Category: Houston

Posted on by Fern Brady - No Comments on On Thanksgiving Holidays

On Thanksgiving Holidays

Thanksgiving Day is a uniquely American holiday. It is a celebration of the success of a colony in the new world. The interesting thing about it is that the colony’s survival was due to the relationships they built with the natives of the land they were taking over. The colonists invited the natives to join them in a meal to celebrate that with the joint effort, they had all benefited from working together.

Today, we use this day to gather around a table and eat a ton of delicious food with our family members. In modern times, Friendsgiving has become popular. With so much division in families and the empowerment of people to remove toxic individuals from their lives — whether they are blood related or otherwise — many have come to use Thanksgiving Day as a chance to gather round and eat with friends instead.

However you choose to celebrate it, this time of year, and this holiday in particular, asks us to take a moment and look at our lives with gratitude. It seeks to shift our perspective from what we lack or haven’t yet accomplished, to what we have and what we have already done. It is a wonderful opportunity to take stock in your life and see all the things that are going well, count your blessings, and perhaps bring to the forefront of your mind the things that are good. Putting aside for at least a day all the things that are wrong in the world, your relationships, in your life, this day asks us to search for that which is good, that which is working, and to be grateful for it.

In many ways, Thanksgiving is a moment for us to pause and breath. We gather together with those who are our ‘family’. Some may be blood related, and others maybe the people who have joined us on our life’s trajectory. Whatever the case, we have at least one day to stop and be happy in the midst of the mad rush of go, go, go, our society imposes on us.

As we move past this day and into the hectic time of the winter holiday season, don’t forget to take those things you noted were good about your life with you. Don’t leave the gratitude behind. Let’s keep looking at what is working well, examine and fix what isn’t, but always be mindful of the blessings we have. Oh, and don’t forget to build relationships. Blood or otherwise, we are social animals and now more than ever we must find our tribe and support each other.

Posted on by Fern Brady - 1 Comment on Art Show Excitement

Art Show Excitement

As a publisher, I have the joy of working with amazing creatives in the process of putting together their books. We publish fiction because the world needs a place to escape the harsh realities of life as well as a safe space to explore tough issues.

There is one artist, however, who I have a contract with for producing her art coffee table book, and that’s Violet Jen. When I saw the painting of the bird putting on her make up, I fell in love with Violet Jen’s work. This image spoke to me on so many levels.

Then this amazing artist showed me more of her incredible works. The bird merged into the human form held a fascination to me, as well as to her. We decided to work on a book to bring these images, and the inspiration behind them, to readers. It has been a long road in the making.

First, the artist had to decide on the number of paintings she wanted to produce. As the work continued, she came to realize that the bird series was not going to be finite. That, in fact, it was a subject she would work on for the rest of her life. So, we decided to create a series of books chronicling the time periods of her life as reflected in the birds that populate them.

This concept is incredibly intriguing but not new in the art world. Artists life’s are often chunked up by the works that they produced during certain periods which reflect the influences on them. The first set of paintings has now been determined.

While the actual book is still in the production process and won’t be out until winter of 2025, the paintings that encompass this part of Violet Jen’s life are going to be displayed for the first time in an art gallery show all her own. The show opens tonight and will run until the end of the year.

Here’s where the paintings will be:

I hope you have a chance, if you are in the Houston and Montgomery areas, to drop in and take a look at these amazing paintings. Share with me in the comments what they speak to you, both the images here that I’ve shared and if you see them in person. I’m leaving you with the playlist the artist compiled that she listened to while working on these and which inspired her.

https://music.apple.com/profile/violetwatr

Posted on by Melanie Ormand - 3 Comments on A Tale of Two Stockings

A Tale of Two Stockings

Eyeball the stockings: which is your favorite?

This single picture telegraphs the difference between my mother and my mother-in-law.

On the left hangs what Glenna Lea sewed for her youngest daughter 60-plus years ago. Done sewing, she hand scribbled my name across the green top.

To the right is Beverly’s creation for her oldest son. His name lies at a sweet angle, stitched among 100+ sequins atop white felt.

DH and I, for years, have quibbled about who has the better holiday stocking. In the fun spirit of the season, I ask for your vote.

Consider these up-close images of the top of each stocking:

And the bottom:

On my stocking, I adore the bell dangles plus there’s a little “M” on the child’s Christmas box. Melanie or Mother?

On DH’s stocking, fancy gold thread edges his entire piece. His mother’s secret way of reiterating her first born’s special place in her heart?

My eyes stumble across a third big difference:

The seams radiate the personalities of these two women, offering perfect metaphor.

On the left, my mother’s independent spirit marries a lifestyle-driven need for efficiency. Four children and a disabled husband will dictate such a choice. 

To the right, DH’s mother reveals a preference for tradition merged with propriety. A lawyer’s wife, she birthed three boys, daughtered four parents. 

Two women, seven children offer different ways of being in the world.

I chose a third way. My best holiday work involved not homemade stockings — yikes! - but rather cookies, cards, and clever gifting. Only one of those do I still practice, and only rarely. 

But something changed in me this year. Dare I blame, or credit, the times? 

These stockings now serve as Totems, no more need for heated discussion. Each reflects the woman who made them, not the names they bear. Names are only a sorting device.

My mother fire-breathed I‑am-my-own-person-thank-you-very-much.

My mother-in-law committed to I‑must-do-what-a-woman-must-do.

Both echoing change and doing good in their own ways, leaving powerful offerings in their wake.

Never would diversity have been my word for these women. But here it is, shining in the Christmas stockings they made so many years ago. 

2020 Santa comes to your town.

Speaking of diversity and change, notice the masked Santa hanging up above, in the top picture — between the stockings?

The art comes from Fred Carter, a Texas-based, nationally-known woodcarver. He designed this cedarwood piece as his special 2020 offering.

FYI: Mr. Carter is 86 years old, proving again you’re never too old to change, expand, or grow.

(Interested in seeing Mr. Carter’s work? His daughter is my friend; we can connect you!)

Posted on by Melanie Ormand - 2 Comments on Old Radios, Aging Broad

Old Radios, Aging Broad

Despite years as a radio journalist, I never looked inside the machine that sent my stories out into the world.

Then I found this, the backside of my grandmother’s old radio:

Guts-eye view of my grandmother's 1948 Crosley radio
Guts-eye view of a 1948 Crosley radio: aren’t those vacuum tubes gorgeous?

At the bottom of the picture, as if lying down for a long nap, lies what you’re no doubt looking for: the radio dial. Here it is, full frontal:

Four wave bands — AM, FM, shortwave, and police — with push buttons for on/off, sound, and station controls.

I’d forgotten that radios once had shortwave and police bands on top of the information and music channels we utilized most.

In my grandmother’s day, AM radio was primo. Lawrence Welk was her favorite! When he switched to television, so did she.

Scope the station buttons on the lower right of the picture. You’ll find my grandmother’s favorite AM station, KPO, marked by its broken, smudged glass. It’s an old San Francisco radio station. Did Welk produce his show there?

From the station buttons, my radio friends will recognize KGO, KARN and KONO. The others are all California-based, still on the air, 70+ years later.

The FM band would have meant Future Media to my grandmother. But I wonder if she ever listened to the police band. Maybe shortwave radio? On a lonely Saturday night after her son had left home for university?

This old radio enchants as does the larger set of my grandmother’s furniture.

Entertainment center with cocktail cart; console includes turntable on upper left with storage for 78-speed records below.

I remember the glitz of her Adolphus Hotel apartment. Dinners included soft jazz emanating from the black box and cocktail ice clinking from the cart. Fancy, intimidating moments for a little Pampa girl.

Perhaps it’s not the memories, but nostalgia for old equipment? Today’s gizmos can’t replicate the simplicity of a one-function device. Solid state and digital technology isn’t as warm as wood and doesn’t glow like tubes. Also, satellite voices talking to the masses never impact as deeply as locals who name names.

But you reach a point where the past can’t keep talking to you.

So, we donated these pieces to Vintage Sounds Houston. They’ll find a home for these gems.

Meantime, I clear out my space, listening to the future now.

Which voice do you tune in?

Posted on by Melanie Ormand - No Comments on Have Shields, Will Travel

Have Shields, Will Travel

Four months buried in the ‘burbs, this RoadBroad needed a break.

Off to The City — that’s Houston, by the way — I drove, my trunk bearing sack loads of face shields. Each was destined for other broads, all writers like me.

We Wednesday Writers “talk” weekly to share stories either written or read in the previous six days. Yes, it’s a Zoom chat — what else is there nowadays?

Each visit renews my life. Literally. And connection matters.

During last week’s screen visit, I casually mentioned a recent find: face shields, available by the table-full at a local store.

“What do they look like?”

The question landed in multiple. I tried to describe: It’s a sheet of clear plastic that hangs below your chin, almost to your chest, with a blue plastic band that goes around your head.

I modeled mine then volunteered to gather more for those interested. On Sunday, I delivered, realizing on the way that the drive marked only my second trip into The City since March. Another first in 30-plus years living here.

How many more firsts will I live? How many in this pandemic alone?

The next surprise came with when I saw my writer friends for our carefully-planned, all-masked, mostly-distanced reunion.

Happy.

No hugs.

Sad.

I learned it’s hard to stay physically away from people I care about. It’s triple-hard when it’s several people.

I learned real human connection delivers a buzz that nothing else can. That buzz amplifies the more I connect with others in person as evidenced by another friend reunion later that day.

Maybe that’s my Big Learning from this entire coronoavirus pandemic: relationships really do matter to me, the self-proclaimed, fiercely fiesty, independent creature.

Posted on by Melanie Ormand - No Comments on When FART = New CAR

When FART = New CAR

Can six characters determine a car and its future?

His guffaw offered the first clue. My second glance confirmed the news.

This new car of mine is, shall we say, special! 

I’d called the insurance agent to report I needed to update our auto policy, thanks to new wheels.

He asked for the car’s VIN, short for Vehicle Identification Number. You know it as that windy string of numbers and letters tucked deep into the driver’s side of a car windshield.

The line of figures lies so low and tiny along the dashboard even children can’t read it. Thus, when I read the figures out loud, I concentrated on reading each letter and number. Each meant nothing.

But when the agent laughed, I scrunched my eyes, leaned in with my magnifying glass then echoed his guffaw. What slipped out was, “And I thought I bought a hybrid.”

After the phone call, I resorted to my old reporter days. I dug in for information. Thank you, Internet. Early popped up this VIN translation:

Image copyright. www.drivingtests.org.

The above graphic reveals the meaning behind the 17 characters that comprise a VIN. Imagine an automotive Social Security number. The VIN teases out the vehicle’s manufacturer, type, brand, model, series, engine size/type, year made, assembly plant, and vehicle production.

The first three digits comprise what’s called the WMI, short for World Manufacturer Identifier. In my new car, that = “7FA.”

The only problem? Those characters don’t fit WMI’s own rule. Said guideline states these identifiers refer to the car manufacturer’s country plus the vehicle’s maker and type.

Translation (and apologizing in advance for all these automotive acronyms): in WMI language, “7FA” indicates I now own a “multi-purpose vehicle” manufactured by an unidentified car maker in Oceania. The latter includes only Australia and New Zealand.

True fact is I bought a Honda CR‑V, manufactured in Indiana by a Japanese-owned car company. The window sticker verifies that, as does the rest of the VIN. Either I don’t know how to read long sets of characters. That’s somewhat probable. Or maybe there’s a secret system to protect against vehicle hijinks (aha! global conspiracy!).

Interesting that only the first three digits are wrong in this VIN. But it’s so simply corrected.

Change “7FA” to “1HA” and there’s my car: an American-manufactured Honda “multi-purpose vehicle.” (It’s actually a sport utility vehicle, but who wants to quibble?) Add that “1HA” to the existing “RT” and you get “1HART” — a car I’d drive with just that.

Alas, I’m stuck with the VIN I have. So I’ve named the car.

She’s Gassy.  For grins.

Posted on by Melanie Ormand - No Comments on When Cars & Age Don’t Mix

When Cars & Age Don’t Mix

I began driving (gulp!) nearly a half century ago. I figured out that factoid yesterday after buying a new car left me feeling Ancient.

My decade-plus car gave up its air conditioning last week.

Second time in two years. I shouted Sayonara!

A plethora of car research later, I headed out on the road.

Blast from the past: when gears want a push, not a pull.

Inside car #2 at the second dealership, I guffawed at the dashboard: push-button gears? 

My mind flicked back to childhood. In my mind’s eye, I saw Mother struggling to shift the skinny gear stick that poked out of the steering column like an Auto Gumby. Further back, I spied, from the back seat, as my grandmother Allie pushed what looked like sticky buttons on her dashboard then her big car inched forward.

Other car memories dropped in. None of our autos had:

  • Air conditioning
  • FM radio
  • Center console
  • Seatbelts, or
  • Power anything: windows, locks, brakes, or steering 

In the demo car, I eyeballed the dashboard, looking for the familiar, the necessary.

“CD player?” I asked the salesman.

“Nada,” he said. “Bring your phone and play your own music.”

I didn’t dare mention I have never downloaded music. I play CD’s or an old radio. Both serve my audio-challenged purposes.

I asked about the car radio. He turned it on. I spied nirvana: high-definition (HD) radio. Interrupting his chatty spiel, I hijacked the dial and searched for my favorite music — the tunes that calm, never crank-ify, me. Eureka! Classical music!

The salesman interrupted my reveries, sharing other shockers about today’s cars (is this what I get for hating to car shop?):

  • Tires filled with nitrogen, not air
  • Auto inspections = no more stickers
  • Keyless entry = bigger fob, and
  • Cameras and radar eyeball parking, lane centering
The orange-circled headline (lower right corner) screamed at me in the checkout lane the day I got my new car.

All these radar sensors, linked together by cameras and computers, come with repeated assurances about ‘spectacular’ safety devices.

I swallowed the Kool-Aid. It’s called New Car Giddiness.

But I swallowed hard the next day when I spotted Consumer Reports. A cover article revealed a multi-billion dollar industry now salivating over its planned “harvesting” of driver data from American cars.

Their goal? Million-car tracking next year alone, salivating at a multi-market revenue stream.

All fine, if data is used legally. But everything has a cause-and-effect. And a price. As do new cars with new gizmos. 

I head off here now — to learn how to silence most of what I just bought.

Posted on by Melanie Ormand - No Comments on When Voodoo Beats ‘Rona

When Voodoo Beats ‘Rona

I smiled at the fence and whispered, “Ah, Dorothy, we’re not in Portland…” 


Memories of this infamous shade of pink — and the tasty product it telegraphs — drew DH and I to burst our bubble of coronavirus quarantine.

The lure?

Newest location of Voodoo Doughnut. In Houston.

As it’s been eight weeks since we’ve driven into The City, this road trip felt like an excursion into a foreign land. A first after 40+ years of Big H living.

We expected a repeat of our first Voodoo experience.

Portland, Oregon. Summer, 2018.

The locals swore a Must-Do was sampling Portland doughnuts. Not a normal food choice for either of us. But DH and I share a hard travel rule: wherever, whatever, indulge as the natives do. Within reason, of course.

A two mile walk from our hotel, we discovered the Voodoo crowd: 

The never-ending line outside Voodoo Doughnuts, Portland, OR (Image copyright, DSC_0242.jpg.)
Whatever you can doughnut, plus more.

Their wall-mounted menu elicited a “Holy moly!” shriek. What you see to the left is one section of a three-paneled menu. 

Hard to see the variety. I remember what we ordered: Viscous Hibiscus, Blueberry Cake, Raspberry Romeo, Voodoo Doll, and School Daze PB&J. 

“Good!” understates the divinity. 

But, truth is, the ensuing sugar rush hijacked my blogger’s eye and writer’s brain. And I no longer remember what else was on the menu — doughnuts or drinks. I do remember The Pink. 

The same Portland pink dominates the Houston store, too.

I smacked on these local bites of heaven but my eyes rebelled at all the Pepto-Bismol pink. 

Maybe that’s the point? 

A second point: after you eat your box of doughnuts (because who buys or eats only two or three Voodoos?), you need yummy tummy medicine! 

So, why not sell PB in your stores, Voodoo Doughnuts? A commission later?

Oh dear reader, I beg your forgiveness for my doughnut-brain. This post does stink like a commercial. I promise the only green exchanged came from my own pocket. And it was a pricey grab: $2.80 per doughnut on average. 

The second ouch! came two days later when I stepped on the scale. 

Alas. Must we always pay in both pennies and pounds?

Can’t we catch a break in these pandemic days?

Posted on by Melanie Ormand - No Comments on Does Climbing Ladders Equal a Road Trip?

Does Climbing Ladders Equal a Road Trip?

I didn’t plan these 48 hours: climbing ladders and cleaning attics.

Blame two insurance companies and Covid-19.

The latter led to what I call a Double D.C. with DH.

Translation:  DeCluttering & Deep Cleaning Project with Dear Husband.

OMG! We have to clean this? 

With time on our hands and remembering last fall’s house-clearing experiences, we began The Project.

This weekend, it was the garage; today, the front closet and our attic. Of all the ancient goods we rediscovered, only two of each now remain: boxes of books and nearly-new suitcases.

There’s an ancient stuffed reindeer bagged up there, too. A post for next year’s holiday blog?

I’m grateful for an unused bedroom. It’s now two feet high with donate-ables, all Goodwill-bound when ‘Rona bails and frees us to venture wide again.

When an attic ladder meets sisterly memories…

Post-attic, I scaled a second ladder, this one at my sister’s house.

Standing at its highest rung, I looked down. Gulped. Hard. The ladder’s lowest step peeks right into her empty bedroom. 

Sniff, sniff. I’m still not used to her absence, six months ago last Thursday. 

A broken heart does what it must.

I climbed the ladder because we’re checking Mimi’s roof. Big Leaks, we fear. Total repairs are guess-timated $26K+, funds none of us has. Hearing that number, I ouched louder than I’ve cried since this nightmare began.

But as I stood atop this ladder, my inner fight grew.

Get roof repairs fully funded, somehow! Either by the crotchety manager who just cancelled the existing homeowner’s policy because we don’t insure vacant houses or the new company which insists we’ve got to see the roof! 

Me climbing ladders, much less two within an hour, marked a first. In these days, it’s particularly curious as Uncle Sam considers me ‘high-risk.’ I stepped up anyway, scaling rungs and standing higher than nine feet, nearly twice my height.

Boys will be Brave & Adventurous?

Before the afternoon ended, I rejected a third climbing opportunity. No go! to the roof, I nearly shouted. Instead, two young hunks, shod in Super Soles, shimmied up to play their high-in-the-sky games. 

I played mine. I stood on terra firma and I spun around. My eyes spotted him.

A headless man, climbing a tree. Desperate to escape. Is that a stand-in for me, today?

Play “name this scene!”

Take a peek: what do you see?

Your answer echoes the moral of my post: climb two ladders, save half your things, then go play.

Your life will be richer.

For each and every experience you name.

Posted on by Melanie Ormand - No Comments on When a Census Counts…and Doesn’t

When a Census Counts…and Doesn’t

Thank the U.S. Census for repeating itself last week.

Such are my days:

  • I received a pair of 2020 census forms: one at our house, another at my sister’s house;
  • Two flashbacks followed: one to 1980, my year as a census enumerator, another to five months ago

I wish my parents had snapped a photo of me as a census girl. We didn’t take many photos 40 years ago. Each print! It costs money! If I had a picture from those days, you’d see a Melanie-circa-1980-Census photo:

**right here**

I prized the homemade outfit I assembled. Over-coordinated in perfect reds, whites, and blues, I reminded myself, “I’m working for the U.S. government!” 

I also proudly toted the government-issued shoulder bag, a cheap black vinyl thing that swamped my small frame. It arrived with a massive U.S. CENSUS! sticker slapped on the diagonal across the bag’s front.

If I had a photo — again — you’d see that bag:

*right here**

But I grew to hate the bag’s wide black straps. They bit into my shoulder, the gouges deepening each day I criss-crossed the streets of my Pampa hometown.

Many of its roads I’d never driven, much less walked. At 23, I was frighteningly young, long sheltered from another side of life in a small Texas town.

When Derek opened his door, I recognized him as a high school classmate and former football star. He now lived alone with his mother in a unpainted shack south of the tracks.

He grimaced, remembering me. I smiled. It was my job.

A day later, I stood on Mrs. Wilson’s porch. Her youngest daughter had been my best friend in first grade. Mrs. Wilson complimented my outfit, validating my sense of style.

But her face remained blank. I didn’t know whether to feel hurt or gratitude.

Fast forward four decades:

My family received two census forms in, yes, two different mailboxes: my house, plus the same form at my recently deceased sister’s home.

I opened Mimi’s first. It read “To Resident at….”

I entered her census ID, expecting questions about her status.

Instead, a plethora of questions gushed forth like a wave, all focused on the structure at her address. I answered that no one was living in the house. The computer responded:

Swallowing the lump bulging in my throat, I asked the screen, “Empty doesn’t matter?”

On our census form, DH confirmed we still occupied the building as “residents of the address.” Up popped a question about our names. Answering led to gratitude from Uncle Sam: I know, I know. The census exists to count people for many reasons.

But we only matter if we’re living? 

Yes, I’m still grieving my sister’s sudden death. Last week marked five months.

Time does ease the loss. It won’t go away when reminders keep coming.

And 40 years later, I remain sad about those porch moments with Derek and Mrs. Wilson. 

Interesting, isn’t it, remembering what we’d like to forget.