Leap of Faith

There are some good things about Winter.  Cold is not one of them in my book, but looking on the bright side, I do get to haul out the sweaters, leather coats, warm blankets, boots and stuff.  Then there’s Thanksgiving.  In our family, the traditional day of thanks for the blessings in our lives is also a planning precursor for the bigger event to come - the celebration of Christmas, also a wonderful Winter occasion.  And, in addition to Jesus’ birthday, there is my own birthday; however, I’m pretty sure God was pulling a joke the day He created me so very cold-natured that 90 degrees seems quite comfortable, then He brought me into the world in January.  Hilarious.  So, that means I have to make it through the Winter if I want to have a birthday each year.  Mmmmm, maybe I have stumbled onto a new way to stop turning older - I just ignore Winter!  This could be a brilliant plan, except that I married my darling other half in the month of February, so that celebration that would also go away with the banishment of Winter and I’d hate that.  Not that the sweet man knows when we were married, or the date of my birthday for that matter, but come about July, he might wonder if he had missed something.  Anyway, January is National Stalking Awareness Month, and having experienced the stalker-type myself, I find that fairly significant, so I guess Winter’s existence is somewhat validated. 

Really, the most valuable opportunity Winter brings, as with all new seasons, is change.  The thought makes me dance around the room pretending I’m a 1980’s David Bowie shrieking “Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes!”  Then I get serious again, and the seasonal revolution takes hold, inspiring me to contemplate new beginnings while trying to thaw out.  A friend of mine recently had a huge change in his life, giving up a high position of power in the fast-paced political arena to take on a very different but extraordinary one-shot career opportunity and also to enjoy the new generations in his family.  Instead of calling it something like retirement, he referred to it as “turning a page” in life, and I was struck by that phrase.  It evokes a butterflies-in-the-tummy kind of giddiness that new experiences and uncharted pathways are ahead.  Mostly, it reinforces the notion that change is a good thing; and it is exactly that attitude which personifies a Leap of Faith.  I get warmed up just thinking that way.

Life tosses out changes in all sizes and shapes.  Leaving kindergarten and going to the big grade school.  Breaking up and never, ever getting back together.  Cleaning out a closet or a home.  Starting a new job or career or lifestyle.  The passing of a loved one.  Some changes are chosen, some come as a surprise.  Change can be awkward, exhilarating, confusing, encouraging, unpredictable, liberating.  Leaping into it can be downright terrifying.

My Baby Sister gave me a copy of the book The Prayer of Jabez, which our Mom had given to her.  Like the lawyer that I am, I analyzed the Old Testament passage thoroughly, especially the “Oh that you would bless me, and enlarge my territory” part. Now, I have come to realize that, in order to petition that prayer earnestly from the bottom of my heart, I have to request the blessing without reserve in every sense.  Territory might be occupational, it may be spiritual, or it could be basic geography.  You may never know which of your territories are to be enlarged until suddenly your life is transformed.  That prayer, my friends, is a true Leap of Faith.  

So, I welcome change with the assurance that good things will come with it, just like with Winter.  And I realize that as life evolves and it is the world around us that changes, if I remain loyal to myself, stick to my core beliefs and trust my inner convictions, that is the real essence of taking a Leap of Faith.

Dear President Obama,

[Friends:  Something a little different for this blog post!  In recognition of the 50th Anniversary of the Civil Rights Movement in the United States, this 5th Generation Texan makes a plea for leadership and unity to President Barack Obama.  The letter is contained in a video recently taped for FOX 26 Houston News.  Please take a look at this link:

Nelda Luce Blair's Video Letter to President Barack Obama

Stay tuned for more frequent blog posts from A Texan Takes The 5th!]

A Grandfather's Legacy

Although he accumulated many, I was his first and, therefore, forever favorite grandchild.  Being a generational Texan family, all born in the East Texas-ish area, we were typically close (and did I mention, yet again, that I’m a 5-Gen through both my maternal and paternal branches?)  We visited with each other for entertainment, and went to my grandparents’ house on Christmas Day after an early morning visit from Santa Claus.  (Incidentally, I believed in the fat jolly man until my 13^th birthday and still miss him.)  With my Mom being the oldest of seven siblings, by three minutes, and everyone bringing their specialty cooking, we had plenty to eat.  Southern comfort food.  OMGoodness.  I still drool just thinking about homemade sweet peach cobbler with a sugary crispy chewy gooey crust.  Yummmmy.…. 

Anyway, Elmer “Lloyd” Dover led a pretty dramatic life, although he probably didn’t think of it that way.  He was a working man, a repairman for the light company.  His truck had a nifty plastic water cooler near the tailgate with a built-in paper cup dispenser that my cousin and I drained regularly, drinking cup after cup until it was empty, yet I never remember Grandpa Dover fussing at us.  But, a haunting photograph from our family album shows a twenty-something daddy with a 2-year-old on each knee, grieving over a gravesite.  His beautiful young wife had left him with twin baby daughters, one of whom became my Mom.  He did his best to nurture them with the help of relatives until meeting the lady who would not only raise his girls but also bear him five more children over the next 17 years.  So, the twins having said “I do” to their respective husbands in a huge dual wedding ceremony as 19-year-olds, Grandpa Dover oversaw the arrival of his last daughter, as well as his first two granddaughters, within a year.  Little girls became his way of life, and he doted on us as we hero worshipped him (and his light company truck water cooler.) 

The drama in Grandpa Dover’s life took another turn when he became a patient of Dr. Denton Cooley, the renowned trail-blazing heart surgeon who performed one of his first quadruple bypasses on Grandpa.  Of course, Dr. Cooley called him Lloyd, not Grandpa.  Plagued with early heart disease and still responsible for young offspring, he was the perfect candidate and a tremendous success.  His large family was ecstatic when he recovered and returned home, hopefully to live for many more years.  But, another car hit his truck broadside, and in an instant, Grandpa Dover was gone.

He didn’t even live to see my graduation from high school, so I have few but fond memories.  However, my Grandfather’s greatest impact on me was one he surely did not plan, and one I knew nothing about until adulthood.  I remember Grandpa Dover was the Choir Leader in our church, that he sang beautifully and inspired others to use their musical talents.  It was decades after his passing that an aunt gave me a copy of hymns he actually composed which would reach into my soul with a song he wrote about the perils of putting career before religion.  At the time, I was a harried young lady lawyer bent on proving myself with overachievement, and his prose went straight to my heart.  The stanza “…When you’re weighed in the balance, what then?” speaks to me like no self-help book ever will.  Grandpa Dover didn't write those words for me, but I believe one of his purposes on earth was to influence people over time, including his descendants.  And his legacy of music has done just that for this granddaughter.

Thank God For Grandfathers

I love my Daddy.  Even though he is gone from this earth, Father’s Day is a perfect time to reflect on how much he still influences me.  But, this is a post for Grandfathers: Just because your grandkids are two generations behind you, and you may not understand anything they say or do, and you may think they don’t listen to a word you speak, your love and inspiration can still impact a life.  Take mine for instance.

Life was quite good for me in the grandfather department.  By the time I came along, he already had many grandchildren, but I was his youngest and therefore his absolute favorite.  (Just ask any of them.)  Even though he passed before I turned 18, my paternal grandfather Ernest Lester Luce definitely helped shape me.

Grandpa Luce had an incredible garden where he grew and canned just about anything that would sprout from the ground.  I have yet to taste fig preserves even close to his, though I try every chance I get.  He must have been in his late fifties when I was born, far past the “raising babies” stage in those days, but my parents were hard-working, very young and needed help.  So, he and Grandma provided free preschool daycare (and sometimes nightcare.)  I learned many things at his knee, including how to play the card game Solitaire all day long (drove my Grandma crazy), and wonderful rhymes, songs and hymns.  I got indoctrinated into garden etiquette at an early age, but just couldn’t grasp the concept of walking between the rows, not on the rows.  Yet, he never got angry with me for tromping on his newly planted seeds.  After all, I was his favorite.

Grandpa Luce also had a wondrous tool shed with a very distinctive earthy aroma I dearly loved, but I was not allowed to visit alone for fear of sharp blades and such.  My most vivid memory of that little tin building involves a day of gardening together, when in a weak moment, he granted entry on a quest for miniature aluminum pans to create mud pies - my specialty at the time.  First, there was the faint but unmistakable sound; and then I rushed in on a frenzied search-and-rescue-mission-impossible, becoming breathlessly elated to find, behind the shovels, in a dark corner, there they were:  KITTENS!  Giddy with joy and excitement, I tripped over myself to squeal the good news to Grandpa.  Of course, his advice was to look and not touch, and of course, all I could do was touch and hold and cuddle and pet.   And when I developed ringworm on my arm, never once did he scold “I told you so”.

But, it was on the return drive from an out of town family visit that my Grandpa Luce imparted to me his most lasting impression.  The car flipped twice and landed on its side, trapping all three of us.  An unconscious 10-year-old buried under debris in the back seat, I remained undiscovered by rescuers for awhile; but when I came to, the sound I heard gave me pure comfort while waiting to be freed from the wreckage.  It was a beautiful baritone voice, the same one my father inherited, singing through shock and pain, “I’ll fly away, oh glory, I’ll fly away!”  In my heart, I knew at that moment that our trust in God would protect us and everything would be okay. 

My Grandfather influenced in me a strong Christian commitment, just by being strong in his own commitment, just by loving and nurturing me, just by singing out his faith when I needed to hear it most.  Thank God for Grandfathers, and Happy Father’s Day.

Whoever is Happy Will Make Others Happy, Too.

I want to “do good” in the world.  I mean, really, with very few exceptions, who doesn’t want that?  It’s a pretty normal human desire to be a positive influence, to create a legacy, to leave a mark on life in some way.  Now, I’m no Nobel Peace Prize Winner Mother Teresa type, and I’m pretty sure I won’t be reaching anywhere near her heights of humanitarianism anytime soon.  Yet, even short of actually creating a worldwide phenomenon, I just believe that each of us has the need and the ability to radiate positive vibes; or in the words of those great philosophers, the Beach Boys, “Good, Good, Good - Good Vibrations!”  (If you don’t immediately sing this tune in your head, you may be an alien.  I mean, it’s #6 on Rolling Stone's 500 Greatest Songs of All Time, for goodness’ sake!)   

I’ve heard different people describe it in many different words.  Optimism.  Beliefs.  Dreams.  Hope.  Positive thinking.  Can-do attitude.  They all point in the same direction.  My word is “Faith,” and has been since I was a young girl.  In fact, I recently came across a diary from high school.  The occasion was one of those agonizing cleaning-out projects that I had put off for years until moving plans forced me to confront the paper-filled boxes or find a new place for them.  Excruciating.  Of course, it takes way longer than it should, because I couldn’t help sitting cross-legged on the closet floor to reminisce over each photo, place them all into piles to scan into my computer for yet another future project, and read this outdated diary of a 16-year-old with the lock still intact.  “Just got home, tired, turned on the radio and my song immediately came on ‘Feelin’ Stronger Everyday’.  It makes me happy and thankful for my life and friends and renews my faith in Jesus!” 

Now, I honestly do not remember being that faith-filled as a kid, but it did make me realize that I still get a positive charge out of that 1970’s Chicago hit.  It also helped me better understand why I now awaken each and every morning uttering a personal mantra for my day’s inspiration: “This is the day which the Lord has made; we will rejoice and be glad in it” from the Bible’s book of Psalms.  Don’t get me wrong, I already admitted I’m not a saint.  Some mornings are better than others and there are times I growl through gritted teeth “we WILL rejoice…”  The point is, my personal drive to do good is fostered by my faith as a Christian.  But, whatever we call it, wherever we seek it, we can only do good if we find our own happy spot.  After all, how can I be a positive influence on the world around me without first finding a source of good vibes in myself?

Actually, another teenaged girl’s diary said it much better than little Nelda Lynn’s, with a beautifully simple message.  Annelies "Anne" Marie Frank’s short  life ended in a war zone concentration camp, yet she found the hope and optimism to scribble down:  “…there is always some beauty left  - in nature, sunshine, freedom, in yourself; whoever is happy will make others happy, too.”

Dear Mom,

It is Mother’s Day and I just want to say I love you.  Not because it is a day I am supposed to do that, but because I sincerely want you to know that I do.  When I reflect on what I remember from my upbringing, I am grateful for your devotion to me as a daughter.  But, when I think a little deeper, turning the viewer around and looking at our lives from your angle, I can make out a picture of the love you gave to me. 

From my perspective as a grown woman who has had open opportunity, I cannot imagine what it must have been like to finish high school, get married, and bear a baby girl, all by the age of 19.  How terrified you must have been when your infant experienced her first seizure in what was to become a frustrating 5-year quest to find out what was wrong and what to do.  I remember only glimpses from that era, so I wonder how many nights you laid by my bed watching for problems, fearing the worst.  How many times did you rush to the emergency room with an unresponsive baby, wondering if you had waited too long?  You weren’t even 25 yet.  I cannot fathom how you managed it.

I am sure I was a handful as a young child.  Today, as a busy adult, I am so grateful for the innate but excess energy I have always experienced.  But in the days of my childhood, there were no medications to calm overactive little minds, and you had to deal with mine every hour of every day.  I clearly remember being the only girl in 1^st, 2^nd and 3^rd grades to have the distinction of being paddled in the principal’s office, simply because I could not keep from disrupting class with my constant uncontrollable talking and activity.  You taught me that I had to respect school authority, and that your authority was united with theirs.  But, you also searched for ways to think outside the box to help control my hyperactivity and point my energies in a positive direction.  You weren’t even 30 years old, you had no training in childhood development, yet you understood that I had brains and potential that needed to be harnessed and managed and directed.  Thank you for that.

I still have the letters you wrote to me in college, all addressed “Go Get ‘Em, Tiger”.  Anyone else who reads them may not get it, but you had watched me enliven crowds wearing a furry striped mascot suit in high school and never let me forget I was just that - a Tiger at heart.  I realize now, when you reflect on how “difficult” my college years were, that I only called home when I was at my lowest.  Whether it was a hardhearted professor, unrequited love, or just plain homesickness, it was then that your reassuring words were needed most.  But, Mom, my college days were actually pretty great, with loads of friends and fond memories remaining from them.  So, I regret that I only shared the tough times with you, but I am also very appreciative that you were always there at the other end of the telephone line. 

And now I am grown, you are aging, and we are dancing the step where who leads and who follows is unclear.  Yet, I am clear on this:  I am what I am because of your love, and I will always strive to follow my God’s commandment to honor you.  Happy Mother’s Day.

News Flash: Men And Women Are Different.

I attended a women’s conference recently.  Now, most ladies will back me up when I say some such events are absolutely enlightening.  Others can be, well, downright boring, but not this one.  The females in the room were an interesting mixture of younger and more mature (not “old”), career women, retirees and new workforce members, moms and daughters, and everything from community college students to seasoned professionals.  Now, don’t get me wrong - I really like men.  In fact, I mostly congregate with the male species.  But, spending a day engaging with truly intriguing women was inspirational.  One speaker pointed out that women and men are “different”.  That statement tickled me and I embarked on a trip down Memory Lane. 

The recollection was of 1970’s Texas, where I was chosen Lions Club Queen after being put on the spot before a room full of middle-aged male Lions with the impromptu question “Do you believe in Women’s Lib?”  My naïve but honest response was: “Well, ya know, I have learned that men are different from women,” which greatly amused this group of gentlemen.  Before I knew it, I was sporting the coveted Lions Club Queen tiara.  Even better, the Lions patted me on the head and awarded a college scholarship.  Now, fast forward a few years later when, with the help of that scholarship, I entered law school.  Remember now, this was the ‘70’s, so the practice of law was pretty much reserved for the boys - specifically, the good ole boys.  The local newspaper ran a sweet photo of a smiling, long-haired young lady with the headline “A Stag Affair”, breaking the earth-shattering news that the all-male legal community would soon be infiltrated with a female once I graduated from law school.  Becoming a lady lawyer in a man’s world was a tremendous challenge that turned out to be a great move for me in the long run.  And, I guess it’s pretty clear evidence that I do, indeed, like the company of men. 

But, back to the women’s conference, where we laughed out loud as personality tests revealed novel ways to deal with friends, co-workers, family, and nemeses.  We paid rapt attention to a financial expert who spoke to us like a girlfriend about serious monetary considerations unique to women.  The grand finale’ featured Heloise, as in “Household Hints from Heloise”, whose mother started the infamous 1950’s advice column which the daughter has turned into a thriving enterprise.  So, from retirement accounts to professional partners to recycling office supplies, we shared stories as only women do. 

I am reminded that the differences between men and women are as old as Adam and Eve.  As Dr. John Gray puts it, “Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus”, and I happen to like it that way.  (Incidentally, best-selling author Gray is a native Texan, which probably accounts for his vast common sense.)  Yes, I do love and enjoy the men.  Yet, once in awhile it’s refreshing to have pure woman-to-woman encounters, just to trade recipes for success.

Forgiveness

Our family got together for Easter Sunday.  And I’m guessing the Presidential family did the same, since the White House Easter Egg Roll wasn’t until April 1^st, the day after Easter.  I don’t know about the Obamas, but my family’s assembling for Easter was a little unusual, because we normally convene the entire clan only at Christmastime.  I am pleased to report that the day was happy and enjoyable, especially for a family which has more than its share of bosses and very few subordinates. 

Honestly, we are a pretty normal group, with close-knit relationships.  Yet, we are also human beings, so we have our share of long-remembered resentments, chips on the shoulder, and just plain grudges.  Some are months old, some decades.  However, our core foundation is a loving family unit which has been cultivated for many generations.  That is why, throughout the years, we've forgiven each other many times over.  Then, the thought bubble pops up over my head:  Maybe Easter is an appropriate time for more forgiveness! 

So, using myself as a guinea pig here, I think about absolution from the perspective of my own life – not an easy task.  But, I do realize forgiveness has two sides.  There’s the forgiving of others’ transgressions against me (whether they really did it or I just think they did doesn’t matter.)  I know that for many of us, there is no hurry to let go of ancient grievances.  And, the fact is, according to my newfound interest in ancestry.com, many generations of Texas genes should take most of my relatives into our 80's, 90's or even over 100 years old.  So, we have plenty of time to defer “forgive and forget” until we feel like going there.  That’s when the guinea pig on my right shoulder whispers “what better time than now?” 

Then, further into my self-examination, I recognize the other side of forgiveness, when I sheepishly recall those blurbs that slip from my lips before I can grab them and stuff them back into my mouth. What my sweet spouse calls “flashfire temper” when angry thoughts spout off the tip of my tongue, which tongue cools off almost immediately, but leaves behind scorched earth.  And that, my friends, is a perfect example of why we also need to try to forgive ourselves.    

It seems to me that there is no more perfect time to contemplate forgiveness.  After all, that is the essence of this family Easter celebration - that the sins of Christians are pardoned through the sacrifice of Jesus.  It is the quintessential opportunity to forgive our wrongdoings against each other.  And, while we’re at it, perhaps we may even forgive ourselves for our own failings.

Even though he’s only thirty-something, performer/songwriter Matthew West puts it pretty well when he sings, “There is no end to what its power can do.  So, let it go and be amazed by what you see through eyes of grace.  The prisoner that it really frees is you.  Forgiveness.”

New Beginnings

Evidently, I’m nesting.  This insight literally dawned on me during an early morning cup of coffee on the back porch, while I was mesmerized by a couple of highly motivated, serious-minded sparrows working nonstop to fill a bird house as big as a shoe box with nesting materials for the purpose of laying 5 eggs about the size of jelly beans.  A bit of overkill on the birds’ part maybe, yet I recognized their flurry of energy as being much like my own this time of year.  The restlessness and regeneration urges I have been experiencing for a couple of weeks are a lot like my feathered friends and soon-to-be parents.  Not that I plan additions to my family anytime soon; it’s just that this time of the year seems to evoke new beginnings in all parts of my life.  I mean, it is a season of renewal and daylight saving time (even though it’s dark-thirty when I awaken and get out of bed now), when plants are budding and blooming, and my ultra self-motivated girlfriends are inspired to clean out their closets.  That morning, I was reminded that Spring has always been my second favorite time of year.  Yes, second.  You see, my family has had five generations to acclimate to the Texas heat, and as a result, I am plenty comfortable in 100 degrees, thank you.  So, that would mean I consider Summer as the golden season, however Spring is a close runnerup. 

The other day, I met a new colleague who sheepishly recounted his recent relocation from an East Coast state, having not been so blessed as to be born below the Mason-Dixon line, but explained that he got to Texas as fast as he could.  He was also quick to say that, despite warnings from northern friends about the intense southern heat, he had fared quite well during his first August in Texas.  He went further to admit that, while he would probably import snow to East Texas just for Christmas Day, he was otherwise happy with his new homeland and its ever-changing forecast.  It was reflective of the true saying that if you don’t care for the weather in Texas, just be patient and wait a day, because it will surely change.  Anyway, this optimistic soul is starting fresh in a strange land (not strange in general, mind you, just strange to him because it was different.)  As I remarked to him, especially for a Yankee, he had a truly exemplary attitude.  Good for him!

The undeniable truth is this: no matter what your preferred time of year, Spring presents a unique opportunity to soar to new heights.  So, I have decided to emulate both the sparrow couple and my Texas transplant friend.  I will rebuild my nest, take advantage of the change in seasons to walk through newly opened doors, and maybe even take a chance on something strange or different.  I thank the good Lord for the Spring flowers, the longer days, my replenished get-up-and-go, and baby birds that will soon learn to fly.  And I can’t help but look forward to a golden Summer.

If You Can’t Say Anything Nice…

Trash talking.  Talking smack.  Bad mouthing.  Back stabbing.  Name calling.  Cat fighting.  Telling tales.  Disrespect.  Gossip.  It’s all the same.  The generations change, but the meaning never does. 

One of my Momma’s most persistent verbal lessons to my baby sister and me was, and I quote from vivid memory: “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.” That advice rings in my head more than any other (and in my baby sister’s head, too, because I remind her of it whenever she points out one of my shortcomings.)  To some, it may not mean much more than an admonition to “be nice”, but it goes way deeper than that, my friends.  It beckons back to a genteel, mannerly way of life that my generational Texan ancestors considered natural.  It is a derivative of the Biblical law to “love thy neighbor as thyself.”  In other words, avoid negative talk about someone else that you wouldn’t want said about you.  Pretty simple and timeless, huh? 

From experience, I have come to believe it’s just a better choice in the long run to wear the white hat.  (For my transplant Texan friends, the good guy always wears the white hat in old western movies…)  You would hope that folks we depend on the most in our lives - our leaders - would be the first to wear the white hat, to treat each other in a kinder, gentler way.  Every morning, the television talking heads shriek with news of those in my federal government who have had the meanest sound bite in the past 36 hours.  Sometimes I shriek back at them (yes, I do admit to yelling at the TV), questioning what exactly did that mean or does the truth count for anything anymore, etc., etc.  Even on a local level, it seems that it is not always easy to keep the dirt off that white Stetson when you’re in the bull pen of life. 

 

Maybe this is one reason that, in the minds of many folks, politics is a dirty word, but I say the political world in its purest form is noble, respectable and one of my favorite fields.  I come by that naturally, as the product of a father who routinely wrote letters to newspaper editors, exchanged opinions with all of his government representatives, and had strong beliefs on just about everything - all without mud-slinging, I might add.  It was his grandfather who was our first Texan family politician over 100 years ago.  I came across a childhood diary recently where, on November 6, 1968, a little 10-year-old girl I once was wrote: “NIXON WON! I am so happy!”  While I don’t exactly recall penning that entry, I do remember having an opinionated encounter about my Daddy’s choice in the presidential race on the 4^th grade school bus, and being required to sit next to the bus driver for the ride home.  I also retain a vision of standing on a street corner holding my first “Vote For” sign at age 12.  So, it is probably genetic that I am fond of most things political, but in a positive way.  And being political does not rule out being civil. 

To this day, Momma maintains that highlighting the faults of others doesn’t serve to brighten the glow of your own halo - or your own white hat - same thing.  In other words, no trash talking.  Or, as spelled out by another great lady named Aretha (Franklin, that is, but then, is there really any other “Aretha”?) - R-E-S-P-E-C-T.

Proud to be a Texan - Native or Otherwise

Since today is “Go Texan Day”, February is “American Heart Month”, and it is rodeo season here “Deep in the Heart of Texas”, maybe I’ll just use those excuses to show my pride in being Texan.  Not that I actually feel the need to justify a flaunting of my heritage, but did I mention being a 5^th Generation Texan?  (Yes, indeed, it is a capitalized phrase, a specifically defined term.)  However, after getting hooked on web searches deep into my genealogical roots, and learning that the “5^th Gen” label stems from both of my parents’ sides of the tree, I now wear the title more like a badge of honor.  Believe it or not, one of my descendants proudly boasts a “6 Gen” tattoo on his arm.  Now, while I am not much of the tattoo-type girl, I often do wear symbols reminiscent of the great state of Texas, including jewelry shaped like that ever recognizable geography, fringed leather and big belt buckles, a felt cowboy hat with a sparkling tiara band, and of course, cowboy boots with the Lone Star flag emblazoned on the side.  Whenever visiting the State Capitol in Austin, I have been known to drag total strangers down to the east basement to admire the group photo containing state representatives from 1909.  There, my great-grandfather John Riley Luce stares solemnly from a profile portrait.  (J. R. L. is another source of pride in that he helped to make school books free to Texas children.)

One thing about proud Texans, though, is that they are always welcoming to those who are not from around here.  Like Lyle Lovett drawls “That’s right, you’re not from Texas. But, Texas wants you anyway.”  (You got to figure Lyle is probably a pretty smart guy and knows what he’s talking about.  After all, he is a native Texan and grew up to marry Pretty Woman, at least for awhile.)  So, the other day, I met a new friend from Massachusetts (who was lucky enough to land a job in Texas because those folks back East just don’t have enough jobs to go around, bless their hearts) and was explaining to her the origin of the Six Flags New England amusement park.  Poor girl had no idea that the name of these mega entertainment venues reflects the six different nations that have laid claim to Texas over the ages.  She was clearly impressed, especially when I related to her (with appropriate humility) that my ancestors were here back when Texas was its own Republic.  Believe it or not, she blurted out loud “Texas is like a whole other country” before I advised her that such a thought was not unique and, in fact, the Governor’s Tourism office had already copyrighted the accuracy of that notion. 

And, speaking of Governor, whether or not you’re a Rick Perry fan (yes, I am), if at all honest, you must admit that the Texas Governor is way cooler than other governors.  I mean, it’s one thing to have a Guv who could have been a twin separated at birth from the Marlboro Man.  It’s another to say he holds the longest running term of office ever in the most economically dynamic state in the Union (no brag, just fact.)  And, like the former Texas Aggie Yell Leader he is, Rick is always leading the charge to keep Texas in first place.  What other “head of state” makes the national news repeatedly, whether he’s recruiting California companies or taking on a coyote that threatens his beloved dog?  Now, that’s pretty cool.

So, if you’re a Texan, whether native, transplant, adopted or otherwise, show your Texas pride, and Go Texan!

The Big Picture of The Big Game in The Big Easy

Super Bowl XLVII was a week ago, and most sports followers have already moved on to the NBA All-Star Game this week in Houston.  But, the lasting impressions of the Super Bowl in New Orleans still stir up excitement - WOW!  What a game!  Yet, this is so much more than an annual one-day game, so much more than a gigantic sporting event, so much more than a television extravaganza, and definitely so much more than a half hour power outage.  The city of New Orleans and every last person involved in this Super Bowl deserved more than the media obsession with how long the lights were out, what happened to cause the outage, whose fault it is that the electricity failed, and on and on.

Now, consider The Big Picture:  I can’t even imagine the massive preparations required around what is now “Super Bowl Week”.  How many gazillions of hours were spent by the players on weight equipment and physical therapy tables?  Or by team coaches reviewing and strategizing and re-strategizing?  Or by Beyonce’ and crew relentlessly rehearsing a perfectly executed halftime show?  (I’m proud to say that girl’s a native Texan by the way.)  Or by peanut vendors and burger flippers and t-shirt sellers and hand towel suppliers in making sure no one’s good time would be hampered by a shortage of their wares during The Big Game?  Who knew that a beer company sponsor would go to such great lengths as to replace every sign, emblem and label in their New Orleans hotel, right down to the hotel room shower curtains, with their own logo just for their guests attending this big event?  Records of physical greatness were defied, outlandish bets were lost and won, fabulous wardrobes were bought and flaunted, restaurants and hotels overflowed with good times, the overhauled Superdome became a thing of beauty again, the city of New Orleans (a/k/a/ The Big Easy) was embraced by the world, and oh yeah, I almost forgot - the lights went out for awhile.

By the way, in case it’s not evident, I do love sports spectating.  I have ever since my first cheerleading position, won with homemade lapel signs and cutesy slogans (“Don’t be a Goose, Vote for Nelda Luce”  …thought that one up myself.)  Put on the spot, right there at my first football game at William B. Travis Junior High, I was forced to grasp the difference between offense and defense, and to comprehend which cheer worked - and which did not.  After all, it was pretty difficult to rouse even a crowd of players’ parents by enthusiastically screaming “Push ‘em back, push ‘em back, waaaaaay back!” when our own quarterback was scrambling to throw a long pass.  So, after some instant on-the-job training, I became a true sports fan then and there.

Which is why I, like many other football folks, look forward all year to Super Bowl Week.  The pregame festivities, the coin toss, the kickoff, every quarter, every play, every penalty, every commercial, and of course, like the cheerleader in me, the halftime show.  But, a lesson to be learned is that we shouldn’t allow the smaller surprises like a short loss of power to overshadow the extraordinary effort it must take to entertain the world for an entire week.  So, a shout out to The Big Easy:  You’re still a bright spot in The Big Picture! 

I Can't Drive 55!

Rocker Sammy Hagar had it right. I can't drive 55! Yep like a lot of kids through the generations, I've always loved that rock song belting it out while zooming down the toll road radar detector humming along. Today, though, it really takes on a whole new meaning. Holy Grown-Ups, Batman! Fifty-five isn't just a speed limit; it's actually a measure of how long you've been on this earth! It's 55 years! 

Now I really get it when Hagar and I wail together "One foot on the brake and one on the gas, hey!" That's exactly how I feel most any given day, one brain lobe concentrating toward a future era when I'll expend less time and effort on life, while my alter ego is speeding up the tempo so I can get more accomplished before I get "too old". (Did I really say that?) It's just that there are still so many open doors out there that hold possibilities! I want to encourage optimism and hope and kindness and love. I still need time to cement my place in Heaven by trying to do the Lord's work on earth.

"I can't drive 55!" But I am - 55 that is. Dang, I'm not 18 or 21 or even 39. Or for that matter, 40-ish. Sammy Hagar screams "When I drive that slow, you know it's hard to steer, and I can't get my car out of second gear. What used to take two hours now takes all day..." Sammy, by the way, just recently turned 65, so he probably sings that part in the shower every morning now. But, not me. Many of us Baby Boomers enjoy exceptions to the expected aging normalities. Mine is that I still retain the hyperactivity that always plagued me as a child and young adult. Now it's an asset, though, if I can just re-direct that excess energy towards getting more good stuff done. Now, I do admit that life may be a little different since age 21 (thank goodness for that); I probably can't as easily do a cheerleader split jump (although honestly, I haven't tried lately); and when I download new music to my iPod, it is possible that I could be the age of the band's grandmother (admittedly, that one is still a little hard to accept.) Yet, the flip side is that I am convinced age is a definite improvement. I am more developed in mind and spirit, stronger in confidence and persuasiveness, and what people think doesn't mean nearly as much to me as what is right. "So, go on and write me up for one 125! 'Cause I can't drive 55!" But, in the words of another great philosopher - M C Hammer - "It's all good."