As I was sitting at the railroad crossing, waiting for a slow-crawling train to pass, I found myself slipping into a Walter Mitty mode of thinking.

For those not familiar with James Thurber’s fictitious character, Walter Mitty was a brow-beaten man who daydreamed of daredevil careers – surgeon, pilot and submarine captain.

Mitty came to mind as I listened to the escapades of Israeli super-spy Gabriel Allon, a character in a series of books on tape by Daniel Silva. Listening to Gabriel’s adventures, I found myself wondering what I’d do if I was a secret agent.

At this point, dear reader, you’re probably rolling your eyes, wondering how a middle-aged woman could ever picture herself as an international spy.

It’s easy. In your imagination, you can be anything you want to be.

In the quiet of my car, I’m not worrying about that slowly melting gallon of ice cream in the trunk. Nor am I worried about sideways glances from the truck driver next to me as I pluck my eyebrows.

I’m on a secret mission to Paris, the fate of the free world riding on my shoulders. I’m witty and urbane and thin, and as long as I’m going down this imaginary path, beautiful.

Hey, this is my daydream – get your own if you can’t suspend reality for the next few minutes.

I picture myself carrying super-secret documents in a pocket sewn into the jacket of my designer jacket. No heart-pounding nervousness for me. I am as calm as the sea on a windless day as I wrap my hand around a wad of cash in my pocket, payola for the French border patrol.

Reality hit me about this point as I looked down and realized the grocery list, not a spy document, was in the pocket of my 10-year-old shorts. There wasn’t a designer jacket in sight because it’s 101 outside and I’m sweating like a boxer in the 10th round.

And that wad of cash? Wadded-up Kleenex tissues as my allergies are horrible in the summer.

Sneezing, I return to my daydream where I’m stopping the bad guys, giving deadly karate chops and vicious body slams as I make my way through a gauntlet of thugs. I bribe the French guards, slip down an alleyway and give Gabriel my secret documents.  

Later, Gabriel and I will toast our victory over a late-night dinner of Chateau Briand and bubbling champagne. We’ll talk of past adventures and plan our next move through international espionage.

I’m brought back to reality when the train finally moves through the intersection. I realize there’ll be no champagne that night – left-over Hamburger Helper and falling asleep on the couch in my faded pajamas will have to suffice.

Coming through downtown, I find myself engaging in yet another adventure with one of my all-time favorite detectives, Aloysius Pendergast from the Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child novels.

I’m driving as efficiently and quietly as Special Agent Pendergast. Sure, he’s seamlessly moving in and out of traffic in his 1959 Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith while I’m trying to get around a lumbering red-and-white garbage truck.

While waiting for an opening, an ivory, brand-new Escalade passes me, the driver wearing expensive sunglasses and flawless make-up while talking on her iPhone 5.

I thought how unfair until I realized that, like Walter Mitty, I could be anything I wanted in the confines of my car.

Spy. Femme Fatale. Surgeon.

The sky’s the limit. All it takes is a little bit of imagination.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Whenever I’m having a tough day, I duck into a shoe store and spend the next hour trying on all the size 8 shoes on the clearance rack. I leave after finding the best deal, feeling like the weight of the world is off my shoulders.

So when I saw an article in a magazine about why it’s worth it to buy a pair of $595 basic black pumps, I was intrigued.

These $595 shoes are made by Manolo Blahnik, one of the most respected shoe makers in the world. The pump’s heel comes in a variety of heights and in different materials, including suede and snakeskin.

But $595?

That’s a La-Z-Boy recliner.

The writer called the shoe an investment. Stocks and bonds are investments. Diamonds and real estate are investments. Not shoes. But for the sake of argument, let’s go with their suggestion.

If you buy a $595 pair of shoes and wear them three days a week for one year, they claim, that’s only $4 per wearing. Wear those same shoes for five years, and that brings the price down to 76 cents per wear.

Obviously this writer has never actually talked to a woman who loves shoes.
Rabid shoe-a-holics would never wear the same pair of shoes three times a week for five years.

Women like to change their shoes to match the outfit they’re wearing.

That’s the reason we have 10 different pairs of black shoes. The flat and short-heeled pumps go with our slacks and the tall heels go with a dress. That’s also the reason why we have shoes in a variety of colors, including the same style shoe in ivory, tan and white.

If I bought Manolo Blahnik shoes using that same philosophy, I’m talking an entire living room of La-Z-Boy recliners.

That scenario also assumes I’d pay full price for shoes. Few shoe lovers pay full price because we love bragging about our shoe coups.

“See these sandals? Just $14.95 on the clearance rack,” we’ll whisper to friends.

Some shoppers love the prestige that comes along with paying a lot of money for a pair of shoes. Just like with $140 Jordan sneakers and $169.95 Coach purses, wearing a pair of Manolo Blahnik shoes is supposed to put you in that envious category of someone who can afford expensive shoes.

I’d rather have the La-Z-Boy.

Shoe Psychology

Later in the article, the author tried to sell readers on the shoe’s quality. The Manolo Blahnik BB pumps are made of reflective “speechio” leather, making the shoe scuff resistant.

First of all, what’s “speechio” leather? I think shoe snobs made up that description – a word I can’t find a definition for anywhere – to justify spending $595 on a pair of their shoes.

As I closed the magazine, I realized the writer of this article doesn’t quite understand the psychology behind how women shop for shoes.

They obviously never talked to a woman who stumbles onto a year-end shoe clearance sale. The thrill of finding that kind of sale releases the same feel-good endorphins as landing the biggest catfish of the day or realizing the tickets you won to the Texans game are on the 50-yard line.

Or finding a $100 pair of black pumps on the 75 percent off rack.

That’s worth more than a therapy session and you can walk away in those brand-new pumps with your head held high, knowing you only paid $25 for those babies.

Now that’s worth it.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The three of us were connected through children and activities, and I probably never would’ve met these three wonderful women if it hadn’t been for our willingness to be the carpool driver or the chaperone on a Scouting or church adventure.

Cindy, Diane and Patty didn’t know each other, but I knew them, and they have positively impacted my life. We weren’t what the dictionary would define as close friends, but our paths crossed many times over the past 20 years.

We were usually in a rush, hurrying children in and out of mini-vans, on our way to the next sporting event or after-school activity.

With three boys, Cindy Zerwas and I swapped stories of life in a house of guys, including finding out our boys thought it would be an adventure to jump out of windows onto mattresses on the front lawn.

Patty Bishop has three daughters so our daily routines were quite different – hers was pink bows and music lessons and mine was stinky sneakers and baseball practice.

Diane Uhlig is the mom of three boys, and we swapped stories of living in a wild house where noise and basketballs were constant companions. We also shared the fretting over helping our boys pack for a summer Scouting trip to the Boundary Waters in Minnesota.

I often take those types of seasonal friendships for granted, thinking those quick conversations aren’t memory makers.

But looking back, the friends I saw occasionally added so much to my life because they marked milestones, causing me to realize how quickly time was speeding past.

An encounter in the grocery store with these women put me into fast forward mode, and I’d go back over the past few years into the present tense. I’d find myself going down memory lane, remembering 2-year-old Christopher Uhlig with a sun hat, floaties and a swim ring.

When I heard Danielle Bishop was finishing up college, I couldn’t believe that little girl who played in the church choir with her dad was almost finished with her education. And Cindy Zerwas and I were both grandmothers – hard to believe our rambunctious boys were now mature, grown men.

Reconnecting

Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve caught up with their lives through social media. That’s how I found out Patty’s husband, Mike, recently went through a life-saving kidney transplant after waiting months for a donor.

That’s also how I found out Diane’s husband, Dave, is battling pancreatic cancer and that Diane is a breast cancer survivor.

It’s for Cindy, though, that my heart aches. She lost a valiant battle with brain cancer this week, leaving behind dozens of friends, her children, grandchildren, husband and loved ones.

All three faced the hardships in their lives with a brave face, humor and grace. Looking back on our conversations, I realized that’s the same way they handled being a parent. So it was no surprise that through their writings on Facebook, that was how they and their families faced incredibly difficult obstacles.

When we don’t see friends on a regular basis, their bad news hits us like a stone wall. When we walk away, what’s left are snippets – laughter, the pride in their voices when they talked about their children and the promise to see each other soon.

For Cindy, I no longer can keep that promise. But for Patty and Diane, I can.

As much as I treasure friends I see all the time, it’s the seasonal friends who help us recognize the giant milestones in our lives. They are our memory catchers.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Facebook’s a great place to keep up with friends, find classmates and waste time. Sometimes, though, the social media site allows me to reconnect with friends and acquaintances.

Such was the case when I caught up with Wayne and Theresa Vincent. When we lived in Richmond, we were usually in a hurry. Conversations were often in a parking lot with little time for more than the basics.

Through Facebook, I found that Theresa travels for her job, and her writings are beautifully descriptive of the places she’s visiting. While exchanging travel experiences online, Theresa suggested we get together for dinner.

It wasn’t until I asked for her house address that I realized they’d moved into Houston. Once their children all went off to college, the Vincents fulfilled a long-held dream of Theresa’s to move into the city.

Theresa loves museums, art, plays and the opportunity to walk to the grocery store, and she wanted to take advantage of what Houston has to offer without fighting big-city traffic.
Houston’s eclectic Montrose area is where they chose to set up housekeeping, and, during my visit,

I could understand why.

Montrose is a quiet, quirky part of Houston. Numerous vintage clothing stores and coffee bars line the main streets. Instead of generic store fronts, small shop exteriors are decorated with contemporary art and flowering plants.

I seldom see people walking the shopping areas in suburbia, but here, the sidewalks were filled with teen shoppers, friendly dogs on leashes, and college students sipping on lattes.

Along residential streets, bungalow-style houses reminded me of times when people sat on their front porches and greeted neighbors out for an evening stroll.

Conversation for the Soul

Wayne and Theresa’s Montrose house is on a quiet side street, and they’d renovated and updated the inside of their bungalow while not losing the house’s charm.

Sitting in comfortable couches, we caught up on what our now-grown children were doing, where they were working or going to school and the many changes in our lives over the last 10 years.

Looking at the clock, Theresa and I decided to grab a quick dinner as Wayne was heading off to his neighborhood softball practice.

We stopped at Aladdin’s Mediterranean Grill in the heart of Montrose. At first, I wasn’t too sure about the place as the inside looks like it hasn’t been touched since the 1970s.

With Theresa’s encouragement, I got in the serving line and saw foods I recognized. The servers were knowledgeable, the service was quick and the food was delicious.

Over hummus and freshly baked pita bread, we delved more deeply into the conversation the three of us had started earlier. Like before, we didn’t talk about work or whine about the size of our hips.

We discussed life. Our hopes. Our dreams. What’s important. What’s trivial.

I think the eclectic atmosphere Montrose weaves – art reflects life and quirky is the spicy seasoning in life – allowed us to step away from a surface exchange of information and enjoy a philosophical conversation about what’s important.

We can have a sterile discourse over Facebook, but genuine dialogue is best when breaking bread together and thinking deeply and honestly about what we want out of life.

Sometimes starting that conversation is as simple as remembering that right around the corner, there’s a big, huge world out there.

We just have to be willing to peek over the line.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

For those living in the Richmond area, the George Memorial Library is the most recognizable landmark around. The curved roof, visible for miles, has stood watch over the community for over 25 years, and thousands visit the George every week.

Starting Sunday, the GML will be closed through Sept. 29 for modernization and renovations, and I’ll truly miss visiting this grand lady.

Libraries have come a long way since the days when the only way to have new books to read was to wait for the bookmobile to come down the road.

Where I grew up, the library was an old, three-story building, and formidable granite stairs led to a front door that required brute strength to open.

I remember how our whispered voices echoed throughout the rotunda. Mostly I remember the special smell that accompanies older libraries – that of musty books and printers’ ink.

People who came to the library with a mission hung out at the card catalog tables where cabinets with skinny drawers held the road map to information.

If you wanted to know about the life of Benjamin Franklin, you went to the drawer, found the section on Franklin, Ben and then wrote down a string of numbers so you could walk up and down the library aisles, hoping the book would be there.  

Then it was back to those hard tables and chairs so we could write down the information, always making sure to copy down all the numbers on the card so we could document our work.

Even though I visited the library numerous times for book reports, for me, libraries were fun places. There was always the relaxing adventure of browsing through the aisles all by myself and picking out three or four novels that looked promising.

When it was time to go, I’d hand my books over to a stern librarian who’d take my paper card with the metal plate and slide it into a machine. From there, a card was punched with the due date and slipped into an envelope on the back cover of the book.

 

A New Look

Libraries today are a far cry from those days. Instead of dark and foreboding institutions, new libraries are open and airy, and the George found a balance between the old and the new.

 Children are encouraged to play with blocks, puzzles and toys, and adults catch up on the latest magazines and newspapers in bright, cozy reading areas.  

There’s still the mandatory quiet in the library, but that’s balanced with the sounds of children laughing during Story Time and patrons tapping away on computers.

In some ways, the George was like going home to our grandparents’ home. Sure the couches were a little worn, but we loved snuggling up there with a book, just like we did at our grandparents’ home.

The elevators are a little slow at the George and the granite in the restrooms is showing its age. I’ll miss that old smell of the musty books, but with the GML upgrade, we’ll be able to sit around tables, sip coffee and browse the Internet through the library’s Wi-Fi system.

 Instead of a stern librarian giving us the “stink eye” if we misplaced our library card, we’ll have a modernized system where we can download e-books and MP3 files while our coffee cools.

The George will continue to look out over Fort Bend County, but she’ll now do so with the latest and greatest libraries have to offer.

She deserves some sprucing up. Take care, ma’am, until we see you in September.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

It’s Wednesday afternoon at the Circle Bowl and a chatty group, The Elite Seniors, were paying their $8, lacing up their bowling shoes and warily eyeing their opponent.

My mom is a member of The Elite Seniors and drives half way across congested Baton Rouge to go bowling. I was tagging along, wondering what’s the draw?

Turns out – a lot.

When my mom and dad were first married, they were on a bowling league, complete with their own bowling balls, shoes and shiny shirts.

Mom said back in the 1950s, all their friends were on bowling leagues. The activity wasn’t expensive, the kids ran around without worrying about breaking anything and couples visited while getting a bit of exercise.

When I was a teenager, midnight bowling was popular because we’d get to stay up all night and check out the boys while pretending to care about the game.

I’d forgotten all about bowling until one rainy evening. We were visiting my parents and my then 5-year-old son said he’d gone to a birthday party at the bowling alley.

“Back in the day, your mom was one of the top bowlers in the league,” my dad said. “She even won trophies.”

At barely 5-feet tall, I was skeptical and said I wanted to see her in action.

So we dragged their bowling balls and shoes out from the top of the closet and headed to the bowling alley.

Turns out, they were pretty good.

My dad’s form was smooth and graceful, and my mom took her time before sending the ball on its way, their bowling styles reflecting their personalities.

 

A New Pastime

A couple of years ago, my mom heard about a seniors league and decided to check it out. Pretty soon, she was winning trophies, talking about strategy and her new friends.

While visiting her this summer, I wanted to see if the commute was safe for my 80-year-old mom to make by herself.

When she walked in the door, there was a cheery chorus of “Dee’s here!” Smiles and hugs went all around as the Elite Seniors talked about politics, the weather and the LSU Tigers.

Everybody had their own equipment. Instead of dinged-up black bowling balls, an assortment of balls in blues and pinks sat side by side on the rack.

Instead of the ugly brown and tan shoes I remembered, the Elite Seniors wore bowling shoes in all colors and styles.

Then it was game time, and I wondered if some of these frail looking seniors could pick up a heavy bowling ball and throw it down the lane.

They were amazing.

 Bowler after bowler racked up ear shattering strikes and spares, their high scores reflected on the fully automatic scoring screen. They picked off splits and shook their heads in disgust when throwing a curve or a hook.

Everybody cheered when 92-year-old Homer bowled the first of his three strikes and great-grandmother Teensy easily racked up five spares.  

The Elite Seniors are good bowlers, but more importantly, they care about each other. If someone’s missing, they call to see if they’re okay. They know the names of each others’ grandchildren and great-grandchildren. They’re competitive, feisty and they have fun.

Despite the long drive to get to the alley, I realized my mom needs to keep bowling with the Elite Seniors. The friendship and camaraderie league members provide for each other keeps them young and engaged in life.

But more importantly, Mom’s got room on the mantle for another trophy.

Game on.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

If you’re on the Internet, you’ve probably seen those “pass-this-on-or-be-sorry” urban legends such as being careful when using hand sanitizer or your hands could catch on fire.

True life is much better than anything people could make up. That’s part of the reason I have a problem with the current summer blockbuster movies. This year’s crop specializes in blowing things up and unnecessary violence.

What they’re missing is the backbone for any successful film – a decent script.

It’s been a while since we’ve watched a movie with an extraordinary story line. One of the best is the 1962 movie “To Kill a Mockingbird.” We see Atticus Finch demonstrate true character by defending a man of color when prejudice was rampant.

No explosives. No inter-galactic space villains. Just a man who lives true to his beliefs.

The Harry Potter movies are often remembered for their spectacular special effects, but the true star is an outstanding script based on a creative story.

The same goes for the “Lord of the Rings” movies. The CGI effects are astounding, but it’s the story of Frodo’s dedication that makes a long-lasting impression.

Great stories are all around us. There are people who go above and beyond themselves every day as they battle cancer, accept foster children into their homes and persevere against the hard balls life throws at them.

But writers miss so much when all they’re worried about is how much stuff they can blow up or destroy.

There’s the true story of Irena Sendler, a Polish social worker, who saved over 3,000 Jews from the Warsaw Ghetto from being exterminated during World War II. She risked her life by smuggling babies and children out of the concentration camps.

She was eventually found out, arrested, beaten and jailed by the Nazis. Four Kansas high school students found out about Sendler and wrote a touching play, “Life in a Jar.”

But no movie.

Courage by Example

There another person whose story of courage is well worth examining – 13-year-old Talia Joy Castellano.

Talia was diagnosed with two types of rare cancer and lost all her hair during brutal chemo treatments. She decided she didn’t want to wear a wig and experimented with colorful eye makeup. She had so much fun and felt so good about herself, she created a series of professional make-up tutorials on YouTube.

The over 1 million YouTube viewers she’s attracted forget that she’s bald or that she’s battling cancer. Instead they see a happy young girl with a message of hope.

Ellen DeGeneres saw the same bright light and had Talia on her show where she was named an honorary Cover Girl star.

Talia wanted to become a make-up artist in Hollywood, but her dreams were cut short. The cancers came back, and, this week, her mother announced that Talia had finally lost the fight.

Producers will continue to make expensive, over-the-top movies. But finding a genuine story, an earnest one that will inspire people for years, is as easy as looking at the people around us.

Maybe it’s the story of a family who lost their toddler son to cancer but give out Christmas gifts to cancer patients year after year.

Perhaps it’s the story of a social worker who put her life on the line to save babies and children from extermination.

Or maybe it’s watching a make-up video by a smiling 13-year-old girl who knew true beauty and courage comes from within.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.