Category: Houston

Memories of Another Time

Published on by Sharron Burnett2 Comments

cristoreyhoustonI return to the neighborhood where I grew up at least once a week to tutor high school students in math. The area has changed more than a bit since I once walked the short blocks from my home to the high school that I attended. I suspect that only a few if any of the people who once lived there are still around. It was a working middle class suburb back in the day with a mix of blue collar types and professionals. The entire subdivision centered on the Catholic Church and school that most of us attended. There were other denominations and public institutions as well but Mt. Carmel was the main attraction. Everybody knew everybody and the community spirit was probably the best aspect of living there. It’s not an exaggeration to boast that it was heaven on earth for kids.

Our parents were quite active in providing us with a faith filled life, a great education and lots of after school activities. There was always something wonderful happening and the whole neighborhood felt like a combination of “Leave It To Beaver” land and an episode of “The Wonder Years.” My mother was quite wise to find us a home there after my father died. Our little place provided us with a sense of stability as we were growing up as well as hours of fun.

Of course things never seem to stay the same. Once I was grown and gone the whole area began to change as the old timers moved to newer homes in newer parts of town or to land they had purchased for retirement. It was just never quite the same. The new folks who moved in stayed mostly to themselves and my mother lost her sense of security. Her home was burglarized so many times that on the last break-in the thieves left without taking anything. We joked that we were surprised that they didn’t feel sorry for her and leave something behind. All of her valuables were long gone. Because she was alone and no longer had old friends on whom to depend nearby she became more and more frightened. Each time that she came home to discover an invasion of her property she was less and less willing to stay in the place where we had all shared so many memories. She decided to sell.

It was truly a shame because she had managed to pay for the house in full. She enjoyed having the extra income to make repairs and purchase a luxury now and again.  Because the area had generally deteriorated, at least on our street, she was unable to get a good price for the place. Essentially she had to start all over again making payments on a home that was little better but at least felt more safe. It stretched her already small income to the breaking point but she was always optimistic, believing that the good Lord would work things out, and somehow He always did.

I don’t think that Mama ever went back to see how our old homestead was doing which was actually for the best. The people who bought it did little to keep it in good condition. By the time that I finally drove by a few years back it was a sad broken down property. The roof was sagging and it looked as though it hadn’t been painted since the last time that Mama and me and my brothers had put a fresh coat on it. Mama had always taken pride in having a nice garden and had planted trees, bushes and flowers over the years. Literally all of that was gone. There wasn’t even much grass growing in the yard. It was stark and ugly in the saddest imaginable way. It literally hurt to see it like that. I couldn’t decide whether to be angry or just to cry.

I haven’t dared to go back again. I really don’t even like to think about how battered and neglected the house looks. I drive to my tutoring sessions from a direction that doesn’t take me near the old place. That way I keep only the positive memories of my youth that were so delightful. I picture our home at its best when it represented love and safety.

On sunny days when the temperature isn’t too hot there is a certain kind of breeze in the neighborhood that gives me a strong sense of deja vu. I can close my eyes and listen to the planes flying overhead as they approach nearby Hobby Airport and feel transported back to a time when the subdivision and the school were among the best in town. The sounds of the birds are just like they were when I was a kid and I can almost hear all of the old neighbors laughing and living inside their homes at a time when people still left their windows open and their doors unlocked. For a moment I find myself believing that they are all still there and that I might go see them after finishing my tutoring, but then something always stirs me back to reality and I remember.

The school where I was once a student has a new name now. It used to be Mt. Carmel but the Carmelites and the School Sisters of Notre Dame left and over time there wasn’t enough interest or financial help to keep things afloat. The school began to operate in the red without enough students or help from the diocese and finally was forced to close its doors. It was threatened with destruction until the Jesuits purchased the property and renovated the inside, creating a whole new high school called Cristo Rey. They brought in wealthy individuals willing to help support the education of students who might not otherwise have the privilege of an exceptional private school education. I now tutor some of those same kids and I have to admit that I am quite impressed with how well the hard working teachers and administrators have revitalized things for them.

It sometimes feels quite strange to be back in my old school fifty years after graduating. I tell my tutees about my own adventures there and they stare back at me as though I have two heads. I suspect that it is difficult for them to imagine an old lady like me as a young person with all of the same hopes and dreams that they have. I somehow feel that I am supposed to be there helping them. I have a deep connection and respect for the history of all of the wonderful things that happened inside those walls over the years. So many lives have changed for the better in the classrooms and the laboratories. I feel the spirit of all of us who launched our own lives there with the knowledge and confidence that we developed under the guidance of teachers and parents who truly cared about us.

As I walk through the hallways toward the library where I once devoured the words from books that opened whole new worlds to me I see the newest students experiencing the same emotions of joy and fear and discovery that were once mine. I know that we are somehow brethren. Some things like the freedom and wisdom and growth that come with knowledge never change. Whether they realize it or not those young men and women are part of the same long red thread of learning that wove through my mind so many years ago. We are bound together and no matter how different the world may become that red brick edifice will always represent the everlasting power and beauty of education.

Love Is Still The Answer

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

two-people-holding-hands-connection-love-vulnerability1I was nineteen years old that April when Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. died. I felt as though I myself had been attacked by a bullet when I heard the news of his assassination. I was shocked, devastated. He was and remains my hero, a larger than life figure who made a lasting imprint on my life when I was only tentatively entering adulthood. That was almost fifty years ago and in the years that followed his murder I have lived through a lifetime and become what society views as an old woman. Still the memories that I have of Dr. King are as fresh and vibrant as if they had occurred only yesterday. I cherish the fact that I was old enough to remember the world as it was before he so courageously sought to change it. For it is in knowing the impact of his influence that I am able to understand why he is perhaps the most important figure of the twentieth century.

I am a child of the south who saw the injustice of segregation. I used to ride a bus to downtown Houston with my mother from our home just a block away from what was then called South Park Boulevard. I enjoyed those adventures on public transportation far more than simply jumping into our car and riding to our favorite shopping spots. My mother had grown up taking a bus into town from her childhood house near Navigation. She regularly jumped aboard the carrier that transported her to shopping, movies and her first paid jobs. It felt natural to her to take a bus to get around the city rather than to fight traffic and so we often waited on the corner until the great big conveyance stopped to let us on.

There were not usually many people on the bus when we first stepped aboard but by the time that we reached our downtown destination it was packed. Back then I was only five or six years old and thought little about the seating arrangements that were literally dictated by law. There was an invisible line of demarcation separating those of us with white skin from our fellow Houstonians with darker complexions. They mostly joined us on our journey as we got closer to downtown, usually around Scott Street, obediently moving to the seats in the back, quietly enduring their humiliation.

As a child I was curious to know why such traditions existed but the way in which my mother would silence my inquiries told me that there was something secret and painful about the situation that I was not deemed old enough to understand. I remember sneaking peeks at my fellow travelers and wondering why we needed to be set apart from one another. I was still an obedient child and dared not question my elders but the whole thing seemed rather silly to me.

Our city was filled with shameful rules that prohibited those same folks who sat at the back of the bus from eating in the restaurants where we enjoyed lunch. There were separate water fountains and bathrooms for them as well. I didn’t understand but I complied with the unjust directions while questions began swirling inside my head even back then. I suppose that I have always been a bit of an old soul and my five year old mind felt the wrongness of what was happening even while the adults around me seemed not to even notice.

I came of age in the nineteen sixties, turbulent times defined by war, violence and open protest and questioning. Television had become a commonplace way of viewing world events on a nightly basis. I was educated by nuns and priests from the north whose points of view were often more radical than those of the southerners who were my neighbors and fellow citizens. I had eagerly watched the civil rights movement unfold from the summer when I took my last vacation with my father before he died. I was seven then and those weeks were punctuated by an awakening within my mind. I had overheard discussions between my father and grandfather about integration efforts in schools in Arkansas. I saw African Americans mingling with whites during our trip to Chicago as though there was nothing more natural. Somehow I realized that the way of doing things in my hometown were wrong and I audaciously announced my feelings to my parents who urged me to be cautious in pronouncing such radical ideas to strangers who might not take so kindly to my thinking.

By the time I was a teenager my sense of justice was full blown and I was no longer afraid to speak my mind. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. had become the embodiment of all of the values that I held dear. He was a hero of enormous magnitude in my mind. His was a message of love and tolerance. He was noble and brave and seemed to follow the teachings and example of Jesus Himself. Little did I truly understand the depth of this remarkable man. I worshipped him only superficially without knowing how human he was and how difficult and dangerous it was for him to assume the mantle of leadership in a cause that would ultimately lead him to his death. I would be nearer to the age that he was when he died before I would truly understand his greatness.

I have read many books and stories about Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. He was thrust into a battle for justice that he did not seek. He was given a gift of oratory that was able to put the frustrations of his brothers and sisters into unforgettable words. Time and again he had to pray for the strength to endure the hatred that followed and threatened him wherever he went. He might have turned away from his destiny but somehow he soldiered on again and again. Always he spoke of unity and tolerance and the power of love. The more I learned about him, the larger his influence loomed in my mind. He was undoubtedly one of the the greatest Americans of all time, deserving of a place in history alongside the likes of George Washington and Abraham Lincoln.

Martin Luther King was struck down before his work was finished but he had accomplished so much. Young people today can’t even begin to imagine the horror of segregation that I witnessed and thankfully didn’t have to endure simply because I was born with white skin. We have truly come a long way from those days but there is still divisiveness in many circles. While it should not make the least bit of difference, there are still those who make judgements about their fellow humans based only on the color of skin or texture of hair. A residue of the kind of hatefulness that prompted the assassination of Dr. King remains even almost fifty years later. When, I wonder, will the ugliness be completely eradicated from our thinking and what will it take to get us to a place where there are no more Dylan Roofs who slaughter innocents peacefully going about their lives at church?

I am almost thirty years older than Dr. King was when he died. He never got the opportunity to see the changes that I have seen. He did not live to witness the first African American President of the United States. He never realized the ultimate power of his legacy. He was instead quite weary on the day that he died. His energy and enthusiasm were severely taxed because there was still so much more work to be done. He experienced profound agony in understanding that man’s inhumanity to man is an evil that must be overcome one person and one situation at a time in an almost endless cycle. Still he held fast to a belief in possibilities, reminding us again and again that “love is the only force capable of transforming an enemy into a friend.” He fully believed those words as do I to this very day.

Our world is in a state of tumult once again. Our young in particular are questioning the way we do things just as our children have throughout history. They look at our society with fresh eyes and wonderment. They are searching for answers to the questions that daunt them and redress to the unfairness that they see. I pray that they too will find a hero as magnificent as mine. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was imperfect like those who founded our country but he rose above his fears and his flaws to lead us in a cause that was far bigger than himself. He did so with grace and sacrifice and showed us what we can accomplish if we put love at the forefront of our lives.

Where Are The Heroes?

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

john-glenn-6.jpgIt was 1962, and I was in the final semester of eighth grade. When we walked into Mrs. Colby’s science class she had a television perched on top of a tall cart. It’s black and white picture was tuned to one of the three major broadcasting stations. She quickly explained that we were going to have the privilege of seeing history unfold. We were to watch the first man who would orbit the earth, John Glenn. I felt breathlessly excited. My city of Houston was the site of NASA’s Manned Spacecraft Center, a place where the seven original astronauts lived and trained. I knew that I was witnessing something incredible that I would never forget.

John Glenn was encapsulated in a bell shaped vehicle called Liberty 7. He would circle the earth while in space. He had been told of the potential danger of such a feat. The entire world watched nervously as he orbited once, twice, three times. He was to have made seven passes but there was a fear that his capsule was heating up and that he might not make it back alive if the journey continued. He reentered the earth’s atmosphere landing in the ocean and was rescued by crew members of an awaiting ship. When he emerged from his spacecraft he seemed larger than life, a hero for the ages. He would become an iconic American figure and one of my all time favorite people.

John Glenn was a midwesterner through and through. He was born in Ohio in 1921, and proved to be an exemplary student and adventurous spirit. He attended Ohio State University, leaving when World War II broke out. He joined the Marines and became a fighter pilot whose wingman, Ted Williams, would ultimately be one of the best baseball players in the country. He later married his high school sweetheart and decided to follow a career in the military. He became one of the most daring aviators of his era and it only seemed natural to recruit him for the first astronaut corps. He competed with hundreds of applicants to become one of the elite seven who had the right stuff. After his history making flight in 1962, he was one of the most famous and highly regarded of the astronauts and his name would be forever linked with those pioneering days that so inspired me when I was still a very young girl.

John Glenn had retired from the military by 1965. He became a successful businessman and eventually a respected Senator from Ohio. At one point he was even considered as a possible running mate for Jimmy Carter. He made one final foray into space with the intent of determining what the effect of space travel might be on the elderly. He was physically fit and still flew his own plane until 2013. An amazing man even as he entered his ninth decade, he died last week at the age of ninety five.

John Glenn was a true American legend. He was courageous and loyal, dedicated and ethical. In many ways he represented an idealized version of what we hope all Americans to be. He certainly had his imperfections but he strove to overcome them again and again. He was ever faithful to his profession and his family. He showed all of us how to take important risks for the sake of of humanity. There was nothing insignificant about the way that he chose to live his life.

The early years of America’s exploration of space inspired my entire generation. We saw the beginnings of a rapidly changing way of doing things and embraced the future. We had dashing heroes like Glenn and our young President Kennedy. It seemed as though there was nothing that we could not accomplish if only we set our sights on our goals. Ours was known as the golden age of education in America. We were led by teachers like Mrs. Colby who introduced us to the exciting possibilities that lay ahead. She and other educators would open our minds and fill them with new ideas. Learning was an exciting prospect in our brave new world.

We had little idea then of the turmoil that would follow our euphoria. One of the original seven astronauts, Gus Grissom, would die inside his space capsule. John Kennedy would be assassinated. Many of my contemporaries would be sent to a winless war in Vietnam. The world would explode with anger and violence and it would seem as though we were on the verge of apocalypse. Instead of the fantastical world of our imaginations we would face bitter realities that tested our endurance. It would be memories of heroes like John Glenn that would inspire us to do the right thing and be unafraid.

The world unfolded in the most remarkable ways with much of the inventiveness that we now take for granted tracing its roots back to those early days of space explorations. The laptop computer on which I type my blogs is more powerful than the ones used to track John Glenn’s progress around the world. We have robots in our homes and phones that we carry in our purses that connect us to any place on the globe. Private companies now carry people into space and for the most part the journeys are far more safe than ever. We have lost our sense of awe for the accomplishments of our scientists, researchers, and astronauts. They have become commonplace in our eyes. There are no doubt young people who wonder why we care so much about an old astronaut who died. They simply do not understand the breathtaking nature of his feats in those early days when we made our first ventures into the unknown landscape of space.

I often wonder who will have the right stuff to lead us into the future. Who will be the teachers exciting a new generation of students by introducing them to people and ideas that will inspire them? From where will the heroes come and how will they show us the best of ourselves. What inventions will young scientists bring to us? How will the world change before our very eyes? These are questions to consider because there are still young men and women dreaming like I did back in Mrs. Colby’s class. They will be the leaders, the builders, the innovators. One day we will be celebrating them just as we did John Glenn.

John Glenn is gone but he will never be forgotten. His was a life well lived. May he rest in peace.

The Front Porch

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

240cf7ec5246ce7b0d7688ceecbc3c92I recently drove past my grandparent’s home on Arlington Street in the Heights. My grandfather built the house and as far as I know it is the only stucco edifice in the area. Grandpa did all of the plastering himself. The feature that he most liked was a porch that ran all the way across the front. Back when he and my grandmother lived there it was screened in so that they might spend time relaxing and enjoying their neighbors. They had a glider the size of a couch out there and always kept a big box fan going, especially on hot summer days. Whenever we visited we were more than likely to be on that porch that was always much cooler than the inside because they had no air conditioning back then. 

My grandparents knew all of their neighbors. It wasn’t unusual at all for one or more of them to walk up to chat for a bit. It was great fun to watch the activity up and down the block. I especially enjoyed the smell of leaves burning in the ditches during the fall. Kids rode by on their bicycles and never failed to wave. Women walked with their babies in strollers and my grandparents would hop down the steps and across the yard to see how the little ones were doing. I felt as close to the people who lived there as I did to my friends on my own block. I suppose that I would never have met them had it not been for that front porch that Grandpa insisted on placing at the entrance to his home.

The screens that once kept insects from invading the sitting area are now gone. The porch still stands but I have never seen anyone out there. In fact the whole street is quiet and empty of human activity. The only signs of life come from the lights in the windows and the cars parked on the driveway. In the age of air conditioning it’s probably just too hot for people to sit outside visiting with their neighbors. It’s a lost art that I seldom see anymore.

Most of the older homes in Houston feature front porches. Sitting out front was at one time a way of life. Somewhere in time it became more popular to build patios out back to allow people more privacy. While I indeed enjoy my own little getaway in my backyard I have to admit to missing the joys of a big front porch. Once in a great while my neighbors will congregate on the sidewalk or in someone’s yard to exchange pleasantries but mostly the small town feel that was part of my grandparent’s world is gone. Most of the time I don’t even see children playing in their yards or riding their bicycles along the streets.

I suppose that we now operate from a certain level of fear. Parents worry that their children will be hurt or abducted if they are not safely protected. They prefer having the little ones inside or confined to the safety of the backyard with a fence to keep out trouble. My own house only has a small brick stoop not even large enough for a single chair. I might sit in my yard but I dare say that I would not see anybody for hours on end.

Back in my old neighborhood there were ladies who frequently congregated on lawn chairs in one of the front yards. I’d watch for them to get together and quickly grab my own seat so that I might join in with their daily block party. Our children frolicked within our sight as we shared news, recipes, and parenting tips. I so loved those times when I got to know the people who lived near me as well as if they were relatives. Over the years our acquaintance literally turned to love. As so often happens everything eventually changes and so did our lovely gatherings. People moved. The kids grew up. We met less and less. Eventually even I thought that it was time to leave for new pastures.

I sometimes believe that part of the divisiveness that we seem to be experiencing today comes from the isolation that so many of us feel in our air conditioned castles. Instead of friendly and inviting porches we seem to have built figurative moats designed to keep people at bay. I hear my neighbors talking and laughing in their backyards but I can’t see them. There is no way that I might walk over to ask them how they are doing because our fences block the view. I enjoy knowing that they are there and that they appear to be very nice people but I do miss the easy going feelings that were so much a part of the days of front porches.

There was an openness and innocence in the past that probably wouldn’t work anymore. As a child I slept with my bedroom windows wide open. Only the screens separated me from the outside. Our front door was rarely locked until night had fallen. We had little reason to believe that we were somehow unsafe. It was a different world and I suppose that today in our quest for security it is only natural that we hide behind walls and fences rather than being so open to the world. We put cameras at our front doors and peep through tiny holes when someone rings our doorbells. We worry and fret and close ourselves off.

I sometimes long for the days when we seemed to be a much friendlier society. We didn’t rush around so much and we entertained ourselves with conversations and games. We were trusting and open because there was little danger in being so. Experience has taught us to be wary and in the process we have lost the hometown spirit that once united us. I’m not sure that we will ever have that again but I think that having more front porches might be a step in the right direction, especially if we actually use them to get to know the people who live near us.

I have a nephew who moved his family to a neighborhood filled with young people who have taken the time to get to know each other. I love driving over to visit him because the whole place is literally bursting with activity just as all streets were back when I was a child. There are kids running up and down the sidewalks and adults sharing tools and helping one another with repairs and other tasks. It is like taking a step back in time to a world that hardly exists anymore. Each Christmas they light up entire blocks with arches that seem to shout a welcome to everyone. They take care of one another and celebrate together as though they are one great big happy family. That is how I think it should be all across the land. Perhaps we will learn how to be that way again if only we decide to try. It’s a nice possibility to imagine and something that I think many of us would truly enjoy.

A Hidden Treasure

Published on by Sharron BurnettLeave a comment

hr3331407-31I tutor at a school deep in the heart of southeast Houston. To reach my destination I drive down Telephone Road, a street with a somewhat notorious reputation. Just past Hobby Airport I turn into a neighborhood called Garden Villas and get to the campus where I work by crossing a bridge over Sims Bayou. I know these places well for I grew up very nearby and then lived in the area for well over thirty years after I married. There have been many changes since I was a young girl riding my bicycle under the pecan trees to get to Garden Villas Park so that I might visit the mobile library in search of books to read on hot summer afternoons. These days many of the homes that I used to pass have iron bars on the doors and windows and some of them have been severely neglected. Still there is something quite appealing about the neighborhood that makes me wonder why Garden Villas hasn’t become a mecca for gentrification.

The yards in Garden Villas are enormous, so much so that many people have built more than one structure on the land and still have huge green spaces. There are gigantic trees that have been growing since before I was even born. Most of them bear pecans in the fall so it is not unusual at all to see residents combing through the grass on their hands and knees filling huge bags with nature’s bounty. The canopy that reaches over the road shades those of us passing by creating a delightful path that seems far removed from the hustle and bustle of the city. Ironically the location is so close to downtown Houston, the Medical Center, the University of Houston and other major areas that it takes little or no time to be in the thick of business and commerce with little effort.

I have seen so many sights in Garden Villas that make me smile from ear to ear. Only this week I had to slow down to allow a flock of peacocks and peahens cross the street. I’m not sure where they came from or where they were going but the mere sight of them brightened my day. It’s not unusual at all to see families sauntering along the roads hand in hand forcing everyone to proceed a bit more slowly than they otherwise might. I love the leisurely pace that the area engenders. It literally helps me feel quite calm and often fills me with nostalgia as I think of the times when I once traveled along the same streets in search of childhood adventures.

Many of the homes in Garden Villas date back to the twenties, thirties and forties when the area was mostly farm and ranch country far from the city center. By the fifties and sixties new homes and neighborhoods were going up all around the area. None of them had the big yards and homey feel of Garden Villas. It was like a different place in time, unique to the usual ways of building in the Houston area. Many of the people who lived there came and stayed for all of their lives with some even passing down their homes to their children.

Progress changed most of southeast Houston. The neighborhoods that had been modern just after World War II became cramped, outdated and in many cases almost dilapidated. The home where I grew up is a shell of its former self. Its paint is faded and peeling. The roof is worn. The yard is filled with weeds and signs of neglect. It reminds me of the sad little house overtaken by a growing city in a picture book that I used to love. It pains me to even pass by my old homestead. It doesn’t even seem like the same place where I knew so much happiness with my mom and my brothers. Garden Villas on the other hand still has a spark of dignity and possibility. Somehow it seems to be a place with both a history and a future. People there appear to mostly love the hidden jewel that is their neighborhood.

I’ve never really understood why we so often abandon perfectly good areas in favor of new and shiny places. We hear the siren call of the suburbs and too often forget the pleasures of living in places that were built to last for longer than our short attention spans. The Houston Heights area has become one of the most sought after and prestigious addresses in our city. Time was not so long ago that it too had been mostly forgotten. It took the loving interest of people willing to be pioneers of sort to bring it back to its former glory. There are so many other perfectly good neighborhoods in Houston just waiting to be rediscovered and Garden Villas is one of them.

I sometimes drive to my tutoring sessions feeling a bit tired and out of sorts. I want to stay home and work in my yard or make new revisions to the book that I have written. I have to push myself out of the house. As soon as I make the turn from Telephone Road into the shady heaven of Garden Villas I feel instantly revitalized every single time. It would be worth the drive just to enjoy the tranquility that the area exudes.

Garden Villas is just across the road from Glenbrook Valley, a national historic district of elegant mid century homes. Many people predict that Glenbrook will one day be as sought after as it was back in the late fifties and throughout the sixties. Perhaps if that actually happens there will be enough of a renewed interest in the area that the businesses that once flourished will return and there will be a renaissance that will spread to Garden Villas and maybe even to the place where I lived as a child. In the meantime I will just enjoy my little secret and look forward to the surprises that keep coming each time I go there. Maybe it is actually best that not too many people find this treasure because I would hate to see it change too much. Right now it has a special ambiance that brightens my spirit just the way it is.