Category: Commentary

I can’t remember the exact moment when I knew how to read fluently. I am unable to point to some magical methodology that provided me with the fluency I needed to translate the letters strung together in a kind of code that would allow me to discover great thoughts. I only know for certain that I passionately desired to read because my father made that ability seem so delightful and necessary. I watched him captivated by his books, newspapers and magazines in a daily ritual that made him visibly happy. I accompanied him to libraries and bookstores and listened to him read poetry and fairytales and children’s stories aloud to me. I wanted to find out how to unlock the meaning of the symbols that made him laugh and smile, so I learned to read with joy. It was never a chore to decode the messages imprinted on the pages set before me. 

I recall first learning words that my teacher printed on little blocks of paper. I bound them together with a rubber band and took them home to practice with my mother who faithfully drilled me each evening. At first I only knew what they said in isolation inside those little blocks. Eventually I recognized them in the context of sentences that did not seem as interesting as my father had made me believe that reading would be. Eventually I expanded my trove of words enough to be able to complete a series of reading books featuring characters like David, Ann, and Bow Wow. 

I never connected the phonics that we also learned in the process of reading. In my child’s mind it was just another subject and one that I did not particularly like. I did well with phonics, but never understood its importance or connection to reading. It was an onerous task to complete the phonics lessons that seemed to have no purpose. It would be years before I realized that phonics was supposed to be an important key for decoding even words that I had never before seen. 

If I used my phonics skills it must have been by chance. I do not recall ever actively thinking that what I had learned about all of those long and short vowels and accent marks had anything whatsoever with the reading that I so loved to do. I only felt that those phonics lessons that routinely came around the same time of the school day as reading were the most onerous aspect of school. I cannot explain why I had no idea how I would ever use those lessons that somehow were embedded in my brain. I must have unconsciously made the connections between phonics and reading from a book without ever realizing the importance of both skills. 

Somehow reading came easily to me, but the process of learning the fundamentals of reading threatened to bore me out of my mind. I wanted to take the training wheels off and ride away on an adventure with my books. I hated the times when the teacher gave each student a turn reading aloud. I had to slow down my brain and follow the pace of the words with my finger or run the risk of being far ahead when the teacher called on me. I often felt that sitting around discussing the main idea of a paragraph took the joy out the stories that we read. The questions seemed so silly. Of course I knew what the author was trying to convey. I wondered why I had to prove my comprehension. I just wanted to be left alone. 

There is so much talk about how to teach reading these days. Discussions abound concerning the best way to help young children become literate. There are concerns that far too many students struggle to decode and comprehend the words strung together to create stories and provide information. I suspect that the real answer regarding how to improve the processes of learning to read begins long before students formally attend school. 

I have generally found that children who see their parents reading want to emulate them. Little ones whose parents routinely read to them associate reading with comfort and even love. As humans we want to do things that make us feel good. If reading is associated with closeness and joy from the time we are born, we are more likely to want to learn how to understand books on our own. Sadly far too many little ones do not encounter much reading until they are old enough to attend school. They begin their educational journey at a deficit.

A gifted teacher understands that his/her students come to class with widely varying experiences and even abilities. Attempting to teach reading with one size fits all methodology is unlikely to work to the satisfaction of everyone. Crafting individualized instructional plans for every single student can be daunting. A wise teacher nonetheless is able to create smaller groups of students who are learning at similar levels of understanding. It’s important to target the skill that each child needs, so those groups must be fluid as well. 

It’s also critically important for teachers to help students make connection between the skills that they are learning and their actual usefulness in the act of reading. When that is not clearly conveyed the students may see them as discrete concepts that have no meaningful purpose. That’s when students become bored and tune out. Engaging them in discussions and allowing them to ask questions and voice their frustrations is as important as making them produce one size fits all responses to what they have read. Showing them the power of phonics makes that kind of learning seem important.

I enjoy reading and writing so much that they are integral to my life. I truly believe that my love affair with reading began with my father and continued with my mother who patiently helped me practice my first attempts at deciphering words. I learned whole words and phonics without putting the two together, but I suppose that I unconsciously used both skills. What truly made me a better reader was being exposed to a cornucopia of fiction and nonfiction and being allowed to freely discuss what I had read. 

Teaching reading is a tougher gig than teaching math. I know because I have done both. It requires modeling and practicing and somehow making it all fun. It’s not an easy task, but perhaps one of the most important ones that anyone ever does. Showing someone how to read is like giving them the best gift ever. Those teach reading well are treasures in our midst. Thank a parent or a teacher if you know how to read. It was not that long ago when reading was the purview of only the rich. Now in our country we democratically and rightfully attempt give it to all. Let us hope we are doing it in a way that will create lifelong readers and learners, not frustration and boredom.

There was a time when a local eatery in downtown Houston was the place to go. James’ Coney Island served hot dogs and chili in a tiny space on Walker St. just a block or so from the main areas for shopping and commerce. Lunchtime at the place was always a happening with a cross section of Houstonians dropping in for a couple of hotdogs nested in a bun with a hearty topping of chili and finely chopped onions. Purists ordered a side of Fritos, but I was always a fan of potato chips. A cold bottle of soda water topped off the feast.

Everyone sat at old school desks where there was no telling who might be mingling with the ordinary folk. Dan Rather might drop in after chasing a news story or the mayor might rub elbows with the citizenry. Women dressed to the nines in silk stockings, high heels and full length mink coats delighted in the food as much as little kids like me who gazed over the bun filled goodness to see who was there with me on any given day. 

The same guys worked the line for as long as I can remember. Since there was always a crowd waiting to get inside in a line that snaked down the sidewalk the process of ordering had to be done with great precision. My mama would warn me and my brothers not to hesitate for even a second when it came our time to tell the men what we wanted. I remember rehearsing my choices as I stood in line, reminding myself to speak with my loudest voice or suffer the consequences of being too meek. The original “soup Nazi” maintained a strict presence as the “hotdog Nazi” on that line. Even a second of confusion brought his gruffness to the forefront. I never wanted to raise his ire. 

That line of workers were so quick that we kept moving all the way down to the cash register where my mother would pay. I’m not exactly sure how much each of those hotdogs cost back then but I don’t think it was more than a quarter. I particularly marveled at a regular worker who prepared the hotdogs in a finely tuned machine like motion without a hand on one of his arms. He never so much as bobbled the food. It was a remarkable sight. 

Even after I had grown up and married I enjoyed those remarkable hot dogs. My husband worked the nightshift at one of the downtown banks and had the job of taking deposits to the Federal Repository at the end of his shift. If he was lucky it would not be too late to circle back to Walker St. and order some hotdogs from James Coney Island for the two of us to munch on when he got home. We spent so many wonderful nights enjoying our treats while watching old reruns of Star Trek on television. 

A cousin of mine recently recalled going with her family to have dinner at James’ Coney Island before attending Friday night football games. Like most families back then eating out was an infrequent activity so it was a really big deal to be there. She remembers sitting in one of those school desks munching on her hot dog and feeling as though the whole experience was magical. 

Eventually James’ Coney Island expanded to the suburbs. It remained a favorite eatery for me and my husband and for my mother as well. Our favorite location was located near Gulfgate Mall. It was often my mother’s restaurant of choice when I took her out for dinner each Friday night. My husband and I never failed to stop there on our way to visit the gravesites of relatives in Forest Park. Sometimes we went there on a whim and literally felt like kids again as we munched on our hot dogs that had only changed in size and price, becoming smaller and more expensive over time. 

My grandson, Jack, fell in love with James’ Coney Island as a little boy. We often accompanied him to the location near Sugar Land. He delighted in the trademark hotdogs so much that it brought back our own memories of sitting on Walker St. in the long ago. We told him stories of our own love affair with the food and the ambiance of the Houston tradition and he listened as if we had been speaking of a major historical event. 

The Gulfgate location was a victim of major construction that made getting to the place almost impossible. When the pandemic came along the dying restaurant drew its last breath. It was disappointing to learn that it was no more, so  we sought out the one that our grandson had so loved. It too was boarded up and being remodeled as something new. Perhaps the modern tastes and emphasis on health and good diets had also played a role in ending much of the popularity and novelty of James’ Coney Island. The only locations that still exist are in Meyerland, Webster, and Baytown. 

My husband and I have a new tradition of stopping at the James’ Coney Island in Meyerland on our way home from appointments with our doctors whose offices are near there. The downtown location on Walker St. is long gone, having closed in the early nineteen nineties. With it a big piece of Houston history has vanished but the company lives one albeit with many changes and attempts to modernize it for a new era.

This year marks the one hundredth anniversary of the storied eatery. So much has changed since the days of old when the ambiance was barebones and the menu provided only select items. James’ Coney Island continues to operate but not with the panache of its storied past. The few remaining restaurants are now called JCI and offerings are much more extensive than just hot dogs. The food is still good but some of the magic is gone. James’ Coney Island was so much more than just the food. As my cousin so aptly put it, the experience of eating there was magical.  

After the disaster of hurricane Harvey in 2017, I began to wonder if the population of the Houston metro area would begin to decrease. What happened here was unbearably horrific as virtually every part of town, every socio-economic group, was hit hard by the unrelenting rains. I knew so many people who had to flee from their homes as water gushed inside through the weep holes. Driving around in the aftermath was a harrowing experience as my husband and I witnessed block after block filled with the soggy debris from the storm that dropped a steady torrent of rain for three days. It was heartbreaking to witness, and the fact that my house had somehow been spared was little reason to rejoice in the midst of so much destruction. 

I suppose that there were some who saw the climate change handwriting on the wall and chose to move to higher, safer ground than the flat plane of Houston that is barely above sea level in most places. Those who could, departed. Most, like me, stayed hoping that the city and surrounding areas would rebuild and stay strong. It ends up that we did exactly that. There was too much to love in our hometown, especially the people who can trace their ancestry from all over the world. 

Houston has maintained its spot as the fourth largest city in the United States and the most diverse city of them all, including New York City. We are a place that celebrates and welcomes the international heritages of our citizens. Most neighborhoods are filled with a potpourri of races and ethnicities. Ours is a most interesting confluence of cultures that are apparent to anyone who travels here. 

We mostly live in peace with one another, but as with anything there are still dark sides to the conviviality. Some areas appear to be holdovers of segregation brought on mostly by economics. Those places are often devoid of the kind of services and stores that the rest of the city enjoys. Our homeless move around from one place to another as they are chased out when their presence openly detracts from the dynamic vibe of the city. Mostly though Houston is a friendly city where everyone can be whomever they wish to be. Our live and let live attitude is no doubt part of the attraction to our town in spite of its flaws. 

On a recent sunny day my husband and I rode around town just seeing the sights and sampling the diversity that is so abundant here. We started in the suburb of west Pearland which was once a farming area but has grown into the size of many small towns. Pearland is part of the metro Houston population and very much mirrors the diversity of the city as a whole. It is a narrow strip that runs east and west for miles. The original township was established in the eastern part of Pearland while the west remained mostly the domain of farmers. More recently the west has become home to hundreds of thousands of people with quick access to virtually every part of Houston by way of Highway 288 and Beltway 8. The residents often work in the Houston Medical Center or in the refineries of Freeport. Most of the people are well educated and have professional jobs. My cul de sac is a perfect example of just how international the citizenry is. On our tiny street we have Vietnamese, Blacks, Chinese, Whites and even recent immigrants from Slovakia. The entire neighborhood is home to an international group representing countries from all over the world. This kind of diversity is repeated over and over again in the greater Houston area. 

Houston still has sections that attract large blocks of people from certain places. Meyerland has historically been a mecca for those of the Jewish faith. Some parts of southwest Houston are home to a large Asian population. The near north side has attracted Hispanics from Mexico and Central and South America. South and east of downtown there are historic Black communities as well as Hispanic enclaves. For the most part though Houston is simply a happy mix of people much like my neighborhood and wherever we go, people love to smile and talk and let us know that we are welcomed. 

On the day that we were driving around we stopped for lunch at a barbecue restaurant that was filled with animal trophies and folks who appeared to be laborers stopping for lunch. We saw mostly white folks there but our waitress spoke with a distinct accent of some sort and a group of men who appeared to be descended from native Americans came in boasting long hair in the tradition of the braves of old. From there we travelled to the Houston Heights, one of the oldest neighborhoods of Houston and possibly the most eclectic. Later we travelled to an upscale grocery store where we encountered the real international flavor of the city. Finally we ate dinner in a Turkish restaurant near Rice University where the food and the language spoken was really Turkish. As we ate, couples of every possible ethnicity arrived to sample the lamb and hummus and coban salad. 

During hurricane Harvey the real spirit of Houston could be seen on every television report. A famous photograph showed our citizens rescuing people without even thinking about who they were or what country or race they represented. We are family here in Houston and I suppose that is the reason why none of us want to leave. We like how welcoming our city is and we hope that other places will begin to understand how wonderful it is to embrace everyone without conditions. We even like our humbugs who would rather go back to a time when everyone seemed to look and sound the same. We are so far past that era that there will be no turning back. We like it the way that it just the way it has become. 

I am an advocate for changing the ways that we live if that will help to slow down climate change. I know all of the arguments for and and against such a shift in my daily habits, so I have decided that it is simply time for me to do my part even if it only makes a tiny difference. With that in mind my husband and I have been discussing the idea of purchasing an electric car. It’s a small step, but one in which I would like to lead the way. For that reason my husband rented a Tesla recently so that we might learn what it is like to give up a gasoline driven auto.

We asked for the Tesla Model 3 since that would be our most likely choice if we were to buy an EV. Even with the government rebate it’s cost is still far higher than we have ever spent on an automobile. We wanted to test drive one for a couple of days to get a feel for the pros and the cons of owning such a car. I have to say that it was a fun experience.

The car was small but incredibly roomy. The seats were as comfortable as those in a luxury car. The view from the front and rear windows was better than I have ever experienced. I saw things as we travelled down the road that I have never noticed before. Much of that extra window space in a Tesla is afforded by a lowered dashboard without the clutter that is present in ordinary cars. A large computer screen holds the key to operating virtually every aspect of the Tesla and in most cases the features are easily accessible with voice commands. 

The ride was almost hauntingly quiet without the sound of a roaring engine. The fittings were tight enough that not even road noise seemed to intrude on the experience. The navigation system was easy to follow and track with a large map tracing every mile that we travelled. The screen instantly posted updated speed limits and constantly showed the positions of other vehicles on the road. When making turns a live camera provided images of oncoming cars in an effort to rid the driver of the kind of blind spots that have the potential of resulting in a collision. There were warnings for red lights and reminders for the change to green lights. The backup camera gave such a wide view that there was little danger of hitting some hidden object while moving backwards. With eight cameras it was easy to be aware of the entirety of the driving environment. 

The pickup in the Teslas was amazing. I had imagined that it would be sluggish compared to the more powerful cars I have driven in the past, but it easily went from thirty miles per hour to eighty in a matter of seconds. It’s turning radius was unbelievable as well. In fact, we were able to maneuver out of some fairly sought spots with ease. 

As someone who normally drives a pickup truck I think about hauling things. The Tesla Model 3 had an enormous amount of space in the trunk, and since the usual apparatus found under the hood of traditional cars is not needed, there was an added area for storage known as the “frunk.” Electric cars have no need of radiators or oil or mufflers or gas tanks. The biggest part is the battery which rides underneath the chassis. Larger Tesla models are even more roomy, but also more pricey and not eligible for federal rebates. 

If we were to purchase any kind of electric car we would need a way to charge it. We’d have an electrician install the needed electric outlet in our garage and as long as we were simply tooling around town we would have no need for concern. We’d simply plug the car into the charging station anytime we were not using it. The anxiety of owning an electric automobile comes from taking long trips too far away from home for a recharge. We learned with our test drive that finding available charging stations is not nearly as easy as pulling into a gas station. Our first foray was unsuccessful as we attempted to navigate the system for purchasing the charge. There was an app for the process that took a long time to install after requiring that we provide tons of information. It occurred to us that in a place without good cell phone power we might find ourselves in the lurch. Charging away from home seems to be the weakest link in the present. The infrastructure for EVs is sorely lacking. 

I’d like to think that more and more attention will be given to providing charging stations over time. The companies that do such things need to make the process as easy and intuitive as purchasing gasoline. Phone apps are fine but it would be best to also allow major credit cards and eventually specific credit cards for the different charging companies. Engineers also need to work on making the charging process quicker and quicker. Nobody wants to have to kill time for an hour waiting for a full charge.

I know that a Texas concern called Buccee’s is planning to enlarge many of their locations to include blocks of charging stations. Since the company also features the cleanest restrooms on the planet and stores filled with food, snacks and gifts, charging there will be a fun experience. Hopefully over time it will also become a fast one as well. 

For now I would be more likely to use an electric car for my in town driving which would be a considerable percentage of my total driving needs. For trips over two hundred miles one way I’d need a bit more assurance that I will be able to recharge my car when needed. I’d probably stick with my gasoline powered machine until the infrastructure for electric travel reaches equilibrium with the number of electric vehicles on the road. While I believe that the electric car will one day overtake the ones that most of us now drive, I can see the drawbacks for attempting to totally rely on them right now. Still, I hope to become an owner of an electric model of some kind very soon. Maybe one day I can even purchase an electric pickup truck. I’ve got my eye on the Rivian but it’s price is a bit above my paygrade. I think I’ll start a little smaller than that.

I woke this morning thinking that I need to get out a bit more. it feels as though my writing is a bit stale. Lately I struggle to come up with a topic for my blog. I lay it off to that slow moving time of year between New Year’s Day and the arrival of spring. January, February and March have always been sluggish days and weeks for me, even when I was a child. If I had to use one word to describe the transition period from winter to spring it would be darkness. These are the seemingly most serious and work driven months of the year that threaten to send me into a state of burnout. Then April comes in with sunshine and promise of outdoor adventures, at least where I live. 

I’m rather certain that I am one of those people who needs to see the sun pouring through my windows. I don’t mind if it is cold. In fact I like bundling up in sweaters and coats, but I can’t endure too many grey days before I begin to withdraw from the world and maybe even feel a bit sorry for myself. I suppose that most of us are like that, and yet I have heard of places that stay mostly dark for weeks each year. I prefer balance in my life. Extremes of anything send me off kilter. 

I suppose the final throes of winter where I live have sent me into a kind of selfish funk every year of my life. Ironically, the almost never ending summer around here does the same thing to me along about September when I begin to long for cooler days and donning my sweaters as winter beckons. I enjoy the changing of the seasons such as they are along the Texas Gulf Coast. We don’t have colors in the fall and our spring comes so early that our flowers are often wilting from the heat by June. Nonetheless there is very little in the world as lovely as fields of bluebonnets along the Texas highways in March. It’s our version of cherry blossom time and it is a lovely reminder that the sun will come out again no matter how dreary the past has been. 

Most children in the United States today are lucky to have never had measles. The vaccines they routinely receive from birth shield them from diseases that were still infecting youngsters when I was still a kid. I remember coming down with the measles in the winter of my fourth grade school year. along about the end of February. I am not exaggerating when I say that I have never felt as sick as I did during that long bought with the measles. 

My mother kept me in a darkened room because she had heard or read that too much light while having the measles can induce blindness. Since I mostly slept it did not matter much to me that I was confined in a cavelike room. I had high fevers and headaches that left me feeling listless. I did not want to eat or do anything. It was actually somewhat frightening because I had never felt so weak and vulnerable. 

It snowed while I was ill, one of the very few times that Houston saw an accumulation of white powder on the ground. I could hear the excited chattering and laugher of everyone in the neighborhood from my sickbed. Mama had cautioned me not to look outside because the brightness of the snow might affect my eyes. I obediently deferred from taking a peek until I could no longer stand the thought of missing this once in a lifetime event. I went to the front room of the house and peeked through the slats of the blinds just long enough to imprint an indelible image of the splendor in my mind. Then I spent the next many days worrying that I might lose my sight for my sin of disobedience. 

Obviously I did not go blind and I soon got well, but I sometimes think that my dread of that bleak time of year began with my battle with the measles. I can still picture that darkened room and the vulnerable and almost frightening way that I felt. Ever since then I associate bleakness with February. I get anxious for the sun to dominate the days and for nature to burst forth in its glory. 

I remember traveling to a graduation for one of my former students at Syracuse University in upstate New York. It was the end of May but there was still a tiny chill in the air. Everywhere we went people were celebrating the end of winter. They told us that their spring rarely came before May where back home in Texas it already felt like summer. I loved the area but wondered if I would be able to handle an extended winter time without becoming morose. 

I suppose that we humans are all creatures of habit. Like Goldilocks we prefer that nothing is too much or too little. We want our world to be just right. That goes for the seasons of the year as well. Too much of a good thing can be as awful as too little. The best years are the ones that spread out the seasons in just the right doses. Our journeys around the sun play a part in making us who we are and how we see the world. The seasons of life assure us that the sun will always come in good time.