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.

Every year, my mom and I would settle in on the couch and watch the Oscars. We’d ooh and aah over the exquisite gowns the movie stars were wearing.

Some of the outfits were way over the top, like the year Cher wore a huge headdress. Elizabeth Taylor showed off her diamonds and her shoulders, and Audrey Hepburn always wore classy and tasteful gowns.

Usually, we’d seen all the movies nominated for awards, so we always had a film or star we were rooting for to take home the gold statue.

In the past few years as streaming services dominate the process, more than likely, I haven’t seen the nominated movies. From this year’s list, it looks like the most I’ve missed is misery and anguish.

That’s not what I look for in a movie. Yes, I know movies that shine the light on discrimination and true suffering are worthwhile and need to be made and seen. Movies also reflect what’s going on in society.

But when doom and gloom are mostly all that’s offered, and the news is nothing but bad to worse, having movies that uplift is even more important.

Back in the 50s, movie stars were America’s royalty. We knew little of their personal lives other than what their publicists wanted us to know. Feel-good movies like “Cheaper by the Dozen” and “Father of the Bride” made us smile and laugh.

We had stars like the swashbuckling Erroll Flynn and the gorgeous Grace Kelly. They lit up the screen with class and beauty. The movie “Imitation of Life” was one of the first films to introduce me to looking at life through the eyes of people of color.

The 1960s reflected turbulent times. Popular movies were “Easy Rider” and “Midnight Cowboy.” The stars were grungy guys, not good-looking stars like Gregory Peck, Sidney Poitier and Rock Hudson.

“To Kill a Mockingbird” opened the door to talks about how we look at people from different classes. The movie showed viewers that discrimination crosses both color and cultural barriers.

The 60s also gave us a break with fun musicals like “Mary Poppins” and “My Fair Lady.”

But then there’s “Psycho,” a movie that still scares the life out of me. The music alone is terrifying.

The 1970s weren’t much better. “Apocalypse Now” and “The Deer Hunter” reminded us of the futility of the war in Vietnam and its effects on the soldiers who served. “Deliverance” remains the only movie I’ve ever walked out of because of a few scenes that sickened me.

“All the President’s Men” was a reminder of the corruption in Washington, D.C., but “Rocky” reminded us that one person can overcome the odds and come out a champion, even if he or she doesn’t win the fight.

I guess we got tired of the dreadfulness in films, and in the 80s, hope and laughs returned to the cinemas. We still quote lines from the slapstick film “Airplane.” The beautifully acted and costumed “Moonstruck” remains one of my all-time favorite movies almost 40 years later.

“The Breakfast Club” allowed adults to see teens as young people trying to figure out life. “Field of Dreams” still makes me cry and is a movie most fathers and sons should watch together some time in their life.

Then we took a turn back to grim reality in the 1990’s. “Schindler’s List,” like “Saving Private Ryan,” is a film I could only watch once. The horrors people inflicted on others because of their culture and religion is still sickening.

The movie “Philadelphia” reminded us that it wasn’t just people of a different religion we feared. It was people whose lifestyle was different than ours.

The 2000s started off a bit more hopeful with “The Pursuit of Happyness” and “Slumdog Millionaire.” Both were stories of underdogs who beat the system to find they could achieve their dreams.

In the last 20 years, we’ve had some great fantasy films. Marvel gave us “Iron Man,” “The Hulk” and “The Avengers” to name a few, and “Spiderman” was a fun story that remains popular.

“Wicked” reminds us of the power of friendship between women and “Hidden Figures” reminded us that greatness comes from all genders and races.

Next year, even though I’ll probably miss most of the nominated films, I’ll still tune in to the Oscars. I want to see the gowns, the pageantry and the glitz and the glamor that American royalty, Hollywood, has to offer.

 

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

It’s 3:30 a.m.

My knee – well, what’s left of it – is throbbing.

The house is dark and I’m lying here wondering how I got myself into this situation.

Genetics is both a curse and a blessing. I don’t look my age, thanks to my mom’s genes. I also got her bad knees which, at this moment, are the curse.

A few years ago, I noticed pain down the front of my leg whenever I’d pick up something heavy. That slight pain increased so I finally made a medical appointment.

The orthopedic doctor diagnosed arthritis, one of the most common ailments for women over the age of 50. I got a cortisone shot in both knees and instantly felt relief.

I could finally walk without limping, and believed I was cured.

Or so I thought.

For almost two years, the injections were a Band-Aid over an underlying problem of bone-on-bone on both knees plus the arthritis.

When the shots stopped working, I knew it was time to do what my mom and my sister both had done – total knee replacement.

I remember watching my mom walk down the hall at the rehabilitation center, cheered on by all of us as she took those first steps. She told the physical therapist she would do whatever it took to get out of there, and she did.

A few years later, my sister had both of her knees replaced at the same time. I thought she was brave. Now I know she was battlefield, front-of-the-light-brigade brave. She urged me to get the surgery, and when all other options were gone, I went for it.

The surgeon, Dr. Brady Rogers, was reassuring and professional. His friendly demeanor went right along with his honest conversations with me. I chose a time after the winter holidays and family birthdays, and in I went.

I tried not to think about the fact that Dr. Rogers would slice open my knee, take part of the knee out, shave away the arthritis and then put in a titanium knee that will forever stop me at airport security.

The pain the first and second day was mild. The meds from the hospital were still working their magic, and I stupidly thought the rest of the recovery was going to be that easy.

I did the exercises, rode the stationary bike, walked, and even unloaded the dishwasher and ran a load of clothes. I took the least amount of painkillers, patting myself on the back for having a high threshold of pain.

When the meds wore off, life was a lot different.

It hurt, and the pain was real.

I tried to be brave but had a meltdown on the third day. My husband fixed the machine that caused the problem, and I thought I was done with the worst part.

I was wrong again.

I didn’t want to take the higher potency pain killers, but when it’s the middle of the night and you’re all alone in the dark, that bottle looked like a life saver.

I admitted I needed the stronger meds, and I took them.

A couple of days ago, my sons and their families came to visit. Seeing their loving faces and watching our grandchildren play and laugh was all the medicine I needed. That night, I turned a corner on the pain and saw improvement from that moment on.

What’s really made the recuperation easier is the love and support of family and friends. Meals, flowers and best wishes have been flooding in.

The people I love and who love me might not realize how important their support is, but their love has made recovery faster and easier to bear.

Maybe it’s a trite saying, but having family and friends are not only important but also lifesavers, especially when times are tough.

I don’t know what I’ve done – or if the universe is simply extending kindness — to deserve this much mercy and love, but I’m not going to question these blessings. I simply know I am one lucky and extremely grateful gal.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

“Go past this light…”

“In 200 feet…

“Turn left at the next intersection…”

This is the voice of both my savior and my nightmare.

Most of the time, the GPS – Global Positioning System – is my driving companion. Because the system is almost always on, I’ve started talking to the GPS like it’s a person.

We don’t always agree.

“I know you want me to go that way, but there’s road construction that way,” I told the GPS one afternoon. “So, we’re going to go this way.”

The GPS will pout, resign itself to going a different direction and give me updated instructions.

Sometimes the GPS is a little slow in telling me which lane to get into to make a quick turn.

That’s when I get frustrated.

“You could’ve told me earlier I was going to have to turn left,” I’ll yell as I make a Batman-style turn.

The GPS doesn’t care I had to dodge three cars to carry out the move.

I did what it said.

The electronic voice is pacified.

Sometimes the GPS is my road trip guardian angel.

“There’s traffic ahead. I’m rerouting you.”

“This route is the fastest.”

“Road construction ahead. Would you like to reroute?”

Those suggestions are gifts from the traffic gods, ones I’m always happy to accept.

There are times we disagree and both of us get a little testy.

Recently, I’d been following the GPS directions to a Houston hospital. Take 59 north, get off at Main Street, turn right and then follow the GPS directions through the medical center maze to find the building.

Usually, I follow the GPS directions turn for turn, but this day, I wanted to pick up barbecue sandwiches on Kirby Drive. I exited Highway 59, and that’s when the conversation became a little heated.

The GPS wanted me back on the route it had chosen. I didn’t want to get back in bumper-to-bumper traffic and I had barbecue to pick up.

“Take the feeder road toward I-69,” the GPS insisted.

The GPS calls Highway 59 I-69, but for those of us who’ve driven in Houston for years, 59 will always be 59.

I paid no attention to the GPS voice because I knew I was going to stop for those sandwiches. When I turned right onto Kirby, the GPS was unhappy.

“Take the feeder toward I-69.”

I talked back.

“I don’t want to stay on the feeder,” I said with a touch of annoyance. “I’m going to the barbecue place.”

When I turned into the parking lot, the GPS was really annoyed.

“Return to the feeder road toward I-69.”

I was fed up.

“Forget it,” I said to the dashboard. “I’m getting barbecue right now.”

I turned the car off and hurried into the restaurant. When I returned, you’d think the GPS would be happy as the smell of brisket and barbecue sauce filled the air. But no, the single-minded GPS system demanded that I go back to the feeder road.

I decided the ride down Bissonnet was a lot prettier, so I turned onto that street, leaving 59 in my rearview mirror.

“Make a U-turn.”

I ignored the voice.

“Make a U-turn.”

At every single stop sign and light for the next mile, the GPS wanted me to make a U-turn and get back on the freeway. The trip became a battle of wits – the GPS voice versus the human who had the keys to the vehicle.

Finally, the GPS gave up and got with my program. When we got to the hospital 15 minutes earlier than the original trip the GPS planned, I smiled.

“See there smarty pants,” I yelled at the dashboard. “Sometimes we humans know better than technology.”

I wasn’t so smug on the way home when I went the way I wanted instead of what the GPS suggested and ran smack dab into a huge traffic jam.

I could almost hear the gloating “I told you so” coming from the dashboard.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.   

I listened to a radio show on the way home, and the host was talking about spending the day with someone famous. People called in with Jesus being one of the top names.

Also mentioned were people from history, like Abraham Lincoln, sports personalities or influential politicians. All are top choices, but there are events in life I’d love to experience again.

The first time I saw the Grand Tetons in the early morning light.

Watching a golden sunset over the boulders of the Pacific Coast.

Floating in the waters of the Gulf of Mexico without a care in the world.

As pleasant as those events sound, spending time with people is what’s most intriguing. There are people in my family who are no longer here that I’d love to get to know better.

One of the top people on that list would be my grandfather, Henry Eade. He was a wonderful storyteller, and I’d love to hear more stories about his days growing up in Lebanon. His father left his family and came to America for a better life.

I’d treasure learning how my grandfather and his mother made enough to feed a family and keep a roof over their heads.

I’d love to hear him talk about how he got started in business and about all the opportunities he took and the ones he missed. Henry Eade was a spiritual man, and I’d love to hear his quiet explanations about destiny and following one’s dreams.

I’d love to spend the day with my dad. I used to think if I ever talked to him again, I’d ask him pointed questions about his struggles, and ultimate success, over alcohol abuse.

But that’s not how I’d waste my time with him.

I’d want to spend the day talking about the little things in his life.

I probably heard his daredevil stories at least a dozen times, but what I wouldn’t give to hear the story of his looking for buried treasure one more time. What I wouldn’t give to hear his voice, a voice that grows dimmer in my memory with each passing day.

My dad was a master joke teller, and I’d love to hear some of his top jokes. Then I’d ask him for advice about how to be a better grandparent. For all the faults he had as a parent, he was an incredible grandfather.

I’d love to learn how he endeared himself to each one of his grandchildren, leaving them with sweet memories.

But more than spending the day with someone who’s passed away, if I had the choice and the power, there’s a special request I’d make.

I wish I could go back and experience a day with my sons when they were young, before they were grown men with families of their own.

For one day, I’d love to be a mommy again.

I’d like to spend a day with each one of my sons beginning with when they were born. I’d spend time rocking and holding them. I wouldn’t worry about folding clothes or cleaning the house.

I’d cuddle and snuggle them until they’d fall asleep in my arms, lose myself in that sweet baby smell and hold their tiny little hands.

Then I’d spend time with them as toddlers. We’d play with toys, have tickle fests and eat ice cream cones and splash in water puddles.

We’d take slow walks, stopping to look at everything along the way – spiders, ants, the cracks in the sidewalk, flowers and dew on the grass. As the day progressed and they grew, I’d spend time talking to them about what they liked, who their friends were, what they thought about life in general.

I’d spend more time listening, hugging, smiling and savoring every minute of being with my children and the people who made me who I am.

Having the opportunity to go back and experience those days isn’t a wish that could come true. But I’ve been given a second chance.

I might not be able to hold my own babies again, but I can love, snuggle and enjoy every minute I can with our grandchildren who are extraordinary humans.

Being with them is a dream that can come true.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.