There’s no sign post or flashing lights outside the entrance to the Nash Prairie near West Columbia. Visitors won’t come across long lines of exhausted tourists waiting for funnel cakes.

What they will find is an opportunity to travel back to a time when Native Americans walked this prairie on their way to the Brazos River bottomland to fish and gather food.

Back then, a vast prairie extended from Louisiana to South Texas. Over time, the land was swallowed up by urban sprawl. Today, all that remains is the Nash Prairie, 400 acres of pristine land that has never been grazed or plowed.

These 400 acres miraculously escaped a contractor’s bulldozer, and the prairie is providing answers to researchers about how this area looked hundreds of years ago.

The Nash Prairie was once part of the KNG Ranch owned by the late Houston socialite Kittie Nash Groce. The land was eventually passed to St. Mary’s Episcopal Church in West Columbia.

Along the way, conservationists became interested in the prairie as did  Peter and Susan Conaty. Peter is the pastor at St. Mary’s and Susan spent hundreds of hours with researchers as they began examining the prairie.

They discovered over 300 botanical treasures most thought were long gone and realized they had a genuine treasure on their hands.

This virgin land is now a preserve, a laboratory and a seed bank helping landowners and other conservation groups along the Gulf Coast restore their lands to their natural state and reintroduce native plants that were thought to be extinct.

The Nature Conservancy now owns the Nash Prairie, and they are committed to protecting the land and helping landowners within a 300-mile radius restore their property to its natural state.

The Conatys are the local knowledgeable tour guides to the prairie and patiently answer any and all questions. Peter said they consider themselves stewards of the land and it’s where he feels closest to God.

I was fortunate to accompany the Coastal Prairie Chapter of the Texas Master Naturalists on a day trip to the Nash Prairie. We started the tour at Peter and Mary’s comfortable house in Columbia Lakes where their back yard is a gorgeous showcase for the advantages of using native plants in home gardens.

Cookies and punch are always served to anyone wishing to stop by, tour the Conaty’s back yard and then visit the prairie. Susan and Peter accompany guests out to the Nash Prairie as the land is still private. The prairie is located along a back country road, and unless one has a guide, it’s easy to drive right past the unmarked entrance.

At first, the prairie seemed like just another meadow, but as we walked further in, a gentle wind provided us with a symphony of rustling leaves and grasses and the outside world simply disappeared. Songbirds flitted in and out of the tall grasses and delicate spring flowers dotted the prairie.

In this last remaining virgin tract of prairie, I felt a connection with past people who understood that when Mother Nature is allowed to swirl the color wheel, beauty is the result.

As we drove away, I understood what Rev. Conaty meant when he told me I’d find peace on the prairie. Not only did I find solace and quiet, but I gained a greater understanding of our responsibility to this small patch of history.

For more information on the Nash Prairie, contact the Conatys at 979-345-3456 or email stmaryswc@centurylink.net. This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

My husband has run through the streets of Boston as a marathoner, and my family walked the Freedom Trail, a faded, red-brick line leading us through an incredible time in American history.

Visiting Boston on Patriots’ Day, a holiday that celebrates the beginnings of the Revolutionary War, was extraordinary. Walking the Freedom Trail and reading about the significance of each stop heightened our appreciation of what the founders of this country battled to ensure our freedom.

We stood in front of the Old State House where the Declaration of Independence was read for the first time, and tears formed as I imagined what people must’ve thought to hear those revolutionary words for the first time.

In front of the Old North Church, we strained our necks to look up at the steeple, imagining what Paul Revere felt like as he watched for the signal to see if the British were coming to start a war.

I was reminded of Revere’s vigilance when some vile piece of human garbage planted two bombs along the Boston Marathon race route this week, killing and maiming innocent people, including 8-year-old Martin Richard, a child looking forward to playing Little League baseball this spring, and 29-year-old Krystle Campbell who was “daddy’s little girl.”

The “why” question is on everyone’s minds – why someone felt they needed to kill innocent bystanders to make a point or how they rationalized they were accomplishing some grandiose goal by killing parade bystanders.

Dozens of columns have been written about the attacks, some quite eloquent like Patton Oswalt’s Facebook posting reminding us that good people will always outnumber the bad.

Others are pointing fingers while others want to cancel every public event for fear that something like this could happen again.

I can’t blame them, but we have to step back into life. It must’ve been frightening to be the first one on an American Airlines flight out of New York City after 9/11, but people did it. And Just like we did after Sept. 11, 2001, we will find the strength to go back to our daily lives.

But we’ve been scarred. People are no longer cavalier about big crowds. They no longer believe they are safe in their own backyards.

We let our guard down at the marathon, naively thinking malcontents wouldn’t hurt innocent people who were simply standing on a street corner, waiting for their loved ones to cross the finish line in a race they’d dreamed of completing for years.

That line is a magical spot where runners congratulate the winner. Athletes respect those who take five or six grueling hours to complete the course, refusing to give up until they cross that finish line.

And that’s what it’ll take to beat these cowards. We cannot give up because they surprised us. We cannot give up because we’re scared they might retaliate and curtail some of our personal freedoms.

We’re Americans.

We do not give up.

We do not allow a faceless, nameless enemy to bully us into cancelling events like marathons or airline flights or movie openings. We pull the wagons closer and renew our vow to stay vigilant, just as Paul Revere did watching for the lanterns in the steeple of the North Church.

One if by land. Two if by sea.

No matter how they come, America will remain standing.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

The last time I went to the movies, I gasped at the admission price — $9.50 to see a movie that wasn’t that entertaining. Add time, gas and popcorn, and curling up on the couch in my pajamas with the remote usually wins out.

We can download free movies, but they’re either ones nobody would watch unless they were chained to the wall or they’re the latest shoot-’em-up flicks which aren’t my cup of tea.

With the closing of most mom-and-pop video stores, it’s been practically impossible to find an old favorite movie to spend the evening with. That’s when the Fort Bend County Library came to the rescue. All branches have a fabulous selection of new and vintage Academy Award winning films and documentaries.

I started to pick up a new release, but then I saw a box that immediately brought a smile to my face – “Mary Poppins.” Later that evening, I sat down in front of the computer with a cup of hot chocolate and revisited a wonderfully engaging movie.

Based on the novel of the same name by P.L. Travers, the 1964 movie “Mary Poppins” was an instant smash and won six Oscars. The movie’s long-lasting popularity is due in part to Julie Andrews’ gorgeous voice and Dick Van Dyke’s agile dancing, but mostly we love the story about a magical nanny who comes to take care of two mischievous children, Jane and Michael Banks.

Mary is a strict nanny but one who combines kindness with authority and surprise. We also meet a chimney sweep and artist named Bert who’s played by Van Dyke. Bert accompanies the children and Mary on quite a few adventures in the movie, and Bert’s a tour guide we’re happy to have on our journey.

The film was one of the first movies to mix live acting and animation. That innovative action starts when Michael, Jane, Mary and Bert jump into a sidewalk chalk drawing of a peaceful English countryside and enter a world of dancing penguins, swift race horses and bounding carousel horses.

Viewers who know their Walt Disney history will recognize the legendary drawing talents of the “nine old men” of Disney in the animation sequences, especially the penguin waiters. Best of all, viewers will find Walt Disney’s whimsical touch from beginning to end.

The supporting characters add humor to the movie, from the two bumbling Banks housekeepers to Michael and Jane’s parents. Mother Winifred is more interested in women’s rights than she is her own children, and their serious and practical father, George, has little time for Jane and Michael.

The toe-tapping musical numbers are from brothers Richard and Robert Sherman who went on to create songs for “Chitty Chitty Bang Bang” and Charlotte’s Web.” I’ll admit to singing along, from the toe-tapping “Step in Time” to the poignant “Feed the Birds” and trying to find a way to use supercalifragilisticexpialidocious in a sentence.

My favorite song is “Let’s Go Fly a Kite.” Whenever I’m having a tough day, I invariably find myself thinking it might be a splendid idea to send a kite soaring up where the air is clear.

For those looking for sex, violence and car crashes, “Mary Poppins” isn’t for you. But if you’re looking for a reminder that the simple things in life – feeding the birds and flying a kite – are the most important, there’s no better way than to sit back and enjoy a jolly holiday with Mary.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

As the eldest of seven children, bossing around younger brothers and sisters came with the territory. The seven stair-step Heberts were close-knit, and we usually traveled as one unit, especially if one of us was threatened.

One afternoon, our youngest brother came home and said a kid had threatened to beat him up.  The four eldest siblings marched down the street, shoulder to shoulder and found that coward, telling him if he messed with one Hebert, he got all of us.

We were a cohesive unit until it came time for the dinner dishes, and that’s when everyone seemed to disappear. About that time, we sisters put on our bossy pants and started issuing marching orders.

Our brothers usually did what the girls said, mostly to avoid hearing us gripe. But there were times we took advantage of their good natures.

One year, I had to make a harem-girl costume for a school play. I needed a model about my height to wear the skirt so I could put in the hem, and I spotted my brother, Johnny, watching television.

I gave him a direct command to get on the kitchen chair and put on the skirt so I could pin it up. I know he did it because I have an old Polaroid picture of my brother reluctantly standing on a wooden chair, wearing a yellow harem-girl skirt.

We didn’t limit our bossing around to our brothers. We included their friends as well. My brother, Jimmy, had two best friends – Ricky and Dickie – yes, that’s their names. These three buddies hung out at our house all the time, especially on Saturday mornings.

Those two would sit on the couch while I cleaned, and no matter how much I yelled at them to get out, they quietly stayed put. I figured they were too stupid to understand what I was saying or they just ignored me because I was, after all, a bossy big sister.

Years later, Ricky told me they paid my brother to let them stay on the couch because they liked watching me vacuum in my T-shirt and underwear.

The little creeps.

As we got older, quite a few “friends” came home with my brothers, but it was really to meet my sisters. And, as turnabout is fair play, some friends came home with us to meet our brothers. That arrangement has worked out quite well as our sisters-in-law were first our friends.

The happy, however, sometimes came with the sad. After my father passed away, the three sisters decided we’d quietly go to the funeral home and choose Dad’s casket. As we were getting ready to leave, we noticed our four brothers standing by the back door.

They refused to let us go to the funeral home alone, and so all seven of us chose a casket for my dad, voting on our favorite casket, knowing majority ruled.

Over the years, we’ve had squabbles, but we’ve grown to understand and appreciate the differences that separate us and the similarities that bind us.

Instead of chasing down bullies, we’re watching our children marry and admiring pictures of each others’ grandchildren and vacation photos on Facebook.

Our brothers – Jimmy, Johnny, Joey and Jeff – are wonderful, responsible men and my children and grandchildren absolutely adore their uncles. My sisters and I know our brothers would do anything in the world for our mom, their wives, their children, their pets and their sisters.

Even if that sisterly request involves climbing up on a rickety kitchen chair and trying on a yellow harem-girl costume.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

When my husband and I arrived at Joshua Springs Park and Preserve in Comfort early in the morning, the park was deserted. But soon, Junior came trotting along and stayed with us for our entire visit, hoping for a food hand out.

Junior is a young fawn who was abandoned right after the preserve opened seven months ago. It’s obvious Junior’s been around people as he showed no fear and seemed to prefer our company to solitude in the brush.

On the other hand, I was looking for some peace and quiet over spring break, and heading to the small town of Comfort, right in the heart of the Texas Hill Country, was exactly what I needed.

Our stay at Meyer Bed and Breakfast on Cypress Creek was a blissful getaway experience. We stayed in the 1857 Ernestine Meyer cabin, and we loved walking around the grounds, especially swinging in a wooden swing on the creek bank, watching the sun go down.

Breakfast was served family style with everything from pancakes to fresh fruit to home-made bread pudding. Later in the day, we enjoyed window shopping in downtown Comfort and dinner at the local mom-and-pop eateries.

One of the areas I wanted to visit was the Joshua Springs park as I love taking nature photos. We hoped we’d not only take pictures but also have the chance to spot migrating birds and emerging wild flowers.

The park has well-groomed walking trails that meander through gentle hills. Informational signs let visitors know what types of grasses and flowers grow in the park and the types of frogs and snakes hiding in the native grasses.

We spent a peaceful morning in the preserve, and I happened to have a nice conversation with a man heading out to the pier, fishing pole in hand. He recommended a nearby place for lunch, and we took him up on his offer, heading out to Po Po’s restaurant in Boerne.

Located at the crest of a hill, the restaurant dates back over 40 years, and we did a double take when we walked in the front door. Every surface of the inside of the building is adorned with decorative plates in all shapes and sizes. According to our knowledgeable waiter, there are over 2,500 plates inside the building, a collection started by the original owners.

The food was great and we headed out, tummies full, to visit a few nearby wineries. California’s long been known as the wine capital of the United States, but Texas wines are quickly gaining on the West Coast and for good reason – the wines are fabulous.

At Singing Waters winery, we spent a couple of hours sitting underneath some shady live oak trees, enjoying a nice breeze. We stopped at  a small grocery store on the way back to our room and picked up cheese, summer sausage and crackers to go with the wine we purchased.

We ended the day back on our favorite swing, watching a Texas black squirrel explore the live oaks. My mind kept circling back to Junior. Plans are for this little fawn to be released  around a herd of white-tailed deer who should take him in and teach him how to survive in a world where he belongs.

We can all learn a lesson from Junior:  although it might seem more comfortable where everything’s handed to us, sometimes making our own way in the world, accompanied by friends, is the best way to go.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

In a small Southern town, high school athletics are often the biggest draw. Football stadiums are packed, and people sit in the same spot year after year. They know how to avoid the obnoxious fan who not only screams at the coaches but knows exactly what plays the coach should call each and every time.

It’s the same with basketball. Fans and supporters pack the gymnasium,  and referees take the same verbal beating the football refs take – they’re blind, they missed the call and they must be working for the opposing side.

With every win, the town celebrates. With every loss, the town mourns but remains hopeful that next season will be the magical one.

The team that will put them in the headlines and bring pride and honor to the town.

The team that’ll bring home that impressive state trophy. 

And that’s exactly what two high school basketball teams in our area did this past week up in Austin. B.F. Terry High School clinched the 4A UIL state championship title, and Travis High School earned the 5A UIL state championship trophy.

I was lucky enough to go to the Terry game, and we arrived early at the Erwin Center on the University of Texas campus. The arena was packed with fans, scouts from colleges all over the United States, UIL officials and former players.

Excitement was in the air as the 2A teams, White Oak and Brock, were on the court. On one side of the arena were fans from White Oak, a small farming town outside of Longview and on the other, the cheering section from Brock, a town west of Fort Worth.

The score rocked back and forth the last five minutes, and when White Oak won that exhausting game, the cheering from their student section raised the roof.

When it came time for Terry to take to the court, three entire sections were packed with excited fans wearing red T-shirts, the words “Ranger Pride” on the front. They faced a formidable team, Dallas Kimball, a two-time back-to-back state championship squad.

Going into the half, the Rangers were down, but they came back like steam rollers the second half, took the lead and never looked back.

When the final buzzer sounded, the on-their-feet fans refused to leave until the boys hoisted the state trophy over their heads.

After the game, fans waited near the Terry bus for almost an hour, and families, schoolmates , players and coaches took pictures with everybody, the trophy at the center of almost every shot.

That devotion was the same for the Travis Tigers. After losing the state title last year, this young team went back to Austin determined to bring home that title. And they did exactly what they set out to do accompanied by their fans who never stopped believing that trophy would find a permanent home in the Travis lobby.

Over the years, high school athletes graduate and move on. Seasons change and turn into years. For the faithful who go to games year after year and sit in the same seats, one day, there might be somebody new sitting next to you.

When you introduce yourself,  there’s a chance the wistful face has a history.

 “I was on that state championship team back in 2013. And, man, what a ride we had.”

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

  When I was a teenager, I always looked forward to the weekends. School days were a round robin of getting up early to catch the bus and staying up late to finish homework. During the week, I often felt like a zombie, so my weekend goal was to put some Z’s in the sleep bank.

  Saturday was the one morning of the week when I could curl up under my bedspread and try to sleep until noon. That was impossible, though, thanks to my mom.

  By 8 a.m., she was banging around in the kitchen which was right outside my bedroom. It was impossible to sleep with all that clanging going on and, as I’m motivated by guilt, most of the time I grudgingly got up and helped her. Back then, I wondered why she couldn’t just leave everything alone until the afternoon.

  When I got older and spent weekdays chasing toddlers, running errands and cooking meals, I realized Saturday mornings were the one day of the week when I could get caught up with the dishes, laundry and bathroom chores.

  Although we’re now empty nesters, old habits die hard, so this past Saturday, I grabbed my cleaning bucket and headed down the hallway. I glanced at the walls and noticed tiny fingerprints about two feet off the ground.

  I recognized my granddaughter’s fingerprints and remains of the peanut-butter and honey sandwich she’d been eating while telling me a story. Then I saw my grandson’s fingerprints on the wall going up the stairs.

  I started to clean those off, but then I remembered how happy my granddaughter had been while recounting the story about the princess dream she’d had.

  My grandson’s handprint was made while he was learning to climb the stairs all by himself. Looking at those little handprints, I smiled for it wasn’t so long ago that I was cleaning their father’s fingerprints off walls.

  In the house where my sons grew up, the bedrooms were upstairs, and when the boys came down the stairs, they dragged their hands down the side walls of the stair case.

  One overhead section became a good-luck slapping charm, and all three would touch that section of the wall when they came down the stairs.

  As a result, that one tough-to-paint section had a permanent gray spot from their handprints. I complained incessantly about the dirt, yelling at them to stop putting their hands all over that one unreachable spot.

  But when our youngest son went off to college and we put the house up for sale, I looked at that spot over the stairs, the gho

sts of their fingerprints bringing back memories of my life when my boys were still under our roof.

  We leave fingerprints all over the place in life, at the milestones we commemorate with hugs, handshakes and hearty pats on the back. Many of us talk with our hands, spreading our hands wide when asking a question and our palms thrown upward when we’re fed up.

  Our hands check to see if our babies have a fever, smooth the hair away from our spouse’s face and tickle our children while tucking them into bed at night.  

  So I think I’ll leave my grandchildren’s fingerprints on the wall for a while. People leave traces in our lives in the most unexpected places. We can either wipe those fingerprints away, ignore them or smile and remember how the people who own them touched our souls.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

 

   

I love a good story, especially ghost stories. Perhaps it’s because my family had its own set of ghosts that I’m so intrigued by them. My father had a special name for the ghost in our family – “Mr. Toops.” Whenever the back door flew open by itself, Dad would always say “Come on in, Mr. Toops.”

We never thought much about my father’s invitation because Dad was a little silly at times. Later we found out that Mr. Toops was a real person, a man who lived next door to my father’s family.

Mr. Toops was hard of hearing, and he often walked right in the back door, figuring it was a waste of time to knock and wait for somebody to yell “come in.” My Grandmother Marguerite would see him standing there and say “Come on in, Mr. Toops,” and the line stuck through the next two generations.

There were plenty of other ghost sightings in the Hebert family – my grandmother claimed she often saw a faint image of a man standing near the edges of family functions. She wasn’t afraid of the Gray Man, as she called him, and neither were we.

She claimed her ability to see him was because she was born with a veil. Near the turn of the century, almost all births were at home. Marguerite was no exception; and when she was born at home in New Orleans’ mystical French Quarter, her birth was something special.

Marguerite was born with a “veil,” part of the amniotic sac that can partially cover the face of the child. It’s not common, but midwives believed that a child born with the veil had special powers and could see ghosts and into the future.

My grandmother said her mother kept the “veil” in a sealed jar, but someone stole it, and she believed the veil was headed for a voodoo ceremony. Despite the loss of the veil, for all her life, my grandmother had the ability to see and know things before they happened.

My mother’s father also had the gift of second sight and sensed when something was about to happen, from the culmination of a business deal to knowing someone was coming to visit.

From those two, I developed an insatiable curiosity about things beyond what we can see.

Whenever I hear a story about someone having a sixth sense, I want to know every detail, and that’s why I bent my brother’s ear the other night.

Johnny recently had an encounter with someone who could tell the future. He was visiting with a nun in Louisiana, one who supposedly has the gift to sense when things are going to happen and, in some cases, to heal people. She relayed to my brother that he needed to watch his blood pressure.

Just a few days earlier, my brother had a full physical, and he checked out fit as a fiddle. But while exercising, he over-exerted himself and developed a two-week long headache.

The doctor told him his blood pressure went through the roof, and he suddenly remembered the nun’s prediction.

My  next phone call to my brother will be to see if he can introduce me to this special nun. Perhaps she’ll know if there’s any hope one day I’ll develop a sixth sense like my grandparents.

It sure would be nice to know who’s about to knock on the back door.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.