While looking through a stack of DVDs, I spotted a movie near the bottom, “Big Fish.” I can’t bring myself to watch it again because the main character is so reminiscent of my late father.

On a summer visit to Baton Rouge, my sister-in-law, Peggy, brought us a surprise dinner. She combined cooked rice with freshly chopped shrimp and crab meat, and the result was the most scrumptious rice mixture I’ve ever tasted.

“Can I have the recipe?” I asked, hoping the meal would be easy to make. I don’t have a lot of confidence in the kitchen as the high number of uneaten casseroles in our fridge will confirm.

I keep trying to copy recipes, similar to the poor souls who attempt something they saw on Pinterest. Like them, my results are “nailed it” with disastrous results.

There’s my stab at making a King Ranch Casserole. After tasting it at a luncheon, I searched for a recipe that looked similar to what I’d greedily eaten. One called for tortilla chips and one for plain tortillas. I opted for the tortillas because chips go with dip.

But something went wrong because the tortillas turned to mush, and the pan had to soak in the sink for three days before that burnt cheese would come off.

There’s also banana bread. I remember my Aunt Vickie bringing warm loaves to my mom’s at least once a week. The bread was moist and sweet and chocked full of walnuts.

I’m not sure what Aunt Vickie’s secret is, but I haven’t made a loaf of banana bread that wasn’t raw in the middle or burnt on the outside.

As they say in Pinterest land, nailed it.

There is one meal I prepare quite well – spaghetti sauce. I got the recipe from a friend’s grandmother over 40 years ago. She came to this country straight from Sicily, and she shared her recipe with me.

I remember standing next to Maw Maw Fresina in her back kitchen, intently watching as she browned steak and tomato paste, then added a little sugar and salt. She stirred in water and a masterpiece was born.

My sauce differs from hers because I could never get the right color or flavor. So I started adding oregano, sweet basil and parmesan cheese to the pot.

I tried adding steak like Maw Maw, browning and babying that slab of meat, but I could never get the meat tender. So I moved on to meatballs.

My sister said the secret to tender meatballs is to avoid handling the meat too much. So when I’m rolled the meat into balls, I pretended I was handling a raw egg.

Didn’t matter. My meatballs were hard enough for baseball practice.

But I really liked that shrimp and crab casserole, so I thought I’d give it a try. I didn’t have fresh crab or shrimp like Peggy had nor did I have Louisiana seafood paste.

With hope in my heart, I went to the grocery store and bought shrimp – not on sale – crab meat – again, not on sale – and felt as if I just might be able to recreate that casserole.

I thought I did everything Peggy told me to do, but the result was inedible. Scraping the remains into the garbage a few nights later, I realized the kitchen is not my domain.

I might as well take that list of recipes I’ve been stockpiling and chunk them. After all, it’s better to dump a stack of magazine and Southern Living recipes than another $25 worth of Louisiana seafood.

Or raw banana bread.

Or rock-hard meatballs.

Then again, if I keep at it, one of those recipes just might work out and I can truthfully say “nailed it.” 

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.  

 

Some people wait for months to take winter vacations where they can fly down mountains on a pair of skis.

Others love getaways where they’re hiking over mountains and through meadows. Still others love window shopping excursions where they wander in and out of expensive boutiques.

For me, the best vacation is spent on the beach under an umbrella with a good book, listening to the waves crash on the shore, tension and stress melting away.

My favorite beach is in Gulf Shores, Ala. Our family’s been going to the same condo and the same spot on the beach for over 25 years.

We started going to Gulf Shores when we lived in Louisiana and our boys were toddlers. We kept going because of the family-friendly attitude there.

For our first few years, Gulf Shores stayed a quiet retreat with inexpensive restaurants and a nearby outlet mall for families on a budget. In the last decade, however, Gulf Shores’ popularity has exploded.

The county added a huge outlet mall, manicured golf courses and an endless sea of non-descript chain restaurants. They were looking for those big-city bucks the Florida destinations were raking in, so they jumped on the commercial bandwagon.

As a result, Gulf Shores changed from a laid-back hideaway into a elbow-to-elbow city of high-rise, expensive condominiums. The growth also brought crowded roadways, expensive souvenir shops and wall-to-wall tourists in stores and restaurants.  

Every year, I whine about the traffic jams and cheap keepsakes and say we’ll find another place to vacation. Maybe this is the year we’ll go to the mountains, I’ll tell my husband, or better yet find a nice place in the Hill Country.

My son kept telling me about Surfside and how much he thought I’d like it.  I’d heard the Texas beaches were crowded and the water dirty. He kept telling me I was wrong, but I was secretly holding on to what I knew was familiar. Change is difficult, especially a change that requires one to give up such a beautiful place.

But one recent Sunday afternoon, he invited me to come to Surfside with his family. I decided to see what a Texas beach was all about, and I packed the car with my umbrella and chair and headed south.

At first, I wasn’t too excited. The hour-long drive took me past fields of smoking refineries and rusted oil tanks. When I pulled up to the beach access, though, I was pleasantly surprised. The sand wasn’t quite as white as the sand in Alabama, but it was clean.

The water wasn’t that deep emerald green, but the same earthy smell of salt-water oceans was in the air. The beach wasn’t too crowded, and the sounds of laughter and giggles from children down the beach could be heard faintly.

It’s difficult to change a 25-year tradition, but I realized it was foolish to keep driving all those miles to a beach when Surfside was close to home.

With some reluctance and a few tears in my eyes, I signed the papers to sell our time share. It was time to turn to what’s close to home.

That’s not only the beach in Surfside, but my family. As majestic as the waves are when they crash on those sugar-white beaches in Alabama, nothing’s better than watching my grandchildren laughing and jumping in the waves on a beach here in Texas.

So now I keep my beach chair and umbrella handy because I never know when I’ll need to recharge my batteries. That surf, sand and sun therapy session is just down the road.  

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

A friend posted a picture of her son at the mailbox in a rain storm, an expectant smile on his face. The reason this 8-year-old braved the weather was to retrieve a letter that contained the names of his classmates and, most importantly, his teacher for the upcoming school year.

I remember driving to Pecan Grove Elementary on the day the class lists were posted. There was always a crowd of parents and children there, everyone scanning the list of students in each class.

My boys wanted to see if they were in the same class as their friends. I wanted to see what teacher would be influencing and spending every day with my children.

 

A Positive Experience

When it comes to creating a positive school experience, we often think of a classroom that’s brightly decorated or has the latest and greatest technology tools. Those cosmetics don’t really matter when it comes to creating a memorable and positive school experience.  

What’s most important is that teachers, students and parents bring a positive and open attitude into the classroom, starting in kindergarten.

Elementary school teachers lay the foundation for how a child perceives school for the rest of their lives. The teachers who love what they do, love their students and teach them to love learning are a gift better than any elaborate bulletin board.

Middle school and junior high educators have to work a little harder to encourage learning. Their charges are morphing from energetic little boys and girls into often-moody young girls and boys. Their hormones are raging and they want to rebel.

These teachers must rein in those physical demons, smiling all the while. They have to connect with students and show them that learning is still fun, even if they’re now designing a virtual farm instead of planting a bean in a Styrofoam cup.

High school teachers, remember that you are the last chain in the link of public education. You are the one who must prepare young men and women for life. You’re building on a foundation that is sometimes shaky, sometimes cracked.

 

A Joint Responsibility

Your job, however, is to make sure your charges believe they can still achieve their dreams. Much like the elementary teachers, you must smile every day and make your classroom a vibrant center of nurturing, positive discipline and encouragement.

Few of us can remember the academic details of our time in a classroom. What we do remember is if the teacher liked us, how he or she treated us and what he or she taught us about life. If that teacher had a zest and enthusiasm for their subject, chances are good we caught that fire.

Teachers, we are entrusting you to teach our child, the baby we rocked for hours during colicky nights, the young child who bravely stepped onto a school bus on the first day of kindergarten and the teenager you see as an adult but whom we still see as our baby. You have our most precious asset in life.

Parents, it’s not just the teacher’s task to make sure your child does well in school. You are the most important cheerleader your child will ever have. Constantly encourage your child to learn, and they will love learning all their lives.

Education is a four-way stop between parents, teachers, students and the community. If we can support each other and remember we’re all on the same journey to educate, illuminate, encourage and prepare young people for life, that’s the absolute best we can do.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

My son asked if I’d look through his baby pictures and send him a funny one for a work contest. I had a particular picture of him in mind and told him I’d look and email it to him. Three hours later, I found the picture, but the looking was much more worthwhile than the find.

These days, most of us take pictures with our cell phones. Our phones are easy – point, press a button and there’s an image to send to dozens of people in a matter of minutes. While I love the convenience and ability to capture the moment using a cell phone as a camera, we’re sacrificing having pictures we can linger over without electronics.

This summer, my sister pulled out the old photo albums at my mom’s house, and we talked about almost every picture we came across. My mom added details like her going-away outfit was baby blue, a fact we didn’t know because the photo was black and white.

She told us about life back in the Depression and how her family worked together during those trying times. With the aid of pictures, I could see my grandparents and my parents back when the world was an unknown journey stretching out in front of them.

My dad on the deck of a U.S. Navy destroyer.

My mom in a two-piece bathing suit at Virginia Beach.

My grandparents at their 50th wedding anniversary.

As we went through the albums, those pictures triggered memories of almost-forgotten barbecues, toddler Easter egg hunts and lazy Sunday afternoons playing board games.

I thought about that afternoon with my sister and mom as I searched for my son’s baby picture. I started with an album from our early married days, and moved on through our move to Texas and trips we’ve taken over the years.

There was a picture of my father on the back of a three-wheeler, smiling and in good health, and I stared at that picture a long time, tracing his face in the photo.

The photo of my grandfather – so young and dashing – reminded me of my brother, Jimmy, who inherited our grandfather’s kindness and generosity. There’s my grandmother in her young days, and I realize her smile lives on in my sister’s grin.

I lingered over pictures of my sons from birth all the way to manhood. There’s a picture of my middle son asleep on my chest. Seeing that picture reminded me of how wonderful it feels to have a newborn snuggle up under my chin.

Then I came across some pictures of myself as a young woman. When I think back on those times, I envision a frazzled, plump woman who missed out on opportunities. When I look at the photos, though, I see a pretty girl having fun with her kids, a young woman who was present at the important milestones in life.

Those pictures are a visual reminder that we are who we are and we were who we were. Instead of being so judgmental, I’m glad I have pictures of all of us, including myself, throughout the years and hope I can one day sit down with my grandchildren and lead them through a family journey, just as my mom did with me.

My son’s picture in hand, I realized there’s still plenty of room in the photo album. I think it’s time to go back to having photos printed. Those will be here long after the battery dies in my cell phone or the technology no longer supports the newest and fanciest digital device.  

But those photo albums. Those printed black-and-white pictures. Those images, and memories, last forever.
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

For kids, nothing beats the laid-back rhythms of summer. Sleeping late, riding bikes and afternoons with nothing to do except raid the freezer for Popsicles.

But come the first of August, the reality of getting back into school habits hits. Along with that realization and acceptance comes the task of getting ready for research papers and spelling tests. First there’s buying supplies.

Luckily schools publish a supply list, so it’s almost hassle-free to walk down the aisle and toss folders, spirals and crayons in the cart.

Another big part of getting ready for school is shopping for new clothes. Quite a few schools require students to wear uniforms, and that rule makes those early-morning decisions a lot easier.

I was lucky. When my boys were in school, fashion choices were easy – blue-jean shorts, a shirt that had a super hero on the front and sneakers that allowed them to be the fastest in Dodge Ball.

Not so for those with girls.

I’m finding this out the hard way as I’m helping my daughter-in-law shop for clothes for her daughter who’s entering first grade this year. In my mind, an elementary-aged girl in Texas wears sneakers, capri pants or shorts and a T-shirt with unicorns on the front.

When I went shopping this week, I was shocked. Instead of age-appropriate clothes for elementary-school girls, all I found were skin-tight leggings and short shorts.
The shirts ended where the navel begins; and instead of puppy dog artwork on the front of the T-shirts, the designs were “I love to shop” or had pictures of Miley Cyrus sticking her vulgar tongue out.

Disgusting and disappointing.

So I kept looking for clothing that would allow my granddaughter to participate in recess sports yet still have a demure look. I found one – just one – skirt with shorts sewn in. On the other hand, there was a whole display of short-shorts that were no more than six inches in length from the waist to the hemline.

These are 6-8 year-old girls who should be able to remain little girls for a few more years, not grow up before their time. It seems clothing manufacturers want to create Lolitas instead of reinforcing the knowledge that girls don’t have to be half naked to be relaxed and ready for school.

Out of curiosity, I started browsing through the teen-age girl section, and they have the same vulgar clothing choices the 6-year-olds faced except the ones for the teenagers were a lot more, how can I say this nicely, skanky.

They’re cut low in the front, have rips and tears where there shouldn’t be rips and tears or the material is so thin, you can see right through it. The argument is girls can wear camisoles underneath the see-through shirts, but what’s wrong with making shirts that don’t make a girl look half dressed?

I’ve heard all the arguments that this is how girls like to dress, I’m being too old fashioned or I don’t understand what the fashion industry’s all about. My definition of fashionable is wearing clothes that fit and make you feel good about yourself, not clothes that would embarrass your grandmother if she saw you wearing them.

There’s still a few stores, both in town and online, that stock appropriate clothing for young girls, and that’s where I’ll spend my money. Because I know, somewhere in the retail world, there’s a nice supply of little girl T-shirts with puppy dogs on the front.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

On my 15th birthday, I was the first one in line at the Department of Motor Vehicles for my driver’s test. There was no greater gift my parents could’ve given me than permission to get my license.

After all these years, I still love getting behind the wheel of my car, cranking up the engine and heading out. My car is the means to freedom – to explore new places, visit friends or check out a new cafe.

When I’m driving by myself, I can crank up a Josh Groban CD and sing along at the top of my lungs. I can listen to books on CD and play my favorite passages over and over again.

Most of my trips are short ones, but on long trips, I love to stop at welcome centers because states usually put their best foot forward there.

Florida’s welcome site offers free orange juice, and Mississipp’s center is a relaxing place to spend a few minutes.

The Texas welcome center near the Sabine River is an opportunity to have your picture taken in front of the giant star and then stroll on the outdoor boardwalk where the noise and heat of the interstate disappears while you see a slice of Texas up close.

When I saw a sign for a new welcome center in the heart of Louisiana’s Atchafalaya Basin, I decided to exit the bumper-to-bumper traffic and see what they had to offer.

I’m so glad I did because the center was a step into a true slice of the Pelican state, from the old bricks on the floor to the smell of freshly brewing Community coffee. Welcome center volunteers are usually friendly, but these folks chatted with everybody who came through the door.

An animatronic display features a talking raccoon, turtle and alligator, and some kids and I enjoyed watching a fun explanation about Louisiana. Outside, bronze statues of pelicans and turtles are a perfect place for youngsters to climb and sit.

Before I left, I picked up a map of Louisiana, even though others around me were checking their smart phones and tablets for the best way to maneuver down a crowded interstate.

Those travelers can stay glued to their smart phones. For me, nothing beats unfolding a paper highway map and seeing the whole state at once and deciding to follow the small black lines instead of the heavy red interstate lines.

While on those narrow black lines, I’ve driven past acres of tall sugar cane stalks and delicate Spanish moss swaying from ancient live oak trees.

Those maps have guided me to local coffee shops and bakeries as well as the opportunity to see the real people and sights of a city instead of a quick burger and soda a quarter mile from the interstate.

While following the thin black lines, I’ve driven over creaky wooden bridges that suggest you just might not make it to the other side and past local farmers selling watermelons and corn on the side of the road. Travelers never see this side of life if they don’t get off the thick lines of the map.

Even though my smart phone can give me verbal directions, nothing’s better than turning off that phone and enjoying a slice of cherry pie while looking out over a slow-moving Main Street.

As I folded the map back up – a feat in itself – I knew that any time I wanted a bit of adventure, all I had to do was get out that paper map and get behind the wheel of my car.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

For some people, the perfect way to relax is hiking. For others, serenity involves a long warm bath. For me, it’s time spent on the beach.

There’s the rhythmic sound of the surf, gulls laughing overhead and the fresh smell of salt water.

Five minutes sitting on the sand and I’m instantly calm.

Until Mother Nature’s lullaby is shattered by insensitive people who think everybody within 50 feet of their boom box wants to hear their music.

That’s what happened to me during a recent trip to the Gulf.

I love to set up my umbrella and chair early in the morning when the beach is quiet and watch the waves as they perform an ageless tidal waltz.

I’m not alone – there’s runners and fast walkers, couples casually looking for seashells and people who stroll along the shore, laughing when the water circles their ankles.

There’s groups who play music softly so everybody can enjoy the beach. And then there’s the group that plays music as loud as they can, gets drunk and ruins any chance for a relaxing family day.

Unfortunately for me, that last group decided to show up, boom box and beer cans in full force during our vacation. The first day, they carried on until after sun went down. I fumed but said nothing.

The next morning, I bought ear plugs, knowing deep down I was being a coward by not confronting them.

Sure enough, they came down to the beach right before lunch and started the whole process up again – I could hear the popping of the beer cans right before they cranked up the boom box.

That was the final straw. I walked over to their party and asked them to please turn the music down so those of us who seek the quiet could enjoy that as well.

They were stunned, but as I walked back to my umbrella, they turned the music up even louder and started yelling profanities.

That night, I wrote them a letter and, the next morning, tucked it inside their umbrella. I have no idea if they read the letter or if what I wrote made any difference because we left to come home.

But their reaction wasn’t the point.

I’m tired of bullies.

I’m tired of people cutting me off in traffic with only inches to spare between their bumper and mine.

I’m tired of people who run right up in front of me while I’m in the grocery line when a checker opens up because they think their time is more important than everybody else’s.

I’m tired of obnoxious people who get their way at the expense of others, like me, who are afraid of the consequences.

When I walked over to ask them to turn down their music, not turn it off, my stomach was churning.

While they continued to yell at me and make obscene gestures, I was a little afraid.

But when I saw there were teens and children with them, I felt sorry for the youngsters because of the example they were being shown and was glad I mustered up the guts to go over there.

If they’d turned the music down, they could’ve taught their children to consider others’ needs and not just their own. Conversely, we teach them to be selfish, rude and obnoxious through crude behavior.

I ended the letter thanking them for giving me a column idea – to remind myself and others that living a life of consideration and respect, fueled with a bit of courage, is the right road to take.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. Thank you, Brett Downer, for the great headlines week after week.

I was simply reaching over to put two pieces of fried okra in my take-out box. That maneuver should’ve taken about 10 seconds. Instead, my hand accidentally bumped into the straw sticking out of my completely full glass of soda and the soda spilled all over the table, my lap, down my right leg and all over the floor.

For most people, spilling something in a crowded restaurant would be embarrassing. I got over that hurdle a long time ago because when the good Lord was handing out gracefulness, I was tripping over my own two feet to get in line.

My clumsiness is well documented, starting back in high school. I was in the pep squad, and because I had a car, I always volunteered to pick up supplies. When the squad decided to have a barbecue, I headed into town to pick up two glass gallons of barbecue sauce.

I remember coming over some elevated railroad tracks when the car in front of me stopped suddenly at the traffic light.
I had to slam my brakes on to avoid hitting the car, but because I’d put the two one-gallon containers of barbecue sauce on the seat instead of on the floor, they toppled over, crashed into each other and barbecue sauce came sloshing under my seat, instantly swallowing my shoes and the carpet in a tidal wave of thick red sauce.

I blotted up sauce for weeks and repeatedly shampooed the carpet, but the smell never went away. My best friend said every time she got in that Pontiac she craved a barbecue sandwich.

Cars and I share a long history of my clumsiness. As a new driver, I wasn’t good at calculating distances and I backed into our house.
It was an accident, but that incident causes me embarrassment every time one of my nieces or nephews are upset about getting into a fender bender. One of my siblings blurts out “Well at least you didn’t run into the house like Aunt Denise.”

Every shirt I own has a grease spot on the front that no amount of Spray and Wash can remove. My son, Stephen, says he doesn’t understand why I buy white shirts because they’re a walking billboard for my clumsiness.

He’s right. The last time we were at a Mexican restaurant, I looked down and there were three huge splotches of red salsa on the front of my brand-new white shirt. They coordinated quite well with the big smear of green guacamole.

My big toe is still smarting when I banged it against the steps yesterday, and there’s a bruise on the outside of my arm from when I fell into the wall after banging my toe. I’m an expert at hiding broken glasses, bowls and plates in the middle of the garbage bag so my family won’t discover the latest Mom casualty.

I’ve dropped my cell phone on the concrete, in the pool, in the toilet, from the top of my car – don’t even ask how I managed that one – and the only thing that saves my phone from utter destruction is the heavy-duty Otter box cover I told the cell phone salesman was not optional.

There is an upside to being this awkward. I don’t spend a lot of money on clothes because I’ll ruin them. Our dishwasher gets a break because I use paper plates whenever possible. And I only buy barbecue sauce in plastic containers.

Anything else is asking for trouble.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

One of the best ways to relax is sitting outside early in the morning, a cup of hot, fresh coffee nearby while I listen to the critters in our back yard getting ready for their day.

Squirrels scampering, doves cooing and butterflies flitting around the flowers are soul refreshers. But don’t be fooled by those cute critters. Mother Nature sometimes wears a cute mask to hide the mischief.  

Take squirrels. They look adorable when they waggle their fluffy tails, and their branch acrobatics are on par with any circus entertainer. They’re cute until they invade the bird feeder.

I watched one industrious squirrel jump out of the tree, grab onto our bird feeder and straddle the metal feeder upside down while he scarfed down all the bird seed.

And then there’s the armadillos. They look like miniature tanks as they waddle around the yard at night, and their poor eyesight makes people feel sorry for them.

Until you discover an armadillo has been digging huge holes in your yard, holes you discover when you accidentally step in one and twist your ankle.

Still feeling sorry for them? I think not.

Let’s not forget insects. Watching the bees and wasps flit from flower to flower is a good reminder of the cycle of life.

Until they build a nest in one of your light fixtures, shorting it out and then kamikaze you when you try and spray the nest.

Snakes are also a fixture in back-yard flower beds. I see no redeeming quality about a snake. Forget lecturing me that they eat mice and rats. The only good snake is either dead or in a box, headed to the back of the subdivision.

Raised on Bugs Bunny cartoons, I always had a soft spot for Pepe Le Pew, the French skunk who loved female cats and was always trying to woo them.

But when a skunk sprayed our dog and it took weeks and gallons of tomato juice to get the stink off that dog, skunks were demoted to the rank of pest.

Bats are incredible creatures for the yard. They eat mosquitoes by the pound and people build houses to attract them to their back yard.

Bats terrify me. I see one and I’m convinced they’re looking to build a nest in my hair. So whenever anything resembling a bat comes close, I head for the house, hands over my hair, screaming my head off.

Ants also serve a purpose in the back yard. Ants have wonderful attributes — they work hard, they never sleep and they require very little food.

Unless they’re fire ants. There is no good reason, and I mean no good reason, why fire ants are on the planet. They cannot be killed or destroyed.

You might think you’re getting rid of them with the latest and greatest ant killer, but those indestructible creatures maliciously burrow deeper underground and lie in wait. After the first rain, fire ant mounds pop up every two feet in your yard.

And those vicious devils sting without mercy.

There’s other creatures in the back yard that conjure up visions of sweetness. Frogs are cute. Until you accidentally step on one in your bare feet. Birds are great until you find your lawn furniture covered in bird droppings.

Which leaves our dog. She’s a relentless squirrel stalker, sounds the alarm when she sees a snake and chases wasps all day long.

That’s the kind of back-yard guest I’ll take every day of the week. Now if only she could come up with a way to kill those fire ants…

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.