over my head. But there are many times I’ve not been thankful or happy, and from that unhappiness has come understanding.  I’m also thankful, a bit reluctantly, for gridlock traffic. When I’m sitting there, red taillights as far as the eye can see, I can practically feel my blood pressure hitting the roof.

But as I calm down, I have time to think about issues in my life, and I can usually come up with a solution or two. If that doesn’t work, I slide a CD into the player and sing along with Barbra or Josh as loud as I can, hoping someone will look at me like I’m crazy.

Whenever I’m looking for songs on the car radio, it’s aggravating scanning through songs with screaming lead singers or profanity. But then I’ll come across a song and my finger pauses on the seek button. John Denver’s “Sunshine” takes me back to a parking lot in college where dozens of us played that song as loud as we could on our transistor radios, all of us appreciating the beautiful day there in Hammond, Louisiana when we were young and idealistic and full of dreams.

For years, I was angry with myself for not finishing my college degree when I was 18 and carefree. I want to shake some sense into that young girl because years later, she’d have to go to school and work full time to get a college degree. But the years between 18 and 45 were spent accumulating life experiences, having children and realizing I didn’t know everything. As humbling as it was to go back to school with teenagers, I was thankful I had life experiences to add to that college degree.

Although I’m never thankful for housework, there’s a difference in picking up after our grandchildren visit. The place looks like a hurricane blew through after they’ve gone home. But as we put toys away, every one reminds us of the fun we had while they were here. The baby doll I found underneath the blanket is one our youngest granddaughter has to sleep with while she’s here. My heart melts when I picture her snuggled up under the blanket my mom made for her, that baby tucked underneath her chin. The Legos hiding underneath the bed remind us of the fun our eldest grandson has whenever he’s creating a superhero’s castle. The bigger Legos are a reminder that his little brother is learning how to build from the grand master.

I always find art work from our eldest granddaughter on her drawing table, and I marvel at her artistic ability and the way she always makes heart-felt cards for her mom. Looking through the papers, I love seeing the inventive worlds she’s created with a few colored pencils and markers.

I’m never grateful for the dirty dishes on the counter after a family get together, but those dishes remind me of cleaning up after Sunday dinners at my grandparents’ house. My grandfather would wash the dishes, the aunts would dry and we’d take turns putting everything away. After the kitchen was completely clean, we’d all sit down for dessert and the adults would talk for what seemed like hours. Although much of the conversation was way over my head, their voices were comforting and reassuring, and I’m so glad I have those memories.

I’ve had lots of supervisors over the years, and there were two who made life difficult. I wasn’t thankful I had to work for them, but when I finally worked for people who treated me as a person, not a servant, I was thankful I had the comparison. I might not have appreciated those great bosses unless I’d had the awful ones.

So this Thanksgiving, I’m thankful for the experiences I never thought I’d ever put in the “plus” column of my life. Without them, I don’t know if I’d truly be able to count my blessings.

Happy Thanksgiving to you and your family!

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

 

 

 

 

 

In my jewelry box is a special necklace. It’s made from polished rocks, one of my special loves, and was given to me by a classy, quietly gracious woman I interviewed over 10 years ago. That special lady, Kathleen Joerger Lindsey, passed away last week at the age of 99.

Over the course of her lifetime, Kathleen positively influenced Fort Bend County in countless ways, but none more so than what she did for literacy and the intellectually disabled.

Kathleen was the daughter of Mary Elizabeth and Francis Xavier Joerger and helped her father in his law practice. A bright and inquisitive young girl, she wanted to go to law school even though few women went to college, much less law school, in the 1930s. Undaunted, she applied to the University of Texas, was accepted, and was one of only five females in UT’s law class of 300 and one of three who graduated in 1939.

She put that degree to good work and began working for her father. Over her 60-plus-year career as an attorney in Rosenberg, she specialized in wills and estate law.

Listing her achievements is a testament to what someone with steely resolve wearing a silk glove can achieve. As a young woman, Kathleen and a dozen other avid female readers decided Fort Bend County needed a library. Some folks thought only those living in town would benefit, so the ladies went to Commissioner’s Court and got a bookmobile to serve everyone in the county.

But Kathleen didn’t stop there. She talked to Mamie George, and she donated a building next to the old Polly Ryon Memorial Hospital that became the county’s first permanent library. The George Foundation later expanded that initial investment and built the George Memorial Library.

One of Kathleen’s most satisfying contributions was bringing a school for the intellectually disabled to the county. Richmond State School was built on 200 acres of land, and Kathleen eventually added another 40 acres to the site. The result was a quiet home for those with special needs to live.

Both Kathleen and her late husband, Robert, were generous benefactors to education. For over 31 years, a scholarship has been given to a graduating senior at Lamar CHS. The Lindseys also set up a generous scholarship for any graduate in the county that wants to attend the University of Texas.

In 1996, Kathleen and Robert were named the Rosenberg Railroad’s volunteers of the year and they were also honored by the Rosenberg Revitalization Committee. There’s a beautiful gazebo in Seabourne Creek Park that Kathleen built to honor her late husband.

Kathleen donated money to Holy Rosary Catholic Church to start a campaign to build a parish hall. The Joerger-Lindsey Hall was built with matching funds from parishioners, and the hall is always in use for receptions and celebrations.

Ruth Kendziora worked for Kathleen for 57 years as her legal secretary and said Ms. Lindsey always followed the law. As far as Kathleen was concerned, Ruth said, the two most important words in the English language were “thank you.”

Kathleen – thank you doesn’t come close to the gratitude the people of Rosenberg and Fort Bend County owe you. Your generosity and drive to educate and enhance this county are two of the reasons Rosenberg’s been as successful as it has over the past 70 years.

I remember having lunch with Kathleen as her guest at the Fort Bend Country Club. We talked about women believing in themselves and how no one should ever give up on their dreams.

When I graduated from the University of Houston, Kathleen gave me that polished rock necklace along with a hand-written note of congratulations.

Every time I put on that necklace, I think of Kathleen and count myself lucky that I had the privilege of meeting someone who epitomizes the words “class” and “elegance.”

Rest in peace, dear lady. You’ve earned it.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.
  

A friend celebrated her 50^th birthday this week. Her Facebook page was filled with best wishes as well as comments lamenting that she was over the hill, the best days were behind her and it’s a downhill slide into obsolescence from here.

Because I’m older than she is, I have a different point of view about growing older. It’s hard to argue with a youth-obsessed society that believes if you’re over the age of 30, you’re ancient. I see this age bias almost every day, especially in the business world.

Those starting to climb the corporate ladder in their early 20’s are fresh-faced and eager to learn. They’re willing to work, but they either have unbridled ambition or they’re glued to social media.

Many are unable to put their phones down for longer than 15 minutes, and some need lessons on how to have a face-to-face conversation without resorting to checking their text messages or Snapchat every five minutes.

Workers in their 30s seem to be the anointed ones. They’re no longer novices in the conference room, and society thinks they’re tuned in to current events and trends. The “thirtysomething” bright executive doesn’t have a gray hair and wears Ray-Ban sunglasses, not bifocals. Ads, movies and television shows are aimed at them, even though people nearing retirement are usually the ones with cash to spend.

Those in their 40s straddle generations. They’re too young to be considered a “good ole’ boy,” and they’re usually too old for tube tops and muscle shirts. They’ve got car and mortgage payments, and they’re starting to help take care of their aging parents. What’s left from their paycheck either goes to the orthodontist or saving up for their children’s college tuition.

Workers in their 50s are in a tough spot. They’ve often been in the job too long to think about quitting and starting over, and that pension pot is too juicy to pass up. They either decide to take a chance and change careers or stick it out where they are until they can retire.

Then we get to the worker in his or her 60s. The kids are out of the house, grandchildren are arriving and grandma and grandpa finally have the television remote control all to themselves. They’re getting Medicare flyers and assisted-living ads in the mail – they still check the street mailbox – and they’re wondering why they have to retire. They still have so much to give to the world, but the world wants to put them out to pasture.

People over the age of 60 are gold to any profession if given the chance. They don’t worry about impressing the boss, they know petty office politics are just that and they’re willing to serve as a mentor. They’re not going on maternity leave or going through a mid-life crisis. Most importantly, they have years of experience to share with those willing to listen. They’re a little slower to learn the latest social media trend, but they know nothing beats a personal conversation.

They might not have the same fire in their belly as the millennials, but they’ve come to realize a slow-burning need to be useful lasts the longest. They won’t run the fastest, but they know the race doesn’t always go to the swiftest. The race goes to the one who can see the finish line and remembers to have fun while getting the job done.

So to my friend turning 50, the best is not only here, but every year gets better and better.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.