Food has always played a significant part in get togethers for my family, especially for my mother’s relatives. Her parents were Lebanese, and stuffed squash, tabooley, kibbee and chicken and rice were Sunday dinner staples.

My mother kept up the tradition, and all of us drop everything for a chance to have dinner at Mom’s house, those ethnic dishes an integral part of every mealtime.

When my mom visited us this summer, she spent a Sunday afternoon showing my sons how to cook some of those family-honored meals.

When my nieces heard about our afternoon, they good-naturedly demanded a “Cooking with Delores” session as well.

My mom obliged and most of the female members of my family gathered at my mom’s for an afternoon of chopping, slicing, simmering and learning.

My mom said in the old days, her mother would rise early to boil a chicken and pick the peppers and mint from her garden. We took a modern short cut and picked up an already roasted chicken and raided the produce section at the local Winn Dixie.

We all helped take the chicken off the bone and hollow out the peppers and squash. My mom showed us how to mix rice, tomato paste and seasonings together to stuff the bell peppers and yellow squash.

As we worked, the aunts entertained the nieces with stories about our childhood, each story growing more grand with subsequent tellings, the laughter practically nonstop.

In the background, my mom was carefully arranging the peppers and squash in a pot, and I remembered watching my grandmother perform the same ritual. Her kitchen smelled heavenly as she cooked, and now my mom’s kitchen was smelling the same way.

My youngest sister took notes as my mom explained how to make the dishes but, she tried to sneak a few moves past us, claiming it was faster to leave out the little details and share the big picture with us.

We good-naturedly accused her of trying to keep all the recipes to herself, and then we remembered our grandmother was the same way with her recipes. Truth be told, I haven’t shared any of my favorite recipes with my sons, so I guess that tradition lives on.

As more family members arrived, nieces, aunts, sisters-in-law and sisters chopped, told jokes, reminisced about the old days and eagerly shared news about what was happening in their lives.

Boyfriends and husbands talked about LSU football, fishing and the best way to fry a turkey, Louisiana style. And, of course, there was lots of kidding and laughter, as is the way when my family gathers.

One of the last dishes we made was the kibbee, and I finally found out how my mom created the mystery middle layer of that baked meat dish – she sautéed seasoned meat, onions and pine nuts together and placed that scrumptious mixture between the two layers of raw meat.

The baked layer – the one that had been seasoned and taken to the end stage – held the entire casserole together. It seemed fitting we ended our cooking lesson with the kibbee because that’s how we were that afternoon.

We all tasted the dishes and declared them the best we’d ever had.

That afternoon, laughter, good-natured kidding and many-times-told family stories, shared between four generations, bonded us together, just as sharing foods from our childhood connected us with our roots and our heritage.

When all the food was on the table, we stood back and took photos of our handiwork. You’d have thought we were documenting a gourmet meal in a four-star restaurant. For us, it was a banquet, but not of fancy canapés or grand soufflés.

Ours was a family banquet held together and served up with love and laughter.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Whenever I’m getting ready to leave the house, I put everything I think I’m going to need in my purse. That includes my car keys, the current grocery list and letters to mail.

In under a minute, I can pick up my purse and head out the door.

I was reminded how few things I need on the road when taking my daughter-in-law and grandchildren out for lunch. It doesn’t make sense, but the lighter and younger the child, the more equipment he or she needs, even for a quick trip.

First, there’s the car seats.

Having children safely secured in a vehicle is of the utmost importance to me, and manufacturers make sure infant and child safety seats are not only reliable but trendy. Most models feature a five-point harness, chest slips, a built-in recliner and holders for a sippy cup.

These mini Barcaloungers are surprisingly heavy.

Wishing to be helpful, I volunteered to carry my grandson in the car seat to buckle him in, and I might as well have been in the gym. The car seat alone weighs over 20 pounds. Add in a 10-pound baby, and we’re talking a work out that’ll put wrestler-sized biceps on anybody.

Then there’s the diaper bag. Forget tucking a single diaper and some wipe ups in one’s purse. No, today’s parent has to carry at least six or seven Sesame Street disposable diapers, skin-sensitive wipe ups, ointment, swabs, non-perfumed powder, toys, extra pacifiers, two or three changes of clothes, a blanket and two or three spit-up towels.

That alone adds another five pounds to mom’s already backbreaking load.

And let’s not forget the stroller.

I remember an old pram my mom had in the attic. The oversized buggy had big wheels, and it bounced up and down like a trampoline, an activity my siblings and I enjoyed immensely, especially when a younger brother or sister was inside the pram.

Over the years, manufacturers streamlined prams, morphing them into strollers. But no ordinary strollers. They’re now promoted as travel systems, featuring modern swivel wheels with a suspension system that creates a sleek, smooth ride, the Rolls Royce for the younger set.

A basic stroller, I mean travel system, sets parents back about $180. They weigh 22 pounds, that’s without the baby, and come in three or four parts. And, yes, it requires a degree in mechanical engineering to put them together.

And then there’s the baby accessories. Just as a teenage girl needs her cell phone and lip gloss, modern babies have their own must-have items for an outing.

Let’s start with the outfit.

When I went shopping for baby clothes for our grandson, I was shocked at how the prices have risen over the years. A simple outfit – a shirt and shorts – starts out at $14.95. No well-dressed little prince is complete without the baby Air Jordans, and those shoes retail for $47.

That’s right – almost 50 bucks for “pre-walks,” shoes that never hit the pavement. Throw in some “baby bling” for the girls, and a pair of pink glitter sneakers for our little princesses will set buyers back a minimum of $45.

After 30 minutes of filling the trunk with the diaper bag, stroller, extra clothes for two children and the back seat with the uber-heavy car seat, a “Pinkalicious” book, a pink toddler car seat and a bag of Goldfish crackers for our granddaughter, I thought we were finally ready to head out.

Until I realized I’d forgotten my purse.

Heading back into the house, I realized that when and if more grandchildren join the family, we’re going to need a truck just to haul around baby stuff.

A big truck.

This column was previously published in The Fort Bend Herald.

They were on a quick nighttime mission.

Thirty Americans, trained and fully equipped to defend themselves, were shot down over Afghanistan. Those lost included 22 Navy SEALs – 20 from SEAL Team 6, the unit that killed Osama Bin Laden – three Air Force members and a dog handler and his dog.

They were on their way to help Army Rangers under fire when their Chinook helicopter came under attack and crashed. The event became the deadliest single loss for U.S. forces in the war in Afghanistan.

But the loss is more than a news release and statistics.

The losses, as in all wars, are personal. There’s Matthew Mason, the father of two young sons. Mason was a former high school athlete who’d lost part of his left arm while fighting in Fallujah.

Twenty-five-year-old Michael Strange enjoyed snowboarding, running and being part of the SEALs. Tommy Ratzlaff left behind two sons and a baby on the way.

Most of the time, casualties during wartime are referred to as statistics. According to the American War Library, over 25,000 soldiers were killed during the Revolutionary War. During World War II, over 408,000 soldiers gave their lives, and over 58,000 soldiers died during the Vietnam War.

To compare, the city of Denver has 467,000 people and the cities of Richmond and Rosenberg together have almost 50,000 people. Imagine losing everyone in those areas in a violent manner.

I’m not naive enough to believe warring nations can sit down calmly at a negotiating table and solve their differences peacefully. Nor am I blind to the reality that meeting force with force is often the only route dictators understand.

But when I read the biographies of the Navy SEALs and tally up the number of the dead and wounded from military action over the course of our country’s history, I cannot help but imagine a face for every one of those grim statistics.

They were somebody’s son or daughter, a father, mother, sister or brother. They gave their life to defend our country and the freedom of people around the world.

In addition to the soldiers whose lives were lost while in combat, there are those who served and returned. The veterans I know are proud they served their country, but the scars and horrors they witnessed stay with them for the rest of their lives.

There’s no way we can ever repay someone for putting their life on the line to defend our freedoms. There’s no way to give these men and women back the nights they spend huddled in a fox hole, on the front lines or far away from their families.

We cannot give back eyesight, legs or arms to those who lost them to grenades or enemy fire. Many of them volunteered, but has the price they paid ever felt personal to us or are they just names in a news release?

I was in the airport over the weekend, and I saw a soldier waiting for a flight. She was on the other side of the security ropes, and I wondered about her life. Perhaps she’d just visited her family and that was the last time she’d see her loved ones.

Would she be one of the soldiers called upon to give everything to defend my freedom? There is no way I could ever repay that debt unless I honor what she puts her life on the line to fight for.

Americans need to stand whenever the American flag passes our way. We need to support our soldiers for the choice they made to do their duty to their country and ours.

We need to remember to say thank you whenever we see a soldier and to continue to believe that freedom is a sacred responsibility every one of us is required to safeguard in our own way.

Most importantly, we need to remember that these soldiers are men and women who made the choice to step up to the line for you and me.

That’s no longer a line in a news release or a statistic in a history book. That price, that soldier, that choice, is someone’s son, daughter, mother, father or friend.

Let’s hope we make the price they’re paying worthwhile.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

In the blink of an eye.

That’s how long it takes for life to change.

With one phone call, we went from a leisurely dinner to a white-knuckle drive across Houston to see our daughter-in-law and granddaughter in the hospital emergency room.

Later that week, we found ourselves back at the hospital to welcome our grandson. We thought his arrival would be a quiet affair; but in the blink of an eye, that home delivery turned into an unexpected, middle-of-the-night trip to the hospital.

But those worries were forgotten the minute we held young James in our arms, everybody safe and sound, and we knew we’d passed a significant milestone in our family.

Big events are tough to miss. They’re anticipated for weeks, circled on the calendar and then heralded with numerous emails and phone calls. But they’re over rather quickly, remembered through photos or videos.

It’s the filler days where life provides some of the most significant moments of our lives, and we often miss what’s happening because we’re busy waiting for the red-letter events.

We impatiently endured our teenage years because we were waiting for our 21st birthday. Adults were the ones having fun, we thought, so we hurried our way through those years, often forgetting to savor the firsts that only the teenage years bring – our first driver’s license, our first kiss and our first official paycheck.

Then we became young adults, and we spent so much time establishing ourselves in the work world that we often missed the nuances that formed us into adults.

We don’t remember the day we threw away our tie-dyed T-shirts in exchange for button-down Oxfords or cleared away the stuffed animals from our bed and replaced them with coordinating pillows.

But those were the significant moments when we crossed from one phase of our lives into another. Those phases often sneak up on us and are gone before we know it.

Parenthood especially provides so many memorable moments, and we can immediately recall the milestones of our children’s lives – their first step, their first day of school and their high school graduations.

But I forgot to take my time during some of the most significant days of my sons’ childhood – what their faces looked like while playing in the dirt or sleeping peacefully in their beds at night. I witnessed those events, but I didn’t appreciate the fleeting sweetness of parenthood.

In the blink of an eye, they were babies and then they were grown and on their own. Now I watch my grown sons as they talk with each other, not for what they’re saying but memorizing how they sound when they’re laughing and how their eyes sparkle when they’re having a good time.

I watch my granddaughter skip and listen to her sing so I’ll remember what her voice sounded like when she was a happy, carefree little girl. I’m watching my grandson as he adjusts to the outside world and committing to memory those first smiles.

For sure, I’ll remember the milestones in our family’s lives, but I want to make sure I’m paying attention to the seemingly mundane because those moments are the defining times.

In the blink of an eye, life can go from happy to tragic, confusing to clear or worried to reassured. We remember what happens after we blink, but often little of what happened before.

For the second half of my life, I’m going to try and not miss as much as I did the first half because life isn’t just about the red-letter days.

Life happens in the every-day moment, when we’re least prepared and changes in the blink of an eye.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Some inventions come about from sheer necessity – the wheel and pantyhose, for example. Others come about because people want a more convenient way to live – the electric light bulb and the Barcalounger.

Other inventions come along because somebody has a crazy idea – the Veg-O-Matic and a coffee frother. Both, however, were banished to the back of my kitchen cabinet after failing to deliver what the salesman promised.

But my favorite off-the-wall useful invention is the windshield sun shade.

They come in a variety of sizes and colors and cost less than 10 bucks. As a bonus, they block damaging ultraviolet rays from transforming a dark gray dashboard into the color of bones left in the desert sun.

The manufacturer promises that the shade “folds easily for compact storage.” If one has six arms and the skills of Houdini they fold easily. But for me, the shade refuses to cooperate.

I usually get so frustrated I just throw the whole contraption in the back seat, fully extended. One afternoon, my husband gave me a logical show-and-tell demonstration on how to fold the shade up in one easy-to-copy motion.

“Put your hands on either side of the panels,” he said, holding the sunshade up. I made a mental note to do just that.

“And then twist one side one way and the other side the opposite way,” he explained and, in a wink, that huge blue shade was the size of a dinner dish.

That maneuver looked pretty simple, and if I can manage parallel parking, I reasoned, folding up the sun shade should be a walk in the park.

The next day, I tried to duplicate my husband’s instructions. I twisted. The shade rebounded with a vengeance and knocked my sunglasses off.

I tried again. Instead of looking like a dinner plate, my attempt at refolding the sunshade resulted in a lop-sided rectangle the size of a suitcase. Frustrated and hot, I threw the unfolded shade in the back seat.

A few days later, my son spotted the uncooperative and still fully extended shade in the back seat.

“Mom, these are easy to fold up,” he said. “Let me show you.”

In three seconds, he had that shade folded and the elastic band firmly around the middle to keep it from exploding. I was amazed.

“Show me how to do that,” I said. “Explain it to me like I’m 5 years old. Make that 3 years old.”

Laughing, he went slowly through the steps again, and I actually managed to snap the shade into place.

That is until the next time I was in a hot parking lot by myself. I bent, I twisted, I folded – that shade did everything except what I wanted it to do.

“Fine,” I said in exasperation and banished it, fully extended, to the back seat.

The next passenger in my car was my daughter-in-law. I explained to her my frustration with that stupid car shade, and she patted me on the back.

“No problem,” she said. “My job when I was a teen was to fold my mom’s car shades for her. I’ll do the same for you.”

Finally someone who understood that not all of us have the flexibility of an acrobat to perform that magic folding trick.

Now if only she can show me how to use that Veg-O-Matic.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

One of the prettiest sights on a back country road is of horses galloping or quietly grazing in a wide open field. Truth be told, I’m afraid of horses, having ridden only a few times in my life.

I didn’t know how to control the powerful animal I was sitting on, so I just held on for dear life, palms sweating, heart pounding.

But I’ve always marveled at people who have a sixth sense about animals, and I was particularly drawn to a documentary, “Buck,” about cowboy Buck Brannaman who uses natural horsemanship to train horses.

His early life was traumatic. After Buck’s mother died, his father beat him and his brother so savagely and so often that Buck feared for his life every single day.

When he was 12 years old, his football coach saw welts and bruises on his back, and he and the sheriff removed Buck and his brother from their father’s home the very same day. Buck went to live with foster parents Forrest and Betsy Shirley who provided a safe home for the brothers.

Buck learned a lot from the Shirleys – respect does not mean fear, people need to feel wanted and productive and a family’s love does not include intimidation and fear.

Because the Shirleys came into their lives, the brothers were able to grow up in a home filled with strong family values and two foster parents who lovingly treated the dozens of boys who lived with them as their own sons.

Buck translated that understanding into the way he trains horses using natural horsemanship, the philosophy of working with horses by appealing to their instincts and building a partnership instead of intimidation.

For over 24 years, he’s built on the natural horsemanship methods he learned from Ray Hunt and Tom Dorrance and now gives four-day clinics all over the country.

Watching him as he rode alongside colts and their owners, constantly giving feedback, I realized Buck was also giving lessons in how to train children – be firm and quick with instruction. Give praise when a task is accomplished correctly.

Discipline does not mean cruelty. Give love freely when a task is accomplished and praise when it’s earned.

His dry sense of humor is evident throughout the film, and I found myself wondering how anyone with as violent a past as Buck lived could grow into such a funny and compassionate man and trainer.

I think it’s because Buck realized he had to understand why a horse did what it did before he could accept or change that temperament. And that same understanding applies to people – we must understand what motivates someone and then we can begin to communicate and change for the better.

In Buck’s clinics, people of all ages come to believe they can be better horsemen and women than they ever thought they could be. When the sessions are over, owners realize Buck didn’t just teach them about animals – he taught them about life.

Buck reminds us to be kinder to our fellow humans and understand we accomplish more through respect than through fear. We can experience quiet healing and unconditional love when we extend a trusting hand to both humans and animals.

This film stays with viewers long after the credits stop rolling. “Buck” is a reminder that people make free choices as to how they want to live their lives. Either live bravely in the moment or brood about and resent the past.

Listening to Buck Brannaman, I know what path I want to take.
 
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

My granddaughter loves going to the park. With the mercury hitting 100 during the day, we confine our visits to later in the evening when the mercury’s hovering at only 85 degrees, cool for Texas.

On a recent visit, my granddaughter made quick friends with two other children – Trey, who said he was 4, and Jaquisha, 5, a bright-eyed youngster filled with energy. The three quickly settled into a fast friendship, and their laughter filled the park.

After watching them for a while, I realized adults can learn a lot about how to treat people if we observe the little ones.

Rule No. 1: When playing a game, play fair so everybody enjoys the activity.

Pre-schoolers love playing chase, and that game started almost immediately. Trey and Jaquisha were cousins, so naturally my granddaughter was the one doing the chasing.

But they didn’t gang up on her. Instead, they ran slow enough for my granddaughter to run with them, instead of leaving her behind.

At one point, Trey lost a shoe and the two girls helped him put it back on, and the chase began again.

Lesson learned: If you’re smarter, faster or older, you can annihilate your opponents, but where’s the satisfaction in that. Play fair and everybody has fun.

Rule No. 2: Teach each other.

Trey taught our granddaughter how to lay on the seat of the swing, twist the chains and then let go so she could spin in quick circles. She laughed with delight , and the two spun for at least 10 minutes.

Lesson learned: Try something new. It might feel confusing at first, but stay the course and see what happens.

Rule No. 3: Help each other. At the age of 4, mastering the art of swinging is tricky. You have to lean back and reach to the sky with your toes and then, on the back swing, lean forward and pull your legs back underneath the seat.

Neither Trey nor Kylie knew exactly how to swing by themselves, but they knew enough to try and explain the basics to each other.

When that didn’t go as well as they thought – both of them were practically motionless after a few minutes – Trey jumped off his swing and pushed Kylie until she was going pretty well. Then he jumped back on the swing, and Kylie jumped off her swing and she pushed him.

Lesson learned: When you help someone else, often at the expense of your own fun, both people benefit.

Rule No. 4: Be willing to change direction. My husband found two pieces of chalk in the grass, and he handed a blue one to Kylie and a purple one to Trey. They immediately found an open sidewalk and began drawing.

After a few minutes, they exchanged chalk so they could draw with different colors. As they drew their masterpieces, they found a water spigot. They didn’t have cups, but my husband taught them how to cup their hands and get a drink.

Lesson learned: Let life unfold, go with the flow and improvise when needed.

Rule No. 5: Listen to your elders.

When Jaquisha – the eldest in the bunch at the age of 5 – told Kylie and Trey to avoid a hidden nest of ants, the two younger ones listened and avoided getting bit. She also told them not to run behind someone swinging as they’d get hurt.

Lesson learned: Experience is often the best teacher but, sometimes, it pays to listen to someone who’s been around the block.

As the sun began to set, we all headed home. Trey and Jaquisha waved until they were out of sight and Kylie did the same. In the course of an hour, these three youngsters established lines of communication, a teamwork philosophy and had fun along the way.

And they taught this adult that, sometimes, the best lessons in life can be found in the most unexpected places.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

This past weekend, my family held its annual reunion at my cousin Sam’s house in Lake Charles, La. I’ve missed the past couple of Hebert reunions due to work obligations, but I made it a point to be there this year.

Our parents always made it a point to get together, and we’re trying to keep that tradition going. This reunion was like all Hebert get togethers – loud and boisterous with music, lots of youngsters and plenty of food.

We licked the bowl clean of my sister Diane’s wonderfully delicious strawberry, angel food cake and whipped cream dessert, and Sam and his brothers barbecued slab after slab of ribs and dozens of links of hot sausage. Best of all, my Aunt Claudia made three pans of her sinfully delicious chocolate cake, all of which had disappeared by the end of the day.

The same familiar stories were told and retold, and cameras never stopped clicking. The day was bittersweet for some of my cousins as we lost my wonderful Aunt Kathy earlier this year.

She was taken from us much too soon, and her daughters soaked up the plentiful stories about their mom who loved family with all her heart.

Sam’s back door was in constant motion as the kids came in and out, checking with parents to see if they could fish off the dock or go for a ride in the boat with Uncle Mike. They’d always grab a slice of cake or a hunk of sausage before heading back out to the slip-and-slide or the outside pool.

After the reunion, my cousin, Mary, posted photos of her sister-in-law, Tara, and I knew the Hebert trait of surviving tough ordeals with laughter was still in place.

Tara is halfway through chemotherapy treatments for breast cancer, and she allowed the children to paint her now-bald head with pink and yellow hearts, smiley faces and bright blue flowers.

To top it off, the girls painted some purple and gold eyebrows on Tara’s face, a tribute to the LSU Tigers, my family’s favorite football team.

In every picture, Tara’s smiling, despite the tough road she’s on. That optimism is what’s always fueled my family and held us together.

When the going gets tough, we rustle up a pot of gumbo, throw some burgers or ribs on the barbecue pit and huddle together to figure out a solution. If we need time to think, we grab a fishing pole and sit on the end of the dock until we find inspiration.

Most of all, we’ve learned to take my grandmother’s advice to heart – remember to have fun along the way and never, ever let each other down.

I’m thankful I was there this year to watch my Aunt Claudia blow out her birthday candles, reconnect with my cousins and see my grandmother’s spirit in all of her grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

I wished my father and his siblings could’ve been there with us, but as I watched my brothers, my sister and my cousins swap stories, their mannerisms so reminiscent of our parents, I knew, somehow, they were right there with us, just as they’ve been from the very beginning.

We’ve already set the date for next year’s reunion – June 30, 2012, same time and place.

I wouldn’t miss it for the world.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I grew up hearing stories about my mom’s driving abilities, especially how backing a car out of a driveway usually ended up with our car in the ditch.

At barely 5-feet tall, my mom has a tough time seeing over the steering wheel of most vehicles, and 1950s vehicles were not designed for short drivers. She also grew up in a small town where few people owned cars, and she didn’t learn how to drive until she was a young adult.

Mom drives only because she has to get somewhere, and her driving record is always fodder for family jokes. I can’t count the number of casualties she’s racked up – rain gutters, poles, bicycles, shopping carts – the list goes on and on.

So it was with great reluctance I watched her climb behind the wheel of a motorized scooter in the grocery store while she’s here for a visit.

She has trouble with her knees, but she wanted to go to the market with me. She’s never used a motorized cart back home in Louisiana, ah the price of vanity, so she avoids stores because of all the walking.

Because she doesn’t know anyone here, she decided to give one a try.

While I parked the car, she practiced backing up and going forward in the store lobby. By the time I got inside, she was smiling like Mario Andretti at the Indianapolis 500 starting line.

“Ready?” I said.

Her reply was to zip through the double doors, barely missing the strawberry shortcake display and then zooming past the free samples of coffee on her way to the produce department.

Skidding to a stop in front of the lettuce bin, she reached over and tossed a couple of heads into her basket and then wheeled the cart around, executing a perfect three-point turn.

“What else do you need?” she said. “I’ll get it.”

“Lemons and tomatoes,” I said slowly, still trying to believe this was my mother — the woman those right-rear fender has taken out more mail boxes than anyone else I know — wheeling around kumquats and cucumbers like she’s done it all her life.

Of course, she almost clipped three shoppers picking out grapes and two more at the melon counter. Thank goodness, I said to myself as I apologized profusely, for people with quick reflexes.

I followed her to the meat section where she raced around the case, looking at the chicken thighs and broilers instead of people, and once again, I thanked the stars for people who react quickly.

“Mom, there’s an olive bar over there,” I said, pointing to an area few people visit in the grocery store. “You should go pick some out. Take your time, and I’ll pick up the rest of what we need.”

She smiled, shifted that cart into first gear and took off like a seasoned pro. As soon as she was around the corner, I practically ran through the store so I could get everything on the list, and we could get out of there before she caused some serious damage.

But, the woman was fast. In less than five minutes, she was zooming up next to me on the bread aisle, her cart filled with things she knew we needed. The smile on her face went from ear to ear.

“Let’s check out,” she said over her shoulder as she headed for the check-out lane coming within inches of an end display of tortillas and barely missing a man coming around the corner.

She skidded to a stop in front of the checker and turned around.

“I’m gonna have to get one of these,” she said, a wicked smile on her face.

Winn-Dixie, look out.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The little boy was crouched at the edge of the sand, his short blond hair blowing in the breeze. His eyes were fixed on the water in front of him, and he seemed so small compared to the size of the waves crashing on the beach.

He was digging in the sand, throwing some from time to time, until his mother’s voice called out to him.

“Don’t throw the sand,” she said. “You’ll get some in your eyes. And don’t get too close to the water.”

The boy’s shoulders dropped a little, and he refocused his gaze out on the endless horizon. I could practically feel his wistfulness from 25 feet away.

We were in Gulf Shores, Ala., a popular summer getaway, for our annual vacation where my favorite pastime is sitting on the beach and watching people.

Over the course of a day, I see all kinds of people – pre-teenage girls wearing bikinis for the first time followed by admiring pre-teen boys whose voices have not quite changed to a deeper timber.

There’s the old timers – their skin’s tanned to a deep mahogany, their well-worn T-shirts supporting either the University of Alabama or Auburn University. They stroll down the beach, often stopping to pick up trash or a beautiful seashell.

There’s the power walkers – they come running down the beach, a Walk-man firmly attached to their ears, and they seldom look at the beauty of the gulf. Their eyes are affixed on their stride and getting around slow pokes.

But I’m always drawn to the families, especially those with rambunctious young boys, as they remind me of when we visited Gulf Shores as a family.

These boys, like mine, love nothing more than running into the waves, stopping when one threatens to come too near, and then trying to beat the crest back to the shore, their laughter carried on the wind.

That’s why I was watching that little boy at the edge of the water. He wanted to go out into the water, but the responsibility of listening to his mother outweighed his desire.

All of a sudden, his father scooped him up. The little boy’s face lit up, and he put his arm around his father’s neck. The dad hugged him close, and the two waded out into the water.

The first wave crashed over them, but the dad held his ground and the little boy’s grip grew tighter. When they turned around, that youngster was drenched, but I could see the smile on their faces from where I was sitting.

Another wave came by, and the two jumped into the white froth, both of them shaking off the water and howling with laughter.

After a while, the dad waded toward the shore where the waves were calm, but the little boy never loosened his grip on his dad’s neck.

His father put him down on the sand, and that youngster looked up at him, grinning from ear to ear.

“That sure was fun wasn’t it, Dad,” he said, his voice carrying on the wind.

The dad crouched down, looked his boy straight in the face and smiled.

“Want to go again?” he said, and his son jumped up into his dad’s arms and out they went.

When people go to the beach, they often find beauty in the shells lying on the sand.

Others find wonder in the reds and violets as the sun sets over the horizon or in the gracefulness of a seagull soaring over the waves.

I found trust in a little boy’s eyes as his father took him on an adventure.

That’s one for the memory books.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.