Author: Sharron Burnett

Many years ago I attended a teachers’ conference in Minnesota. People came from all over the United States to hear experts describe their methods for educating our nation’s children. One featured speaker included a field trip to a model school in his presentation. Since I was eager to see how the folks in the midwest were doing things I signed up for the day long adventure. 

We drove away from the city and into a suburban area that seemed to be floating on a golden plain. I almost expected to see Laura Ingles Wilder emerging from the swaying foliage on that cold November day. I don’t remember much about the model school but I was enchanted by the loveliness of the prairie grasses. It had never occurred to me that a place so flat might be so beautiful. I have carried that image in my mind for decades and when I draw on it from time to time I feel relaxed and somehow in tune with nature at its finest. 

I’ve traveled all over the United States and seen such wondrous places. I have been touched to the point of tears by a rainbow that reached from one mountain peak to another in Glacier National Park, Montana. I have stood at the edge of the Grand Canyon and know that no words will ever adequately describe that breathtaking site, especially when the sun is setting at the end of a glorious day. I’ve driven along the Pacific Coast marveling at the power and beauty of the ocean. I’ve traveled through the forests of Maine and walked through the caverns of New Mexico. I’ve seen sunrises and sunsets in the most beautiful places imaginable. I’ve celebrated the dawn of a New Year in a quaint mountain village in Austria. I have hiked to the top of mountain trials in Colorado and spent nights under a starry sky. 

To choose my favorite place would be almost impossible. I am after all a woman who has spent her life in the Houston Metropolitan area where the landscape is dominated by concrete roads littered with potholes, murky bayous, strip malls and buildings that seem to crop up over night. I have watched my town grow into a city, the fourth largest in the nation. I have endured it’s heat, it’s hurricanes, it’s floods, but I have also known it’s heart. 

It has not been the beauty of Houston that has kept me from moving away, but the people who live here who have made me reluctant to consider relocating to a place with more panoramic views. Time and again the citizens of Houston come together whether to celebrate, to aide one another or to mourn. Like any large city we have our bad guys, but on the whole the people here are kind and compassionate. They work hard and mostly allow people to live whatever kind of lives they wish to enjoy. Houston is famously diverse and yet most of the time the people look beyond the many physical hues of our neighbors and see only the hearts and souls. People come here to work and they do that quite well. There are opportunities here that can’t be found in such abundance anywhere else. We treasure our universities and our world class Medical Center. We love our Texans and Rockets and Astros whether they win or lose. We are proud of the NASA Space Center and love knowing that many of our relatives and neighbors were instrumental in getting humans to the moon.

If I want to see something beautiful I can go to the Houston Zoo or walk around Bayou Bend. It’s only an hour’s drive to the Gulf of Mexico in Galveston. The beaches may be small and the water muddy but it’s our happy place nonetheless. We know the stories of pirates and native Americans who once lived there. We have heard about the hurricanes and the ingenuity of the people who built a ship channel to make Houston, a landlocked city, one of the largest ports in the United States. 

It takes me hours to drive to the most beautiful places in the country, but only minutes to be surrounded by the best people anyone would ever hope to know. That’s why when people ask where my favorite place in the world is located I have to say Houston. I know that my city will never win a beauty contest. I realize that when people visit here they often leave thinking that the place is butt ugly. Those of us who know better just shrug because if someone is down and out Houston is the place to be. There will be someone who can mend a broken heart or one that needs a new bypass. Goodness seems to be in the DNA of this city.

I can’t imagine living anywhere else than Houston but I know that sometimes things change and so I never say never. At least for the moment I can assert without hesitation that I love my Houston with its warts and all because when the going gets tough I will always find good people here. In the meantime I will drive or fly away to see nature’s beauty and then always come back home.

Several months ago my husband, Mike, casually mentioned that Sting and Billy Joel were scheduled to perform in San Antonio in October. I laughed and said that we should go and celebrate since October is the month of our wedding anniversary. After all, we would be marking fifty six years of life together. It seemed like a good idea to make a big deal out of such a milestone but the conversation soon moved on to other topics and I mostly forgot about my spur of the moment idea. 

Fast forward to the end of September and I noticed that there was a notation on our family calendar that simply said “Sting/Billy Joel.” When I asked Mike what that meant he seemed to have no idea and insisted that he had thought that I had put it there for some reason, maybe a hint to get tickets for the show. We bantered over who placed the reminder there for a few minutes that then Mike began checking the different places where he keeps notes about upcoming appointments. Lo and behold he found tickets for the show that he had purchased way back in the spring. 

One of the joys of growing older is forgetting things and this would have been a doozy but for the calendar doing its duty of keeping us up to date. Suddenly we were planning for an exciting weekend in San Antonio. We knew that we would be able to stay at my daughter’s home so we had no need to reserve a hotel. Out next challenge was convincing my father-in-law to accompany us on our little adventure. At close to ninety-six years old he certainly did not need to stay by himself in our home for the amount of time that we would be gone. It took a bit of nudging but eventually he saw the light and agreed that it would be best if he came with us. 

We excitedly travelled on a beautiful Thursday morning with perfect weather and high hopes for the fun that lay ahead. On our way out of town we checked out the new Portillo’s that had just opened in the Houston area. We had such fond memories of Portillo’s in Chicago that we just knew that we had to be among to first to dine there and it really was on the way to our ultimate destination. 

The place was packed with people standing in line out the door. As is usual with a Portillo’s the staff moved the crowd along quite smoothly. While inching forward we got to talk with a lovely woman who was originally from Chicago who had come back to Portillo’s for a second time just to get a taste of her hometown. Sadly it was a soft opening for the restaurant with only a limited menu that did not include Mike’s favorite polish sausage sandwich. Nonetheless the food and the atmosphere was great and the manager assured us that a bigger menu was on the way. 

After another pit stop down the road at what is being billed as the biggest Buccee’s ever we made it to my daughters home with big smiles and lots of anticipation. Friday came and we spent most of the day driving around the Texas Hill Country listening to Willie Nelson tunes on the radio and enjoying wine at Becker’s Vineyards until it was time to head for the concert at the Alamodome. 

Our son-in-law had warned us that there might be a bit of traffic once we approached downtown San Antonio since the concert began at seven in the evening. Being from Houston where afternoon commutes are legendary we thought little of his concerns but still left two hours before showtime. Little did we know what a nightmare lay ahead of us. 

We flew down the highway until we caught up with a miles long ribbon of cars all heading to the same destination that we sought. As we barely inched forward we watched our estimated arrival time move closer and closer to the seven o’clock beginning of the concert. We also shook our heads in horror as signs along the roadway announced that all of the parking lots at the Alamodome were full. Not knowing the city well at all, we had no idea what lay ahead. We just kept moving as slow as a turtle with all of the other souls heading to the same place. It was already seven thirty by the time we exited the freeway and soon enough we saw people walking from far away parking lots that all seemed to be filled to capacity. So we simply drove and drove and drove until we finally saw a place that might hold our truck. It was at least ten blocks away from the venue but we were willing to hike even though it was now eight o’clock and we knew that we had missed an hour of the program. 

We were not alone in our quest. There were still hundreds of people stuck in long lines of cars searching for a place to stop. The sidewalk was filled with others almost running to get to the stadium as quickly as possible. We were all determined to make it by hook or crook. We finally reached our seats near eight thirty when Sting was performing his last few songs. Luckily we had seen Sting perform earlier in the year so we did not feel too much angst in essentially missing his part of the show. Soon the lights came on in the arena and it was time for an intermission.

Latecomers were still pouring in even as we settled into our comfortable seats and relaxed a bit before Billy Joel came to the stage. We tried to calm down from the anxiety that had sent our hearts into overdrive during the three and a half hours it had taken us to finally reach the concert. Soon enough the lights dimmed and seventy five year old Billy Joel was playing one of his many hits. It became apparent that he was as talented as ever. 

For two hours Billy Joel took us down memory lane to a time when we were a young married couple in our twenties with no idea of the adventures and tragedies and wonders that lay ahead. With each song a memory popped into our heads. We could see ourselves looking young and eager and optimistic. It was all incredibly glorious and Billy Joel and his ensemble did not disappoint. We agreed that we would have walked all the way from Houston for the opportunity to take part in the lovefest of that evening with people of all ages. 

Toward the end of the concert there was a beautiful unity of spirit that reminded me of the times when we were not fighting with each other or trying to make each other believe or act in certain ways. Instead we were singing together and lighting up the stadium with our phones in a moment of peace and love that has been sorely missing. We did not care one way or another about politics or religion or race or age or any other kind of preference. We just had fun and shared memories while a very talented man brought us joy and even hope that we are going to get past the divisions and judgements that seem to be plaguing us. Life was good and beautiful then and now. Billy Joel reminded us of that. Nothing could steal our joy.

The summers are becoming hotter and hotter with each passing year. When the temperature hovers near one hundred degrees I cannot imagine how I was able to survive the first twenty years of my life without air conditioning. I remember it being warm, but nothing like the debilitating heat that keeps now me indoors for three or four months of each year. 

There was a time in my youth when I happily played outside all the day long, hydrating with the garden hose. I stayed cool wearing shorts and crop tops and cutting my hair short for the season. I’d walk across hot concrete in my bare feet and be so active that sweat accumulated on my neck in beads that locked like a necklace. I didn’t seem to notice the warm nights with the windows opened wide and the attic fan pulling in a muggy breeze. I suppose I was acclimated to the hot summer days because I never knew anything else. 

Even when school commenced after Labor Day in September I sat in classrooms without any kind of cooling system save for large fans strategically placed to send a bit of air across the rows of desks. There were walls of windows that opened to make the best of the ventilation. Being hot was standard fare for the first weeks of the school year and that pattern was repeated each spring. None of it stopped me from carrying on as though sweat was just a natural part of living in the south. I found ways to enjoy life and the great outdoors much like the folks up north adapt to the cold. 

Now too much time in the heat sickens me. I am like wilted flower waiting for more temperate times when I can return to dining on my patio and working with my plants. The weeds are collecting as I avoid the headaches and light headed feelings that overtake me after only a few minutes under the relentless sun. I wonder if this is a sign of age or just the result of being spoiled for decades inside air cooled rooms where I cannot feel the blazing rays on my skin. I worries me that I have become this way because I remember my grandparents toiling in the fields on their farm in hot summers when they were a good ten years older than I am now. The heat did not bother them, but of course their entire lives had been spent with few of the luxuries that I now take for granted. 

I get cabin fever and feel a need to travel to places were the summers are more moderate. I feel a guilty sense of envy for friends who summer up north and return to the south in October or November to elude the harsh variances of the seasons. I think of how wonderful it would be to enjoy spring like days in the middle of August when even my roses struggle to survive the heat. I feel so much more alive when I am outside communing with the flora and the fauna. I chide myself for not being able to ignore the heat and just gut through the experience like I once did without much thought or effort. 

I suppose that I could take a trip to the beach but I am more of a forest and mountains kind of girl. I like to explore on long hikes that take me farther and farther away from civilization. The more remote the place, the better I feel. I can hear the insects and birds calling one another. I can feel the breezes caressing me through the canopies of the trees. I feel as though I am in the paradise that Adam and Eve once enjoyed if only for a moment. Everything is perfect, my breathing, my heartbeat, my mood. I feel energized and ready to take on any challenges that may come my way. Being outside on a perfect day brings me back to life when my spirits are sagging. The outdoors is where I want to be. 

Of late I find myself searching each day for photos from a friend who has moved to Kodiak Island. She takes hikes in the evenings after work. The days are long up in Alaska so she has plenty of time to leisurely explore. She wears a light jacket with a hood in case it begins to rain. She seems to be alone in a magical place where she and the animals live in total harmony. She has seen mama bears with their cubs and starfish sunning on the beach. Mountains beckon along the horizon and wildflowers of many colors profusely grow along the paths that she follows. I have never seen anyone appear to be as happy as she is there and because of my own pull toward such places I understand why it is so. I live vicariously through her postings while doing my best to stay away from the heat that no longer leaves me alone so that I can be one with the outside world even on the hottest days. 

It will soon be just fine. I will return to my garden and let my plants know that I really do care about them. I will smile at the birds and watch the frogs and salamanders skitter across the lawn. I’ll put my hands in the dirt and feel as though I have placed them in a miraculous tonic that will heal both my body and my soul. My wait is almost over. I am ready for the times I love the most. The season of autumn brings my reprieve. 

When my husband and I visited London along with my brothers and their wives we did all of the touristy things. We planned our trip down to the hour before leaving so that we would have reservations for museums and scenic areas. As we were deciding how to spend our time my sister-in-law suggested that we invest in a Jack the Ripper tour. Being a mystery buff since my childhood I was all in for traveling through the east end of London in search of the sites where the infamous serial killer stalked his victims. Given how difficult it was to secure tickets even months ahead of time it became clear that a great many people still possess a fascination with the macabre murderer. 

The tour itself proved to be quite interesting even though most of the landmarks where the murders occurred are long gone. The guide was informative and the rainy darkness of the night lent a frightening mood to the story of women down on their luck who became victims of the Ripper’s cruel vendetta against them. 

I have since learned more and more about that horrific time in Victorian England including the fact that the London press was somewhat complicit in turning the tragic violence into money making stories. The lurid descriptions of what happened along with wild theories about the killer ruined many lives as guilt was aimed at Jews and foreigners. All the while the humanity of the victims was virtually ignored. The newspapers could not print their stories fast enough for the public consumption and so a kind of cult like presentation of the murderer began to emerge, including the printing of a lurid letter that appeared to be authored by the killer. Thus we have the name Jack the Ripper reaching all the way into the modern day. 

I bring this up because journalism can be honorable and honest or it can be filled with innuendo, untruths and propaganda with only the aim of selling the product. Headlines can be written in a variety of ways. The catchiest ones attract attention and even change the thinking of readers. Often they are more sensational than true. 

We have to be careful about what we see and hear from supposedly reputable news outlets. History is replete with stories of so called journalists using the pulpit of their writing or interviews for pontificating vehicles for lies and deceit. We should always be watching for manipulation of our thinking by checking sources and getting our information from multiple places. If we allow ourselves to live in an echo chamber that only reinforces what we want to believe rather than what we need to know, we run the risk of falling for untruths. We would be wise to fact check rather than becoming manipulated puppets. 

I make it a point to watch for signs of propaganda. I was taught how to do that in the seventh grade. There are definite techniques that are designed to confuse our thinking. If we are aware that such things occur we will check any information that appears to be false or out of the ordinary. Grand generalizations are usually an indicator of lies just like the Victorian assumption that the Ripper had to belong to a despised group like the poor, the immigrants, the Jews. Sadly it is often a trick of tyrants to use our fears to their benefit by blaming innocents for our troubles. The powerful sometimes become that way with lies and deceit that make us believe that they are the only sources of safety and security. 

We have learned from factual evidence that many influencers supporting Donald Trump were on a payroll from Russia. They made money by spreading toxic ideas and insisting that only Trump was strong enough to save us from the perils of immigrants, particular groups, a deteriorating economy. Ironically these people ranted about the problems, took the money from Russia and then claimed that most if not all Democrats were Communists. In truth they themselves were little more than foreign agents paid to destroy our nation from within just as Nikita Khrushchev once predicted would happen. Those who have believed the bile from such people have been the pawns that Russia hoped they would be. 

Watch for hyperbole and sweeping generalizations about people or incidents or problems. They are often the first clue that someone is attempting to sway us with falsehoods. We indeed need to address immigration in this country but we can do that logically and without demonizing every person who comes across our borders. Everyone knows that our economy and those of every country in the world is still adjusting from the Covid epidemic. Where we are now is complex and so too will our solutions need to be. Setting things right will take cooperation, not blaming. 

The only way to progress is by electing individuals who are willing to discuss the issues in a spirit of empathy and respect for all of humanity. We also need news sources that will report the facts, not the hysteria or the wild theories that only sensationalize and garner money. Ask yourself if you are only hearing one side over and over. Ask if a source seems to be doing everything possible to make you afraid. Then start fact checking on your own. You may find a new way of looking at the world that frees you from the influence of Russians or oligarchs. It is a wonderful place to be.  

Peace begins with a smile. —Mother Teresa

I have become a rather tough skinned woman but I was not always so. As a child I was quite delicate, someone who overreacted to ridicule or criticism. The teachers that I loved the most sent messages of love in everything that they did. The ones who terrorized me were those who spoke angrily to my classmates. They may have believed that they were simply managing their classrooms by punishing those who violated the rules, but I viewed them as being cruel and uncaring even when they only had praise for me. 

I was literally never spanked by my mother. My father only once gave me a light and painless swat on the backside. When it happened I knew all too well that I had purposely poked the bear thinking that I would get by with my disobedience because my father was alway so gentle with me. I had been tap dancing on the hood of his brand new car, with real metal taps on my shoes. All the while I was singing the song most associated with the University of Texas and laughing at my father who was a die hard supporter of Texas A&M. I knew the whole time that I was asking for it, especially when he sweetly requested that I stop my little act and get down. Instead I just kept going, confident that I had enough favor with him that he would not even give me a slap on the wrist. When he pulled me off and gave pop with his hand I was more embarrassed that hurt. I hated that I had purposely done something so terrible to him. I knew in every part of my soul that I had brought his anger on myself and I felt so sorrowful. It was one of the first things that I ever confessed once I was ready for the Sacrament of what was then called Penance. 

All too often in this world we turn to anger and hurtful behaviors in both personal and international relationships when a more upbeat approach would bring better results. Those angry teachers left a bad taste in my mouth. Those who gently worked with even the trouble making kids became heroes to me. I generally find that people will respond more positively to smiles and kindness than humiliation and punishment. I tend to be quite wary of those who are always insulting others even in jest. It says more bad things about them than the people that they are putting down. 

I took Spanish in college to go along with the Latin and German that I had learned in high school. I had a kind of natural facility with the language and even won an award at the end of my first year of study. I returned for a second year with a professor who had impressed me with his knowledge. It was quite early in the semester, perhaps after only two classes, when he one day went off on a tirade against two students of Hispanic heritage. He made fun of their grammar and pronunciations, eventually shaking his head and commenting that he did not know what language they were attempting to speak but it certainly was not Spanish. They were so humiliated by his harangue that they rushed out of the classroom. In a bold reaction to what I had seen I gathered my belongings and quietly followed them, going immediately to drop the class. It was my way of protesting what seemed to be horrible behavior on the part of the professor. 

All of us encounter situations that frustrate us. it is human nature to even become angry and impatient. We take out our displeasure on whoever happens to be present in the moment rather than attempting to discern why that person is struggling to satisfactorily respond to our expectations. We ask for perfection in imperfect beings and lose our cool when they don’t measure up to our standards. The wiser person knows that a gentle but determined touch works best most of the time. 

I’m a goofball when it comes to sports. While at the University of Houston I had to take physical education classes. One semester I enrolled in a golf class thinking that it might be a bit like putt putt which I really enjoyed. The teacher was a golf coach and seemed to have no time for a klutz like me. He constantly reminded me that but for the kindness of his heart he should fail me. Needless to say I became a nervous wreck every time he assessed me. In the next athletic course a new teacher saw that I was struggling and took time to work with me, explaining patiently what I was doing wrong and even working with me after class to help me improve. My confidence soared and I was suddenly feeling like an athletic champion. I even got a well earned A for the final grade. 

As we go about our work and our interactions with people we would do well to consider Mother Teresa’s little bit of advice. Peace really does begin with a smile. Anger and insult most often have a negative effect. It’s better to take a deep breath, remain calm and let a warm grin show how much we respect the person who may be frustrating us. We all do better even at things that are daunting to us when someone seems to care.