Category: Family

Science or Art?

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

yam.jpgWhen my grandson runs the 1600 meter race only time determines the winner. It is a feat that is as objective as any measure might possibly be. Unless there is a photo finish or one of the time keepers doesn’t do his/her job properly there is no doubt about the victor. When another grandson performs in a one act play and a panel of judges decide who the best actors were and which troupe gave the finest overall impression, the yardstick is far more subjective. Hundreds of people seeing exactly the same thing will rate it differently depending on the background that they bring to the theater. There will be questions as to the authenticity and fairness of the evaluations, thus leaving the final votes open for criticism. Most of life is more like the later, subject to preferences rather than a set of hard and fast rules.

Each year when the Oscars are awarded I find myself scratching my head in dismay. I truly wonder how it is possible that Casey Affleck won the best acting prize when Denzel Washington was in the same category. I rail at the television and ask no one in particular if he/she was blind. Of course all such determinations are just a matter of opinion rather than fact. So it is with evaluating a teacher, a student or a school.

There are certain guidelines that are universal aspects of a well run classroom but we have not yet even agreed on whether teaching is an art or a science. There are those who maintain that if an individual understands and uses certain best practices, the results will be quite grand. Such beliefs rely on the idea that there is truly a science that leads to being an effective teacher, and there is something to be said for knowledge of pedagogy. Still, after spending decades inside classrooms both as a teacher and an administrator I have learned that there is something quite artistic about the process that elevates an educator to a magical level. Two people using the exact same methods often achieve very different results that can only be explained by noting that one is unimaginative while the other is an artist.

We attempt to measure educational success with numbers found in the scores of students on standardized exams. Of course we intuitively know that hundreds of factors affect the final outcomes of such attempts to quantify the teaching process. The list is so huge that it would be impossible to name all of the possibilities but a few examples might be the health of each student, the amount of rest each has had, the home environment, the presence of testing fears, hunger and so forth. None of these things can be totally controlled by the teacher and when a preponderance of them are affecting the child negatively the test score may be less than stellar. Somehow our society ignores such things in judging the value of our educational system. The numbers are king and yet they only tell a small part of the story and because of this they have a negative impact on everyone in the classroom.

Our present system of testing students at virtually every turn has created a totally unnecessary level of stress. We decide the futures of our children and their teachers even as we understand that those exam scores do not tell the whole story. Study after study has shown that most standardized tests favor middle class white males. For whatever reason all other groups do not do as well. It would be a stretch to assume that this is because the middle class white males are more intelligent. In fact, they are not, but they respond to the questions and answers differently because of their life experiences. The test items that are supposed to be neutral are far from that. They are often subject to interpretations that result in responses deemed to be incorrect. When students are given the opportunity to explain their reasons for selecting certain answers, interesting trends appear, including the fact that the questions are often more subjective than the creators imagined they would be. Given the importance that test scores are given in today’s world, it is quite distressing to realize that the element of subjectivity is often present.

As we learn these things it seems logical that we would begin to admit that our efforts to judge our students by the numbers is still rather ineffective, but in truth we appear to be relying on such evaluative measures even more than ever. The three ring circus created by this situation is disturbing to everyone involved including students, teachers and parents and yet it continues unabated. I suspect it has to do with our human tendency to desire easy answers for complex problems. Once we suggest a solution it is often impossible to rid ourselves of it even when it is obviously a mistake. Other than the realization that Prohibition was a stupid idea, we rarely turn back once we have chosen to pursue a certain path. Sadly I think that we will remain hell bent on using tests to quantify progress until we finally realize the magnitude of the damage that is being done to our educational processes.

The acquisition of knowledge should be an adventure and there are certainly gifted teachers who manage to achieve that even with the specter of testing hovering over their heads. Unfortunately far too many educators struggle under the pressure to perform. They are more like drones laboring away in a massive hive of routine. They use the prescribed methods but don’t quite know how to elevate them beyond the ordinary. They may even reach very satisfactory results but the love of learning is missing and their students feel the loss.

We have turned education into a political football. How we design curriculum and provide resources tends to depend more on which ideology is victorious in elections rather than a reasoned appraisal of student needs. If we test children it should not be to determine how rewards and punishments should be meted out but rather what educational designs are needed for each individual situation. Testing should be a positive experience rather than one that strikes fear and loathing into everyone concerned. It should be much like a physical exam at a doctor’s office, providing information on the educational health of each child and then determining what measures are needed to insure growth. We need to halt the practice of using exams as evaluative clubs to beat our children and teachers down.

I return to this topic again and again because it is so important. As citizens we have the power to demand that something be done to change the present system into one that generates a positive experience rather than a negative one. We have to admit that the way we evaluate is all too often flawed. There is a better way to determine how well our students are doing and what the results mean. If we return to the original intent of such tests we will do everyone a service. They were never meant to grade schools or teachers but rather to determine how much progress a student has made from one school year to the next and then to devise a learning plan that best suits each individual. If we manage to do this, we won’t need vouchers or children moving from one school to another. We will finally begin to do the work of educating as it should be done. We will finally enhance classrooms with both science and art.

East Meets West

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

east-westYears ago one of my grandson’s was building a family tree at school. He reported to his class that he was half Chinese. Since he had blonde hair and blue eyes his teacher was somewhat confused about his claim. She hesitated to accuse him of making up a tale, but found it difficult to believe that he had even a smidgen of Asian heritage in his DNA. She emailed my daughter to determine why he might think such a thing. That only seemed to confound the puzzlement, so my daughter went to the source and asked her little boy why he felt that he was half Chinese. He innocently asserted that he had come to that conclusion because half of the people at our family parties were Chinese, and he knew them as relatives, so he had come to the conclusion that he must indeed be of Asian decent as well. The mystery was solved.

One of my brothers married a lovely woman from Taiwan many years ago. He was working for a NASA contractor and so was she when he met her at a meeting. He was immediately taken by her beauty, intellect and personality and in a fashion that was totally uncharacteristic of him, he set out to find her and ask her for a date. He learned that her last name was Liu, and he began calling all of the people in the phone book who shared that same name. Eventually he got lucky and actually reached her when she was visiting a friend who was also named Liu. He was smitten from the beginning and it wasn’t long before they were both in love.

Becky has brought so much wonder to our family. Aside from introducing us to the the history and exquisiteness of her culture, she has shared her family members who melded with us as though we had all been born to be together. It is little wonder that my grandson believed that he was related to her parents and siblings by blood. They have faithfully stood by our sides through celebrations and tragedies. All the while they have taught us extraordinary lessons about generosity and determination.

Becky was born in mainland China before it was taken over by Mao and the communists. Her father had been a professor of physics and an officer in the army. He was from a family of intellectuals that included a newspaper editor who had spoken out against the revolutionaries. When the political takeover of the country came, Becky’s parents knew that they must flee with their children. Her older sisters recall being dressed in many layers of clothing into which their mother had sewn money and valuables to use as barter for their safe passage our of the country. At the time they did not fully understand what was happening, but they sensed that it was something dangerous and frightening as they made the long journey of escape.

Becky grew up in Taiwan with two sisters and two brothers. All of them were studious and worked hard to earn the opportunity to travel to American universities to earn degrees in sciences, engineering, and computers. Eventually they became citizens and brought their parents to live with them. They emphasized hard work and academics with their children who grew up as peers of my own girls. In reality all of the kids thought of themselves as cousins and were as close as they might have been if their bloodlines had been from the same tree.

We found ways to get together as a family on birthdays, for Thanksgiving and at Christmas and Easter. We celebrated births and milestones, like graduations and marriages. They introduced us to the Chinese opera and dim sum. We sat around a hot pot and laughed and told stories while sharing feasts. We marveled at the many successes of the youngsters who grew up to become doctors, lawyers, teachers, nurses, business men and women. My grandchildren played with theirs and the extended family grew and grew.

My mother thought of Becky’s mother as her very best friend. The two of them often sat together smiling and holding hands. They accompanied my brother and Becky on trips all over the United States and never exchanged a cross word. Becky honored my mom as is customary in Asian culture, opening her heart and her home to Mama without reservation and with the deepest regard and respect. I often felt humbled by the love that Becky and her siblings gave so unconditionally to our clan, even when my mother’s bipolar disorder made her less than congenial.

We have all been blessed and enriched by our association with Becky. She has given us a great gift that has made us better than we might have been. She has quietly taught us how to embrace differences and the importance of allowing our adventurous spirits to soar freely. I suspect that if we were to be honest we would have to agree with my grandson that through our many interactions we have all become part Chinese. Our eyes have been opened to the wondrous history and contributions of the east where there was a highly advanced culture long before our western civilization began to form. We have learned just how much more beautiful life is when we see the world through the viewpoints of the people of many different nations and races. Becky was the catalyst for our transformation from the ordinary.

To this very day Becky is extraordinary. She looks like a gorgeous movie or rock star in her Facebook profile photo. She spent decades doing incredible things at NASA, contributing to the betterment of science and space exploration. She excels at virtually everything that she attempts. Most recently she has taken up painting and quilting with the most incredible results. I have to say that I have been somewhat in awe of her for most of my adult life, but now the two of us are able to just sit together quietly like her mother and my mother once did. We are bound by our roles as wives, mothers, grandmothers and sisters. Family has become our most important pursuit and we find ourselves quite happy that we are in the same one. I hope that just maybe Becky has enjoyed learning about us as much we have been about getting to know her. It has been remarkable experiencing our moments of east meeting west.

Remembering

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

griefDeath is inevitable, or so the saying goes. We all know that there is no such thing as immortality. Sooner or later everyone of us will die. I tend to believe that it is more difficult for the living to accept death than the person whose life has ended. Whether one believes as I do that eternal life waits on the other side, or that the whole adventure simply ends, doesn’t make the pain of losing someone much better. Laying a loved one to rest is one of the most horrific aspects of living. The process rents our hearts in two, and often to our surprise the feelings of utter sadness remain firmly lodged inside our souls just waiting to be tickled back to life when we least expect them.

Death is a cruel mistress who sometimes strikes with discordant surprise. It hits us especially hard when the person taken from us is young, in the prime of life. There is an unfinished feeling about such tragedies. We are left thinking of all of the potential that will never be realized, the life events that will not be experienced. There is an unfairness about untimely deaths that especially angers us. They shock and frighten us. We wonder what we might have done to prevent them, even as we understand that they are simply the way things are.

March reminds me of a particular year when I seemed to encounter death everywhere I turned. It was a month of unimaginable horror. A beautiful and lively young woman who was in the process of planning her wedding was laughing with friends one moment and lying dead in her car the next, a victim of a drunk driver. As I attended her memorials and wrote of her spirit I thought that I had surely experienced the depths of grief but I was in for a gigantic shock.

Only days later a beautiful young mother that I knew was murdered, found by a passing stranger who heard the cries of her tiny baby. Those of us who had loved her life were stunned. Her life had been coming together so beautifully. She had been so happy. We wondered how it was possible that someone had been monstrous enough to kill her while her tiny child sat nearby. She had so loved her little girl and had already planned out the child’s life just as mothers often do. Her death was unfathomable.

In the very same month of the same year yet another young friend of mine died in a car crash. He had been studying at college and looking forward to a glorious future. He was a likable fellow with so many friends, known for his engaging smile and optimistic nature. Those who cared about him filled a huge auditorium. All of us were in shock. It hardly seemed possible that someone so full of life could be gone.

There is great pain associated with death. It eventually eases but always leaves scars on those left behind. Somehow we move through the days, the months, the years, growing ever older and farther and farther away from the grief but always conscious that we have lost a part of ourselves. My father will have been gone for sixty years come this May. I have moved forward without him but I never really forget him. I wonder what he might have thought of the adults that my brothers and I have become. I wish that our children and grandchildren had an opportunity to meet him. Just talking about him doesn’t seem to be enough to share his incredible essence.

I am familiar with the stories of so many others who died far too young. I think of the brave college student who lost his life defending a woman who was being beaten by her irate boyfriend. He was such a good soul, exceedingly kind and oh so loved. I watch his family continue to grieve and I understand their pain.

There is the mother who left this earth just as her daughter was about to graduate from college, fulfilling a dream that they both had shared. I have watched as her child has struggled to deal with the emotions that such a tragic loss engenders. I have carried thoughts of her in my heart as I saw those who miss her experiencing sadness, anger and the first stirrings of resignation.

I know of a man who died on his vacation, a woman whose cancer could not be controlled. I remember a friend who went to war and never came back, another who lost hope and pulled the plug on his own life. All of them had family and friends who have yet to come completely to grips with their losses. They certainly seem to have carried on, but those of us who know them well realize that life is never quite the same after such horrific surprises.

We struggle to know how to deal with such tragedies. We want to find a correct way of doing so but our humanity doesn’t provide easy answers. We find it hard to determine what to say or do, sometimes falling back on platitudes to explain our feelings. We are uncomfortable with comforting those who are in such despair. Sometimes we wrongly stay away, afraid that our humble efforts will not be worthy of the occasion.

I often pray for the wisdom of Solomon. I want to be a font of tranquility for the suffering and the broken hearted. I don’t feel that I always help as much as I should but I believe that I understand their agony for I too have been where they are. I have walked through the valley of death and felt the despair that comes from realizing the brutal finality that comes with loss.

We tell ourselves again and again that we should express our feelings for the people that we love while we have the opportunity, and yet we get busy and miss those all important chances. We consider making that phone call but never quite get around to it. We neglect to reach out to those closest to the deceased. We send sympathy cards and flowers in the beginning but allow time to get away from us after the memorials and funerals are over. Just when the lonely most need us we have all too often turned our attention to other things. In truth it is when time has passed that they may need our condolences the most.

Death can be a lonely experience but it shouldn’t be. Think of someone who has lost someone special and let them know how much you care. Even the smallest gesture has the power to go a long, long way.

Shoes

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

Isa-Tapia-featuredConfederate troops were looking for a shoe factory when they became engaged in a bloody battle at Gettysburg. It seems that they were in dire need of footwear for their soldiers. The fact that they were searching for something so basic often gets lost in the historical record that focuses instead on the brilliant oratory of President Abraham Lincoln in the address that he delivered in the aftermath of that terrible loss of lives. Those of us living in the United States in the modern era often take the shoes that line our closets for granted, but it hasn’t always been so.

My grandfather loved to tell of the time that he finally received a beautiful pair of high top lace up boots to wear to school. It was the finest pair of shoes that he had ever worn and the leather felt like butter next to his feet. It never occurred to him that he was a still boy who was likely to become taller, or that he might outgrow his beloved shoes, but the day came when he did indeed. His toes pressed so painfully against the end of the boots that he could barely walk. When he told his grandmother that he needed a new pair she explained that she would not have the funds for such a purchase for many months. Since the weather was already warm and they lived in the country, she thought it would be best if grandpa just roamed freely in his bare feet rather than distorting his toes in the cramped enclosure of the shoes.

Grandpa said that he was so proud of those shoes that he couldn’t bear the idea of walking through burrs and stepping on rocks without their protective sole. Still he worried that his feet would become deformed if he continued to torture himself by curling his toes just enough to keep them from pushing hard on the edges of the ill fitting boots. He devised a plan that he thought was brilliant. He went to the barn and found an axe which he used to carefully chop off the leather on the toes without harming the sole beneath. When he tried on his new creation he was happy to note that his feet now fit perfectly in the makeshift open toe style. His grandmother praised his inventiveness and laughed at the sight that he must have been. The strange looking shoes kept him going for many more months. 

My mother always spoke of how shoes were passed down from one child to another in her family of eight children. Since she was the youngest her footwear was often on its last leg. The leather on the sole of the shoes sometimes had a tendency to sprout holes which meant that she was often walking directly on wet pavement when it rained. Her inventive mother would save cardboard for instant repairs. She traced around the bottom of the shoe and then fit the protective paper inside to keep the elements off of Mama’s feet. Not too surprisingly my mother developed a thing for insisting that my brothers and I always had the best shoes for daily wear that her money could buy. She would scrimp on almost everything, but never on shoes.

I usually had two pairs of shoes at any given time. One was the set that I wore to school each day and the other was for church. Mama bought high quality brands like Life Stride and Buster Brown. A family from our church had a mom and pop shoe store where Mama always took us. Mr. and Mrs. Lippie took great care in fitting our shoes and literally refused to sell us a pair that didn’t hug our feet as though it had been made by magical cobblers for our unique specifications. Sometimes a visit to their store took well over an hour but Mama felt secure in the knowledge that our shoes would do no harm to our feet. My shoes were ever so practical which didn’t much matter when I was wearing a school uniform but as I grew into my teenage years I found myself drawn to the flashy numbers enticing me from the show windows of shoe emporiums at the mall. My mother often reminded me to be wary of their pointed toes and high heels, insisting that they would do irreparable damage to my pampered feet. Of course her warnings went in one ear and out the other.

As soon as I had the independence that comes from having a decent job and living away from one’s childhood home I became addicted to shoes. Given the choice between a lovely pair of pumps and a new frock I would invariably prefer to purchase yet another fashion for my feet. Because my mother had made certain that my feet were so well cared for I was able to stuff them into virtually any style known to man. As long as the price was right, I did, even as my mother complained and predicted that I was dooming my precious feet to a painful future.

My collection of shoes grew and grew in my adult years until I had enough to rival Imelda Marcos. I rarely met a shoe that I didn’t like and in spite of my mom’s predictions, I had no difficulty wearing the highest heels or the most confining styles. Shoes were like a drug to me. Nothing made me smile more than finding a new pair that was unlike any I had owned before. Sadly my joyful hobby of acquiring shoes for any occasion eventually came to a very sad end.

Just as my mother had prophesied I found myself developing more and more problems with my feet. I had to give all of my stiletto heels away because I could only wear them for a few minutes before my feet and my knees were screaming in pain. Those with the lovely pointed toes were the next to go when my feet rebelled against being so grotesquely constricted. More and more often I found myself purchasing “Granny Gump” styles from Clarks. I preferred the idea of actually being able to walk over the practice of enveloping my feet in portable torture chambers.

I have always loved the summer because I am able to achieve a bit more stylishness with sandals even as I age. People have commented that I have pretty feet and I try to keep them looking good for the warmer months when I can allow them to be free in flip flops and cute gladiator styles that show off my slim ankles. Now even that little slice of vanity is no longer available to me. Just a few weeks ago someone dropped a heavy can on my foot while I stood in line at the grocery store. My big toe throbbed in pain for days and turned completely black. Eventually the entire nail came off leaving me in a very unattractive state. Google tells me that it will take from six months to one year for things to return to normal. For now I will be wearing closed toes in public, which is particularly irksome because I am traveling to Cancun in June. I laugh because it somehow seems to be karma, a mild scolding for my prideful behavior and lack of true appreciation for the gift of good feet that my mother sacrificed to give me.

I keep thinking of the old saying, “I complained because I had no shoes, and then I saw a man who had no feet.” Maybe it’s time for me to lay my shoe fetish to rest and return to the days of practicality. My damaged toe is a sign that I need to get my priorities straight. I’ve been so vain and now it’s time to focus on something that is actually important. The fact that I can still walk freely around my neighborhood is a gift that I won’t take for granted. My own good health and fortune are all the blessings I need, but I must admit that I did drool over those gorgeous sandals that would be oh so cute for Easter. I guess it will take some time before I completely change my shoe loving stripes.    

Magical

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

downloadI’ve been retired from a four decades career in education for almost six years and I still can’t seem to avoid following the academic calendar. Perhaps it’s because a school bus stops in front of my home each morning to pick up the neighborhood children and I am daily reminded that the process of educating our youth has endures with or without me. Maybe it’s because I still tutor students twice a week at two different schools and in the evenings. I suspect that it’s mostly because I followed the August to June routine for so long that it has become embedded in the heart and soul of who I am. So it is that I continue to immerse myself in spring break rituals each year even though that special week for students and teachers shouldn’t make much difference to me now that I am free to do whatever I wish whenever I wish.

I made no plans for the annual March respite this year and yet the serendipity of my activities made it one of the most memorable and relaxing weeks that I have experienced in all of my years of partaking of the annual spring fling. It began with an evening track meet in which grandson Eli broke the district record for the 1600 meter run. Watching him plying his craft is akin to viewing a gazelle. His form is a breathtaking sight of beauty. Even better is his determination to continually compete with himself to be his personal best. I am in awe of him and watching him on that night was magical just as the rest of my spring break adventure would prove to be.

Husband Mike and I traveled to bluebonnet country the following day, enjoying the lovely blue carpets of the state flower that are so glorious each spring. We had bonafide Texas barbecue and sampled fruit kolaches that warmed the Slovakian half of my heart. We walked among the rows and rows of flowers at the Rose Emporium and brought home two more gorgeous bushes to join the collection that we already have. It was one of those absolutely perfect days that reminded me just how much I truly love the people and the sights of the place I call home.

The weather took one of those unexpected dips in temperature a day or so later just as it always seems to do this time of year. It was a perfect moment for making paprika stew for my grandson Andrew who had arrived for a sojourn from his studies at Purdue University. We had one of those old fashioned Sunday night dinners with him and his family. We caught up on all of his news and lingered at the dining table with stories and lots of laughs, ending our meal with pies that we had purchased at a bakery in a small town known for its sausages, baked goods and ice cream. It felt good to fill the house with our children and grandchildren. It had been quite some time since they had been able to steal a few hours from their busy school time schedules. Not wanting to end the joyful feeling of the evening we all agreed meet up again the following day for a musical light show at the Burke Baker Planetarium followed by dinner in Rice Village.

Just when it appeared that I would return to a somewhat uneventful week my granddaughter Abby who lives in San Antonio called me to request my presence at her home for the next few days. Mike had things to do, like taxes (ugh), so I hit the open road on my own. The drive has become second nature to me since my daughter moved there a little over ten years ago. I break down the distance into discrete parts that tell me that I am moving ever closer to the other half of my ever growing family. The weather was spectacular much as it generally is in March. The bluebonnets were even more profuse than they had been only days before and now they had been joined by the red Indian paintbrushes that shouted out, “This is Texas at its very best!”

My daughter is about to move to a new home so she was busy sorting and packing belongings while I was there. She reluctantly took a small slice of time to join us for gourmet burgers and milkshakes at Hopdoddy as well as a round of bowling at a rather unique emporium. Afterward we played board games and watched old Star Wars movies until late into the night. It felt so much like the kind of activities that we used to enjoy back when we my daughters were just girls and we spent our spring break time chilling out and enjoying life in slow motion.

While my daughter returned to her duties the children and I continued our adventures with a visit to a small hill country town called Boerne where we found treasures in the many different antique shops, including a slightly damaged kachina doll that grandson William named Footless Fred. We laughed with delight as we scored a tiny house fit for the gnome garden that the kids are designing, an old Stars Wars book, a poncho, and a set of quilted placemats. We ended our day with a side trip to Guadelupe River State Park where we skipped rocks and told one silly joke after another.

It was with a certain level of reluctance that I headed back home toward the end of the week, but the kids had things to do that they had been putting off while I was in there. I too needed to get back to reality, but not until I enjoyed what may well have been the most magical day of my spring break.

Mike and I began the final Saturday of my mini vacation by meeting Andrew once again for a farewell lunch. He looked so happy, rested and ready to tackle the next six weeks at Purdue. Like me had had been energized by the people and places that he most loves. He had an optimistic and determined twinkle in his eyes and I felt quite comfortable sending him off to joust with his challenging  engineering and mathematics classes. He will be halfway through his collegiate journey by May. He sees the light at the end of the tunnel and it is a beautiful experience to listen to him voice very adult and wise pronouncements about the future and life in general.

From our sojourn with Andrew we traveled to the home of one of my former students, a young man named Bieu. We have known each other for well over twenty years now and he faithfully maintains a constant connection with me just as he promised he would when he was just a boy in my math class. On this day he was hosting a crawfish boil, another March tradition in the Houston area. He had great pots of the lobster like creatures turning a bright delicious red as the water bubbled around them. He cooked potatoes and corn as friends and family enjoyed the cool afternoon in his backyard.

I continue to marvel at what a fine person Bieu has become. I am as proud of him as if he had been my own son. I laugh that he was the one who most closely followed in my father’s footsteps by earning a degree in mechanical engineering from Texas A&M University. I feel quite certain that my dad would have loved Bieu and his family as much as I do had he been around to meet them.

I ended my glorious week that evening at the seventieth birthday party of Josefina Carrillo. She once worked for Mike at a bank in southeast Houston and he insists that she was his best employee ever. I also had the privilege of teaching her daughter Josie at South Houston Intermediate. Because southeast Houston has always been a small and very friendly kind of world the connections to Josefina go even deeper. Her son married the sister of one of my daughter’s best friends from our old neighborhood, so it was like old home week at the gala.

We feasted on fajitas and sipped on margaritas while a mariachi band played “otra mas” tune after another. There was dancing and enough smiles to light up a city. We learned that many of the people who had come to honor Josefina had lived in our old neighborhood and been involved in the same circles that had defined our lives for years. The kinship centered on the birthday girl bonded us all together and we had an incredibly lovely time remembering how many joys and blessings we had all experienced.

As I think back on my week of simple pleasures I realize how lucky I have always been. I not only have happy, healthy children and grandchildren but a host of friends who have brought sunshine into my life over and over again. I thought of how so much of my good fortune came to be because of the time that I have spent in what must surely be the most inviting city anywhere, Houston and its surrounding areas. Where else would I eat New York style pizza, crawfish and Tex Mex all in one day? Where else would I be so welcomed by Vietnamese and Hispanic families within the space of only a few hours. Where else would the people be so hospitable? Where else would I have enjoyed such a magical spring break? Where else would I rather be?