Last week, like many folks, we packed our suitcases and headed out of town for spring break. We pointed the car west toward Fredericksburg, planning on visiting some Texas wineries, local antique shops and recommended tourist attractions.

We stopped in the visitor’s center, had a nice conversation with the friendly staff, and circled all the places we wanted to visit.

Like hundreds of other people, we walked up and down Frederickburg’s main street, dutifully picking up T-shirts and souvenirs and eating lunch in a few of the trendy restaurants.

So it came as a surprise that our favorite stop of the week was in a remote area of a state park where, besides a few birds and some craggy live oaks, we were the only ones taking advantage of one of the prettiest and refreshing places I’ve encountered in ages.

Pedernales Falls State Park is located 35 miles west of Austin, right outside Johnson City, the birthplace of the late Lyndon B. Johnson, former Texas senator and president of the United States. The sprawling park boasts a major calling card — a gorgeous waterfall.

Normally, gallons of water cascade over the mammoth rocks; but because of the severe drought in central Texas, visitors are now walking over and around the exposed and dry boulders.

At the public swimming hole, though, families were taking advantage of the shallow, cool waters. Shaded picnic areas had plenty of room where campers were barbecuing, relaxing underneath the aged oaks or taking naps.

We saw a sign for a bird viewing sanctuary and we pulled off, curious as to what we’d find. The Friends of Pedernales State Park had built two bird viewing areas, and their love for wildlife was evident everywhere.

Volunteers had constructed two wooden bird blinds with benches inside a covered area and an open area on the other. A natural wall, created by large branches, enclosed a cleared area that contained logs, bird feeders and a water fountain. Panes of glass separated the two areas, providing a perfect viewing area.

On a table inside the blind, volunteers had filled albums with photos and information about the birds that regularly visit the sanctuary. There was also an opening near the partition so photographers could snap pictures without bothering the shy songbirds and scavenging squirrels and mice.

We sat and quietly watched brightly colored birds dart in and out of the trees and settle on the cedar logs to feast on bird seed, kindly left by the volunteers.

Male cardinals lit on the logs, fighting with each other as the female cardinals quietly scooped up the bird seed scattered by the scarlet-colored males. A huge Western blue jay took a spot on the water fountain as if to proclaim himself king of the sanctuary.

The small goldfinches, wrens and mourning doves paid scant attention to that big bird, choosing instead to grab a quick snack and then dart back into the cover of the nearby trees. Birds in a rainbow of colors visited the sanctuary, and their songs echoed through the trees.

A quote by naturalist John Burroughs on the park’s Website sums up what we and thousands of other visitors realize when visiting this quiet spot — “I come here to find myself. It’s so easy to get lost in the world.”

We thought we went on vacation to visit trendy restaurants, snazzy tourist shops and Texas wineries. In reality, we discovered exactly what we needed in the quiet of a state park, far away from cash registers and over-priced knick knacks.

We found serenity.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I walked into the familiar restaurant, and the smells of my childhood surrounded me. Kibbee, tabooley, lentil soup. It was hard to believe I wasn’t in my grandmother’s kitchen.

“Where have you been? I haven’t seen you in a while,” said the smiling lady behind the counter at Abdallah’s Restaurant.

She was right. I hadn’t braved Houston on a Saturday in quite a while, but my longing for some Lebanese food from my childhood overrode my fears of maneuvering Highway 59.

Growing up, we were surrounded by Lebanese food, especially on Sundays. My grandmother started preparing dinner Saturday afternoon when she’d boil and then debone the chicken for her special chicken and rice dish.

Every once in a while, she’d make meat pies, and she let me carefully spoon the spinach or the meat into the centers of the circles of bread dough.

She showed me how to pinch the edges together to form a triangle, making sure to leave a small space in the middle for the bread to rise, and then brush the pies with an egg wash so they’d be shiny when they came out of the oven.

I still remember how delicate and beautiful my grandmother’s hands were as she fussed over the details of those Lebanese dishes, making sure the baked kibbee was cut into perfectly formed diamonds and the tabooley was filled with plenty of chopped mint, picked from her garden outside the back door.

So when I walked into Abdallah’s, it was like walking into my grandmother’s kitchen. The small restaurant/store is filled with all the staples needed to create a genuine Lebanese dinner.

Granted, I haven’t a clue how to use most of them, but when I took my mom there this summer, her voice grew soft as she described how to use the tahini paste, the many uses for chick peas and why having pine nuts in the pantry is a must for any serious Lebanese cook.

Hearing people talk Arabic behind the counter was somehow comforting because as my grandparents bustled around the kitchen, they talked to each other in a mixture of English and Arabic, their rhythm of give and take connecting both languages.

Although we all speak English in my family, whenever we’re together at my Mom’s, we function in controlled chaos as we slip back into a familiar dance from our childhood and in-laws, nieces and nephews all join in.

One sets the table and another fills the glasses with ice. Someone places the dishes on the dining room table and another counts out forks and knives. Bowls are filled with rice and potatoes and someone carves the turkey or the roast.

A dozen people bustle around my mom’s kitchen on any given Sunday or holiday, the familiar smells of our childhood, adding to the feeling of security, safety and home.

And it’s the same when I go to Abdallah’s.

As I’m settling the bill, Mrs. Abdallah slips a pastry into a bag and hands it to me.

“For the ride home,” she says with a smile.

And just as the smells in that restaurant reminded me of home, the lady behind the counter with the sparkling blue eyes was offering me a bit of her home to take with me to my home.

That’s the way home cooking and home meals should be — generously shared with all who come to the table looking for the familiar smells and tastes of our childhoods and of home.

It’s been a while since I’ve had some garlicky hummus and freshly baked pita bread. I think I’ll brave the freeway again this weekend and sample a slice of my childhood, right in the heart of Houston.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Rosie ruffled the back of my hair, shook her head and met my eyes in the mirror.

“When are you going to do something about this gray hair,” she said. “Most people go gray in the front first, but your gray is all over the back of your head.”

“There can’t be that much gray hair back there,” I said.

“Are you kidding?” Rosie replied, handing me a mirror and turning me around in the beautician’s chair.

“Take a look.”

Luckily, I didn’t have my glasses on or I might’ve seen the back of my head that resembled the Swiss Alps in December.

But that gray hair is something I can’t see it, so, ipso facto, the problem doesn’t exist.

This tactic of denying something I can’t see has worked ever since I was a young girl. Most children think if they hide underneath the covers, the monster can’t see them, and they’ll be safe and sound.

I was no exception. But in addition to the monsters that lurked in the closet, I thought alligators lived underneath my bed.

They remained quiet and still during the day; but once my mom turned off the light, Alligator Central went into combat mode.

I truly believed if I dangled my hand or leg over the edge of the bed, those ravenous reptiles would chomp off an appendage.

It never occurred to me to actually take a look underneath the bed or open the closet door at night. I simply chose not to look and, thus, the monsters were kept at bay.

There’s a word for this type of behavior — avoidance — and I’ll admit it’s the coward’s way out.

But for a good bit of my life, pretending that’s what behind me, or what I can’t see, isn’t important, has worked.

Well, except for that afternoon I backed our Ford sedan into the house because I didn’t see how close the wall was to the back bumper.

And the night I backed into that light pole in the grocery store parking lot.

And the time I backed into that poor woman in the grocery store and practically broke her foot.

But other than those few occasions, avoidance works quite nicely for me.

For instance, gaining weight. When I look into the mirror, especially when it’s the mirror’s fogged in the morning and I’m not wearing my glasses, it doesn’t appear I’ve gained that much weight.

However, I caught a glimpse of myself in a plate glass window the other day, and my body resembled Africa, not an hourglass.

Clothes that no longer fit are in the back part of my closet where I don’t see them. Some fitness gurus would probably frown at that practice, believing I should keep those clothes front and center as a reminder to exercise and eat right.

But as long as those clothes are safely hiding in the back of the closet, behind my winter jacket and an old bridesmaid’s dress, I don’t think fret about never zipping those bell bottoms again.

The dust bunnies in my house follow my mantra. They love to hide underneath the couch, behind the TV and in the corners. And, since being out of sight and out of mind works, those bunnies enjoy a long, fruitful life in my living room.

When the bunnies in the corner and the alligators under the bed know how to keep out of the line of fire, then I’d say avoidance is a pretty good tactic.

Just don’t ever look behind you.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

In my closet is a box of old comics, and I love every one of them. My dad was a huge comic book fan and, in turn, he made fans out of all seven of his children.

I was looking for a book to read when I spotted Brad Meltzer’s “The Book of Lies” on the library shelf. I was immediately intrigued as the novel dealt with Jerry Siegel, the creator of one of the most well-known comic book heroes of all time, Superman.

Meltzer weaves the Siegel’s story and Superman into a murder mystery, and his recounting of Siegel’s childhood and the early days of Superman are fascinating.

While researching his novel, Meltzer visited Siegel’s childhood home near Cleveland, the place where the young teenager dreamed up a super man who could leap over tall buildings with a single bound and was more powerful than a locomotive.

The house was in deplorable condition. The ceiling was caving in, the floor had decayed and the walls were missing huge chunks of plaster. Three years ago, it seemed the birthplace of Superman was in danger of becoming like Superman’s home planet of Krypton — a distant memory.

The city didn’t have the funds to restore the house, but Meltzer, a former comic book artist as well as author, said he believed regular, ordinary people could save the house.

He contacted the Siegel and Shuster Foundation and fellow comic book artists, and everyone agreed to work together to save the house.

The artists donated original art work, Superman fans bought T-shirts the artists designed, and all the money went to the foundation.

More importantly, Meltzer asked ordinary people to consider sending in one dollar, just one dollar, to save Superman’s house.

Within a few months, the foundation had received over $110,000, enough to completely renovate Siegel’s childhood home.

Today, the house, at 10622 Kimberly Ave. in Glenwood, Ohio, is in beautiful condition, and the owners graciously allow people to tour the renovated house.

Meltzer’s positive experience with the Siegel home propelled him to establish the Ordinary People Can Change The World Website. He invited people to write in about how they’re positively changing the world, and their words are inspiring.

They became Superman in their own neighborhoods, and we can do the same. We don’t need Superman’s X-ray vision to look inside the walls of schools and see libraries in need of painting and refurbishing.

It doesn’t require Superman’s super-human strength help an elderly couple clean up their yard. Nor does it require the ability to fly to run an errand for an ill friend.

It takes ordinary people like you and me.

Meltzer believes the real story of Superman isn’t the invincible Man of Steel character. The true hero is Daily Planet reporter Clark Kent, Superman’s timid alter ego, because, as Meltzer stated, inside, we’re all Clark Kent.

We’re the quiet artists drawing on the back of napkins and old sheets of paper because we don’t believe we’re good enough to show our work. We’re the ones writing in private journals at night, reluctant to share our thoughts and words because we think others are more talented.

But behind our secret identities, we ordinary folks are the ones that can truly change the world.

Ordinary people feed the hungry, collect clothing for the needy and volunteer their time. They’re making a positive change right here in Fort Bend County.

We’re all challenged to step out from behind our secret identities and, maybe not leap over a tall building with a single bound, but reach out a hand to someone in need.

Because, as Meltzer says, ordinary people can indeed change the world.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Over the past few months, politicians have proposed numerous plans to address the shortfall in federal and state budgets. Texas is facing a $15 billion revenue shortfall, and Gov. Rick Perry proposes cutting $5 billion — one third of this shortfall — in education.

One of the first places politicians begin slicing and dicing is the education budget. I seldom see them talk seriously about reducing their salaries or staffs.

Let me be honest right up front — I’m a school teacher, so I have a vested interest in paying close attention to cuts in education. But I bring to the classroom 20 years in the business world where I was the one complaining about waste in government spending.

So when I read about budget cuts, I’m trying to look at the ledger sheet from both sides of the political fence. Cuts Perry is proposing are in the arts, pre-kindergarten programs and financial aid for incoming freshmen.

That would mean cutting back funding for our budding artists, poets and musicians, youngsters who have no voice in the adult world and young men and women looking to find a way to contribute to society.

Hidden in that gargantuan proposed budget, which I actually looked through, employees in Perry’s office goes from an average of 120 to 132. Why does one governor need more employees than a high school has teachers for over 1,500 students?

Perhaps it’s because governors can rationalize overseeing a bloated budget they control. So they point their fingers and say there’s waste in the public schools. I’ll admit that’s a valid claim as almost all of us could tighten our financial belts.

But if Texas wants to be number one in education, the state cannot accomplish that goal by hog-tying teachers and sacrificing youngsters.

One of the cries I’ve heard over the years is that school should be all about academics. The fine arts, activities like band, choir, art and theater, are better left outside the classroom.

The fine arts, however, allow youngsters to find their hidden talents. The child who has trouble reading in school might excel in art, find a receptacle to plug into the educational process and, in turn, become excited about life.

The student who excels in math and science might find they love debate and, thus, hone their interpersonal skills.

The fine arts classes that round out the human psyche are just as important as math and science. Yet these same classes that add the ability to think deeply about subjects and to find what lights the creative fire in one’s soul are the first ones slapped on the chopping block.

Forgive me for not being a statistician, but I fail to see the good that comes from limiting a child’s imagination.

The second sacrificial lamb is the number of students per classroom. The number one indicator of student success is the ratio of teacher to student, yet the first thing politicians feel they need to do is increase the teacher-to-student radio in the classroom.

When 35 fourth graders are clamoring for the teacher’s attention, it’s extremely difficult to spot the children who are too timid to ask for help. As a result, they silently slide through the crowded system and become quietly disinterested in school.

In turn, they become disinterested adults instead of motivated people who understand a good education requires the support of everyone — parents, the community, the state and the federal government.

We are sacrificing the future of our country because people are not willing to put up the funds or make cuts in the governor’s office to ensure our children are receiving a well-rounded education. The old cliché that children are our best hope for the future remains true.

Instead of being the wind underneath their wings, the government is greedily plucking the feathers out of those wings one by one, dollar by dollar and never looking at the plump nest they’re built for themselves up in Austin.

An investment in a child’s mind is our best investment for the future. It’s time to stop robbing youngsters and give them what they deserve: a well-rounded and well-funded education.
 
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I watched the 2011 Super Bowl for one reason — the commercials. This year, I didn’t know anything about either team, but if the game dragged, the commercials would more than make up for the lackluster action on the field.

When I first tuned in, I saw Terry Bradshaw behind the announcer’s desk. A little heftier but still an “aw-shucks” fella, Bradshaw reminded me of those football glory days back in the 1970s when the Pittsburgh Steelers and “Mean” Joe Green and Lynn Swann ruled the field.

I remembered watching the 1970’s commercial featuring Green as a limping, tired player and a young, tentative boy who hands him a Coke to drink. That sentimental ad made me a TV commercial fan, and I especially love the ones from my teen days.

One of the best is Coke’s “I’d like to teach the world to sing.” Watching those idealistic young faces is still inspiring, even if it’s just a ploy to motivate consumers to purchase carbonated beverages.

The old Alka Seltzer commercials remain wonderful, especially the “that’s some meatball” ad where the guy finally gets the script right on the last take only to have the oven door pop open.

Alka Seltzer also produced the “I Can’t Believe I Ate That Whole Thing” commercial and the ad where the husband tries to sneak some Alka Seltzer to cope with his wife’s impossible-to-digest dumpling.

Some commercials are revolutionary in that they either introduce a new product or take commercials to a new level of creativity. The commercial that accomplished both is one from 1984 with a woman running with a sledgehammer through a gray, robotic future.

Like everyone, I was blown away by the creativity shown when introducing a new computer, the Apple Macintosh, to the world.

With the availability of YouTube, viewers can take a stroll down memory lane and watch their favorite commercials from the 1950s all the way to the present day. Number one on my YouTube commercial list is “Terry Tate: Office Linebacker” from the 2003 Super Bowl.

The pro linebacker is hired to increase productivity in an office, and what he does to slacker co-workers will have you rolling in the aisles, especially his treatment of the person who doesn’t refill the coffee pot.

Budweiser has fabulous commercials, and my favorites are the “Real Men of Genius” commercials. It’s impossible not to chuckle through Bud’s salute to “Mr. Pro Wrestler Wardrobe Designer” and “Mr. Really, Really, Really Bad Dancer.”

During the Super Bowl, Budweiser consistently comes up with creative ads, from their croaking frogs to the donkey wanting to be a on the Clydesdale team to this year’s old West salute to Elton John’s “Tiny Dancer.”

But my 2011 Super Bowl favorite, like 22 million other YouTube watchers, was the Darth Vader kid who tries to manipulate the washing machine, a doll and finally his father’s car using only the force inside himself. Luckily dad plays along, and the reaction from young Anakin is amazingly funny.

I suppose advertisers have to reach for the creative stars when most people have devices that can whiz past commercials with ease.

But by zipping past those ads, it’s possible to miss some funny and inspiring ads like Volkswagen’s “The Force” commercial.

There’s a little of the costumed kid inside all of us, just waiting for the chance to make magic, just as we’d love to give the world a Coke, have Terry Tate intimidate the person who leaves paper jams in the copier for you to fix and salute the Man of Genius who invented the taco salad.

Here’s to you, Mr. Super Bowl Funny Commercial Man and Woman.

Touchdown.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

While waiting in a check-out line recently, I spotted a box filled with a familiar childhood treat — MoonPies. Although I was born in the north, I grew up in the South during my teen years. Those are the times when eating habits are formed.

Some are healthy and others not so healthy. But calories and trans fats aren’t tops on a kid’s list when it comes to snacks. Sugar’s the number one item with chocolate running a close second.

Enter the MoonPie. This treat showed up in 1917 when someone asked for a cookie treat as big as his hands cupped around the moon.

Add graham crackers and marshmallow cream to hold the crackers together, and then cover the whole thing with melted chocolate. Voila, you’ve got a MoonPie.

In the 1930’s, poor coal miners in the South could have a MoonPie and an RC-Cola for about a nickel, and MoonPies became an inexpensive Southern treat.

I can still remember washing down a MoonPie and a cola on a hot afternoon, and I can remember eating soft MoonPies in our Louisiana back yard, swapping scary stories with my friends.

My cousins up North also liked swapping scary stories with their friends, but they couldn’t imagine a MoonPie. They had subs and pop for a snack. They shopped at “Monkey Wards,” aka Montgomery Wards. We Southerners shopped at T.G.&Y.

The store was a forerunner to today’s Wal-Mart, and if the T.G.&.Y. didn’t carry what you wanted, you just didn’t need it.

Our T.G.&.Y’s was located next to the Piggly Wiggly, a Southern grocery store chain. There was also the Winn Dixie, but having a grocery store with a name that sounded like a barbecue was peculiar. However, that’s the way it was in a small Southern town.

But grocery shopping was for our moms. For kids, our favorite place to get something to eat was at the Tast-E-Freeze. Whether we stopped there after school or when out riding bikes, the Tast-E-Freeze was the local hang out.

For a buck, we could get a small bag of Fritoes to which the kid working the counter then added a ladle full of hot chili and then added grated cheese.

If you felt like splurging, you could wash that chili pie down with a chocolate malt or a Dr. Pepper with a cherry at the bottom.

When we moved to Texas, we discovered Dairy Queen. Small towns in central Texas might not have a McDonald’s or Burger King, but they’ve all got a DQ.

In 1938, a father and son decided to launch their soft frozen dairy product and see if people were interested. From the very beginning, the Dairy Queen was a success.

The first time I went to a DQ, I was amazed when the young girl behind the counter filled a cone with vanilla ice cream, turned it upside down and dipped it in melted chocolate without the ice cream falling off.

These dipped cones seemed magical and, needless to say, the combination of ice cream and chocolate had me from that moment on.

Now that we know the dangers of saturated fats, high levels of sodium and the pitfalls of empty calories, I have to pass up those fattening Southern desserts.

But on this one day, that MoonPie with the crescent moon on the cellophane wrapper was impossible to resist.

That first bite was gooey and just as messy as I remembered as a kid. I looked down at all the graham cracker crumbs on the front of my blouse and smiled.

Some treats from our childhood are worth the mess they create. And on a hot day, when the world stretches out before you, a lazy afternoon is best when savored with an RC Cola and a MoonPie.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

For shoppers, snagging a close parking spot in a five-acre lot is almost as thrilling as finding a 75-percent-off sale. Although there’s always a place to park, sometimes it’s difficult to find one’s vehicle when faced with a never-ending sea of silver and beige hoods.

I always make a note of the aisle and section where I park because those huge lots can be overwhelming. I used to write down the location on a piece of paper, but I usually lost the paper. Once I wrote my location on the parking ticket, but I left the ticket in my car.

When I headed into Houston for the Gem and Jewelry Show at Reliant Arena last weekend, looking for some bargains, the last thing I worried about was parking.

There’s hundreds of parking spots in the complex, but I park in the North Kirby Lot for two reasons: I know how to get there, and I know how to get back on the freeway from there.

Unfortunately, a gun show and a cheerleader events were going on at the same time, so the parking lots were pretty full. But the lure of a bargain motivated me to fight the crowds.

Slowly but surely, I maneuvered my way to the North Kirby Lot and found a space.

I looked around and noted I was parked on Row 4.

I wrote the number 4 on the back of my hand with a pen.

As I was walking away, I looked back over my shoulder, making sure I was parked on Row 4.

A few hours later, I left the jewelry show, confident I’d walk right up to my car. As I neared Row 4, I did what anyone with a key bob does — I pressed the lock button to hear the horn honk so I could locate my car.

Silence. I looked at the light pole again. Yes, I was near Row 4. But then I looked beyond that pole and saw another pole in the distance. It also had a sign with the number 4. I looked in the other direction — 4 on that pole as well.

As far as the eye could see, there were 4’s on all the light poles. Then it hit me. I was in Parking Lot 4, not row 4.

There were at least 50 cars in every row and at least 20 rows in front of and behind me. Then I remembered something my son said when I was complaining about finding my car in those mammoth parking lots.

“You know, Mom, there’s an app for your cell phone that can mark your parking spot, and it’ll lead you right to your car, like a GPS device,” he’d said.

I brushed off his suggestion, telling him I had a pen and my hand, and those two items were much more reliable than an app.

Wandering around the parking lot, I found myself wishing I’d taken his advice. As I tried retracing my steps, I noticed I was surrounded by dozens of confused people who were also meandering up and down the rows with their key bob over their head, pressing the lock button with their thumb, listening for a familiar honk or beep.

And then, 30 long minutes later, a familiar toot answered my call. I pressed the bob again and my long-lost vehicle answered.

I quickly walked in that direction and, sure enough, there was my Altima, right next to the Number 4 pole, right where I’d left it.

Later that evening, I called my son and asked him how to download the “Take Me To My Car” app.

“Be glad to send you the site,” he said. “It comes with the ‘I Told You So’ app as well.”

It’s not too often sons have the right to gloat. So I’ll say it this once — Stephen, you were right.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I was at the park with my granddaughter recently, and she decided to head toward a tall slide, quickly putting some distance between us.
“Don’t climb up the ladder until I get there,” I called after her.

“Why?” asked the 3-year-old over her shoulder.

“Because you could get hurt,” I said.

Later, as I was pushing her on the swings, she pleaded for me to push her higher. I told her she was already going high enough.

“But I want to go higher,” she said.

“You could get hurt — this is high enough,” I told her.

It wasn’t until the fifth time I cautioned her about not attempting something a little bit daring that I realized how many negatives had come out of my mouth in just one afternoon.

Don’t get near that ant pile. Don’t jump in that water puddle. Don’t climb so high.

My granddaughter had approached the park with enthusiasm and excitement. I’d slowly but surely squeezed a good bit of that glee out of our afternoon. .

Somewhere along the way, I’ve gone from believing life is a wonderful adventure to becoming a human caution light — all yellows and reds.

So many times, we approach a situation paying attention to only the warning signs flashing in front of us.

Don’t ask for time off because you’ll just have to make it up later.

Don’t travel because it’s too expensive.

Don’t sleep in on Saturday morning because you have work to do.

Brian Stokes Mitchell is one of my favorite singers. He’s a popular Broadway performer, but last year, he came to Houston for a one-night-only show.

I talked myself out of going for a variety of reasons — the tickets were too expensive, I didn’t have anyone to go with and his show was on a work night.

What I should’ve thought about was how wonderful it would’ve been to hear Mitchell sing “The Impossible Dream” and “The Wheels of a Dream” in person.

Instead, I sat home, safe and comfortable in my living room, and I missed the performance, all because something could’ve gone wrong.

This week, some friends invited me to come with them for a quick dinner and some chit chat. I declined, knowing I needed to go home, finish some paperwork and throw in a load of clothes.

The whole time I was washing dishes and matching up socks, I wistfully thought about my friends and how I wished I’d gone with them.

Sitting on the couch, surrounded by a stack of folded towels, I vowed to find a way to turn my negative, cautionary statements into positive, life-affirming ones and to lean over the edge in life instead of hanging back in the shadows.

So the next time my friends say they’re going out for a quick bite after work, I’m going to join them because laundry can wait. Friendships shouldn’t.

If one of my favorite singers comes to town, I’m going to the show, even if it means losing a few hours of sleep.

The next time my granddaughter asks to go higher on the swings, I’ll push her as high as she can go and pretend we’re reaching for rainbows.

And when that 3-year-old comes down the tall playground slide, I’ll be sitting and sliding right behind her, both of us grinning from ear to ear, caution thrown to the wind.

Because life should be illuminated by green lights, not yellow and red ones.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Christina Taylor Green was 9 years old. Bright-eyed, optimistic and eager to learn about politics, she was simply on an outing to hear a local Tucson politician talk to her constituents.

On a pretty April day in 2007, Henry Lee was studying computer engineering at Virginia Tech University, still celebrating his newly attained American citizenship papers. He loved photography, movies and hanging out with his friends.

Lauren Townsend was captain of the girls’ varsity volleyball team and a candidate for valedictorian of the graduating class of Columbine High School. She was in the library with her friends, perhaps talking about where she’d attend college that fall.

Alan Beaven was preparing for a case in San Francisco and, after that, was planning a trip to India to do volunteer work. The young lawyer kissed his wife before he left on Flight 93 on Sept. 11, 2001.

These young people will never see their dreams materialize because they were all victims of murderous, evil madmen who killed innocents for reasons rational people can never understand, nor hope to.

Evil isn’t a new emotion. This raw, powerfully bitter emotion dates back to the days of Cain and Abel. Through the years, cold-blooded killers in positions of power have taken thousands of innocent lives — Stalin, Hitler, Idi Amin.

Even in my lifetime, there have been more senseless killings than I care to count. I remember vividly when our school principal opened the door to my second grade classroom in 1963 and, tears running down her face, told us all to get down on our knees and pray.

Our president, John F. Kennedy, had just been shot and killed.

Looking at the wall, it didn’t seem possible that the smiling, handsome young man in that black-and-white photo could be dead. Nor did it seem possible that five years later, we’d hear that the peaceable Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. had also been killed by an assassin’s bullet.

And, that same year, another murderer would open fire on the JFK’s young brother, Bobby, and senselessly end a life that promoted civil rights and an end to poverty.

These world leaders, and many whose lives were taken much too early in Columbine, Virginia Tech, Auschwitz, Uganda and thousands of cities and villages around the world, had dreams of building a brighter future.

They were filled with optimism and a dogged determination to make the world a better place. But those dreams were cut short, and there’s no good reason why.

In the aftermath of such tragedies, newspapers and the Internet are filled with thousands of words describing the psychological profiles of these murderers.

Pundits try to explain their motives — they were teased, they were outsiders, they were mentally unbalanced or they were angry at how their lives had turned out.

Instead of accepting personal responsibility for where they were in life or working to change the attitudes of those around them, these butchers used cowardly violence on innocent people. They took lives, shattered families and did their best to create an atmosphere of fear from coast to coast.

But if we let these murderers rob our country of hopes and aspirations that these young people and these young leaders believed in, then we’ve truly lost.

By concentrating too much on trying to figure out evil madmen, we run the risk of overlooking the heart and soul of what good people stand for.

Integrity. Attitude. Perseverance. Hope.

Martin, Bobby and Jack demanded that people incorporate those four words into their daily lives. In the deliberate acts of violence our country has experienced in the past few years, bystanders have stood up, used their bodies as shields and intervened as much as possible to stop the violence.

Few of us will have the split-second decision in that situation, but we can strive to be brave and accepting every day of our lives through our words and actions that tell the world we’ll never stop hoping for peace.

Christina, Henry, Alan and Lauren would be proud.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.