Sometimes, life clicks into place. Events and people randomly cross your path and you realize the cosmic dice rolled your way.

Our granddaughter has talked about becoming a pilot for the past few years. She considered joining the U.S. Air Force to save money as flight school’s expensive.

Nobody in our family or hers had a career in aviation, and I wondered how she settled on this particular career. But she was constant – becoming a pilot is her dream.

A couple of weeks ago, I was at a meeting of women educators. The guest speaker was a young man who taught us how to build paper airplanes.

At the end of his presentation, his mom handed out a flyer about the Young Eagles Club®. The national group launched in 1992 through the Experimental Aircraft Association. Their mission – introduce young people to the joys of aviation.

Over 2 million youngsters have flown with the group since the club’s beginning. They also offer aviation talks, scholarships and education about the different types of aviation opportunities.

One of their give-backs is to offer youth ages 8-17 their first free ride in an airplane.

By chance, the local chapter was having their monthly meeting that Thursday in Brookshire. We couldn’t believe our luck, and we made sure we were there early.

The people running the meeting were knowledgeable and welcoming. They talked about their experiences flying and building planes and how excited they were to see so many young people in attendance.

An even luckier chance was the Young Eagles® free flight was that Saturday.

Early that morning, Kylie, her mom, brother and I met at the Houston Executive Airport, none of us knowing what to expect.

Over the course of the morning, we saw youngsters in groups of two and three head outside. Finally, we saw Kylie coming out of the waiting area. An older man with a smile on his face led the way, and he beckoned for us to follow him out to the tarmac.

We stopped at a blue-and-white three-seater plane. Mike, the pilot, showed Kylie and a boy the parts on the outside of the plane and what their function was. Then he buckled the boy into the back seat and Kylie into the front.

I know her heart was pounding and so were ours. We stepped back to the hangar, and the propeller on the small plane started whirling. With a wave and a smile, Mike started taxing down the tarmac to the runway.

There was a chance she’d get up in the air and change her mind – flying might not be for her. She could be afraid of heights or the ride could be too scary.

We watched the plane rise into a bright blue sky, and her mom and I both wiped our eyes as we walked back inside.

A half hour later, the plane touched down. When Kylie got out, the smile on her face was brighter than the sun. She said Mike let her take the plane up, and she was both scared and excited. Kylie said she was certain – she wanted to become a pilot.

She picked an unlimited path. Women pilots only make up about 6 percent of trained pilots, and scholarships abound.

Later that morning, her mom showed me a picture she’d taken of Kylie headed to the plane.

“She’s walking toward her dream,” she said and we both teared up.

Following a dream deserves encouragement, and Kylie’s got a supportive ground crew – her family, and now a group of flying enthusiasts who believe in making aviation dreams come true.

The sky’s the limit, dear granddaughter.

Soar.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

When my sons were in elementary school, these two commands came out of my mouth on a daily basis: behave and be nice.

When I had teenage boys, the words changed:  study and clean your room.

As an older adult, I realized how lame those phrases were.

Children don’t really understand what “behave” means.

At home, they’re allowed to run around in their underwear like they’re wild beasts.

It’s not until we explain the difference between what we can do at home versus what we do out in public that the word “behave” starts to make sense.

As far as “be nice,” they thought that meant to stop sitting on their brother. When they were teens, “be nice” meant stop drinking orange juice straight out of the carton.

They didn’t understand “be nice” meant to not do those things in the first place. “Be nice” meant absolutely nothing to them. Instead “stop it” usually did the trick.

I thought teachers explained the process of studying to my boys. “Study” meant on the day the teacher gave information, my sons should go home and rewrite what the teacher said.

They needed to do that every day. In addition, they needed to read their notes from beginning to end every night.

That way, they were reviewing the lessons at least 10 times before a test. There was no need to stay up for hours the night before the test.

Did they follow that advice? Not one bit.

I finally understand why they were at a loss when I said “clean your room.” To them, that meant gather up all the dirty clothes that were under and on top of the bed, thrown on the floor and shoved in the closet and dump them in one giant pile in front of the washing machine for me to take care of.

I should’ve been more. The phrase “clean your room” should’ve been replaced by a step-by-step explanation.

“After taking the clothes to the laundry room, go back to your room and bring all the dirty bowls and plate you shoved under your bed down to the kitchen.”

Then we could move up from clearing off the floor. It was time to “make the bed.”

Those three words meant different things to me and my teenager. “Make the bed,” in his mind, meant throwing a blanket over the wrinkled sheets.

To me, “make the bed” meant tucking the ends of the sheets underneath the mattress, putting the comforter over the sheets, putting the pillows on the bed and smoothing everything out.

We compromised. They were fine with unmade beds. I learned to close the door to their rooms.

It’s the same when we get to be adults.

“Do your best.”

“Keep trying.”

“Don’t give up.”

My best and somebody else’s best are definitely two different things. One person’s best might be to endure a boring, uninspiring job until it’s time to clock out. That’s the best they can do.

Another person’s best might be to find a way to make that boring, uninspiring job interesting. That’s the best they can do. Who am I to say who’s on the healthier path?

“Keep trying” was always frustrating for me. The first ten times I tried to do what you asked me to do, I failed. Why should I keep trying when what I’m doing isn’t working?

Wouldn’t it be better to tell me “let’s find a different way?” And then you help me find a better way?

The phrase “don’t give up” works when you’re learning how to ride a bike. The more you pedal, the more you find your balance, the more successful you’ll be.

There is one instance where “do your best” works for me. I’m going to do my best to be specific when asking myself or someone else to do something.

And learn to live with an unmade bed.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Painting isn’t exactly a talent of mine. When I was a teenager, I was painting the border around the top of my room.

I was stupidly standing on a folding chair, and the chair buckled out from underneath me. I spilled bright blue paint all over the carpet and the wall.

Since then, I’ve successfully painted a few bedrooms and our mail box, but I never attempted to paint a picture. Until my daughter-in-law Alle booked a birthday painting party for Ingrid, our eldest son’s wife.

One daughter-in-law couldn’t make it, so there were only four of us there – Alle, Ingrid, me and another girl, Lily. Her boyfriend didn’t want to come so she came alone.

We immediately asked her to join us. We had plenty of snacks and wine, but she declined. She did, however, join our conversation throughout the night.

The instructor, Professor Moonshine – I’m not making that up – had a painting we could use as a reference. He said he’d lead us through creating the painting step by step, but we were free to experiment.

The first part was easy – a blue-and-white background.  I painted blue and then white, and my canvas resembled the one on the easel.

He said we could add some extra colors to the background, so I got a little bold and added some purple to my blue and white. It looked okay.

Then it was time to add green leaves.

Mine were awful. They were too wide with no definition, but the professor said I could cover them up during the next step, adding small flowers.

This advice was familiar – I know how to cover my rear end and double chin – long tunics and scarves. Those leaves would soon be history.

I couldn’t get the hang of the five-stemmed flowers. Moonshine showed me and I still couldn’t do it. I settled for flowers that had a Monet quality – a little out of focus.

There was supposed to be a big peony on the right-hand side. I tried but I couldn’t get it right.

I looked at my daughters-in-law’s paintings. They painted their big flower perfectly. Their shading was spot on. Mine looked like a giant blob of pink on one side of the canvas.

I didn’t think it was possible to camouflage the leaves and this big flower. I settled for swirling some white over the pink. Okay, a lot of white.

Then we were supposed to add tall, thin flower stems. These I knew how to do – dab, dab, dab. I walked over and looked at Lily’s. She’d added orange to her painting, a color not on the tray Moonshine prepared for us.

She said I could borrow her idea. I added some light orange dabs and a little white to the purple – I could not resist that purple puddle on the plate – and the picture started to take shape.

Finally it was time to add a few final touches. By this time, I was feeling a little adventurous. I put a yellow dot first and then small black dots on the centers of the flowers, just like I’d seen in my yard.

Was my picture perfect?

Not by a long shot.

Did I have a blast?

Absolutely.

Mostly it was the joyous company of my daughters-in-law. There was also a freedom after I let go, freedom that comes from creating something you never dreamed you had inside you.

I texted a picture of the painting to my brother, Jeff, an extremely talented artist and writer. I pointed out most of my mistakes. His reply was what I needed to hear:  “Chasing joy leads to much better results than tracking errors.”

He’s absolutely right.

Every time I look at my first painting, I’ll remember what a fun idea Alle had to honor Ingrid and realize, our pictures, just like the evening, were perfect.

 

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Our 8-year-old grandson loves checking the mail. Doesn’t matter if it’s Sunday or a holiday – he’ll ride his skateboard down to the street and check the box every time he’s here.

I remember when getting the mail was a big deal, especially around our birthdays.

Our grandparents sent birthday cards, usually with a couple of dollars inside. We loved the money, but having an actual letter addressed to us was the biggest thrill.

I wrote letters to my grandparents and my aunt because they lived far away from us. I’m sure my letters were filled with inconsequential details, but they were a glimpse into our daily lives.

I found a letter I’d written to my dad over 20 years ago after we’d taken our one and only trip to Europe. I could see the trip again in my mind from the details I gave him. I switched gears and detailed some of the frustrations of having temperamental toddlers.

My handwriting’s gotten a little sloppier over the years, but seeing my thoughts written in my own hand brought back memories of those long-ago days.

The last time I got an honest-to-goodness hand-written letter was last year from my cousin, Vickie. We’ve always called her Aunt Vickie and she’s an incredible writer. Her letters are like her – organized and filled with news about her children.

She always asks about my family, and always asks me to send her best to her cousin, my mom. My reply to her was typed because it’s faster, but I’m regretting I don’t take the time to actually write her a letter like she did for me.

These days, our mail consists of flyers from roofing companies or coupons from the local pizza restaurants. Occasionally we’ll get a bill from a doctor’s office, but for the most part, almost all of our mail is in the junk mail category.

I, for one, buck the trend. I have a box of greeting cards for all occasions, but the biggest section is for birthday cards. There’s cards with dinosaurs on the front, kids playing soccer, heart-felt cards and cards with hunting or fishing scenes.

My calendar lets me know when birthday are coming up, and I’m often on time when it comes to dropping a card in the mail. I know it’s old fashioned, but my young great nieces and nephews love getting a letter in the mail. My nieces tell me their children carry the card around all day.

It doesn’t matter that most people use e-mail or text messages to wish someone a happy birthday. I believe in the old ways when it comes to certain things like sending birthday cards in the mail. I suppose I’m also one of the few that also plays VHS tapes and has a box of floppy discs in my closet.

There’s no denying it’s easier, cheaper and quicker to send an email. I try to make the typed words in the response personal, but there’s no personality to a Times New Roman font. There is in someone’s handwriting – a flourish here, slanted letters there, little hearts in the margin and at the bottom.

Even though it’s not expensive stationery, I think I’ll pull out a few sheets of loose-leaf paper and write a letter to my Aunt Vickie with all the small, seemingly inconsequential details of our lives. Even though it’ll take a few days to get to her, something tells me she’ll enjoy getting a letter like that much more than an email.

Old fashioned? Yep, but sometimes, the old ways are best.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

I tend to be someone who often exaggerates.

I embellish the facts a little bit.

Okay, I exaggerate all the time.

Years ago, our dog was barking at the barbecue pit. When I opened the lid, there was a rat in there.

Every time I told that story, the rat got bigger and bigger. It snarled at me when I opened the lid, I’d tell people.

In reality, the rat was probably the size of a large mouse. With the way I was screaming, I scared that rodent more than it scared me.

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote about my sister-in-law’s dogs. They went after a snake that had gotten in the house.

The way I described the situation, the snake was as big around as a thick rope and about five feet long. I probably told people it was hissing and had reared up to strike.

In reality, the snake was only about five inches long and not even as thick as a pencil.

In my defense, a rat is a rat, and a snake is a snake.

We live in a world where exaggeration is how events are reported. The reason – hyping it up sells the news.

Newspapers used to keep track of how many subscribers they had and how many newspapers they sold each day.

Now news organizations base promotions, raises and revenue amounts on the number of “clicks” articles get.

A reporter could write an important article about the national debt but it probably won’t get as many clicks as people wanting to know about the best deals at Costco.

If you want a plain news story with just the facts, good luck. Most of the online news is hyped up. For example, a recent headline read:  “Southwest Airlines makes a change passengers will love.”

This headline made me curious – what exactly is Southwest doing that I’m going to absolutely love.

Get ready – Southwest is promoting its rewards program for those who fly through the end of November.

This is nothing new.

I’ve been using Southwest Airlines for many years, and they’re always running sales – one-way fares as low as $39 is a common promotion for them.

Southwest is using the same enticements they’ve always used. The difference is now they’re using sensational words to get your attention, your click and your money.

When it comes to health, the headlines are often doom and gloom. Here’s one – “the common mistake that could be wreaking havoc on your cholesterol.” That’s a clever headline because we all want to know how we can stay healthy.

The “common mistake?” Not working with a doctor to manage your cholesterol. That’s common all right – common sense.

A favorite tactic is using the line “here’s what happens to your body if you eat this one food every day.” You don’t know if it’s something good or bad so you click on the article.

Let me save you some time.

If you eat high-fat ice cream every day, you will gain weight.

If you snack on celery and cucumbers instead of ice cream, you will probably lose weight.

If you eat cheeseburgers and fries every night, your body will expand around the waist and your cholesterol will shoot up.

There. No need to ever click on those misleading headlines again.

Other words they use to get you to click on their articles are “stunned,” “heartbroken,” “sizzling deals,” “I can’t stop watching,” and, one of my favorite over-used phrases “swear by.”

An old newspaper saying was “if it bleeds, it leads.” That’s still true, but a rare sighting, an incredible product, and “here’s what everyone should know,” grabs the lead every time.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

There are a few things every household has.

A bathroom.

A front door.

A junk drawer.

Having a junk drawer is Housekeeping 101. There has to be a place to throw all those extra ketchup packets, obsolete paper take-out menus, twist ties and odd kitchen tools.

I’ve watched a few YouTube videos where overachievers empty out a junk drawer, buy expensive plastic inserts and put everything back nice and neat.

Go ahead and spend all that money on fancy dividers, but in two weeks, that drawer will revert to its original reason for existing – storing junk.

Things will migrate into chaos, but that’s okay. It’s a junk drawer and half the fun is rummaging around in there because you find all kinds of treasures while looking for what you want.

On a hot afternoon, I decided to straighten out a few messy places in the house. I went through the place where I keep dust rags and old towels. I threw away the ones with lots of rips and holes and kept the ones with only a few holes.

Then I spotted the junk drawer. I opened it and looked around. I had a couple of dividers in there, but those had been buried underneath junk years ago.

Instead of dreading cleaning out this drawer, much as I had with the old rags and towels, cleaning out the junk drawer was like being on a treasure hunt without the threat of quicksand or venomous snakes.

I started rummaging around. I found a 9-volt battery and one Batman walkie-talkie. Underneath those were a few small screwdrivers.

These are the ones that fit perfectly in kids’ toys. Must’ve been why I tossed that 9-volt battery and the walkie-talkie in here.

I found dozens of twist ties. I keep those because they come in handy when tying the strands of Christmas lights together before storing them for the year.

There were at least a dozen assorted small screws and nails. No use sorting those, I thought, and left them in the bottom of the drawer along with extra buttons, drapery hooks, nails, thumb tacks and paper clips.

Then I found something I’d been looking for since last year – extra matches.

At the last birthday party, none of us had any matches or a lighter. I remember when every restaurant had a bowl filled with matches by the cash register. Not anymore.

So I bought a 12-pack of matches, and then tossed them in the junk drawer. I hope the next time we have a birthday party I can remember where I put them.

I must have a thing for glue because I found three or four glue sticks – all dried up, of course — some kind of bond adhesive, caulk, Gorilla glue and a package of Super Glue. None of these, by the way, ever work for me.

There’s a set of pliers in here, along with a hammer and my dad’s beat-up flat-head and Phillips screwdrivers.

There’s also a few cheap metal wrenches that come with furniture. You’re supposed to throw them away, but those of us who can’t stand throwing things away – remember the towels with holes – believe those little wrenches could come in handy one day.

That day hasn’t come yet, but I’m hopeful.

There’s a role of kite string in the drawer. When I picked it up, I smiled, remembering when we took our son’s Cub Scout group kite flying.

The boy in the group who wasn’t the fastest or the strongest turned out to be the best kite flyer in the bunch. He got his kite up higher and faster than all the other Scouts.

That string is a reminder of fun days and fun times. And maybe that’s what most of the things in a junk drawer are for – they remind us of some happy memory.

Putting together a bookshelf with a small child, blowing out birthday candles or watching a shy child come into his own because we found a place where he could shine.

I closed the drawer without straightening anything out. A messy drawer is exactly what’s it designed to be – a place for memories.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Sooner or later, we need a doctor. Maybe it’s a back ache, an accident or something’s not right. We want someone to hear and cure us.

Good luck.

The medical field has changed dramatically. When I was in the first grade, we lived in upstate New York. Most of the kids headed to the high school to sled down the school’s hill whenever there was a heavy snow.

I was one of those kids. Unfortunately, I came down fast one day and ran into a boy holding a sled. The sharp metal part of the sled caught me in the forehead. My mom took me to the town doctor’s home where he saw patients.

Dr. Cash was where we went to for colds, ailments and the chicken pox. That day, he stitched up my forehead and gave me a lollipop on the way out.

Those days are long gone. Today, you have to choose a primary care physician from a list of approved doctors. It doesn’t matter if you have someone you like, the doctor has to be in your network.

Don’t get too attached to that doctor. Insurance companies love changing who’s on their preferred list and who’s not.

Once you reach the age of 65, you’re on Medicare. In theory, Medicare is supposed to cover most, but not all, of the costs for approved health care services. After you meet the deductible, you pay your share.

The key words here are “supposed to cover most” and “approved.” If some bureaucrat doesn’t think you need the expensive heart medication, you’re out of luck unless you want to pay for it or your doctor fights for you.

Two years ago, I started having trouble with my legs. It hurt to walk, sleep and drive. I went to my primary care physician, and he recommended a vein doctor.

I paid over $350 for no relief and no answers. I did some research and found I should probably see an orthopedic doctor. I found a practice close to our home. The receptionist who booked my appointment recommended Dr. Jacob Worsham.

She said he was great.

She wasn’t wrong.

Dr. Worsham looked at my x-rays and diagnosed osteoarthritis, the most common form of arthritis among older adults. Dr. Jake, as he likes to be called, recommended an easy-to-follow, three-step process – cortisone shots, gel shots and then knee replacement.

I got the shots that day and they worked like magic. I resumed my life. A few months later, I could tell the effect was wearing off, and I went back for more shots. Worked like a charm as has the third round.

I bragged about Dr. Jake to my family. When my husband went in for a broken elbow, the hospital said they were sending in an orthopedic surgeon. Who should walk in but Dr. Jake.

Not only did he repair my husband’s elbow, but my husband has full range of motion and the scar is invisible.

Dr. Jake is leaving the Houston area to be closer to his elderly parents. What I wanted to say when he told me, but couldn’t because I was choked up, was thank you, Dr. Jake.

You listened to us.

You made us better.

You did so with confidence, a friendly and professional attitude and genuine caring.

Fabulous health care professionals are out there. They make the time to listen to their patients, really listen, and do their best to help their patients feel better and to hopefully find a cure that works.

Best of luck, Dr. Jake.

You gave me my life back, and for that, I am eternally grateful.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

“You can’t train a good snake dog. They’re just born that way.”

These were the words of wisdom Bob Haenel gave me many years ago. I was telling the newsroom about our dog barking at a coiled-up snake in the yard.

Earlier she’d also cornered a big, black snake on our patio and had alerted me to a snake on the patio. Bob was right – Channell was a good snake dog, and she was born with that instinct.

It’s no secret I’m terrified of snakes. Big snakes, little snakes — anything that slithers. I don’t even like walking in front of the glass cages at the zoo where they keep snakes.

This past week, my brother and his wife went on vacation. They had a house sitter to take care of their two King Charles Cavalier dogs. They’re primarily lap dogs who want to be close to people.

Ella is an older dog, content to sleep most of the time, and Trixie is a young, always bouncing puppy.

I was going to Baton Rouge to stay with my mom while they were vacationing.

Jimmy and Peggy graciously offered me the use of their house while they were gone and the sitter said she’d come when I left. A win for everybody.

All they asked was for me to make sure the pups had food and water. There was a doggie door so Ella and Trixie could go in and out as needed, so they were pretty self-sufficient.

Easy, I thought. The dogs barked when I was came in, but by the second day, they knew I was a friend.

If I watched television, Trixie curled up next to me. Ella preferred the cool wood floor. They were quiet company, and we got along famously.

I was writing on my laptop about midnight when the dogs started barking furiously. They were by the door that leads out to the garage. I wondered what in the world would get them so riled up.

I got closer and saw they were barking at something on the floor. It was a snake. Not a big one but a snake is a snake is a snake.

I screamed.

They barked.

I screamed louder.

They barked louder.

I looked around for something, anything, to kill that snake. I knew I had to hurry up because snakes are fast even though Ella had that snake cornered.

There was no way I could sleep in the house knowing a snake was loose, just waiting to slither up the chair where I’d be sitting or, horrors, waiting for me on my pillow.

I remembered seeing a broom in the pantry. I ran to get it and the dogs stayed put, Ella keeping that snake right up against the wall while her younger sister barked and jumped around behind her.

I opened the door to the garage and got ready behind the dogs. I took the broom and tried to grab the snake with the bristles. It worked but the snake shook free and dropped to the floor.

I screamed.

Trixie barked.

Ella wasted no time. She grabbed that snake in her mouth and shook it furiously.

When she dropped it, I was ready and swept that dazed snake out the door and then slammed it shut. My heart was beating and the dogs were still barking. I reached down and petted those dogs, scratched their heads and told them how proud I was of them.

Then I found the bag of doggie treats and gave them half the bag.

Ella slept on the floor in front of the door for the next few hours while Trixie snuggled up next to me.

I told my brother that Ella has a warrior’s heart. So does her little sister Trixie and our matriarch, Channell.

Bob is right. You can’t train a snake dog.

But when you find one, that’s a treasure.

We have three. I’d say we hit the lottery.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.   

When you get past a certain age, there are truths you come to accept. Some truths are easier than others.

I remember riding my bike around the block where we lived. Out my grandparents’ driveway to Second Street and round the corner. In the middle of that street was a set of stone stairs. I’d stop there and pretend I was resting and looking around.

What I was really doing was stopping to let my “horse,” aka my bicycle, get a drink of water and cool down. Like so many kids, I wanted to be a cowboy. In my imagination, my bike was a part-time horse.

I got a little older and realized the bike was nothing more than steel and rubber wheels. The truth is, these days, I ride my bike because my knees won’t allow me to walk around the block.

I read “Black Beauty” when I was about 10 years old and thought I knew everything about horses.

The first time I rode a horse was right after I’d finished that book. The horse didn’t realize I’d read that book because he galloped, didn’t do what I wanted him to do and tried to bite me.

I hung on for dear life on that ride, thinking this wild horse was nothing like Black Beauty. Now, the only horse I’m interested in is can the horsepower in my car get me safely over the ramps on the interstate.

For many years, I considered myself somewhat organized. But one frustrating afternoon, after looking for my car keys for an hour, I ordered Marie Kondo’s organizing book.

I had to face a bitter truth. I was surrounded by clutter everywhere I looked – letters and cards, photographs and hundreds of books.

Kondo advised only keeping things that give you joy. So I assessed.

All those pictures make me happy because they remind me of good times and celebrations.

Many of the letters are from relatives and friends who are no longer here. Seeing their handwriting reminds me of them. That gives me joy.

The mementos are either gifts from my childhood or something I picked up while traveling.

All of them bring me joy.

But I did follow one key bit of advice from Ms. Kondo. The book “The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up” did not bring me joy so I donated it and instantly felt better.

Reading a book does not make one an expert on the subject in the book nor can the content in the book motivate me to do something I really don’t want to do.

It’s even worse when I watch a YouTube video.

Cleaners visit a hoarder’s house and, with the snap of their fingers, the house is clean.

I watch that and think I can clean out our garage in a couple of hours. I’ll watch another one and believe I can rearrange my kitchen pantry.

In the time I spent watching those videos, I could’ve cleaned the garage, the kitchen and washed a few loads of clothes.

In reality, there is no need to clean out our garage because my husband is already neat and organized.

These people would probably have me throw out his collection of screws, nuts and bolts he’s collected over 40 years. Truth be told, those odd screws have come in handy quite often.

I’m not going to move the washer and dryer to clean underneath them. I’ll clean that mess up when we move.

I’m not going to take everything out of the kitchen cabinets, install rolling shelves and re-season the cast-iron pots.

I’ll keep reading the books and watching the how-to videos. The best thing they accomplish is keeping me from doing the actual work.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

One dollar.

That’s all it took for our grandson to have a fabulous time on an errand that would normally be the last thing an 8-year-old boy would want to do – clothes shopping with his big sisters.

Jason was willing to go shopping with us because I told him he might see something he’d like to buy.

He said he’d been saving up money from doing a few jobs around his house. When we were ready to go, Jason held up a small Zip-lock bag and showed me his treasure trove.

He had seven dollars in change and folded up dollar bills in that small plastic bag. We left the house, everyone thinking about what they needed to get that afternoon.

We went in the first store where we waited patiently for the girls to try on a few T-shirts.

“Can I play on your phone while we wait?” Jason politely asked. Of course I handed it over. I knew waiting for sisters to try on clothes wasn’t where this active little boy wanted to be.

For a half hour, Jason sat on the floor, happily playing his game. He walked with us while we meandered along, never asking us to hurry up.

On the way to the mall’s main hallway, Jason spotted a group of massage recliners, the ones people sit on when they’re tired.

Jason, though, was ecstatic. He looked at the tag and saw he could get a massage for one dollar.

“I have money!” he said, pulling out the Zip-lock bag out of his pocket.

I thought it was a waste of money – a three-minute back massage for a dollar. I suggested he wait and see if there was something else he’d rather spend his money on.

He agreed, but I could tell he wasn’t convinced.

Jason looked in the toy store. Even though there were a few things he could buy, he insisted he was going to wait and get a massage before we left the mall.

“Are you sure you don’t want one of these small things near the cash register,” I asked in the toy store.

“No ma’am,” he said, smiling. “I’m gonna get that massage.”

We kept shopping and he was agreeable the whole time, happily waiting for his sisters while they browsed and tried on outfits.

We had lunch, and I forgot about the massage chair. We finished our pizza and stood up.

“Let’s head to the car,” I said. “I’m a little tired.”

The girls agreed, but not Jason. His disappointment was quite evident.

I looked at his face, those big brown eyes so trusting, the very top of the Zip-lock bag peeking out of his pants pocket. He’d been so patient, waiting for his turn, not once complaining.

That’s when I decided – there was no way we were leaving without him getting a massage. We went back the way we came in. When Jason spotted the massage chairs, he ran over and sat in every one.

“I want to be sure I get the most comfortable chair,” he said.

When he found the one he wanted, he carefully took a crumpled dollar bill out of the bag, smoothed it out and slid it into the money slot.

The chair started to vibrate and he laughed and laughed with pure joy.

That afternoon, the girls and I bought clothes.

Jason, however, bought something much more valuable, my husband said.

He bought a joyful experience.

For one crumpled and well-spent dollar.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.