Louisiana is known for its beautiful scenery, mysterious swamps and, most of all, her scrumptious food.

If you’ve never had a steaming bowl of dark, spicy chicken and sausage gumbo, you’re missing out. Some of the best Louisiana eating is in the spring because it’s crawfish season.

I remember my dad boiling crawfish. He’d set up folding tables in the back yard and cover them with layers of newspaper.

My mom would place paper towels on the tables, and Dad would fire up the propane burner. He’d always dump a couple of boxes of crawfish seasoning in the big pot of water on the burner. He added small potatoes and corn on the cob to the pot for, in Louisiana lingo, a bit of “lagniappe” – something extra.

As kids, we loved picking up the live crawfish and chasing each other with the mudbugs until it was time for them to go in the water. When Dad believed the crawfish were cooked, he’d drain the crawfish from the pot and dump the cooked crawfish on the table.

There was a system – when the first batch of crawfish was eaten, we’d roll up the newspaper with the shells inside, dump that in the trash can, and put down a clean, dry layer of newspaper.

Then it was time for round two, and we’d peel and eat crawfish until we thought we’d bust. The potatoes and corn were too spicy for me, but not for my red-pepper-loving relatives.

I thought about them when driving through Louisiana this past weekend and the memories from those get togethers. There are billboards up and down I-10 advertising places to eat, each one making me miss Louisiana food.

Most of the time, I’m in a hurry to get to Baton Rouge and a hurry to get home, so I’ll pull into an interstate fast-food joint. They’re convenient and as bland as bland can get.

I didn’t want to leave Louisiana without having some Cajun food. Sulphur’s near the state line, and I was running out of choices.

That’s when I saw a sign for The Boiling Point restaurant. I turned on my blinker and saw a building that looked like it had been there for years.

The parking lot was filled with mud-caked pick-up trucks, and I knew I was in the right spot. Metal tables and chairs offered lots of places to sit, and decorations were sparse. I wanted to get back on the road, so I asked the nice lady behind the counter for a suggestion for something quick I could eat in the car.

She suggested a pistolette. She said they’re small rolls filled with the customer’s choice of seafood and cheese. Because it’s crawfish season, I chose that.

I left a few minutes later, bag in hand, and got back in my car. I opened the foil and the pistolette looked like she’d described it.

But when I took a bite, it was heaven.

Big, thick crawfish tails were mixed with a creamy cheese sauce, and the roll was hot and crunchy on the outside, just like freshly baked French bread.

I wished I’d ordered a dozen of those, and I was thankful I’d taken the time to stop in at a local restaurant.

So many times, we go to the chains to eat. We overlook the places that have been around for years, or the restaurant that’s not shiny and new.

But when we take a detour and a chance on a locally-owned restaurant, that’s an opportunity to experience something wonderful.

There are still quite a few locally owned restaurants right here in our community. Take a chance and support the families that allow us to enjoy the meals their families have enjoyed for generations.

Dedicate the extra time to stop in and order from a real menu, eat with a metal fork and knife and have your food served on a real plate, not from a sheet of wax paper.

Slow down, pull in and sit a spell. The time you spend at a local spot is time well spent.

 

      This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Sunday is Mother’s Day, and I was stumped about choosing a gift for my mom. She has everything she needs and steadfastly tells us not to buy her anything.

We’re fortunate our mom is still with us, and we know how lucky we are. Still, I wanted to get her something. While shopping, I saw a pretty pink box with “Mom” stenciled on the top.

The inside was empty, and I had an idea. I’d fill the box with notes, highlighting some of the wonderful memories mom created for our family.

Coming up with the memories was easy because there’s so many ways mom made sure we knew we were loved. She underplays the little ways she made life special for us, and I wanted her to know how much the small gestures meant.

I thanked my mom for sneaking peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to me in the pocket of her apron on the nights I was a picky eater. She didn’t want her daughter to go to bed hungry.

When we were young, the thunder and lightning scared us. I thanked my mom for telling us not to be afraid – the thunder, she said, was simply the angels bowling.

Even though our mom worked outside the home, we had a hot dinner every night. She also made sure we had roast, rice, mashed potatoes, corn, salad and gravy every Sunday after we came home from Mass.

I thanked mom for her steadfast devotion to her faith, especially the Virgin Mary. I remember helping her create a special altar with fresh flowers from the yard to honor Mary.

Mom made birthdays special. With seven children, holidays like Easter and Christmas were shared.

But she always made our favorite dinner and favorite dessert on our birthdays, even when she worked full time. I thanked her for teaching us how to make someone feel special. I know now she must’ve been bone tired, but she never complained.

How our mom made sure we never felt deprived or did without is still a mystery to me. Our dad was a salesman, and we never knew how much money he’d bring home. But mom made sure we never felt less than.

I thanked my mom for creating a life-long love for our Lebanese heritage. She also learned how to cook Cajun food to honor our Louisiana roots, and gumbo remains our every-year Christmas Eve dinner.

Our mom loves music, and if I heard “A Taste of Honey” by Herb Alpert once, I heard it a thousand times. Whenever this song comes on the radio, I’m immediately back home, a smile on my face.

Mom has a beautiful voice, and I can still hear her singing, serenading us on Saturday mornings.

I thanked her for instilling a love of movies in us. I can recite the dialogue in “Stella Dallas,” “Imitation of Life,” and “Backstreet” without notes.

My dad could tell a joke better than the comics on television, but our mom is the one with a sense of humor.

She always found a way to make us laugh, even in the tough times, and some of her zingers are family heirlooms. One of my favorites: “Keep your chins up, honey. All of them.”

Mom took up crocheting for a few years, and one of my favorite Christmas memories is the year she made beanies for all the boys and grandsons. That’s over 30 head coverings.

Of all the wonderful gifts mom gave us, one of the best is how she makes our children feel special.

Each grandchild will tell you their grandmother – Siti – doesn’t play favorites, but secretly, they’re her favorite.

I thanked mom for putting up with a rowdy house of seven kids and a crazy husband, all the while making us feel safe and loved.

I thanked her for valuing each one of us, loving our strengths and weaknesses, always knowing what we needed and when.

She’s a shining example of what it means to be an incredible mom, a loving grandmother and an even greater great-grandmother. Most of all, she’s an incredible friend.

I love you, Mom.

Thank you.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

I consider myself a life-long learner. When computers arrived, I immediately volunteered to learn the software.

Books about foreign places and travel were the novels I’d check out of the public library. I read “Black Beauty” and believed I knew everything about horses.

I never go on a trip without reading the travel guide, and I can recite useless trivia about some of the places we’ve visited. Want to know about the back roads through Yellowstone National Park? I’ve got the answer.

Self-help books are some of my favorites, and I’ve learned a lot about organizing, housekeeping, child rearing and improving personal relationships from the pages of a well-written book.

But it’s time to admit – there are some things I have no interest in learning.

Whether that’s a product of my baby-boomer age or being retired, I have little interest in broadening my horizons in the following areas. I’ve seen videos telling people that they need to do these things immediately.

First – how to change the filter in the dishwasher.

I grew up in a family of seven children, and our dishwasher ran at least once a day. I don’t ever remember looking for a filter in the bottom of the dishwasher and cleaning it.

That roll-around dishwasher lasted for years, so trying to take my current dishwasher apart to get to a filter in the bottom – which I can’t even see – doesn’t interest me at all.

Same goes for the washing machine filter. It’s at least 25 years old, and clothes come out clean.

I also don’t care if I ever change flat tires.

I know how the process works.

I know where the jack’s located.

My solution to solving road issues is belonging to AAA. When I had a flat tire a few weeks ago, I called the toll-free number, a nice mechanic came out to where I was stranded, changed the tire and I was on my way.

I also have no interest in learning how to do my taxes. I’m fortunate that my husband reads the tax manual for fun.

I humbly relinquish all my Uncle Sam responsibilities to my much more qualified spouse.

My laptop’s convenient whenever I travel and when the grandkids come over. Right now, it’s running a little slow, and I’m sure I’ve gummed up the works with stupid downloads and having too many files on the desktop.

I have no interest in learning how to defrag the laptop or download a program to diagnosis the problem. I will leave that to people who are up to date on computer issues.

Becoming a complete moron isn’t my goal either.

There are things I’d like to learn.

I’d love to know more about the women who paved the way for my generation. Not just the ones mentioned in the first couple of paragraphs in history books but the lesser-known ones who made positive impacts in their communities.

Even more importantly, I’d like to know more about the women in my family. The few tidbits I know reveal women who, when handed tough blows, rose to the occasion and excelled.

There will come a time when I’ll have to learn how to handle tires, appliances and computer issues. But until I have to, I’m going to put those learning lessons on the back burner.

Knowing the difference between having to and wanting to, I believe, still makes me a life-long learner.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Dusty road construction at almost every intersection.

A line of orange cones so long, you can’t see the end.

Everywhere, there’s snarled-up traffic, horns blowing, and bumper-to-bumper traffic.

Enough.

Finding serenity is difficult under these circumstances, but don’t give up. There are places to get away from the endless noise.

Two state parks are within an hours’ drive – Brazos Bend and Stephen F. Austin, some of the best in the park system.

Calm Seabourne Creek Park in Rosenberg is a nice step away from civilization. Neighborhood parks are good choices, but often they’re filled to the brim with families.

Here in Fort Bend County, there’s quite a few spots of calm, peace and quiet. Best of all, the ones mentioned here are free to the public.

The Memorial Prayer Garden behind the First Baptist Church in Richmond is a small but powerful place to rejuvenate.

The Zen-style Garden not only offers a shaded sanctuary with a giant oak tree in the center, but The Labrinth allows you to focus on your thoughts as you walk the small maze.

The garden is next to a private school, and the sounds of children laughing and playing will put a smile on your face. Add the gentle sounds of wind chimes, and you’ll be as relaxed as the butterflies that visit.

Richmond’s history dates to before the mid-1800s and much has changed. Despite all the construction, there are sites that allow visitors to take a step away from the hustle of city living.

Check out Wessendorff Park in Richmond. Located next to the historic Richmond Police building, the park invites visitors to sit for a spell next to a bubbly fountain and enjoy the blooming flowers.

A small bridge guides you to the historic Morton Cemetery where shade and pathways allow you to relax your mind.

You might be inclined to roll up your sleeves at the community vegetable garden where volunteers grow food to add to the pantry at Helping Hands. The garden is located next to the police station.

Over in Rosenberg, Our Lady of Guadalupe Catholic Church has a stunning patio area. A beautifully designed stone fountain honors Our Lady of Guadalupe and welcomes the weary to the elegant church.

Flowers not only add fragrance and beauty, but they also attract butterflies. Time will cease to exist when you visit and watch the clouds roll past.

The Stations of the Cross garden at Holy Rosary Catholic Church in Rosenberg is open to people of all denominations. Even if the “Way of the Cross” isn’t in your faith’s doctrine, you can still walk the quiet pathways and marvel at the beautiful stonework.

There are benches for visitors to sit and relax, and the garden has no walls or fences. In the middle of this growing city there’s a place to step away from the chaos.

Instead of looking for a fast-food lunch or coffee from a franchise, all these parks are located near home-town businesses.

Visit the small stores in downtown Richmond and Rosenberg, sit a spell on the benches that dot these areas and meet the friendly business owners.

You might find reconnecting with people and supporting local businesses is the final step you need to truly rejuvenate.

Finding peace and quiet in a growing, busy county might seem impossible, but these refreshing oases are within minutes of your front door.

All that’s asked is respect when you visit, both for the surroundings and others who are looking for the same thing you are – tranquility.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.      

Easter Sunday is this weekend, and the holiday always takes me down memory lane.

I remember shopping for Easter clothes with my mom when I was a little girl.

The floral Easter dress always included white gloves and frilly white ankle socks.

The best part of getting ready was picking out an Easter hat. I never liked the rubber band under my chin to hold the hat on as it cut into my neck.

By the time I was old enough to make sure the hat didn’t blow away, I no longer cared about Easter hats.

We usually attended Easter Sunday Mass because we were busy dyeing Easter eggs the night before. The must-have item for coloring Easter eggs was the square Paas Easter Egg kit.

Inside were tablets in different colors – red, yellow, blue and green are the shades I remember. We’d drop each tablet into a coffee cup and then measure out the vinegar, something our pantry never seemed to keep on hand.

Luckily there were neighbors who bailed us out.

Also in the kit were wire egg holders, and we fought like cats and dogs to use those. There was also a white wax crayon to write our names on before dyeing the eggs.

The kit included stickers – which we fought over – and paper stands representing the Easter Bunny, baby chicks and other cute animals. These stands held our dyed eggs and, like with everything else in the kit, we fought over those.

My mom would go behind us and “marbleize” the eggs with cooking oil, and we groaned and complained every year that she’d ruined our mottled and uneven dye jobs.

The next morning, after the Easter Bunny did his job, we’d enjoy an Easter Egg Hunt. I don’t remember any of us getting food poisoning because the eggs were all over the house and yard for hours, just waiting for us to find them.

For the next week, it was chicken or tuna salad sandwiches, chock full of chopped hard-boiled eggs.

I kept the tradition of dyeing Easter eggs alive with my boys from when they were in elementary school until they were in high school, but I think I enjoyed the ritual more than they did.

Our grandchildren dye their eggs at home with their parents and siblings, and we love seeing pictures and videos. We don’t intrude because I know how precious those memories with children are.

One year, I tried dyeing eggs by myself, but that was more depressing than not dyeing eggs at all. So, I stopped buying two dozen eggs and a new Paas dye kit. I substituted eating a bag of Cadbury eggs to soothe my missing those long-gone evenings.

These days, we host an annual Easter egg hunt for the grandchildren at the house with Uncle Nick and Aunt Ingrid taking on the responsibility of hiding eggs.

The kiddos stand at the back door, not peeking, anxiously awaiting the signal to hit the back yard and find the eggs. The patio’s off limits to the older ones as that’s where Nick and Ingrid hide the eggs for the toddlers.

Then the race begins, candies are found, traded, hoarded and enjoyed the rest of the day.

For those fortunate enough to still dye and hide Easter eggs with your children, savor and enjoy every minute of chaos.

The years fly by faster than the Easter Bunny hops through your yard the night before Easter.

May your holiday be holy and happy!

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.    

The sky was a bright blue without a cloud in the sky. The wind was calm and the humidity low. Perfect weather for Southerners but for our granddaughter, the day was perfect for an airplane ride.

Kylie’s dream is to pursue a career in aviation, specifically a commercial airline pilot. We’ve been researching post-high-school directions, but the path isn’t clear cut.

If she wanted to become a teacher, she’d major in education classes. The accounting and biology curriculums follow a tried-and-true path.

But to become a pilot, there’s lots of choices. She could take private lessons outside of college. She could follow an aviation degree in a college that offers her the chance to get her license at the same time she gets her degree, or she could join the military.

I was talking to a friend about Kylie’s confusing choices, and he suggested we talk to our neighbor, Tim. He has his pilot’s license and loves flying. Tim followed a different path to get his pilot’s license, so I thought it would be a good idea to pick his brain.

Tim was overly generous with his path to the skies and offered to take Kylie on a plane ride while they talked about career options.

We originally planned to make the flight over the weekend, but heavy rains and strong wind gusts made us cancel. We shot for this week, and the weather cooperated on all fronts. Tim gave us the directions to the hanger, and we drove past green fields and farmhouses, anxious to start the flight.

Tim’s plane is blue and white and the perfect size for three people. They asked if I wanted to go, but I declined, wanting Kylie to concentrate on the plane and the views, not a grandmother in the back seat.

Kylie climbed in, and I saw Tim explaining the instrument panel. They put on their headphones, and Tim cranked up the propeller. They taxied down the runway and waited for the okay. Once they had that go-ahead, the plane accelerated and lifted off.

I had tears in my eyes as I watched that plane carry my granddaughter into the sky, toward her dreams, toward a goal she’s set for herself. A half hour later, they were back, and Kylie was all smiles.

She helped Tim get the plane in the hanger and thanks were given all around. Kylie couldn’t stop talking about how much fun she had on the plane ride, how beautiful the views were from up there, and how peaceful she felt up in the sky.

Kylie knows what direction she wants to take her life. She said so many people she knows in high school don’t have a clue about their future or what career path they want to follow.

For some, money’s an obstacle. For others, it’s indecision and a lack of confidence in their ability to live on their own and make a huge life decision while they’re still in their teens. Kylie has no such lack of confidence.

Not only is this certainty inside a confident young lady, but perhaps seeing how big this world is from high up, she’s even more convinced there’s no limit to the heights she can accomplish.

We can’t thank Tim enough for sharing his time, skills and airplane with a young person who has big dreams.

I have no doubt Kylie will be at the helm of her own airplane one day, her ascent into the skies made possible by all the people who supported her along the way.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

On a visit to see my mom, I noticed her television was set to one of two channels. One showed old sitcoms like “M.A.S.H.” and “Everybody Loves Raymond.” The other was “The Game Show” channel.

I asked why those two and she said she didn’t have to commit a lot of time or effort to the plot and each segment only lasted a half hour.

She had a point.

In old sitcoms, the main person on the show gets in trouble, pranks ensue to try and get out of trouble, and everything wraps up in 30 minutes, give or take a few commercials for prescription drugs or life insurance.

As luck would have it, she’d chosen “The Game Channel” for the day’s viewing. As old game shows played in the background, I couldn’t help but listen. A question popped up on “Jeopardy.”

“Gekko!” I yelled out.

My mom was surprised. We were talking about what to eat for lunch, and she must’ve been surprised thinking I’d like a lizard for dinner.

I pointed to the television and told her it was the answer to the question on “Jeopardy.” Because she had the program on as background noise, she didn’t pay attention to the questions on the show.

“Baskin and Robbins!” I yelled out.

This was the correct answer to the next question. After that, Mom took a nap, and I proceeded to play the game along with the contestants.

“Jeopardy” is also a board game we used to play as a family on Sunday afternoons. We’d divide up into teams with all of us avoiding choosing our dad – he was a ruthless cheat.

We found the heaviest thing we could bang on the table to signal we knew the answer and sat down to play. The games were loud and cutthroat, and our sisters-in-law were terrified to take on the competitive Hebert siblings.

The grandkids would play happily in the other rooms and occasionally come in to wonder what all the yelling was about. That’s because we argued about almost every answer, our competitive nature getting the best of us.

“Family Feud” was another favorite, and we always thought we’d be winners if we could get on the show. The lightning round at the end was one we always enjoyed.

Lord help the teammate who couldn’t think of an answer fast enough. For years, we’d remind them of their failure to answer quickly in the lightning round.

Our love of games started when we were kids. We’d watch game shows in the summer when it was too hot to go outside. “The Hollywood Squares” was a favorite, and the off-color answers usually went over our heads.

One show that required brain power was “Password.” We Heberts enjoyed the board game, and most of the time was spent trying to find ways to give physical clues, even though that was against the rules. We still argued but not like the lively yelling matches from “Jeopardy.”

Today’s game shows are mostly glitz. There’s a lot of flashing lights and skinny models in tight dresses. Contestants don’t require brain power. They need luck, a love of the camera, and the ability to clap loudly for themselves.

Watching some of the current shows, I longed for the days when brain power was required to win. We didn’t have smart phones or the internet when we played those board games on Sunday afternoons.

We had our memories, teamwork and a healthy dose of friendly competition.

These days, we live too far away from each other to sit down for an afternoon board game.

But if we did, I’ll bet our level of competitiveness would be just as ruthless as it was all those years ago.

Gosh I miss those days.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Growing up, I remember my mom and aunts rolling up their sleeves for spring cleaning. We lived in the North where it snowed half the year. Houses needed to be aired out after being shut up for the long, cold winter.

Here in Texas, it’s winter for about three weeks, and chances are good we’re still opening windows and running ceiling fans when it’s cold outside.

I do feel the need to air things out and maybe do some spring cleaning when the humidity’s low for the first time in months and the sun is shining. It’s probably long-ago voices in my head telling me to air out the rugs, clean the drapes and wash down the walls.

I try to ignore them, but there’s always a wave of guilt if I ignore the voices. When I start to make a list, I rationalize my way out of almost every spring-cleaning item. Trying to be thorough, I found a list online, printed it, and took a hard look at what these experts suggested I do.

Washing throw rugs was at the top of that list. We have wall-to-wall carpeting in the bedrooms, and they’re not going anywhere. The throw rugs we do have get pitched thanks to our dog that sheds at least a half pound of fur a week.

One down, nine more to go.

They had cleaning the outsides of the kitchen cabinets on the list. That big job requires getting on a ladder, and with a bum knee, that maneuver is a few months away. So, we’ll live with the greasy build up along with the dust that clings to the grease until next spring.

Washing the windows has been on my spring-cleaning list for at least a decade. It’s hard to see out of some of the windows in the garage thanks to pollen and dust from the lawn mower.

Yep, they sure do need cleaning, but there’s one big problem. That chore also requires getting on a ladder, so cleaning the windows can go on the list for next year.

This “bum-knee” excuse is getting better and better when it comes to getting out of spring-cleaning chores.

“Stop being a wimp,” a voice in my head yells. I feel guilty, so I begin my own list of chores that qualify for spring cleaning.

These include cleaning off the top of the refrigerator, taking down all the pictures in the family room, removing and polishing the glass, dusting the frames, and hanging them all back up.

Just writing that to-do item is exhausting.

I should be outside enjoying the wonderful temperatures, but there’s a stack of goggles and swim toys on a shelf on the patio that requires a disinfecting from the winter months. I’ll get to that when I can get a swimsuit on, and that’s not for a few more weeks.

Move that chore to the summer to-do list.

Here’s two more jobs that come to mind:  clean out the pantry and throw away all expired foods. Same goes for the medicine cabinet. Straighten up the closets, especially the one in my office.

A half hour later, I’ve got a list of 20 items.

I look at the list.

I look around the house and make a decision.

Nobody’s coming to my office and giving me a grade on the condition of the closets. Besides, the last time I cleaned out a closet, I couldn’t find anything. When it was a wreck, I knew exactly where things were.

Spring cleaning for me gets a “not today” pass.

Who said rationalization wasn’t productive?

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Our daughter-in-law wasn’t feeling well, so the grandsons and I decided to pick up a few groceries. It was an after-school run, and the store was packed. As we headed to the check-out line, someone tapped me on the shoulder.

The woman’s lightly gray hair framed a friendly face, and a timid smile was on her face. She was holding something out to me.

“Here,” she said, extending a gift card closer to me. “I’d like to give you this.”

I looked and saw she had a gift card for the grocery store.

“Oh, I couldn’t take this,” I told her, indicating she should keep the card.

She smiled again and extended the card again.

“I’m paying it forward,” she said. “Somebody did something nice for me, and I’m putting good out into the universe.”

It was obvious she wasn’t going to let me get away. The kindness and sincerity in her eyes surprised me. I’d never met or seen this woman before, and here she was, offering us a gift.

I took the card, stammering a thanks. My grandsons looked at the two of us, not sure what was happening.

Before she walked away, she said something.

“Now it’s your turn,” she said. “Pay it forward.”

These kinds of encounters are things we read about in books or see in movies, not real life. People have been kind to me hundreds of times, but something about this woman touched me.

She wasn’t dressed like someone with money. More like a retiree who’d put in her years of service to the world. If anyone should be getting a gift card, it was her.

Before I could argue any more, she was lost in the crowd.

The boys couldn’t believe a total stranger would give us a gift card. The clerk said it was for $50, and I was even more amazed. That’s a lot of money to just give away to a stranger, and I kept hearing her voice – pay it forward.

When we got back to my daughter-in-law’s house, the boys were excited to tell their mom about the incident. I gave her the gift card so she could use it for a last-minute store run, an often occurrence with five children.

But simply giving the card to my daughter-in-law wasn’t enough. Over the next few days, I kept my eyes open for an opportunity to do something nice for someone.

The next time I was in the grocery store, a young family was two carts in front of me. The woman was holding a toddler, and the man was picking up and putting down items on the conveyer belt.

They were looking through their groceries, deciding what to put back. They had a government card, and the card only covered certain brands of food. Some of the items they picked up weren’t covered.

The items on the belt were staples for a young family – milk, bread, cereal, diapers. I waited for a second to see if the person in front of me was going to do anything, but he didn’t. When I saw the mom hand back the milk, I stepped around the guy in front of me.

“I’ll pay for whatever’s not covered by the card,” I quietly told the clerk.

The mom thanked me, and the family got all they’d picked out and left. The clerk thanked me for what I’d done, but I told her the thanks didn’t belong to me. The thanks belonged to a gray-haired lady who extended a kindness to me along with a promise to pay it forward.

I gave the same challenge to the clerk. Kindness doesn’t have to be money. It can be calling someone who’s home alone, letting someone merge into traffic in front of you or smiling at someone who’s having a tough day.

There’s no way that one act in the grocery store fulfills my obligation to the universe. I’m keeping my eyes open for opportunities, and perhaps that’s what the woman in the store meant.

Pay it forward isn’t a one-stop promise. It’s a lifelong commitment.

 

        This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

When I was young, I wanted to become a ballerina. I’d practice twirling and bowing in my bedroom for hours.

Never mind I didn’t have a graceful bone in my body. I believed I would one day dance in “Swan Lake.”

Before I had children, I remember watching a child throw a temper tantrum. I was with my grandmother, and I told her my children would never do that. I was going to be a patient, kind and intelligent parent. I wouldn’t rear children who would behave so poorly.

“Don’t spit up in the air,” she said with a smile.

Not only did my children throw temper tantrums in public, they threw fits in our house, friends’ houses and almost everywhere we went.

I thought I’d keep a neat and orderly house at all times.

There are days when making the bed is about the only neat chore I accomplish.

Over the years, all those pre-conceived notions about myself dissolved.

Recently, I’ve had to face another belief about myself.

I thought I had a high threshold for pain.

Turns out, I’m a wimp.

I had knee replacement surgery about three weeks ago. I went into the procedure, telling the doctor I’d be driving the second week. Unlike others who had trouble with pain and recovery, I’d be the one powering through, breezing through physical therapy.

I was smug, confident and convinced I’d sail right through the procedure.

Was I wrong.

Now with every little pang, I want to yell “Medic!”

A twinge in my knee has me on the recliner, the ice machine humming next to me, providing an icy reprieve.

Not bouncing back like I thought I’d do has me accepting some hard truths about myself.

I’ll never be able to pass up a slice of apple pie, especially if there’s a scoop of vanilla ice cream on top.

Forget learning to like turnips, beets or parsnips. When I see those veggies featured in a recipe, I’ll think they look appetizing.

The truth is, I’m a picky eater.

I’ll never ski down a mountain. To be fair, I couldn’t have done that when I was in my 20s. I dislike the cold and I especially dislike heights. Seeing myself riding in a ski lift hundreds of feet in the air and then skiing down a mountain with no brakes or safety net scares the heck out of me.

I’m much better suited to staying in the ski lodge, drinking hot chocolate and reading a book.

I’ll never learn to parallel park. I understood the concept – line up with an already parked car, turn the wheel and back in.

In all my years of driving, I’ve managed to avoid parallel parking. I tell myself pull-in parking is more available, thanks to living in an area two feet above sea level.

The hard truth – I cannot parallel park.

People say “never say never,” but with all honesty and frankness, there are things I will never do even though I thought some of them were a possibility in my 20s.

These activities include bungee jumping, sky diving, running a marathon, riding a bike down a hill, and driving a motorcycle.

The real truth is – I’m not made of steel.

I’m made of good traits and weak ones. Somehow, I’ll live with the fact I will never run with the bulls in Spain, will never climb Mt. Everest or scuba dive with sharks. I can barely keep up with our elderly dog, I’m out of breath walking up a hill and I don’t go in a body of water unless there’s cement at the bottom.

I’m okay with keeping my feet firmly on the ground and admitting I’m not Superman.

Being Denise, the ungraceful wimp, is okay with me.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.