Most people don’t like attending funerals. As a society, we know we should attend to pay our respects to the person who passed away and to show support for the grieving family.

Our grandmother, Marguerite, was specific about how she wanted her funeral plans carried out.

She wanted the visitation and funeral on the same day so people wouldn’t have to stay overnight.

She wanted a happy event, and we were instructed to make the eulogy fit that mode. For the closing song, she wanted “When the Saints Come Marching In,” and we obliged.

My cousin, Sylvia, and I gave the homily sporting Mardi Gras beads and sunglasses as Grandma was a native of New Orleans. She always signed letters to us “have fun along the way,” and we felt the service needed to fit her philosophy.

This past week, I attended the funeral of Theresa Elizabeth Schulte McGarry, the mother of our brother-in-law, Jimmy.

Mrs. McGarry had been in ill health for the past few years, and people say it’s a blessing when they pass.

That’s not so.

It’s one of the hardest goodbyes in the world, but especially for this incredible woman.

Siblings, cousins and in-laws sat around my sister’s living room and watched a slide show with pictures from Theresa’s life. They had so many stories to tell.

First of all, there was a happy marriage for 67 years to Rod McGarry. Theresa was the love of his life and he was hers.

Photos showed a couple that went from a typical 1950s small home to filling a house with cribs, toys and children. Siblings said their mom made most of her own clothes and theirs, even when there were seven of them.

Whenever they went on vacation, Jimmy said they knew to pack a bathing suit, casual clothes and their Sunday best. Theresa always knew where Sunday Mass would be celebrated, and the entire family went to Mass.

Her son, Mike, wrote her obituary which revealed a life of service and love. She’d considered becoming a nun, but changed her mind and became a teacher and then a mother. She was active in her church, and ran their home like a brigadier general.

Along with rearing seven children, Theresa was a Girl Scout leader and volunteer for over 25 years. She served as president of the Baton Rouge Girl Scout Council for two years. She got her commercial driver’s license, Mike said, so she could drive the troop around the country on a school bus.

She and Rod visited all 50 states in their RV, often taking a grandchild or two along. They also visited the same number of foreign countries.

Once their children had families of their own, Rod and Theresa rented condos at Gulf Shores, Ala. every summer. Everyone attended because they knew the importance of keeping in touch and making sure the next generation was as close as the uncles and aunts were.

After the service, their daughter Kay asked the grandchildren to raise their hands if Grandma and Grandpa had attended their graduation from high school or college.

All 21 grandchildren raised their hands. She asked if any of them had received funds from an educational grant the McGarrys set up. A sea of hands went up. They said they might not have gone to college without the encouragement of their parents and grandparents.

When some of the grandchildren came up to talk to Mr. McGarry, who lost his sight a few months ago, there was only love and interest. It was “I’m so glad you’re here. Tell me everything you’ve been up to. I can’t wait to hear all about you.”

Theresa’s priorities, Mike said, were never in question – faith, family, education and adventure. As I looked around the room at the McGarry children, spouses, cousins, grandchildren and great-grandchildren, I knew this family had sewn a legacy of love and friendship that was continuing into the next generation.

What an incredible life you lived, Mrs. McGarry. You will be remembered with laughter, cherished, loved, emulated and never forgotten by family, friends, the many girls you inspired and those lucky enough to have known this gentle yet strong woman of God.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

For 13 years, I was a public school teacher. It was my fifth career, actually.

First, I was a secretary for a major oil company. Then I was a stay-at-home mom. Then I became a writer and reporter for this newspaper.

My fourth career was as a teacher. Now I’m a retiree, trying to find my way through occasional boredom, wonderful hours babysitting grandchildren and doing some part-time work, both in the school system and writing this column.

But as the school year ends for most of our kids, I found myself going down memory lane. I remembered those last days, especially as I’ve been in a couple of schools recently.

The kids are ready to start their summer, and teachers are anxious for them to go so they, too, can begin relaxing and get away from demanding lesson plans, discipline and being on stage for almost eight hours a day.

As many staff developments that teachers attend, nobody prepares an educator for that last week. They know they’re supposed to pack up books, give back all papers, take down posters and lock up supplies.

We read so much about kids who don’t want to learn, overzealous parents, and dangerous situations at schools. The pay’s not great, the work is overwhelming, a teacher’s heart breaks every time there’s a shooter drill, and the morale among the staff can be lower than low.

While all that is true, there’s a few things a teacher often doesn’t realize until the year’s over.

When the last batch of kids leave the building, the faculty luncheon is over and everyone’s waiting for the “all-clear” call on the intercom that teachers can leave, educators realize one thing – it’s too quiet.

Halls and schools aren’t meant to be empty and quiet. They’re meant to be full of laughter, learning, and sneakered feet tapping their way down the hall, teachers reminding them to stay in the line.

During the year, bells ring, doors slam and lock and announcements over the loudspeaker interrupt instructional time on a regular basis. There’s the phone calls and emails from frustrated parents, emails from administrators wanting lesson plans, forms filled out and, quite frankly, mind-numbing data they want collected.

Educators didn’t get into this profession for that.

Teachers want to be the ones imparting information to their students. They’re supposed to teach them how to spell words and write essays. They’re supposed to teach them multiplication, division, addition and subtraction. And let’s not forget the names of the 50 states, their capitols and the life cycle of a butterfly.

That’s the requirements of the job, but teachers often overlook what students taught them.

They taught patience. Picture that student in the class who asked endless questions, despite having the instructions on the board and repeating them endlessly in class.

Not all of us absorb information the same way. Teachers need to thank that young person for teaching them that learning doesn’t arrive in a tidy, square box.

They reminded their teachers to laugh. Sometimes, the best attitude a teacher can possess is the ability to laugh.

Teachers need to remember the class where they made a mistake and then laughed it off. The thing is, kids laugh with you, not at you.

They teach that it’s okay to be human, okay to laugh instead of cry and to let them see teachers can have a great sense of humor.

They taught acceptance. That student a teacher thought was beyond redemption turned in a fabulous paper. The kid who almost dropped the camera a dozen times caught some of the best photos in the class. The child with the IEP paperwork turns out to be the most dedicated kid in the room.

All teachers make mistakes.

The kids overlooked them.

Teachers will lose their temper.

The kids showed forgiveness.

Students teach the intangibles. They tested the teacher every single day, and that, in turn, taught teachers that it’s okay to be frustrated with a job but still love what you’re doing. Nobody tells teachers how much they will love those children. They get into your heart and stay there forever.

Those halls will be filled in a few weeks. And that’s how every school building should be – noisy and brimming with possibilities. Without the kids, a school is just a building.

Have a great summer, educators, you’ve earned it.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

 

I’ve been doing a lot of escaping lately. Not by literally going through one of those escape rooms or on an airplane to some exotic location.

My escaping has been through mindless scrolling on the internet.

One of my favorite escapes is the reels and short video option on Facebook. These are mini stories, usually less than two minutes, and the content is probably decided from my past viewing history and some faceless artificial intelligence being in the blogosphere.

Most of the time, the videos on my reel are cute kids. I love watching Frankie and Stevie, two sisters, as they go through life. Frankie’s got a huge vocabulary and her sister’s right behind her.

There’s also quite a few medical videos. I clicked on Dr. Pimple Popper a couple of times, so now I’m offered gross medical procedures from Dr. Karan Raj. I’m sorry I clicked on him and some of the others because now I think there’s at least three undetected major medical issues going on simultaneously in my body.

Craft and home make-over videos show up all the time. The last time I undertook a craft project was when my kids were in elementary school, and that was years ago.

My craft supplies include Elmer’s glue, pom poms, scissors and pieces of felt. Modern home crafters have power saws, electric sanders and all kinds of goop to put on refinished furniture.

A female comic, Leanne Morgan, showed up one day, and I’ve been hooked on her videos. She’s from Tennessee and is over the age of 50. She talks about being low on hormones, the many diets she’s been on and her wild days in the 80s.

She’s coming to the Smart Financial Center in September, but paying $150 for a ticket is a little over my price range. Didn’t those robots see I choose a lot of videos on how to do things on the cheap?

I think I’ve seen every funny clip of “Modern Family” and “Young Sheldon” on that reel option. I cannot resist Gloria, Mitch and Cameron and the best of the best from their time on television. Clips from “The Office” are always entertaining as are classic skits from “The Carol Burnett Show.”

The artificial intelligence genie knows I’ll watch recipes that include dumping bags of Fritos, ground meat and cheese in a slow cooker. I’ll sit there and watch those videos for a half hour, hoping something, anything, will come up that’s healthy, quick and cheap. No luck so far.

There’s two new guys that showed up this week, and I keep clicking on their videos in hopes that they’ll become regulars. One wears a red tie and tries out some of the “hacks” on TikTok, like how to unlock your iPhone. Khaby Lame tries out some of the hacks people post and, without saying a word, sheds light on some of the ridiculous ideas people think are ingenious.

There’s always the down-home advice of influencer Ophelia Nichols, also known as “Mama Tot” who invites people to eat lunch with her while she dispenses words of wisdom. She’s always inspirational and fun.

I’ll watch every hair cut and hair style video that appears on my feed even though I’ve had the same basic hair style for years. I’d never shave my head or spend $500 to have somebody put yellow then purple then blue goop on my hair.

Rosie’s been making me look better than I deserve for three decades and it only takes her an hour to work her magic on my hair.

Housework and dishes can wait because I’ve got a few rabbit holes to disappear down. When I see you in a few hours, I’ll have the answer to whether or not chocolate-covered pickles taste good and the easiest way to cut up a lime.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Mother’s Day is this weekend, and our family is lucky our mom is still with us. She’s 90 years young and going strong.

Others aren’t as fortunate to have their moms here, and I know this holiday is difficult. It’s also painful for those who’ve lost a child because the mother’s heart always yearns for the one who’s not here.

Motherhood can be either through birthing a child, adoption, or embracing someone who needs a mom. Men can serve the motherhood role in a child’s life as can an aunt, uncle, grandparent, neighbor, friend or teacher.

No matter where a mom comes from, they usually have words of wisdom we hear all our lives. Most are practical – brush your teeth before you go to bed, eat your vegetables and always wear clean underwear.

These gems are practical, like teaching you how to make your bed, wash your clothes or drive a car. The real gold comes from the advice our moms have given us that serve us well every step of the way.

The women in my family have tossed out a few memorable pieces of advice over the years. My Grandmother Marguerite had dozens of sayings about life, some of which are not suitable for this family newspaper.

These are ones I remember, and I promise, they will serve you well:

“Never turn down an opportunity to go on a date, even if you don’t particularly care for the boy. Others will see you’re out and know you’re available.”

“Always remember to have fun along the way.”

Our cousin, Sylvia, is the eldest girl in the Hebert clan. She remembers quite a few Marguerite sayings:

“Act as if you belong wherever you are. If you don’t, someone will let you know, and it may or may not be true.”

“Always put your travel on credit cards. That way, if you die on your trip, you won’t have had to save up for a vacation.”

“Always date younger men. The ones your age are too old for you.”

“Listen to your body. It will tell you everything you need to know.”

Marguerite also told us to always buy nice, shoes. Forget sensible – high heels should be in every girl’s closet. Our Aunt Kathy told us to always keep a pair of gold shoes handy – they are a go-to when going out on the town.

My mom is well known for the advice she’s given over the years. My siblings remember these diamonds: “Getting old is not for sissies,” and our absolute favorite, “All my children are perfect.”

I’d like to think I’ve given my boys the usual momisms – “Your face is going to freeze like that” and “I’m going to count to three.”

I’d like to think those are words of wisdom because all children need to learn how to mask the times they think someone’s an idiot. They also needed to learn how to count.

Some of my phrases they quote come from driving. I have a short fuse in a vehicle and a low tolerance for people who behave stupidly behind the wheel of a car.

Whenever someone would zoom past us, I’d yell one of two phrases:  “Somebody better be bleeding in that car” or “speed on brother, hell aint’ half full.”

To this day, if they’re in the car with me and someone goes by us as a high speed, they turn to me and say “Don’t even think about saying it.”

I like to think I created something memorable for them. Not helpful memorable, but memorable all the same.

Take some of the advice from these savvy women. Listen to your body. Never turn down an opportunity to go out on the town, in your gold shoes, and, remember, have fun along the way.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

When we moved to Pecan Grove over 35 years ago, one of the restaurants everyone said should be on our “must-visit” list was The Swinging Door.

We followed that advice, and The Swinging Door is still one of our favorites.

After over 50 years in business, owner Steve Onstad announced he’s moving on to another chapter, and The Swinging Door will close as of July 1.

The rumors about the barbecue place’s closing were rampant on social media until Onstad made the announcement official.

For many people, especially those in Richmond, this establishment has been part of their lives. We visited so many times when our boys were young. Because of the concrete floors and relaxed atmosphere, spills and noise didn’t matter.

Many an end-of-the-year baseball party was celebrated there as were engagement parties, weddings, funeral receptions and family get-togethers. The staff and Onstad welcomed everyone.

Besides some of the most delicious slow-cooked brisket in east Texas, The Swinging Door offers something that’s quickly disappearing – they are family owned and operated.

Most stores and restaurants these days are corporate owned. You can go to a McDonald’s or Chili’s in any city and the taste and choices are the same. At The Swinging Door, the choices are based on what owner Steve Onstad wanted to serve:  beef brisket, pork ribs, chicken, sausage and turkey.  Side dishes are creamy potato salad, potatoes, beans, cole slaw, green beans, dirty rice or mac and cheese.

Some restaurants serve chips and salsa – here you’ll get warm bread you can dip in Onstad’s famous barbecue sauce. Desserts are simple yet delicious. If it’s fancy you want, go spend three times what you would at The Swinging Door and you’ll find that.

No menu choices with fancy names or created with spices few people can pronounce. Just meat, slow-cooked until it’s fork tender and can literally melt in your mouth. Some of us love the huge baked potatoes, and children enjoy a familiar PB&J sandwich.

It’s impossible to drive down FM-359 and not have your mouth water when you pass by the restaurant – that smell of meat over pecan wood is distinct and enchanting.

When our son was returning to Taiwan a few years ago, he’d promised some of his friends he’d bring them back genuine Texas brisket. We ordered a brisket from the restaurant, and we wrapped it carefully in foil, hoping it wouldn’t get confiscated by a jealous TSA agent.

He said everyone on the plane wondered about that wonderful smell. When they found out he was taking back a couple of pounds of Texas slow-cooked brisket, they all wanted just a little taste.

He politely refused. When he got to Taiwan, his Texas buddies felt like they were back home.

We met our son’s future in-laws at The Swinging Door, and we got to know each other over a barbecue sandwich and tall glass of iced tea. When out of towners come and want some genuine Texas food, we take them to The Swinging Door.

So many of our sons’ friends worked there, and we’d always beg for the recipe to the wonderful sauce they serve. Nope, they’d say. Restaurant secret.

Most people agree The Swinging Door is one of the best around. From reviews on TripAdvisor to Facebook, Onstad’s barbecue earns five out of five stars or the top recommendation they can bestow.

The Swinging Door is a restaurant owned by a family where you can take your family, at least for the coming few weeks. They’ve opened their doors to at least three generations of Texans looking for a taste of their state’s most honored meal, brisket and beans.

You’ll be missed, Steve Onstad.

Thank you for a half century of good eating and good company.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Professor John Lienhard with the University of Houston hosts a program about the way inventive minds work. The show highlights people who’ve made the world a more interesting place.

One of the most fascinating things I’ve ever seen was at my sister’s place this past week. A little background – her house has flooded twice. Once was from a freak storm that settled over Alexandria, La., and the other was also weather related.

As anyone who’s ever had water damage knows, repairs are costly, and the house has a reputation, one that’s impossible to erase. Their home is on a slab, so Diane and John initially thought they were stuck – their beautiful home’s value would sink, and they’d always have the fear of flooding in the back of their minds whenever heavy rains hit the area.

But my sister never gives up. Whether it was fate or “big brother” listening in to her and John talking about raising the house, an ad for David Shoring, a company specializing in raising houses, appeared on her social media feed.

Intrigued, Diane started researching and found FEMA offers a Flood Mitigation Assistance grant that could pay up to 100% of a contract to raise a house that’s flooded at least twice. She remembered the ad and, two years ago, applied for the grant.

Diane would call and email every couple of weeks, but the federal government is a slow-moving machine. A few months ago, she got the word – her application had been fully funded.

They got bids but went with fate and lined up Davie Shoring to raise the house. A crew started with digging tunnels under the house by hand – some from the back of the house, some from the front. Wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow was filled, and there were mountains of dirt all around the house.

The technology uses stacks of concrete, square blocks with a whole in the middle, to stabilize the house. Inserted into the blocks would be steel bars. These blocks would be stacked up as the house rose and would serve as a new, higher foundation. The bars keep the concrete in place.

Thirty-six jacks were placed underneath the house on load-bearing walls. Each jack was connected to a giant meter board with thick cables to make sure all parts of the house were being raised at the same level at the same time.

Finally, lift day arrived. With wires and levels in place, Foreman Josh gave the word – they were ready.

Diane and John were nervous – this is their home and a company was promising they could safely raise their home five feet in the air.

Would the house crack? Would the walls cave in? Would the house fall to one side?

The motor started and the house went up one inch. Workers checked every meter on the truck and under the house to make sure the jacks were working in tandem.

Foreman Josh walked the inside of the house to make sure none of the walls were cracking. The process was working perfectly, so they cranked up the jacks again.

By the end of the day, the house was up almost five feet, the height the state of Louisiana now requires for homes to be raised.

By the end of the next day, stairs were in place in the front and the back. Dirt was smoothed back in place and concrete skirting will surround the house followed by landscaping.

My sister said the only thing out of place in the house was a picture fell over. The view from the windows now offers a beautiful panoramic of their property, and they are relieved and relaxed now that their beautiful home is safe from flood waters.

I keep picturing people who found a way to help owners whose homes were on a slab. Either due to changing weather patterns or newly created drainage problems, their homes were in danger.

Some creative folks found an innovative way to do something nobody ever thought possible.

Now that’s the way inventive minds think.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

I was listening to the radio when an old Beatles tune came on – “Day Tripper.”  I’d always thought the song was about a girl who liked to take trips to the sea, the beach or shopping for the day.

But then, 50 years later, it hit me – this song was about a girl taking an LSD trip. It took me a long time “to find out, but I found out.”

Why it didn’t occur to me that this song was about drugs makes me embarrassed. Most of the songs from the 60’s were about drugs.

“White Rabbit” by Jefferson Airplane was the most obvious. “One pill makes you bigger, one makes you smaller.” Even someone as dumb as me could figure that one out.

With Paul McCartney’s “Michelle,” I didn’t feel so dumb because some of the words were in French. Besides, most of us just mumbled the lines after “Michelle, ma belle.”

The theater was packed when I saw the movie “Hard Day’s Night.” I can blame all those girls in the audience for not knowing what line comes after “’cause when I’m lectured at home…” because everyone was screaming so loud.

I still get a smile on my face whenever I hear the song “Tiny Dancer” because someone in my family innocently sang “Hold me closer Tony Danza” instead of “Hold me closer Tiny Dancer.” I had to leave the room before busting into laughter.

Some 1980’s songs are still hard for me to figure out. Steppenwolf’s “Magic Carpet Ride” is one of those. So is Bon Jovi’s “Livin’ On A Prayer.”

After reading the lyrics online and slapping my head for not being smart enough to figure out what the singers were saying, I’ve got a solution to not knowing the lyrics.

No, it’s not looking them up on your phone and then using the phone as a microphone so you can look at the words.

It’s mumbling.

Let’s face it – a lot of musicians are hard to understand so mumbling is quite all right. If the person with you is under the age of 40, they have no idea what the lyrics are about anyway.

Doubt that? Ask them what place in pop culture the phrases “dy-no-mite” and “good night, John Boy” hold.

Years ago, I took my teenage son to see “City Slickers.” When Billy Crystal, Bruno Kirby and Daniel Stern rode out at the end of the cattle on their horses drive humming the theme song from “Bonanza,” the entire audience erupted in laughter. My son leaned over and asked what was so funny.

The lyrics to kids songs are sometimes hard to remember. Maybe it’s because we’re sleep deprived. So forgive young moms if they can’t remember the third stanza to “Frosty the Snowman” or what foot comes first in “The Hokey Pokey.”

But, just like we can do with songs we can’t remember, all you young moms and grandparents have to do is mumble along or repeat the stanzas you know with a smile on your face. The toddlers will think you’re absolutely magical.

Don’t worry about knowing the lyrics to current pop songs. If those of us over the age of 30 knew the lyrics, the kids would drop those songs like we ran away from bell-bottom pants in the 80s.

So, if you don’t know all the words to “Bohemian Rhapsody,” just play the air guitar. Your kids will think you’re a rock star.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Spring is finally here. The trees are blooming — ask my allergies – people are strolling around the block after dinner and the weatherman is no longer predicting a sudden freeze.

But the best sign of spring is seeing youngsters out in the ball fields, practicing tee-ball, baseball, softball and soccer.

I’m not someone who likes sports. I was always the last one chosen for the team. Not even love could save me – my high school boyfriend didn’t pick me for his team when he was the coach. His reasoning was sound – I was the worst one.

In college, the only way I passed a tennis class was because I made 100 on the written test. I was the only person in the entire class who never won a point. You read that right – I never earned one point, much less won a match.

So it’s a little odd that I love sports, especially spring sports like baseball and softball. Because I’m the mom of boys who enjoyed sports, we were at the baseball field a good bit of the time during their growing up years.

It was a stretch at first, learning the game, not getting upset at other parents and especially watching my sons strike out, miss a foul ball or not make the throw from the outfield to the infield.

It’s the process that’s fulfilling in sports. Watching your child go from swinging and missing at a baseball to finally connecting is a thrill for the child and for the parent.

Seeing them learn the difference between offense and defense on the basketball court was like watching them learn the difference between salt and sugar.

We watched our boys work, and it was like manna from heaven to see that hard work pay off. But there were the darker moments – the missed tackle, an unfair coach, a surprise foul.

There were the injuries as well. Our middle son broke his collarbone when a kid slid into him while he was protecting second base.

There’s the burn out – school plus homework plus practice is tough for a young person to juggle. When they don’t get picked for the team, that’s a difficult conversation to have on the way home from tryouts.

Teaching them to roll with the punches, to try harder the next time and to shake it off is all part of being the parent of a young athlete.

We’ve had our share of bad coaches – men and women who were only wearing a cap because they wanted their son to be the pitcher or they wanted their daughter to be the goalie.

In all our years of being bleacher parents, only one young player made it to the minor leagues.

I wish these coaches had realized the real lessons were instilling a sense of teamwork and the realization that practice is vital for success.

Our boys have had some extraordinary coaches who taught the basics – how to catch and throw a ball and guard an opponent. More importantly, they taught them how to win and how to lose. To this day, I’m grateful for their guidance and support.

Our young grandson had such a soccer coach last year. He saw a spark in Jason and encouraged, praised, corrected and liked our grandson.

We have a picture of Coach Josh and Jason on display. Whenever I see that photo, I think about all the men and women who’ll step up this year and, without realizing it, will be the brightest spot in that child’s life for many years.

Load up the lawn chairs and the Gatorade.

It’s go time.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

With Easter this coming weekend, my mom asked if I remembered the Easter egg hunts we had growing up.

I vaguely recall looking for eggs in the big yard next to my grandparents’ house. Mostly I remember dressing up for Easter Mass with a new hat, gloves and shiny white patent leather shoes.

The Easters I remember the most, I told her, are the ones when our children, her grandchildren, were young. Those I remember like they were yesterday.

On the Saturday before Easter Sunday, we’d sit around the bar in my parents’ house and let the kids dye eggs. At least half ended up on the floor because those excited little hands couldn’t quite hold on to a hard-boiled egg.

Before the hunt began, the uncles would hide the eggs while we’d hold the youngsters inside. It was an unspoken rule – the ones on the patio, the ones in plain sight, were for the youngest cousins.

Then, the kids would line up on the steps by the back door, and when an uncle gave the word, off they’d go.

Some of the children would find an egg, stop, sit down and peel it right there. Forget about looking for more eggs. Their philosophy was I got something solid here – why waste time chasing after things I can’t see?

The older ones always helped the younger ones, and we still talk about their generosity and kindness.

There was a limit as to how many they could find so the hunt would be fair. The kids always accepted that rule without question. Well, with little questioning.

The afternoon ended with the egg cracking contest. Although I can’t remember who won those contests, I remember the older ones trying every strategy to win – holding the egg so just a little bit showed, spinning the egg to see which end had air and would be vulnerable.

Finally, we’d clean up, pack up and head home, ready for another week of work and school. We’d reminisce every year about the year before, retell the stories and add a few more.

Over the years, some of us moved out of state so we created our own Easter memories and traditions. For us, Saturday evening was for dyeing the eggs, and Sunday morning for combing through our baskets to see what the Easter Bunny brought before heading to church.

Sunday afternoon was for hunting eggs and silently wishing we were back at Mom and Dad’s to be with everyone.

I didn’t realize those fun everybody-together moments would become precious memories. I took for granted the Hebert siblings, cousins, nieces, nephews, spouses and friends would spend holidays together.

Those times together have become gold in my memory because we were gathered as a family. Didn’t matter about the spilled Kool-Aid, the stacks of dirty dishes, nor the dozens of toys scattered all over my mom’s living room floor.

Those hectic days are what I remember when my house is quiet. I replay watching my brothers play basketball in our parents’ driveway, slowly evolving into watching our nephews and nieces shoot hoops.

The same kids who once looked for Easter eggs are now hiding eggs in their back yards for their children or enjoying their own Easter traditions as a couple.

As we all make new memories, I’ll be remembering Easter egg hunts at the Hebert household, a holiday together we didn’t think was all that special.

At the time, it was simply a Sunday afternoon. Now, those moments are precious gold.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

One morning, my Yahoo Mail wouldn’t load.

Instead, an odd error message flashed on the screen. I did some digging and found an 800 phone number that was supposed to be the Yahoo help desk.

Turned out to be a company trying to get money out of me, but the Yahoo account acted up for a couple of days. I worried my computer had been compromised because of the odd message. My neighbor, Arthur, is a computer whiz, and he offered to check out the system.

By the end of the day, he said the computer was fine but I should change from Yahoo mail to Gmail. My husband had been telling me to switch over for months, but like so many people, I didn’t want to give up the familiar.

Changing what’s comfortable isn’t easy.

I’m comfortable with the familiar.

Checking my email with Yahoo is familiar. There’s a shortcut on my desktop and I can get right to my email in seconds.

The books on the bookshelf are in the same order as when I put them there 10 years ago. I know where they are – why change that up?

The pictures I hung on the family room wall 12 years ago are still in the same place.

My computer sits on the same desk it has for the past 20 years. My son keeps telling me to get a more efficient set up, but that requires one word I try and avoid – change.

My hairstyle is familiar. When Rosie, my friend and stylist, was out for a few weeks, a different stylist cut my hair.

That was a disaster – I couldn’t style my hair the way she had, the cut was too short and the style required using a hair brush in ways I knew I’d never master.

Uncle Ben’s long-grain rice is the only brand I use because my grandmother and my mom used it. I see no reason to change what’s worked for two generations.

I’m not always such a stick in the mud. I change my attitudes and opinions when presented with new information. Being able to check information from a variety of sources is a challenge I enjoy.

But it looked like I was going to have to move out of my comfort zone and do something different with my email.

I grudgingly took my husband’s and Arthur’s advice. I went through all the steps to set up a Gmail account. Trying to hang on to something familiar, I tried using the same email name as I’d been using for the past 20 years.

No go.

Someone had already chosen that name. The names Gmail suggested were too long and, let’s face it, I’d never remember those. After 10 minutes, I finally typed a password Google found satisfactory.

Then there was the next step of setting up a password. I’m awful with passwords. Super secure ones are too long for me to remember and require upper case, lower case, symbols and numbers.

But after 15 minutes, I submitted a password Google found safe and acceptable. I wrote it down and haven’t told Arthur or my husband I committed that email faux pas. I know I’m prone to forgetting passwords, so I followed a familiar routine, hence the reason the password is written down in a book.

When I finished setting up the Gmail account, my husband asked if I wanted a tutorial on storing documents in the cloud and using One-Drive.

Overload, was the word that flashed in my brain.

Until I get an error message or I’m forced, I’ll follow my familiar routine of saving things to an external hard drive and the desktop.

My brain’s tired. I think I’ll pop a tape in the VHS recorder and relax.

 

Denise’s email is dhadams1955@yahoo.com. Yes, I’ll still check it. Old habits die hard. This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.