Road Trips, Republics, and Texas Roadhouse Rolls: Let Freedom Ring

 

The average distance to the moon is 238,855, and throughout all the missions to the moon and beyond, I'm sure not one astronaut ever asked, "Are we there yet?"

In my lifetime, we've made it to the moon, experienced life-changing inventions like the microwave, VCR, cell phones, and Texas Roadhouse Rolls...(more about that one later). But with all these advancements and American ingenuity, can anyone honestly say they have mastered the ability to take a blissful and problem-free road trip?...

With the innovation of the automobile and our nation's elaborate road system, the family vacation was born, always with the intent of extending family bonding time, while enhancing the cultural literacy and heritage of the children. 

Fifty years ago, I was thirteen years old, and it was the Bicentennial Year--the 200th celebration of our Nation's Independence. To commemorate this special occasion, my parents planned an epic road trip, with our destination being Washington, D.C.

To say the Browns were the poster family for bad vacations would be an untruth. That honor still belongs to the Griswalds, with my family coming in a close second. I will, however, stop to brag for a moment by stating that our Ford Gran Torino station wagon could have been the inspiration for the Griswald's "Family Truckster." It was avocado green, with wood paneling on the sides. One of the coolest features, at least we thought so at the time, was the third-row seat, which faced backwards. What a way to see the USA, putting nausea and motion-sickness aside.

This third-row seat could also be folded down flat, a place for suitcases or for someone to stretch out and relax while watching the countryside flash by. To make more room, and to keep my brother and I separated, the luggage was strapped to the rack on top of the station wagon, Fortunately, we didn't have an "Aunt Edna," so that took care of the worry and inconvenience of transporting a lifeless body on top of the vehicle.

In July of 1976, we departed Nacogdoches, Texas and began our journey across the South, stopping at all the major Civil War Battlefields. At each stop, my older brother Greg and I would reluctantly get out of the car, dragging our feet with that special teenage angst that is the bane and nightmare of every parent who tries to navigate the awkward adolescent years of blemishes, hormones, and being the source of embarrassment of their offspring.

             Gettysburg, and a rare picture with my dad, since he was the photographer-in-chief)

My mother was the walking embodiment of American spirit. She was a font of historical knowledge and a legendary government teacher. At every stop we made, she would pour out information, and small crowds would gather to listen. She and my father hurled information at us from all directions, trying to ensure we were literate, as well as proud Americans. My mom did most of the narration, while my dad snapped photos. 

      (No telling what piece of legislation Greg just signed while in Congressman Wilson's office)

I would like to say my goal for this trip was to gain knowledge, expand my horizons, and relish time with my family, but that was not the case. My aim for this trip was to finally snatch my life-long crush, Kyle Simpson. He was five years older than me, and ever since I was four, I thought he was dreamy--the Bobby Sherman and Donny Osmond level of dreamy. We were going to be staying with his family in Virginia. His dad was the Chief Aid of Congressman Charlie Wilson, and long-time friends of the family. I had just gotten my braces off and had a new-found confidence. To my dismay, at our arrival, I discovered his girlfriend, Tammy. My plan was foiled, and I was left with the realization that this trip would be educational, and nothing more. And I thought I could have been a contender!  To add insult to injury, the sickeningly sweet couple went to see Fleetwood Mac in concert while we were there. They saw Stevie Nicks, and I had to go my own way.

Throughout our two-week trip, we visited all the sites of D.C., traveled to Philadelphia, and were there along with an outbreak of the highly contagious Legionnaires Disease. We drove to New York City and had tickets to "A Chorus Line." We went to Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty. As we traveled the highways and byways of this great land, we passed by Shoney's Restaurants, historical markers, and Amish buggies. It was a presidential election year, and my dad, while attending a democratic fund-raiser with the Simpsons, left the dinner table to go to the restroom, and on the way, in the hallway, shook hands with democratic nominee Jimmy Carter.

Twenty-eight years later, Brian and I took our boys and our niece Meagan, along with my mother, back to DC and Boston. It was also a presidential year, and this time around, the kids were sporting their Bush/Cheney '04 t-shirts. Times change, ideologies change, but one thing remains the same--the love we have for our country. All those years later, we met up with the Simpsons (and told our kids not to wear their Bush shirts in front of them). We even went by Kyle Simpson's office, where he was a highly successful lobbyist. I had to rub it in that I had snagged Brian, and he had been replaced. 

Meagan, Christopher, and Charles in front of the Supreme Court--USA, USA USA!!!)

I'm eternally grateful that my parents instilled in me the importance of loving our country. They also taught me that we aren't perfect as a nation; there is always room to grow. However, we should never take our freedom lightly. We must participate, vote, voice our opinions, spar with opponents while still respecting their viewpoints. Our nation is different. It's special. The Constitution was written by thirty-something year old men who amazingly created a document for the ages. Things change, we grow as a nation, and with their forethought, we have the ability to amend the constitution. 

On the last day of the convention, after all the delegates had signed the constitution, a lady asked Benjamin Franklin, "Well, Doctor, what have we got, a republic or a monarchy?" Franklin responded, "A republic, if you can keep it."

For Mother's Day one year, I gave my mom a book from Hallmark written in 1972 entitled, The American Spirit, by Dean Walley. I found the book while going through Mother's things, and the words still ring true today.

“I am an American. I have come from the four corners of the earth, in flight from the old, and the ruined, and the oppressive. I have come to the Golden Door in search of Freedom.

I have been poor, and tired, and homeless, but I have found a wealth of the spirit, a strength of will, a home at last in this new world of tall mountains, and virgin timber, and broad prairies.

I am an American. I am many different things, but in these differences, there is a sameness in belief. For I believe in myself, in the destiny of this land.

I believe, ‘that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain inalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.’

I am an American. I have crossed the prairies and the mountains in a covered wagon, living mostly on hope, charting the unknown, sleeping under the stars.

I have followed the sun in search of gold and found a greater prize in the new lands and the brave hearts of my fellows.

I have lived in a house divided by war, and in honoring my fallen brothers, I have spoken from the heart; from the heart of America, with high resolve ‘that these dead shall not have died in vain; that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom; and that government of the people, by the people, and for the people, shall not perish from the earth.’

I am an American. I speak in diverse accents. My skin has many hues.

I worship in churches, cathedrals, synagogues, temples, rude tents, and wild forests.

I am as old as Man’s love of Freedom; I am as young as tomorrow.

I have given my life so many times for my country: at Valley Forge, Appomattox, Belleau Wood, Iwo Jima, Da Nang.

But there is in me a thing that knows no death, and my spirit is living still in the land of the free and the home of the brave.

I am an American. I have sold men into slavery, and I have been a slave. I have lived in greater luxury than any man before me.

I have planted trees, and I have laid waste to the land I love.

There are moments in my past I view with great pride, and there are scenes that cry out in my memory. But only in realizing the good and the bad that has gone before can I become the American I must be in the days ahead.

I am an American, and I have a dream, a dream of a time when we ‘will be able to join hands and sing, Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!’

I am an American, and I want to work and live and dare to make my country all that it can be, for ‘some men see things as they are and say why? I dream of things that never were and say, why not?’

I am an American, and I say, ‘Ask not what your country can do for you. Ask what you can do for your country.’

I am an American. I feel great pride and at the same time I am humble enough to walk for the first time on the moon and count that achievement as ‘one small step for a man, one giant leap for mankind.’

I am an American. This land of mine is the greatest poem. It is a poem of life and work, love and sacrifice, sorrow and joy. I move freely through the vastness, and all about me I see ‘magnificent masses, careless of particulars; the roughs, beards, friendliness, combativeness, the soul loves. The flowing trains, the crowds, equality, diversity, the soul loves.’

I am the farmer at his plow, the mother with her child. I am the merchant in his shop. I am the statesman, the soldier, the minister, the child, the poet, the philosopher, the builder, the lover.

I am three hundred and forty-six million people.

I am one spirit.

I am an American!

*the number of Americans at the time of publishing in 1972 was two hundred million*

I love my country. I stand for the flag; I sing off-key to “The Star-Spangled Banner.” I believe that we live in the greatest country in the world. I embrace my freedoms, but also know our country has flaws. But rather than bash the things I dislike, I vote. I voice my opinion but also don’t try to thrust my views on others. We are all free to make our own choices.

Here's what I do know. My ultimate freedom doesn’t come from my country. It comes from God. “The Lord is the spirit, and where the spirit of the Lord is, there is freedom.” (2 Corinthians 3:17).

I am thankful for all the blessings I have received, and thankful that I am able to live each day in “the land of the free and the home of the brave.”

I pray for our country, for our leaders, for peaceful dialogue. I believe that if you are in this country, you should love it. Yes, we have problems. Yes, we need many changes. But hating our country and calling yourself an American seem to be two things that don’t go together, kind of like beans in chili.

I recently came across something written by a popular political pundit. I am not stating his name because anyone who dislikes him or his party affiliation will automatically discount what he wrote.

“Somewhere along the way, we started treating patriotism like a membership card for one political tribe instead of something every America gets to hold. History turned controversial. The flag became controversial. Even the birthday turned controversial. That should bother all of us, regardless of who we voted for a couple of Novembers ago. A country that stops celebrating itself eventually stops wanting to protect itself.

History is a family photo album. Stop opening it and eventually your kids don’t know who the people in the pictures are. Once they don’t know who they came from, they stop knowing who they are.

Don’t let somebody else tell you what the country is. Go see her yourself. Because if the people who actually love this place stop showing up for its history, somebody else will write that history instead, and you won’t like the draft.

America is an inheritance. It’s a promise made two hundred and fifty years ago that each generation has to decide, on its own, whether it’s still worth keeping.

Learn it. Celebrate it. Protect it. Because whatever you inherit without gratitude, you don’t usually keep for long.”

 

Watching the pride and spirit that has come along with the World Cup has given me renewed hope that we will realize how great we have it here. I’ve seen our nation through new eyes. I’ve become even prouder to be an American, and more aware of the simple, everyday things we take for granted.

I saw a post by a guy from Australia who was amazed by Texas Roadhouse. He couldn’t believe that they brought free bread to the table, and when the basket of bread was empty, they would bring more. The same with free refills of drinks. He went on and on about all the wonderful things about the restaurant. I loved his ending the most. This is what he said:

“I don’t even know why you Americans are angry all the time. You’ve got Texas Roadhouse in your country!”

I agree! Get happy about the things we have here. Celebrate the freedoms men and women have fought and died for. Talk to your neighbors. Shoot off some fireworks. Eat some potato salad, just make sure it hasn’t been in the heat too long.

Sing loudly, even if you’re off-key. Wave your flag, hug your children, dress in red, white, and blue. Go to church. Praise the Lord for all you have, and in addition to a chance at life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, thank God for those Texas Roadhouse rolls!

May God bless you, and may God Bless the United States of America.
Let freedom ring!

Happy 250th, AMERICA!

 

 

 

Thirty-three Thanksgivings ago, and the Spirit of Aggieland

 

Thirty-three years ago. 

That was the last time the Aggies had an undefeated football season. It was the year my father passed away unexpectedly, and my second son was born. A&M has had another special season, just like three decades ago. My son is now grown, with kids of his own, and I know my father is still cheering for the Aggies from the best seat in the house.

(This is an excerpt from my book, Mockingbird Moments: A Memoir)

Fortunately, Thanksgiving showed up, even though I hoped it would be canceled in honor of my father’s passing. I wasn’t feeling very grateful, but the holiday did serve as a distraction from the golden drapes and smelly colors. Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday. It has always felt like a homecoming, whether I was returning home from college or from my adult world. No matter where I traveled from, I always knew I would enter a warm house, filled with love. This would be our first official holiday sans Dad.

As I walked into the kitchen, the familiar holiday smells surrounded me. The turkey and pies were supplied by Butcher Boys, and Mom made her special cornbread dressing using Mrs. Hathcock’s recipe, a true Southern treat. I set the plates and silverware in front of each chair and helped Mom carry the food to the table, while Brian and Greg dealt with disassembling the turkey. When everything was ready, a wave of nausea came over me, and I knew it was contagious. All this delectable food was waiting to be eaten, yet no one was hungry. Our appetites had been suppressed by our broken hearts. What occurred next was possibly the most heart-wrenching scene I had experienced since Dad died. When we gathered around the table, we realized we didn’t even know where we’d sit without Dad. It was like a backward version of musical chairs. After several awkward, hesitant seconds, what needed to happen did, and my brother pulled out my dad’s chair at the head of the table and sat down. He began leading us in the blessing. “Dear Heavenly Father. Thank you for all … our … blessings.” They were the only words he could muster. With our heads bowed and hands joined, we cried and eventually simply mumbled in unison, “Amen.”

            The meal continued, mostly in silence, until someone finally asked, “Will you please pass the sweet potatoes?” or stated, “The dressing sure is good, Mom,” to which everyone echoed and reaffirmed the sentiments by adding, “It is really good. Really good.” I think we should have at least added some, “Yes, Lords,” to the mix and a couple of “Amens,” to try to make our comments even more over-the-top and believable, as we were way too enthusiastic about the turkey’s counterpart. Our forced conversation was exhausting, but we were nothing if not mannerly. The silverware continued to clank against the plates, and ice rattled around in the glasses, filling in the blank space where words were forbidden. It was a pleasant relief when lunch finally ended and we began the process of cleaning up the kitchen. Somehow, asking for Tupperware containers and the idle chatter about divvying up the leftovers was preferable to addressing the elephant in the room.

            For most families who have been in our situation, stumbling through the meal would be the hardest hurdle to jump, but for our clan, it was the football game we would watch that afternoon—the traditional rivalry game between the Aggies and the Longhorns. This family tradition without Dad would be the most difficult to endure. To say my dad was a huge A&M fan would be equivalent to saying water is wet. He passed down this love for his university to both Greg and me. As far as I knew, I was born an Aggie, and at eight years old, my friend Paula Peacock and I declared we were going to go to college at Texas A&M. We even had a secret Aggie handshake! I remember sitting with my dad on Saturday afternoons, searching for the A&M game through all the static on his transistor radio. As we listened to the commentators, Dad relived stories about his college days in the mid- to late 1950s, during the era of “the Junction Boys,” led by Bear Bryant and players like John David Crow and Gene Stallings. While he spoke about days of old, I sat in my white A&M sweatshirt with the maroon Sarge and Block T on it, hanging on his every word. I learned very early that Thanksgiving was not only about the Pilgrims and Indians but also about the Aggies and Longhorns. This day meant celebrating (or grieving) the holiday with the A&M-UT game.

As a young child, this rivalry game was usually watched at my grandparents’ home in Gonzales. My grandmother despised the fact that the TV blared during our meal, and she chided my grandfather with her standard line: “You’re going to burn, Brown.” In the end, her objections were overruled, and we watched the game while we ate because God understands about football. I must confess we weren’t above praying and asking the good Lord for an Aggie victory before we said, “Amen.” The Thanksgiving game when the Longhorns scored three touchdowns in the first two minutes is forever burned in my mind. After the third touchdown, my grandfather jumped up from the table, muttered a few colorful words, and announced he was going to retrieve his hatchet so he could chop up the large wooden console TV. I waited with bated breath, imagining we were going to have our own personal version of an Aggie bonfire in the middle of Nana and Papa’s living room.

            It is imperative that I give my father full credit for my love of both Texas A&M and football—two sacred things that for our family go together like peas and carrots or, better yet, chips and salsa. I first fell in love with the game of football as a somewhat tomboyish four-year-old. On any given Sunday, when the Dallas Cowboys played, I could be found in the family room with Greg, under our makeshift fort, a card table with a sheet hanging over it, slit open ever so slightly so we could view the game from our secure location. My dad sat in his recliner, and my mom usually used this time to catch up on things around the house, or in rare instances, to relax. At first, I was there for the adventure and playtime with my brother, but before I knew it, I was a football savant, full of knowledge and a love for the game. My dad and brother taught me the gridiron basics, and I quickly caught on to the signals the officials gave when assessing penalties.

The early 1960s was an exciting time to be a Cowboy fan. Their roster was full of legends in the making. From Roger Staubach to Bob Lilly to Bob Hayes, I loved them all. Tom Landry was my hero, and every week I gave my heart to the Dallas Cowboys. In no time at all, I learned all the names and numbers of the starters on both sides of the ball, a feat that made my parents proud. Because of this unique talent, each time I accompanied my mom to the beauty shop, I was asked to recite this information to Bob Davis, her beauty operator. Among the thick film of hair spray and clouds of cigarette smoke, I stood at attention and named the players one by one, adding any exciting anecdotes that might enhance the performance. I think a time or two I ended with a quick curtsy to add to the theatrics. Looking back, I was like a one-trick pony and may have been a tad bit obnoxious, but I did leave a lasting impression. I was, after all, a rare breed—a young girl who would rather watch football than play with Barbies.

My love for the Cowboys continued through the years, and as a young adult, I was still a die-hard fan—that is, until Jerry Jones, an oil tycoon from Arkansas, bought the Cowboys and fired Tom Landry. I have never forgiven him for the way he handled the situation, and because of that, my support of the Cowboys has waned over the years. “The only oilman I’ve ever heard of coming out of Arkansas is Jed Clampett,” was my father’s response to the Cowboy takeover. I have often thought of his retort and wholeheartedly believe that Uncle Jed, along with his dimwitted nephew Jethro Bodine, at times may have been better caretakers of the Cowboy franchise. The one thing I do know without a doubt as I look back on my formative years is the love of sports my father instilled in me was in preparation for the life I would lead as a coach’s wife and mother of two boys. I clearly see the Lord’s plan in this and am so lucky that God gave me two men who not only shared with me their love of the game but also the life lessons that abound in the world of sports.

With thoughts of Thanksgivings past and memories of Dad cheering for his teams, we clicked on the television to watch the ball game. The showdown was played in Austin that year, so the environment seemed extra hostile. Sounds of the band playing “The Aggie War Hymn” filled the living room as we watched the teams run onto the field. As if he were sitting in the room beside me, I heard my father boldly proclaiming, “If the Longhorns played the Soviets in Red Square, I would cheer for the Soviets every time.”

It goes without saying that in the South, football is a religious experience, and I knew with the added emotional baggage attached to this day and this game, we would be “having church” like never before. Going into the game, the Aggies were undefeated and embarking on one of the best seasons in A&M football history. There was so much riding on this contest, and of course, we bundled all our hopes and dreams and burdens into a victory, as well. Somehow, we fully believed if we beat Texas, it would be a tribute to my dad. In a month full of losses, a win for our family was monumentally important. Football that day became more than just a game. It represented life itself. We whooped and cheered and high-fived and quietly mumbled ugly words throughout the four quarters. We yelled louder and stronger and prayed harder than ever before during a football game. We simply had to win. We couldn’t take another letdown or loss. When the final whistle blew, the Aggies had resoundingly defeated the Longhorns 34–13. We firmly believed Dad was waving his 12th Man Towel and whooping it up in heaven. It was the first time in over a month that we felt alive. Deep down in my soul, I know God doesn’t choose sides, but that day, he was an Aggie.

As much joy as this victory brought us all, it was still laced in sorrow, and nothing could take away the sting we felt by Dad’s absence. After the game, the time had come for us to go. We loaded the car to return home, and along with the leftovers, I packed a great big helping of guilt, something I always felt whenever we left Mom alone in that big, empty house. Since the cemetery was on our way out of town, Brian, Christopher, and I decided to stop by. We knew Dad’s grave site would still be a mound of dirt with only a temporary marker identifying him. His headstone had been ordered but wouldn’t be in for a month or so. Even though we dreaded it, we knew stopping by to pay our respects was the proper, grown-up thing to do.

            The sun was setting on an autumn sky, and shadows were starting to dance across the monuments and stones. I wasn’t exactly sure if I could find Dad’s resting place as we weaved in and around the winding pathways that coursed through Sunset Memorial Park. I was grateful that his plot was newly made and would help us narrow down the options. From a distance, I could see the dirt covering my father. It seemed to have settled since I was last there, and in a temporary flash of madness, I wondered if he was cold. Snapping out of the crazy thought, I admired several floral arrangements that had withstood the weather over the past month or so. 

         As I continued to survey the area, something white caught my eye. It was almost like a white flag of surrender, which I thought was a little harsh, even for a cemetery. The closer we moved to the object, the more familiar it became. It was a 12th Man Towel attached to a stake. During Jackie Sherrill’s tenure as the head football coach at A&M, he introduced the tradition of waving white towels imprinted with 12th Man. This was a rally cry for the team and reminded us that all Aggies stand ready to go in the game and help our boys if ever needed. To a die-hard Aggie fan, the 12th Man Towel is a mandatory wardrobe accessory for game-day attire. 

As the November wind blew gently that afternoon, the flag proudly waved like the one planted at Iwo Jima. It, too, represented pride, tradition, and camaraderie. We stepped out of the car and clumsily searched for a note or something that might reveal the thoughtful giver of this random act of kindness. After investigating the area for a few moments, there was not a trace of anything but the towel. I never knew who put the flag there, but know whoever it was understood my father’s deep love of his alma mater. I can think of no greater honor or tribute to one of the most loyal Aggies I’ve ever known. “There’s a spirit can ne’er be told, it’s the Spirit of Aggieland.”

As we drove away from the cemetery that autumn night, the last few stanzas of a poem entitled “The Last Corp Trip” echoed in my head. I will always regret that I didn’t think to have this poem read at my father’s funeral. This is how I envisioned Dad’s entrance into heaven:

            And the band poured forth the anthem in notes both bright and clear.
And ten thousand Aggie voices sang the song they hold so dear.

And when the band had finished, St. Peter wiped his eyes
And said, “It’s not so hard to see they’re meant for Paradise.”

And the colonel of the Cadet Corps said as he stiffly took his stand,
“It’s just another Corps Trip, boys, we’ll march in behind the band.”

—P. H. DuVal Jr., ’51

 

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• I am a little over five weeks away from my swan song in public education. After thirty-nine years, it's time. I know it will be an adjustment. I will no longer have to get up at the crack of dawn so I can make it to breakfast duty by 7:20ish. I'll also have to remind myself when in fast food restaurants, it's no longer my place to open ketchup packets or dispense napkins.
• As I ponder the rote phrase commonly used on Facebook, "Time, slow down," I know it won't. Thus, it's time for me to enter into the season of slowing myself down, enjoying my grandchildren, traveling, and doing all the things I said I would do if I ever had the time.
• It seems like yesterday when I graduated from A&M and moved back home with my parents. Every college graduate's dream.
• I graduated in December, or as I like to say, took a victory lap by staying one semester longer than scheduled. 
• I don't want to insinuate that my parents weren't happy to have me at home, but moving home as an adult and living with your parents isn't fun for anyone. 
• And to top it off, my brother was working in a bank in Nacogdoches, while also going back to school to get his teaching certification, so, you guessed it, he was at home too.
• The Brown family of four wasn't the empty nest my parents dreamed of. They made no bones about it. In fact, my dad once said, "People talk about what an adjustment it is when the nest is empty. I just want to understand what they're talking about."
• From January until the end of school, I filled my days substituting in NISD, with my claim to fame being the substitute who had a student climb out of the window in the middle of class. Yep, and my mother taught down the hall. What a proud moment for her! It honestly wasn't my fault. The guy had other students distract me, and then he made his escape. The windows were at least eight feet tall from the floor up and I had no idea they actually opened. I thought they were decorative. 
• Naive substitute teacher-0, Mischief-maker-1.
• On the days I wasn't called to sub, I floated in the backyard pool, which by the way, my parents put in while we were in college...
• My dad worked at SFA, and it became a daily event for him to walk to the Education Building and peruse the "Job Board." Every  night, he handed over to my brother and me the names of school districts and positions that would fit our teaching fields. 
• Since it was "back in the day," we had to call and ask for applications to be sent. Once received and completed, they had to be mailed back. And then you waited patiently, hoping to hear from someone who wanted to give you an interview, and/or job.
• Applications were pouring in (as my dad was also calling districts for applications). 
• I know we got on our parents' nerves. One morning, I was in the kitchen when Greg opened the refrigerator and asked, "Where's the milk at?"
• Being the chief grammar corrector of the house, I stated, "You aren't supposed to end a sentence with a preposition."
• Greg replied, "Where's the milk at, jackass."
• Greg and I really got the hint that my parents were serious about getting their birds to fly, when one morning Dad informed us that he had a plan. 
• His plan was for us to get in his pickup (bench seat) and he would drive us around East Texas. When we came upon a school district, he sent us in to ask for an application.
• I'm sure you think I'm embellishing for dramatic effect, but I'm telling the whole truth. And nothing but it.
• We thought the entire ordeal was humiliating enough, but when the people in the admistrative offices started asking if we were married, we had officially reached rock bottom.
• Reflecting back, this makes a great story, and also was time that we spent with our dad, not knowing that in less than ten years, he would be gone.
• Unfortunately, the trip around the highways and byways of East Texas didn't yield any positive leads or results. I'm sure when they saw a brother and sister team being driven around by their dad, it raised a lot of red flags...
• As the summer rolled on, and July arrived, I still didn't have a job. One afternoon while floating around the pool working on my tan while listening to Cyndi Lauper singing "Time After Time," my dad called me to the phone.
• He couldn't hide his excitement when he stated, "The principal of Tarkington High School wants to talk to you about a job."
• My reply, which wasn't well received, was, "I've never even heard of that place. Take a number and I'll call back later."
• My dad rarely showed emotion, but let's just say I ended up hustling inside, leaving a trail of pool water in my wake.
• On that seemingly insignificant day, I scheduled an interview. While at the interview, I was offered the job teaching 9th grade English (honors, regular, and correlated language arts). In addition, I would sponsor the drill team, and a couple of UIL events.
• As I look back, I undertand that this was all a part of the plan. Brian was the cute coach down the hall, and we started dating later that Fall, were engaged in February, and married in June. It sounds quick, but when you know, you know. Plus, the only time for us to get married that wouldn't interfere with high school athletics was the first part of Summer.

• I have so many stories, mishaps, and lessons I've learned throughout the almost four decades of teaching/counseling and being married to a coach. Too many to mention, and too many I've unfortunately forgotten. 
• While I want to say a proper farewell to the people I've met along the way, it doesn't seem possible--there are so many faces, memories, and experiences, and they all seem to blend together in the school colors of all the places I've worked: shades of maroon with gold or white, Columbia blue and white, red and royal blue, and green and white. 
• I've been a Longhorn (thankfully, one of the school colors was maroon), a Raider, a Cardinal, a Tiger, and a Mustang. 
• In thirty-nine years, I've worked for 18 principals! 
• I've sponsored the drill team, UIL events, cheerleaders, student council, National Honor society, and Beta club. I've driven a mini-bus through Austin, and spent a week at cheerleader camps at SMU and SFA. On the day we left the SFA camp, a young cheerleader from another school said to me, "We were so glad to see you here!" I thought to myself, what a sweet thing to say. Then she said, "Your transportation (suburban) is the only one that looks worse than ours!"
• I've taught all levels of High School English, US History, World History, Speech, Communication Applications, and Texas History.
• I've been the campus testing coordinator, 504 coordinator, tested students for GT, and other special programs. I've coordinated Red Ribbon Week, had hall duty, breakfast and lunch duty, and car rider duty. As requested by my principal, I started a program at Arp Elementary called "Jump Start." I hear it's still going strong.
• After sixteen years in the classroom, I became a school counselor. Not to boast, but I completed my masters degree while working, juggling my own childrens' activities, and supporting and attending my husband's athletic events. And this was before online degrees, back when you had to attend class in person.
• I felt I had been called to become a school counselor. Time and time again, high school students would hang around after class and share their problems, hardships, and broken hearts. I listened, and tried to give generic comments and advice, knowing I didn't have the degree to back up any wisdom I might dispense.
• At the end of each conversation I would say, "You really need to talk to the counselor."
• One day I made that statement, and a young lady replied, "How can I go talk to her? Look at the way she dresses. Look at her car. How would someone like her understand someone like me?"
• On that day, I walked to the Principal's office and told him I wanted to become a counselor.
• It's important to note that during my time as an educator, I worked at Title 1 schools--schools that receive federal funding to support students who come from low-income families.
• I firmly believe educators should always look and act professional. Before you think I'm being judgmental, this can still happen, even if teachers wear blue jeans. Oscar Wilde once said, "You can never be over-dressed or over-educated." I agree one can never have too much "learning," but in some cases, being over-dressed can put a barrier between an individual and others.
• When I first began teaching, I dressed to the nines. I wore a dress with hose and heels every day, except on Fridays which was designated as jean day. If you know me, or knew me back then, you would understand I was and still am, to some degree, a clothes horse.
• I love clothes, and as a young and single teacher, I could afford to spend money on nice outfits that I felt were both stylish and professional.
• My second year of teaching, I married the coach down the hall. I tamped down my spending, but the shopping gene I inherited from my mother was still there.
• After having my first child, I changed. I was much more sympathetic, empathetic, and more aware of the plight of many of my students, as well as the tiring, but rewarding job of parenting. Many of my students came from single-family homes, or lived with grandparents. Most all of them were on the free-lunch program, and usually came to school hungry.
• It was during my fourth year of teaching that I had a ninth grade student who started stealing my lunch, which I kept in the bottom right desk drawer in my classroom. She was in my first period class, and maybe she saw me put it there, or maybe she hunted to find it. 
• I didn't have a great lunch. Usually just a piece of fruit and maybe a Little Debbie treat. Nutrition at it's finest. In those early years, I fueled myself on Diet Coke, and usually left the Little Debbie treats for days when I just needed extra sugar.
• I was befuddled about the stealing, first of all wondering who could possibly be doing this, and secondly feeling bad that my lunch wasn't really worthy of stealing.
• But one day, I figured it out. I didn't catch the student red-handed, but I knew it was her. And it broke my heart. This student came to school with dirty, ill-fitting clothes. She had a hard time staying awake. She was ultra thin, and not on purpose. Her hair was disheveled, and she struggled academically. 
• It was on that day that I began to re-think a lot of things: my wardrobe, and my judgment/misunderstanding of the life many of my students led.
• I asked my mother, who loved to buy me clothes, to taper off a bit. I told her I didn't need clothes, and I honestly didn't need clothes from the fancy boutique we both loved. I began to feel like I had been snotty, and high-fa-lootin'. And I wondered what my students thought of me. Did I come across as snooty or entitled?
• I also began to purposely leave food in the bottom right desk drawer. I changed things up and left snack crackers and pretzels, anything that she could fit into her pocket. 
• Just as I figured out she was taking my lunch, she figured out that I was now sharing what I had with her. 
• During those days of simmering down my wardrobe, and understanding first-hand the needs of my students, I became a better person and teacher. 
• Just as I hoped I would change students' lives in a positive way, they did the same for me. 
• It hasn't all been easy, and I've definitely made mistakes along the way. Like showing the un-cut version of "Romeo and Juliet" to my honors English class in my very first year of teaching. In that year, I also received a hateful and grammatically incorrect letter from a parent, and was serenaded by a group of boys after they heard I was engaged. The song they chose to sing was, "You've Lost that Lovin' Feelin'." One boy asked me, with tears in his eyes, why I wouldn't wait for him. Bless it!
• After having children, I showed up with baby spit-up on my clothes more times than I care to remember. 
• In the early years, the principal told me to hurry to class before I was tardy, and at cheerleader camp, one of the camp leaders saw me in the hall after lights out and called me out for breaking curfew. He was a little embarrassed when he saw me the next morning at the staff/sponsor meeting.
• I've danced and cheered at pep-rallies, and followed football and basketball teams all over the state. 
• We've won some, lost some, and some were rained out. But I was there, usually with two young boys in tow.
• I've cheered for Brian throughout his coaching career, and one of the highlights of my life was when he led the Arp Tigers to win the 2A State Basketball Championship in 2006. Chris was on the team, which made that victory even sweeter.
• I've  yelled at referees, one whom actually worked with my brother at Kilgore High School. This assistant principal/basketball official so kindly attended my mother's funeral. I had been introduced to him before, but re-introduced myself as I was thanking him for being there. His reply was, "I know who you are. I heard you yelling at me many times!"
• I've laughed with students, and cried with them as well. I've lost too many students way too young.
• I've taught lessons, but were taught as many or more lessons by my students. 
• I've done my best, even though I fell short many times.
• As I look back on almost forty years of lesson plans, football and basketball games, classroom guidance and individual counseling, grading papers, and all the things that teachers do that no one knows about, I clearly see being a teacher and counselor was my life's work. It's who I am, and who I still want to be.
• That day so long ago when I was soaking up rays in the swimming pool, there was a call for me that changed my life. But I actually had been called to become a teacher/counselor from the very beginning of my life. It has always been part of God's plan.
• My career wasn't an 9-5 job. My days started at the crack of dawn and sometimes didn't end until midnight. I wasn't just drawing a paycheck, I was making a difference. 
• And even on days when I didn't feel like it, I showed up. Students were counting on me, not only to teach them facts or concepts, or challenge them to higher level thinking, but also to simply give them a smile, or hug, or a word of encouragement.
• Teaching is about relationships. That's the foundation from which education begins--not in trying to teach the class as a whole, but rather teaching the whole individual, with the goal being to help develop students into productive, kind, caring citizens.
• I've always considered teaching as my mission field. It's been about so much more than textbook learning. It's been life-changing for me and hopefully for the students I've known through the years.
• When I was taking a geography class at A&M, on the first day a rather portly professor entered the large auditorium carrying a globe and singing, "I've got the whole world in my hands." It was definitely an attention-getter and something I haven't forgotten.
• It's a reminder that teachers give kids the world. We teach them to see past their circumstances, to want better, to strive to do their best, and to overcome all the things the world puts in the way of success. 
• As I ride off into the sunset, I'd like to thank the superintendents and principals who took a chance on me; the many educators I've worked with; the teachers who were more than colleagues, as they became life-long friends.
• Thanks to my former students for being a part of my journey.
•  Another special thank you to my family and the never-ending support and encouragement they gave me. I'm so proud my parents taught me the importance of selfless service, and encouraged me to have a career in public education, fully understanding it's not about the income, but rather the outcome.
•  Most of all, I want to thank God for all the opportunities He's given me to make a difference in the lives of others.
• I'm not sure what I'll do next? Will I write more books? Will I pursue another dream of mine--becoming a public speaker in schools with the goal of making staff development fun again?!? If you don't already know this, I think I'm funny, but I'm not sure everyone else will agree...
• I do know I'll spend time with my husband, children, and grandchildren. It's time to concentrate on being "Sassy," while still being my sassy self! I hope to continue to find ways to help others, to volunteer, to try to make my corner of the world a better place.
• It's been quite a ride, and I love my story--the story of a counselor, and a coach, and a calling. 
• My cup runneth over...
• 
  
• 
  

A Blanket, a Song, a Baby, and a Friend...

Since June, I've been on a race. I've been trying to outrun grief. 

Sure, there are moments when I let myself cry and wallow around in self-pity, but other times I try to move onward, knowing my mother wouldn't want me to mourn for her. She is where she is supposed to be.

So, how do you outrun grief? The answer is you don't. But if you busy yourself enough, you will falsely believe you've won the race and have dodged grief. If you've ever played dodge ball in PE, you know when you're "safe" because you're not hit by the ball, it's quite a feat. The same goes with grief--You know you're safe for a while, but the next game, or the next crazy hit and the sting of the ball will remind you how very real and raw your grief is.

I've filled my life with church, work, children, grandchildren, "Wheel of Fortune," and Aggie Football (a season which felt like a wheel of misfortune). I've been busy working on a book, and eating healthy-ish, and planning for a trip next year. But last Sunday, I hit a wall. A powerful. Hard. Unforgiving wall. I was stopped in my tracks.

Yep. The A&M game had a great deal to do with it. As long as their season continued, I had another week to outrun my grief. Once it ended I was left without a focus, without something to do each and every Saturday. I was sad, frustrated, and wondered "why does it always end this way?"

Then I got on social media where everyone is talking about the other team in the state that beat us. However, many of the comments are about the Aggies, and are extremely negative. If people would just support their team rather than bash other teams, it would be much more bearable. But, sadly some people enjoy the feeling of being on top too much--it's easy to laugh at and/or mock someone else when you're sitting pretty. Just remember, what goes up, must come down, so choose your words, actions, and posts wisely. 

I'll now get off my high-horse.

The major reason for my current situation and sadness is the holiday season. I thought I had it licked. I sailed through Thanksgiving, but three days later, I found myself in a hole I couldn't dig out of, nor did I want to. I felt safe and warm there; no one could get to me. 

Again. You can't outrun grief, or hide in a hole. 

So as others prepare for the holidays, decorating their homes, and trees, and wrapping presents, and sending out cards, I am a spectator. I don't want to do it. From the decorations, to the songs, to the gifts, to the cards--my mom is everywhere. She's a part of all my Christmas memories.

I should find comfort in that, but it's all too fresh. The memories turn into thoughts of my mother and how very much I miss her. The phone calls. The holiday planning. Her thoughts on current events. Sharing things with her about my children and grandchildren. She's everywhere, yet she's nowhere. In my mind, I know she's in the most wondrous place, but I still miss her. Every. Single. Day. 

This morning, I read a devotional and it talked about the Graciousness of God. When I read this, I paused:  "Asking for God to be gracious is invoking His favor--which is a blessing so extensive it can't be measured." 

In the last six months, I have asked God for many things, but not once have I asked Him to be gracious to me. Maybe I feel I don't deserve grace. Maybe I feel selfish asking for His favor, and for immeasurable blessings. 

I pondered this all the way to work. In fact, in my mind I thought of the song, "The Blessing." It kept entering my mind, and the word gracious was on repeat.

"The Lord bless you and keep you,
Make His face shine upon you and be gracious to you.
The Lord turn His face toward you,
And give you peace."

As I was hearing this song in my head, something happened. It can't be called a coincidence. It can't be called anything but God hearing my thoughts.

The very next song on the radio after the "make his face shine upon you and be gracious to you" line played in my head was...

"The Blessing."

I can't deny what happened. It was powerful, and real, and a reminder I am never alone. The Lord is with me all the time. And He is also gracious, and gives me peace.

I burst into tears, overwhelmed with the realization--I can't outrun grief, but I can run to God. He hears my cries and knows my heart.

I pulled in the parking lot, and tried to pull myself together. I was overjoyed, overwhelmed, overblessed. 

I'm usually the first or second person in the building every morning. This morning, I had barely walked in my office, and hadn't even turned on the lights, when I heard a tap on the door.

There was a sweet friend who handed me this (I actually put it in a frame I had in my office).

When I read it, I started crying. I told my friend how I had been struggling, and how much this meant to me. She then asked me to consider writing a children's book. She felt it was something I could do that could help children, since I'm familiar with issues kids deal with these days. I was surprised and honored at the same time.

I replied that I didn't know what to write about. She continued to encourage me, and as the morning passed, I have come up with an idea. 

I'm so thankful for a God who listens to prayers and sends angels disguised as friends. He is on time every time, and He is gracious, and His blessings are immeasurable.

I've been sitting on this other story for several months, but thought it was appropriate to share now. It's another blessing, and it came from my Gracious God. He gave me a special moment and reminder of my mother.

Last year, my mother kept talking about the need to crochet another baby blanket. She was known through the years for always knitting afghans, or crocheting blankets for every occasion. She knitted several blankets for my children and for my grandchildren.

She mentioned several times that she felt she really needed to crochet a baby blanket, in case there was another baby, and in case she wasn't around when that baby arrived.

I shushed her, and told her I didn't want to think about that.

In the days after her funeral, I was cleaning out her closet, and in the back corner, I spied a laundry basket. It was filled with something I couldn't quite make out. When I pulled it closer, I saw a crocheted blanket in yellows, purples, blues, and pinks...It was a baby blanket and was complete, except for one panel that needs to be attached. Underneath the blanket, were the extra skeins of yarn.

I grabbed the blanket and decided to take it to my daughter-in-law. She can crochet, and I thought she could attach that panel, and then keep it for Cooper and Harper.

Not long after that discovery, Charles and Kaitlyn stopped by to share some news. 

They are expecting a baby at the end of April, or early May. 

When I heard this, I began to cry. Charles and Kaitlyn didn't know about the blanket. 

On that day, the Lord blessed me, and made His face shine upon me. 

Again, none of this is coincidence. It is all a part of the plan.

The Lord truly is near to the broken-hearted. He shows up in all kinds of ways, and just when you think you can outrun grief, he reminds you to slow down. To not forget. To remember. 

And He always finds a way to connect us to those who have gone ahead of us.

I'm so thankful He did this for me with a blanket, a song, a baby, and friend.

 

Being an Aggie is tough at times. To paraphrase Kermit the frog, "It ain't easy bein' maroon."

I don’t remember ever deciding to be an Aggie; I was born one. It is in my blood and has coursed through the veins of four generations of my family beginning with my Grandfather Brown, Class of ’30, my dad, Class of ’57, my brother Greg, Class of ’83, I'm Class of ’85, my son Chris, Class of ’12, and my son Charles, Class of ’15. “There’s a spirit can ne’er be told,” but I’ll do my best to at least explain what being an Aggie means to me.

To say my dad was a huge A&M fan would be equivalent to saying water is wet. He passed down this love for his university to both my brother and me. I became a diehard Aggie at an early age. When I was eight years old, my friend Paula and I declared we were going to go to college at Texas A&M. We even had a secret Aggie handshake!

I remember sitting with my dad on Saturday afternoons, as he searched for the A&M game through all the static on his transistor radio. As we listened to the commentators, Dad relived stories about his college days in the mid-to late 1950s, during the era of “the Junction Boys,” led by Bear Bryant and players like John David Crow and Gene Stallings. While he spoke about days of old, I sat in my white A&M sweatshirt with the maroon Sarge and Block T on it, hanging on his every word.

I learned very early that Thanksgiving was not only about the Pilgrims and Indians but also about the Aggies and Longhorns. This day meant celebrating (or grieving) the holiday with the A&M-t.u. game. 

As a young child, this rivalry game was usually watched at my grandparents’ home in Gonzales. My grandmother despised the fact that the TV blared during our meal, and she chided my grandfather with her standard line: “You’re going to burn, Brown.” In the end, her objections were overruled, and we watched the game while we ate because God understands about football. I must confess we weren’t above praying and asking the good Lord for an Aggie victory before we said, “Amen.”

The Thanksgiving game when the Longhorns scored three touchdowns in the first two minutes is forever burned in my mind. After the third touchdown, my grandfather jumped up from the table, muttered a few colorful words, and announced he was going to retrieve his hatchet so he could chop up the large wooden console TV. I waited with bated breath, imagining we were going to have our own personal version of an Aggie bonfire in the middle of Nana and Papa’s living room.

I discovered more about being an Aggie when we were visiting my grandparents in the summer after my brother finished second grade. Looking for something to do, Greg decided to climb a tree which hung over the back patio. I ventured out to see what he was doing just as he began screaming, “Snake, snake!”

I didn’t stick around long enough to see if it was true. I ran inside and alerted the adults. My Dad and Papa ran outside, and when my grandfather spotted a copperhead coiled up at the base of the tree, he sprung into action. He ran into the house, grabbed his A&M saber off the wall where it was mounted, ran back outside, and sliced the snake in two. He could have grabbed a shovel or other garden tool, but he wanted to be sure that he “Beat the Hell Outta” that snake, Aggie style. Whoop!

It is imperative that I give my father full credit for my love of both Texas A&M and football—two sacred things that for our family go together like peas and carrots or, better yet, chips and salsa. My dad and brother taught me the gridiron basics, and I quickly caught on to the signals the officials gave when assessing penalties. At four years old, I was a rare breed---a girl who would rather watch football than play with Barbies.

As I look back on my formative years, I realize the love of sports my father instilled in me was in preparation for the life I would lead as a coach’s wife and mother of two boys. I clearly see the Lord’s plan in this and am so lucky that God gave me two men who not only shared with me their love of the game but also the life lessons that abound in the world of sports.

Collegiate football has drastically changed since my childhood days and my freshman year at A&M when Tom Wilson was the head coach. Now, schools not only compete on the field, but also in the transfer portal. NIL has added another dimension, which to me, has ruined the game. I always enjoyed college football more than watching the pros because it seemed pure. Players played for the love of the game; they represented their team with pride. Sure, many hoped that their success would lead to a contract in the NFL, but overall there was a fire within them that seemed to burn more brightly.

I'm not a fan of these changes. I guess I'm old school, or more accurately an old Ag, or "old army." I am glad for the National Championship playoff games, but it seems that early in the season, hopes are dashed with one or two losses. Teams are counted out. And as an Aggie, this is when the sky starts falling.

Last season, when we began searching for a new coach, the insults and barbs were at an all-time high. It was hard to take. At that point in my life, I felt I was being a poor sport because I became so defensive. But here's the thing, if we didn't matter, if we weren't a possible contender, it wouldn't be such a big deal to other programs. Believe it or not, we have become relevant. And that, in itself, makes others uncomfortable, to say the very least.

I'm a Coach Elko fan, and know our future is bright. In one season, he has not only changed the culture of the program, but he has also embraced what it is to be an Aggie. 

If you're an Aggie, you understand that it's about so much more than supporting the football team. When you enter Kyle Field, the world comes full circle. You relive your days on campus. You run into old friends. You experience the atmosphere unlike any other with your children and grandchildren.

Being an Aggie is a way of life. It's taking the values we learned at A&M and carrying them through our daily lives. It's remembering those who are no longer with us by saying "here" at Muster. It's saying "howdy," and not ever walking on grass when there is a sidewalk available. It's meeting other Aggies all over the world because they can identify you by your Aggie ring.

It's passing down the love you have for your university, and sharing that love with future generations.

It's keeping the Aggie spirit of loved ones who have passed away close to your heart.

My father died on October, 20, 1992. It was sudden, shocking, and heartbreaking. Needless to say, our first Thanksgiving without him was painful. For most families who have been in our situation, stumbling through the meal would have been the hardest hurdle to jump, but for our clan, it was the football game we would watch that afternoon—the traditional rivalry game between the Aggies and the Longhorns. This family tradition without Dad would be the most difficult to endure.

With thoughts of Thanksgivings past and memories of Dad cheering for his team, we clicked on the television to watch the ball game. The showdown was played in Austin that year, so the environment seemed extra hostile. Sounds of the band playing “The Aggie War Hymn” filled the living room as we watched the teams run onto the field. As if he were sitting in the room beside me, I heard my father boldly proclaiming, “If the Longhorns played the Soviets in Red Square, I would cheer for the Soviets every time.”

It goes without saying that in the South, football is a religious experience, and I knew with the added emotional baggage attached to this day and this game, we would be “having church” like never before. Going into the game, the Aggies were undefeated and embarking on one of the best seasons in A&M football history. There was so much riding on this contest, and of course, we bundled all our hopes and dreams and burdens into a victory, as well. Somehow, we fully believed if we beat the Longhorns, it would be a tribute to my dad. In a month full of losses, a win for our family was monumentally important. Football that day became more than just a game. It represented life itself.

We whooped and cheered and high-fived and quietly mumbled ugly words throughout the four quarters. We yelled louder and stronger and prayed harder than ever before during a football game. We simply had to win. We couldn’t take another letdown or loss. When the final whistle blew, the Aggies had resoundingly defeated the Longhorns 34–13. We firmly believed Dad was waving his 12th Man Towel and whooping it up in heaven. It was the first time in over a month that we felt alive. 

Deep down in my soul, I know God doesn’t choose sides, but on that day, he was an Aggie. As much joy as this victory brought us all, it was still laced in sorrow, and nothing could take away the sting we felt by Dad’s absence.

After the game, the time had come for us to leave. We loaded the car to return home, and along with the leftovers, I packed a great big helping of guilt, something I always felt whenever we left Mom alone in that big, empty house. Since the cemetery was on our way out of town, Brian and I decided to stop by. We knew Dad’s grave site would still be a mound of dirt with only a temporary marker identifying him. His headstone had been ordered but wouldn’t be in for a month or so. Even though we dreaded it, we knew stopping by to pay our respects was the proper, grown-up thing to do.

The sun was setting on an autumn sky, and shadows were starting to dance across the monuments and stones. I wasn’t exactly sure if I could find Dad’s resting place as we weaved in and around the winding pathways that coursed through Sunset Memorial Park. I was grateful that his plot was newly made and would help us narrow down the options. 

From a distance, I could see the dirt covering my father. It seemed to have settled since I was last there, and in a temporary flash of madness, I wondered if he was cold. Snapping out of the crazy thought, I admired several floral arrangements that had withstood the weather over the past month or so.

As I continued to survey the area, something white caught my eye. It was almost like a white flag of surrender, which I thought was a little harsh, even for a cemetery. The closer we moved  to the object, the more familiar it became. It was a 12th Man Towel attached to a stake. During Jackie Sherrill’s tenure as the head football coach at A&M, he introduced the tradition of waving white towels imprinted with "12th Man." This was a rally cry for the team and reminded us that all Aggies stand ready to go in the game and help our boys if ever needed. To a die-hard Aggie fan, the 12th Man Towel is a mandatory wardrobe accessory for game-day attire.

As the November wind blew gently that afternoon, the flag proudly waved like the one planted at Iwo Jima. It, too, represented pride, tradition, and camaraderie. We stepped out of the car and clumsily searched for a note or something that might reveal the thoughtful giver of this random act of kindness. After investigating the area for a few moments, there was not a trace of anything but the towel.

I never found out who put the flag there, but know whoever it was understood my father’s deep love of his alma mater. I can think of no greater honor or tribute to one of the most loyal Aggies I’ve ever known. “There’s a spirit can ne’er be told, it’s the Spirit of Aggieland.”

As we drove away from the cemetery that autumn night, the last few stanzas of a poem entitled “The Last Corp Trip” echoed in my head. I will always regret that I didn’t think to have this poem read at my father’s funeral. This is how I envisioned Dad’s entrance into heaven:

"And the band poured forth the anthem in notes both bright and clear.

And ten thousand Aggie voices sang the song they hold so dear.

And when the band had finished, St. Peter wiped his eyes

And said, 'It’s not so hard to see they’re meant for Paradise.'

And the colonel of the Cadet Corps said as he stiffly took his stand,

'It’s just another Corps Trip, boys, we’ll march in behind the band.'” —P. H. DuVal Jr., ’51

The A&M experience is unique to all Aggies, but the common thread of loyalty, honor, and pride is woven through those experiences, connecting each of us to all other Aggies.

To me, being an Aggie is more than just wearing maroon and supporting a team. It’s a link between my past, present, and future. My boys never knew their grandfather, but through Aggie traditions, stories, legends, and experiences they have been connected to him in a way that would otherwise not be possible.

So, what does it mean to be an Aggie?

•     It’s going to Fish Camp to learn the Aggie way of life.

•    It’s Thursday nights spent at the Dixie Chicken, listening to the needle of the record player scratch across entire albums by Jerry Jeff Walker, Willie Nelson, and Hank Jr., always ending       with "Goodnight Irene.”

•    It’s putting a penny on Sully, hoping the luck will get you through that test.

•   It’s changing your major 3 times and trying to beat your midterm grades home before Spring Break.

•   It’s my brother, as a senior in the Corps, getting Jackie Sherrill to sign a football which Greg’s outfit would run to Austin before the A&M/t.u. game.

• It’s the sound of senior boots clicking along the sidewalks and streets.

•  It’s the solemn stillness and quiet of “Silver Taps.”

• It’s getting your Aggie ring, and sitting in the MSC, waving to all your friends, showing off the results of your hard work.

• It’s the fall of 1985, when we beat Texas at Kyle Field, securing a place in the Cotton Bowl, and having your brother scream at some upset teasips, “I don’t know what you call this in Austin, but here in College Station, we call this an ass-whipping.” And amazingly, his didn’t get his whipped…

• It’s waving a 12^th Man towel.

• It’s going to the Cotton Bowl and stopping Bo Jackson on the goal line when it was 4^th and one.

• It’s jumping for joy when your two sons are accepted to A&M.

• It's finding a Twelfth Man towel on your father's grave...

September 8, 2012, when A&M entered into a new era in the Southeastern Conference, was an extremely emotional day for me. I usually tear up during “The Spirit of Aggieland,” but that year, I couldn’t even sing it. As the team ran onto the field, tears streamed down my face. Never in my life have I felt such depth of emotion attached to being an Aggie.

I realized in that moment who I am today is largely due to my family heritage and legacy as an Aggie. The footsteps we have all made across the campus and into the world have contributed to the place where our university is today. We truly are a part of all those we have met, and many others whose presence has only been felt; our university moves forward on the heels of the many Aggies who have left their mark on the campus before us and those who will walk across the same campus in years to come. We have a bright future because we hang on to those values that are simple and fair and just.

On that beautiful day in September, as I stood among more than 87,000 others looking onto Kyle Field, I realized that the torch had been passed to my sons. Their generation, and all the generations to come, will be the ones leading us forward into new horizons.

And just like those before us, and those who come after us, no matter how our team is playing, we will always get goose bumps when we hear, “Now forming at the north end of Kyle Field, the nationally famous fightin’ Texas Aggie Band.”

Aggies live for football season. There’s no better place to be than Kyle Field on a Saturday night under the lights.  But eleven years after entering the SEC, it seems we’ve taken one step forward, and twelve steps back.

While I’m disappointed with the way things have gone, I will never give up hope that one day we will finally get it right. Until then, like all Aggies, I will keep supporting my school and my team.

That’s the thing about Aggies. We’re always there. We keep coming no matter what. We always have hope. We always believe.

In the last leg of a dismal season, 103,000 Aggies turned out for a night game at Kyle Field. And those same Aggies will pay $25 for nachos, make donations, and keep buying season tickets.

You see, Aggies are all-in. Maybe that's our problem. Many football programs who have gone through growing pains and have ended seasons by firing the coach, do so because the fans stopped showing up, donations decreased, and there was a general malaise about the future.

But Aggies don’t operate that way. No matter what, we’ll show up in our maroon, we’ll wave our Twelfth Man towels, we’ll yell, and sing, and sway. After the game, we’ll armchair quarterback, and talk about what could have been. But we will never, ever not show up.

This Thanksgiving, I find myself both excited and lost. My mother passed away in June, and I am navigating through the waves of grief. 

As I prepared the Thanksgiving meal, I used all the recipes my mother used to make. I am reflecting on the many years we gathered around the table. The stories told, the prayers said, and the many things for which I am thankful.

And this year, I am thankful for the renewed rivalry game. Tomorrow, when I'm standing in Kyle Field, I will remember what being an Aggie has meant to me. No matter the outcome, I will always be a proud Fightin' Texas Aggie.

Sure, we might wish for more touchdowns, and wins, and championships, but the amazing thing that keeps us looking upward is something we already have; something we don’t have to search for. A unique and undying spirit no other university can boast of.

It’s a connection, and it's maroon.

It’s called being an Aggie.

It’s about much more than a game. It’s about being a part of something that only those who experience it can understand.

So, when all the others mock us, or make jokes about us, just remember,

“After they’ve boosted all the rest,

They will come and join the best.

We are the Aggies, the Aggies are we.

We’re from Texas AMC.”