(Many thanks to wonderful friends Bob and Denise for inviting me and driving up to Austin! I had a BLAST!)

When the call came from the stage to join the conga line, my friend immediately jumped up and headed to the front of the theater. Hanging back, I watched as she waved her hands over her head, a radiant smile on her face as she danced her way around the front of the theater.

Onstage was an internationally known band, Pink Martini, and until a week ago, I had no idea who they were. By the end of the night, I became a devoted fan.

The leaders of Pink Martini are Thomas Lauderdale and China Forbes who were college friends. Late at night, they’d collaborate, Lauderdale on the piano with Forbes singing torch songs.

The two were fluent in a variety of languages and musical styles, and they began writing songs. Once they started performing, they were immediately embraced by audiences, beginning in Portland and then growing to a loyal fan base around the world.

Their music ranges from Brazilian sambas to sassy French songs. Forbes easily maneuvers her rich, silky voice through 1920s torch songs as evenly as Japanese love songs, and the extremely talented musicians in Pink Martini move right along with her.

Forget pre-taped music and outrageously dressed performers. Pink Martini’s

musicians were all wearing coats and ties, and coordinating the entire affair was Lauderdale, his love of the music causing him to literally bounce off the piano bench with every note.

And that’s exactly what he did while playing to a full house in the beautiful studio where the show “Austin City Limits” is filmed.

Now in its 35th year, ACL is the longest-running music series in American television history. They began in 1974 with PBS, and singers from Willie Nelson to The Allman Brothers Band to George Strait have graced the stage over the years.

What sets Austin City Limits apart from other shows is the attitude of the audience. These are folks who come to hear great music without any smoke or mirrors, and they weren’t disappointed the night Pink Martini performed.

As a special treat, the great-grandchildren of Maria and Georg Von Trapp appeared on stage, and the musical genes run quite deep in that family. It was amazing to watch these young adults sing in front of 2,000 people, harmonizing like professionals.

More amazing was the way the members of Pink Martini welcomed a new generation to the stage. But even with the aura of being descendants of the von Trapps, the real stars of the night were the members of Pink Martini, especially lead singer China Forbes.

She can sing in 15 different languages, and she crooned love songs in Peruvian, French, Portuguese and Chinese.

Although I couldn’t understand a word she was singing, the meaning was unmistakable – allow this music to seep into your soul. Lose yourself in the notes and slowly fade into a place where the outside world is thousands of miles away.

At the end of the performance, Forbes asked everybody to make a conga line, and half the patrons were immediately out of their seats and dancing around the theater.

I watched my friend, her hands up over her head, sashaying up and down the aisles, and then I noticed she was leading the way.

Her smile was as bright as the lights in the catwalk, and I realized something while watching her. Music has the ability to transform our world and make us believe that even if a boy named Eugene forgets to call, happiness remains right around the corner.

It’s within your grasp. All you have to do is get out of the chair and dance.
 
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Sitting in the back of the room, I watched in amazement as 30 energetic toddlers jumped up and down, clapped their hands and twirled around. It was Toddler Time, and the room was hopping.

This lively gathering was thanks to the Fort Bend County Libraries. At all of their branches, they offer a variety of programs for youngsters, from Toddler Time for ages 1-3, Story Time for ages 3-6, after-school programs for children in grades 1-5 and programs for pre-teens and teens.

When my boys were young, we participated in a variety of library programs, but I didn’t visit the toddler programs until my granddaughter came along. Last summer, we visited the George Memorial Library for Story Time, and my granddaughter had a blast.

We met in the large meeting room, and a friendly librarian read and acted out half a dozen books for the children, put on an interactive puppet show and sang songs.

At the end, she gave all the children an arts and craft project to complete, and instantly everybody was on the floor coloring, gluing and showing off their masterpieces.

The children readily shared their supplies, listened as moms softly read stories aloud and skipped and danced around the room, singing the songs the librarian had taught them.

As a bonus, I met other moms, as well as a few grandparents, looking for something fun yet educational during the hot summer months.

So it was a pleasant surprise when my granddaughter and I stepped into the Bob Lutts Library in Fulshear during Spring Break, arriving just as Toddler Time was starting.

The conference room was filled with laughter and youngsters crawling around, jumping up and down and some clinging to mom for dear life.

But when the librarian began to sing, all eyes were glued on her and then everybody who knew the song joined in. At the end, there was spontaneous applause and then quiet as the librarian read a book aloud.

Just when the toddlers’ attention was beginning to wane, she brought out a circus-like tent as wide as the room.

Everybody grabbed a section of the outer edge, and we began waving the tent up and down. Most of the children, my granddaughter included, crawled underneath the tent and squealed with delight as we slowly fanned that colorful material up and down over the children, all of us singing and laughing.

We’re told the children of today need television, expensive gadgets, computers, tutors and hand-held games in order to stay ahead of the ever-widening learning curve.

But in less than an hour, when allowed to interact with each other in a hands-on, lively environment, a room full of toddlers, as well as the adults with them, learned together.

Many thanks to the Fort Bend County Libraries for staffing and introducing these programs to our young learners. Because of their willingness to sing silly songs and lead discussion groups with our adolescents and teens, we remind our future leaders that the library is not only fun, it’s a safe and engaging place to connect, either through face-to-face discussions or in the pages of a book.

And because the Fort Bend County Libraries provide programs for adults wishing to learn how to crochet, knit, file their taxes or care for a loved one struggling with Alzheimer’s, we’re reminded that learning never stops.

So visit the library today. And take a youngster along. You’ll be amazed how rewarding life can be while watching a child make an invisible itsy-bitsy spider crawl up an imaginary water spout.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

For the past two days, I’ve been avoiding a giant silver remote control courtesy of our new cable television provider. I’ve complained about remote controls in the past, but this one takes the cake.

First of all, there’s 54 buttons on this one remote control, some accessing functions I didn’t even know existed for a television. I’ll bet this device is more complicated than controls on the Apollo 13 mission.

We’ve come a long way from the original remote control – the kids. My dad would plop down on the couch and tell one of us to turn on the television. We had to stand there, wait for the set to warm up and then turn the knob until we found a show he wanted to watch.

Easy enough with only three channels. But then we had to adjust the antenna on top of the TV to get the best reception.

If the picture was still snowy, we dreaded the next command – get the foil. My dad believed aluminum foil was the second best conductor for television waves.

The best conductor was an 8-year-old bored child who could’ve cared less about “Gunsmoke” but was required to stand there until my dad got tired of the fidgeting and complaining.

Then mechanical remote controls came along. The first ones had four buttons – on and off, volume, channel up and channel down. One had to practically sit right in front of the television and aim the remote straight at the screen in order for the gadget to work.

That’s when the second best conductor came into play – while my dad stayed on the couch, we got to stand in front of the television and change the channel. And then adjust the antenna and get the foil.

Over the years, remote controls have evolved. Viewers can change the channel from another room, program the television to record the entire “Gunsmoke” series, watch shows they’ve missed in the past two weeks and order and download the latest movies.

In order to carry out this magic, we need more gadgets. We have a rather simple TV setup, but ours requires four – yes four – remote controls.

There’s a small oval unit that only runs the DVD player. Then there’s another remote for a BluRay player which I never use because I can’t remember which one of the four remotes goes with that particular device. Then there’s two long, black ones with commands I still can’t figure out.

But I was determined to master the remote control bureaucracy, so I sat down on the couch, all five remote controls next to me, and started with the new boy on the block – the imposing silver one.

I pressed the “all on” button and a row of lights flashed across the top. Pretty, but no “Gunsmoke.” I pressed another big button that looked promising. Nada. So one by one, I started pressing big buttons on the other remotes and, voila, the TV came on.

Two hours later, I somehow managed to not only change channels but I figured out how to turn the volume up and down – all five remotes will do this, by the way – and record “Gunsmoke.”

I know there are universal remote controls that combine all the devices, but I’m afraid I’d either need a magnifying glass to figure out the purpose of each button or the device would have to be the size of my pillow.

Until then, I’m on the lookout for an 8-year-old kid who knows where I keep the aluminum foil.
 
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

You’ll get over it.

Words people say after something tragic, bad or sorrowful happens in life. The phrase is intended to comfort, but it has the opposite effect.

How, specifically, does one get over the death of a spouse? A child? A parent?

How does one get over the feelings of unbelievable sadness and sorrow that permeate every aspect of a person’s life when tragedy happens?

Recently, one of my son’s good friends unexpectedly passed away. It’s the first time he’s had to deal with the death of a close friend; and as the words of comfort came out of my mouth, I knew they could do nothing to ease his pain.

The same week, my mom’s older brother passed away. Mom said he’d lived a good life, but that didn’t lessen her pain. When she called to tell me he’d died, I found myself starting to say the same words I’d said to my son, but stopped.

Instead, we talked about Uncle Ray, swapping stories, realizing he would always be alive in our memories. But no matter how much time passes, that sorrow remains an underlying part of life.

A dear friend told me once that sorrow never goes away. Those feelings change and people learn to meld sorrow into their daily life.

When people see her smiling face, watch her chatting in the grocery store or working at her desk, they think she’s finally gotten over the loss of her son.

But that’s only from people who’ve never had someone they love leave this life.

Memories of spending time with them are right underneath the surface and can be triggered at unexpected moments, especially through songs. Music is supposed to be one of the most comforting sounds around, but it’s also a major memory trigger for me.

Whenever I hear Cajun music, I think about my dad. While he was still alive, my dad would always shout out a “ay-eee” at the right moments in a Zydeco song, much to my embarrassment and his delight.

My mom and I were listening to songs on the Internet one evening, and her and my dad’s song came up in the playlist. She was a little misty-eyed, remembering that was their song, and I was sorry she was sad but glad I knew a little more about her as a young woman.

Photographs are wonderful mementos, but they can also trigger a torrent of tears. While going through a box of photos recently, I came across a picture of my grandparents.

They were standing behind the counter in the five-and-dime store they owned, and their faces could’ve been that of any shopkeeper in America – my grandfather wearing a worn cardigan sweater, and my grandmother with her glasses hanging on a silver chain.

The photo reminded me of trips to their store, helping dust the merchandise, to which my grandfather rewarded me with a small bag, telling me to fill it with candy for being such a big helper.

My grandmother’s face reminded me of the last time I saw her, ill and frail in a hospital bed, unwilling to face life any longer, the years of grieving for her son who died at a young age something she refused to accept.

She grieved all of her life for him, never learning to blend his memories in with her daily life. And that’s the difference in getting over the devastation and weaving sorrows into the joys that come our way.

Together, those ups and downs become the patchwork quilt of our life.

For we never get over a loss.

We simply learn to keep going.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

My grandfather was a predictable man. He watched “Gunsmoke” every Saturday night, went to bed at the same time and always made sure he washed out the same plate, cup and saucer after dinner to use the next day.

I thought about my grandfather as I was rummaging around in our cutlery drawer, looking for one particular, mismatched fork. Finally, I spotted it in the bottom of the dishwasher, and I carefully retrieved it, happy I could finally sit down to dinner.

That’s when I sighed and realized an unmistakable fact – somewhere along the way, I’d left behind carefree and crossed over into predictability.

It’s easy to pooh-pooh that thought, especially when I tell myself I’m still hip and cool. Then again, using the words “hip” and “cool” is an automatic giveaway I’m over the hill.

I tried to rationalize my way out of admitting I’d become a stick in the mud. Using that one particular fork for every meal was a preference, nothing more.

Then I thought about the coffee cups.

We must have two dozen mismatched coffee cups in the kitchen cabinet. I can’t in good conscience throw them away, and my sisters have an unbreakable mantra about cups that keeps them in my cabinet – one must drink out of a cup or mug that bears an inspirational or special meaning. Hence the reason I use my “Barney Fife Nip It In The Bud” coffee mug day after day.

And I’m a bit persnickety about one bath towel. I usually buy a new towel when there’s a sale, and a worn one goes out to the garage… except for this blue towel.

It’s my favorite, even more than plush new ones because that old towel is incredibly soft. I wash it and put it right back on top of the stack in the cabinet. Why get rid of something that’s perfectly useful, I tell myself.

Truth be told, the curmudgeon signs are everywhere. I switch the channel with a big “harrumph” whenever a “Saved By The Bell” rerun appears, and I complain about people who drive too fast on neighborhood streets.

I’ve used the same wallet for the past 15 years because it’s finally soft and I know what’s in all the little hidden pockets, and I’ll use a purse until the straps break.

Next to my computer monitor is a beat-up address book, some with addresses erased five or six times. But I know to look for my cousin’s address under her maiden name, even though she’s been married 20 years.

I park on the same row whenever I go to the grocery store, even if the lot is empty, because that’s the only way I can find my car. More than once, I’ve wandered the parking lot, watching my ice cream melt, while searching for my vehicle.

I sit and stew at the stop light if the car next to me is vibrating from loud music, and I value soft flannel pajamas over silky ones.

I believe a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, washed down with a glass of cold milk, is fine eatin’, and there’s no better dessert on the planet than a plain Oreo cookie.

I simply appreciate the value of something weathered yet useful, something that might not be trendy or perfect but is useful.

Although I’d never consider myself a wild child, I am predictable, and I’ve come to accept that fact about myself.

Persnickety? Maybe.

Practical? Yep.

My grandfather would think that was just dandy.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The first time I went to Seabourne Creek Nature Park, I thought it was a great place to fly a kite. With open plains, a lake and not much more, the 164-acre park looked like someone dropped a pond in the middle and then walked away.

All that’s changed, thanks to a partnership between the City of Rosenberg and the Coastal Prairie Chapter of the Texas Master Naturalists. Through their work, Seabourne Creek Nature Park is now inviting as well as educational.

According to Karl Baumgartner, the project manager for the restoration project, back in 2009, city managers agreed to set aside 20 acres at Seabourne for native prairie restoration.

Best of all, the Coastal Prairie Chapter of the Texas Master Naturalists volunteered to initiate and organize all projects at the park, and they wasted little time.

Over the last two and a half years, they have transformed a stark piece of prairie into an educational and thriving garden. Two grants from the Rosenberg Development Council allowed them to plant native trees and install irrigation systems.

Picnic tables and covered pavilions are located throughout the park, and it’s not unusual to find a Master Gardener on hand, weeding a garden, counting birds or building something new.

Baumgartner’s active with Boy Scout troops in the area, and he enlisted Eagle Scouts to develop nature projects.

One Scout built a chimney swift tower and another built an observation deck overlooking a meadow that’ll be filled with wildflowers in the spring.

A stocked butterfly garden invites visitors, both insects and human. People can stroll along the 4-acre lake where they can rest on a bench, fish for perch or bass or simply enjoy the serenity.

A wetlands area attracts waterfowl, and over 118 species of birds have been officially photographed and identified in the last 18 months at the park, many on the monthly bird hikes offered by the Master Naturalists.

Currently the Master Naturalists have a Prairie Restoration Project underway where they’re transforming former cow pastures back to prairie conditions, complete with native grasses and plants.

In addition to upgrading the park, the Master Naturalists also want to educate the public. An artist, who created the interpretive signs at Brazos Bend State Park, is making similar signs that will be placed throughout the park. The signs will allow visitors to understand the complexity and simplicity of nature.

Signs will also identify the different plants and trees so visitors come away with more than a pleasant day at the park – they’ll know about nature in the city where they live.

Baumgartner is hoping to have a bond issue passed so they can build a nature center. The center he envisions is similar to one at Brazos Bend State Park and one in the Katy school district.

He said Katy’s facility is booked every day of the year, and he wants to work with school districts in this area so students can visit a nature center within minutes of any school.

Luckily the R.W. Lindsey covered gazebo, on-site restrooms and water fountains provide everything visitors could need. All that’s missing are inquisitive minds.

Educating people about the wonder, beauty and fragility of nature ensures they’ll become caretakers, just as the Master Naturalists are at this hidden gem off Highway 36 in Rosenberg.

Baumgartner invites you to come visit. When you do, bring a picnic lunch and walking shoes so you can enjoy this beautiful and interactive park.

But don’t forget the kite.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The other day, my 4-year-old granddaughter was describing her house to me. She talked about chasing the dog in the back yard and learning to do cartwheels in the den. Then she sat back and smiled.

“My house,” she said stretching her arms up over her head, “is gigantic.”

When we’re youngsters, things seem bigger than they really are. I remember the first time I went back to my grandparents’ house after they’d passed away.

I was in my late 20’s, and it was the first time I’d seen the house vacant. What once seemed so big now seemed small, especially the dining room.

As an adult, I realized the room was normal sized, but the area I remembered was gigantic, able to sustain numerous conversations while accommodating children playing tag in and around the table.

I wandered around the house, and I found myself looking at the house as an adult, growing sadder that the huge place I remembered was only that big in my memories.

I lingered outside, especially in the “the big yard.” After Sunday dinner, everybody hustled out there and played Wiffle ball. Our uncles were the pitchers and the hitters and the nieces and nephews took the outfield.

We loved having the adults play with us, and we were happy to run after wild balls that landed in my grandmother’s hydrangea bushes. But standing there as a grown woman, the yard was rather small, not the gigantic place I remembered.

Back then, the trees we climbed seemed tall enough to practically touch the sky, and my cousins and I would stay up there for hours. We talked about comic books, toys and things we were scared of, but we felt safe in the comfortable branches.

Looking at that grove of trees as an adult, they weren’t nearly as tall as I’d remembered, but the limbs still seemed a comfortable place to sit. On impulse, I climbed up and looked around.

I could still see the tower on my grandparents’ house and the house where our friends once lived. Most afternoons, we’d walk along the stone wall in front of our house, trying hard not to fall off. As a kid, it seemed like that wall went on forever, but looking at it through adult eyes, the wall was only about four feet long.

Reality. It’s how adults look at life. Trees and back yards no longer seem bigger than life.

Instead of looking at our yard as a place of mystery and intrigue, it’s a responsibility. We trim the trees, cut the grass and then merely glance at what’s supposed to be a relaxing area on our way out the door to work.

The rooms in our house require upkeep – dusting, mopping and sweeping. We spend time in the living room watching movies or falling asleep on the couch, but we seldom kick back in a chair and let our imaginations roam to faraway places.

I’ve never tried to execute a cartwheel in my living room. I watch my dog romp in the back yard, but I don’t chase her. I’m a grown up, and I seldom see adventure around every bend.

But the look on my granddaughter’s face made me realize that the only ingredient bigger-than-life adventures require is a fertile imagination and the willingness to look at life through the eyes of a child.

And when we can do that, then the world really will seem gigantic.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

For over 10 years, my work mornings began in a quiet newsroom. But I always had company – Russell Autrey. He’d be sitting at the editorial desk, reading the newspaper, a cup of coffee in one hand, and he always had a cheery “good morning” for everybody.

After a bit, Russell would grab his camera bag and head out the door. A couple of hours later, he’d be back, close the door to the dark room and, 15 minutes later, emerge for his second cup of coffee as the negatives developed.

While waiting, we were privileged to hear “Russell stories,” and those involved his many adventures in the 60’s and the “fact-is-stranger-than-fiction” scrapes he’d gotten into over his life.

The buzzer would go off in the dark room, he’d retrieve the negatives and then pull the images up on the computer. I’d wistfully watch over his shoulder as shot after shot appeared on the screen, each one amazing.

Somehow, Russell managed to find beauty in the every day, from an elderly woman mowing her yard to anxious moms and youngsters waiting for the school bus on the first day of school.

Those photos could’ve been easily forgotten, but luckily the Fort Bend Museum is hosting an exhibition of Russell’s work. Over the next few months, the staff will change out the pictures so visitors can see how Russell sees the four seasons of the year.

Currently, the exhibit features daily photos he took for the newspaper as well as some dating back to the early days of his 30-year career.

Russell’s prints easily fill dozens of boxes, and he’s got a story to tell about every one of them. There’s the one of his son, Cole, and a friend supposedly hovering over Morton Street for a story about Halloween.

Russell and Cole had many adventures together, including the time Russell spotted a tornado at First Colony Mall. Cole grabbed the wheel of the still moving car while Russell snapped the finger of the tornado touching the roof of the food court.

It’s impossible to look at Russell’s elegant black-and-white pictures of a poor sharecropper without feeling empathy for the man’s dire situation. Russell photographed the man casually holding a pipe with a mangled hand, but still retained the man’s dignity while allowing the viewer to enter that bleak world.

There’s the many colorful pictures from festivals, beaming youngsters with their turkeys at the county fair, dignitaries and future presidents of the United States at the annual fair parade and weathered farmers working their cotton fields.

As gorgeous as those photos are, I must confess my personal favorites are when Russell and I collaborated on stories.

We worked on one about young cowboys in Fort Bend County, and we had a blast at a small diner out in the country, listening to the cowboys spin their tall tales.

We spent one Sunday morning at Mount Mariah Baptist Church, and Russell snapped over 300 pictures. I saw spirituality at its purest in that little wooden church and what I can’t even begin to express in words, Russell caught on film.

That’s because Russell has an eye for the small details that make up life. This humble artist teaches us that beauty is all around if we pay attention to the details and appreciate what’s been in front of our eyes all along.

Although the museum has hundreds of artifacts from Fort Bend County’s past, they’ve got a wonderful treasure on the walls, and that’s the stellar work of the state’s best, and one of my favorite people in the world, Russell Autrey.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. The Fort Bend Museum is located at 500 Houston St. in downtown Richmond. Visit www.fortbendmuseum.org for more information.

A few years ago, my son and I attended a James Taylor concert, one of our favorite artists. At the end, when Taylor sang “Sweet Baby James” as a soft lullaby, I cried like a baby as did most of the people my age in the audience.

Partly, Taylor moved me with the lyrics that took me back to long-ago, almost-forgotten days, but mostly it was the melancholy way he phrased the song that stirred my soul.

Those types of singers and artists don’t come along very often. Let’s face it, few of us feel moved to tears when hearing “Superbad” or “Sexy and I Know It.”

Over the years, artists have recorded and rerecorded a handful of standards, and each has his or her own version of what they believe sounds good.

I can’t count the number of renditions of “The Star Spangled Banner” I’ve listened to – some atrocious, some barely recognizable as the national anthem and some pretty good – or the number of ways I’ve heard the Beatles’ “Blackbird” mangled.

So when a friend suggested I listen to Eva Cassidy in connection with “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” I clicked on the link with a bit of trepidation.

After all, Judy Garland owns this song, and no one comes close to singing the “Wizard of Oz’s” signature song like Garland.

Until I heard Eva Cassidy.

The clip was filmed at The Blues Alley in 1996. Cassidy accompanies herself on the guitar, and her strumming is as masterful as her singing. Incredibly, the performance is live, and she soars through every note flawlessly.

But more than her masterful technical ability, Cassidy makes the listener feel the ache of wanting to be in a happier place, a place where troubles melt like lemon drops.

We believe what she’s singing because her voice is genuine. No digital remastering in the studio. No electronic auto-tuning so we won’t notice when she’s off key.

Hooked, I found other videos of her singing, and each one is beautifully stunning. An hour later, I was back listening to “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” again, but this time, sadder.

For Cassidy passed away in 1996 at the age of 33 from bone cancer. She was on her way to signing a record contract when she started having hip pain. By the time doctors discovered the reason for the pain, it was too late, and this beautiful songbird was taken far too soon.

During her brief singing career, she recorded enough songs for a few albums, and her selections reveal an artist who refused to be categorized.

She liked singing them all, she said, and she could make us mourn for “Danny Boy” and believe that, one day, we’ll get across the mountains in our lives with “Bridge Over Troubled Water” and “The Water is Wide.”

Millions of people know her music which is incredible as Cassidy died before finding fame. People comment on her YouTube videos every day, happy they’ve found this incredible singer, sad she’s no longer with us.

Through the beauty of the Internet, we’re able to hear her clear, pure voice, the emotions she felt from every musical genre coming across as clearly as if we were sitting in that smoky club on a Friday night.

Eva Cassidy was a down-to-earth musical magician who can still remind us that music is more than notes on a page – it’s the secret passage to our souls.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The 4-year-old boy on the balance beam was not happy. From my vantage point in the visitor’s watching area, I could see him standing on a balance beam that was only about six inches above the floor mat. His head was in his hands and one thing was obvious – he wasn’t budging.

Standing next to him was the instructor, gently patting him on the back and urging him to keep going.

He refused.

For the next few minutes, other youngsters pranced around him, tumbling and spinning, but this little boy stayed right where he was.

Strangely enough, he wasn’t getting off the beam. He was simply rooted to the spot and refused to do anything but stand there and cry.

I thought a parent might go down and rescue him, but no adult came to his aid. Then I thought the instructor would pick him up and take him to his parents. But she didn’t.

And then I realized an important fact.

If this little boy was allowed to quit right in the middle of attempting to walk across a balance beam six inches off the ground, the next time something difficult came his way, chances were good he’d duck away from that challenge as well.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a dark-haired boy of about 5, and he was having a grand time. He’d jump up after somersaults, a huge smile on his face, and run back to the end of the line, anxious to repeat the tumbling moves.

His excitement was contagious to the other children around him, and soon they were all doing their forward rolls with ease and coming up smiling.

Except the little boy on the balance beam who was still standing right where he was.

Occasionally he’d start to slide a foot to one side, but then he’d panic, stop, and pull his foot back again. The instructor would lean down and whisper something to him, he’d shake his head no, and then she’d straighten up and patiently go back to patting him on the back.

Unexpectedly, the little boy looked up at the instructor, no longer crying, and nodded to her – he was ready to try.

She leaned down and pointed at a spot a few inches from his left foot. He hesitated, but then, he slowly slid his foot to the spot. Immediately the instructor raised her hands in triumph. And then something amazing happened – he smiled.

She pointed a few inches past his foot again, and, this time, he moved both his left and his right foot. It took him a while, but he eventually made his way to the end of the balance beam. When he stepped off, he was holding his head up, the tears were gone and a satisfied look was on his face.

There will always be people in this world who move through life with gusto. And there are others who are often afraid to move from an uncomfortable spot.

They can either stay stuck in fear or they can wait until they feel comfortable enough to move forward.

And even though that youngster only moved a few feet, the obstacle he conquered was probably the toughest one in the room because the biggest fear he faced was inside his head.

That little boy taught me an invaluable lesson – even when you’re scared, if you wait until you’re ready, you can face your fears and slowly but surely move forward in life.

Inch by inch.

Step by step.

Until, no matter the distance, you complete your journey.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.