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.

I decided to take advantage of a rainy evening and clean out my shoes. Piled on the floor of my closet were rows of shoes, but there comes a time in every shoeaholic’s life when it’s time to make sense of the pile.

I come from a long line of shoe lovers. As a young girl, I remember playing dress up in my Aunt Bev’s closet with my cousin, both of us clomping around in our aunt’s high heels.

My Grandma Marguerite was a fiend for shoes. Three weeks before she passed away, my aunt told me they went shoe shopping, and Grandma bought some $75 shoes.

My aunt told her the shoes were too expensive, but my grandmother just shrugged, a twinkle in her eye. Later that week, they went to the doctor’s office. A young, handsome physician walked through the door, looked down at my grandmother’s feet and said “Nice shoes.”

Grandma looked at my aunt and said “Worth every penny.”

My mother always had fashionable shoes in her closet, and for a long time, all three of her daughters wore her same size. Many a morning, we made a mad dash to Mom’s room, rummaged around in her shoe closet and snatched whatever we could find.

Now I had my own shoe stash, but, eventually, space runs out. Thus began the culling of the shoes.

Grabbing two plastic bags, I began going through the stack. I picked up some faded blue suede shoes – yes, just like Elvis described – and a smile crossed my face. Those were the shoes I bought when I was 18, a broke college freshman.

I bought those shoes with some unexpected money my grandfather sent me, and they are a constant reminder that others might need some help at unexpected times. So those went back on the shelf.

Then there were four pairs of white dressy sandals. None of them were ever comfortable to wear, and I always ended up taking them off an hour after I put them on. Any girl worth her salt can put up with uncomfortable shoes for at least two hours.

I put them back.

Then there were a pair of gold shoes. For someone practical like me, having a pair of gold shoes is odd, but I have them because of my Aunt Kathy. She told me every woman should own a pair of gold shoes because they dress up an outfit and go with everything.

I put those back.

And then I came across my sandals. In Texas, having shoes that can survive 90-degree weather is a must, especially for somebody like me who loves to slip shoes on and off.

I put them all back.

Then I came to the dressy shoes. I reluctantly put a pair of three-inch black heeled shoes in the give-away bag, but a few minutes later, I got them out.

Who knows – I could go to a fancy event and I’d need those tall shoes. In fact, I probably needed all the shoes in my closet, so I folded up the empty give-away bag and closed the closet door.

My granddaughter just might like to play dress up one of these days, and I’d feel terrible if there weren’t high heels for her to clomp around in.

Sighing, I realized we shoeaholics are never cured. We simply live for the day we’ll find a pair of comfortable shoes on sale that happen to have some style.

And if they’re gold, then that’s truly a treasure.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

While browsing through the bookstore, I spotted a book, “Animals Make us Human,” but the author’s name is what caused me to pick it up – Temple Grandin.

Dr. Grandin is an animal scientist who revolutionized the cattle processing industry as well as other methods of handling livestock. More importantly, she’s a vocal advocate for people with autism.

She knows what she’s talking about – Grandin is autistic and has become a voice of reason and hope for people like her and for parents with autistic children.

Her road wasn’t easy. As a young child, Grandin didn’t speak and had trouble interacting socially. Doctors told her mother she needed to be institutionalized, but her mother refused to believe her 4-year-old daughter couldn’t learn.

She was right. Grandin proved incredibly intelligent and became fascinated with cows while visiting her aunt’s ranch.

The teenage Grandin eventually devised a chute system that calmed cattle on their way to the slaughterhouse. This system continues to save the meat industry millions of dollars.

Grandin is successful because she approaches life scientifically and logically. Her books and magazine articles provide incredible insight into the world of autistic children.

Her writings and talks educate the world about the different ways people with autism, Asperger’s or attention deficit disorder function every single day.

As I watched the HBO movie about Grandin, I thought about some of the kids I knew back in high school — the “juvenile delinquents” whom the system pigeonholed as troublemakers. There were those who had trouble paying attention in school. They were labeled daydreamers and put into a societal cubicle they could never escape.

But those troublemakers and daydreamers had quite a bit to offer the rest of us, but we overlooked and misunderstood what they were capable of providing because we labeled them, much as Grandin was labeled as a youngster.

I’m as guilty as the next person in judging someone based on a first impression, but through Grandin, I’ve come to understand that the child throwing a tantrum in a grocery store might not be a spoiled brat. That child could have deeper emotional problems, and the parents are doing the best they can.

The adult who has trouble making eye contact or is uncomfortable in a party situation might have undiagnosed social disorders. They’re not someone to avoid but very often they’re someone who needs to be approached in a different way because they see the world through an unusual lens.

Some, like Grandin, are scientists who see the world in bold numbers and sequences. Others, the writers and poets, view the world as phrases and words. Dancers see the world as form and grace, and they ensure we never forget there’s beauty in simple movements.

But when we refuse to accept where people are in their development, refuse to look beyond different behavior or a quirk that doesn’t quite meet our definition of “normal,” then we miss out on so much these individuals can teach us.

Not everyone can dance or paint or build humane cattle chutes, but we all have something unique to offer the world, even if it’s a smile to someone struggling or a comforting word to a parent wondering why their child won’t give them a hug at night.

Temple Grandin is a reminder to see the world through others’ eyes and to remember we’re all doing the best we can.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.