(The television show “Everwood” was one of my favorites. I heard this speech and, before the days of TiVo, watched it three times to get all the words. I wish I’d written this, and I wish even more I knew who did write it. Whoever said TV is the vast wasteland misses those moments of poignant dialogue that touches the heart. This is one of them for me.)

The more things change, the more they stay the same. I’m not sure who the person was to say that – maybe it was William Shakespeare or perhaps Sting – but at the moment, it’s the line that best explains my tragic flaw – my inability to change. I don’t think I’m alone in this. The more I get to know people, the more I realize it’s everyone’s flaw.

Staying exactly the same for as long as possible and standing perfectly still feels better, or at least the pain is familiar if you’re suffering.

If you took that leap of faith, one outside the box, if you did something unexpected, who knows what other pain might be waiting out there.

It could be worse pain, so we maintain the status quo and stay on the road always traveled.

It doesn’t seem so bad – not as bad as flaws go. You’re not a drug addict; you’re not killing anybody, except yourself a little. But when we finally do change, it doesn’t happen like an earthquake or an explosion or, all of a sudden, we’re a different person.

I think it’s smaller, the kind of thing people wouldn’t even notice unless they looked really close which, thank God, they never do. But you notice it. Inside, it feels like a world of difference. You finally become the person you’re meant to be forever, and you hope you’ll never have to change again.

— From “Everwood.”

(Was going through files and thought I’d post this one from a few months back. The pizza, by the way, was worth every calorie!)

At the last minute, a friend and I decided to meet for a quick dinner. Both of us had a list of household chores a mile long, but we decided the dust wasn’t going anywhere and we needed a girls’ night out.

We talked and laughed from the minute we left her driveway until we arrived at a local restaurant. When the waitress came over, we instinctively ordered the typical “I’m on a diet” beverages — water with extra lemon.

I think I’ve been on a diet since the seventies. As a teen, it was fashionable to be on a diet. As a young college student, eating light was a necessity as those dollar bills went to tuition, room and board before they went to the Winn-Dixie.

When planning a wedding, I dieted like a crazy person so I would be thin for the wedding pictures. In reality, I had the concept backwards.

A girl’s wedding day should be the time when she weighs the most. That way, whenever she looks back on the wedding photos for years to come, people can say, “You sure have slimmed down since that time.”

As a bonus, a gal can always get into her wedding dress years after taking that walk down the aisle.

But we don’t think rationally as we count calories and try to Zumba our way into those blue slacks that have been hanging in the back of the closet so long, the price tag was printed by hand.

The young waitress handed us the menus, and I tried to figure out what I could order and still button my slacks in the morning.

We looked at the appetizers and spinach seemed like a good choice until I saw that healthy vegetable would be covered with warm cream and served with goat cheese.

So I skipped down and thought the salmon salad might be a good choice.

Until I saw the price tag — $12.95. Sorry, but I’m not paying over $12 for lettuce that’s $1.79 in the grocery store. And salmon, while tasty, just doesn’t taste the same on lettuce as it does swimming in a sea of butter sauce.

I looked at the pasta selection and immediately lingered on one of my favorites, lasagna. “Layers of pasta, meat and cheeses” the description began, and I could feel the button on my pants begin to strain.

Immediately, I changed tactics, looking for the seafood box as that’s usually a low-fat choice. The shrimp was grilled, but when served in a lemon cream sauce over angel hair pasta, I knew that thick sauce negated any health effects from the sea.

Ten minutes later, I was still studying the menu, wondering what low-calorie dish I could choose, and then I sadly realized there was nothing on that menu, except a dry house salad for $6.95, I could eat that wouldn’t completely blow any semblance of a diet.

About that time, the waitress returned to our table and asked for our orders. Impulsively, I decided to go for broke.

I ordered pizza because I love pizza. I love the freshly baked crust and the way the melted cheese smothers the layers of pepperoni, mushrooms and Italian sausage. If I’m going to blow my diet, then I’m going to do it in grand fashion.

I’ll diet tomorrow. And from the way that warm, scrumptious pizza tasted, probably for the next week.

Okay, the next month.

But when the food’s delicious and the conversation’s even better, calories shouldn’t matter.

Now all I have to do is convince my hips.

This column originally appeared in The Fort Bend Herald.

The restaurant was crowded and noisy. Glasses clinked, country music filled the air and the wait staff bustled from table to table. The casual atmosphere suited us as we had our son, daughter-in-law and 2-year-old granddaughter along.

As is tradition in this steak house, the staff joins together once an hour and dances around the restaurant, arms linked, kicking and clapping as they wind their way around the tables.

Our granddaughter was enchanted with the smiling dancers, and we could see the wistfulness in her eyes as the lively group passed our table.

When our waitress, Lauren, returned with our check, we mentioned how much our granddaughter loved the dancing, and Lauren asked if she wanted to come dance with them.

We said we were getting ready to leave, but Lauren said she’d quickly round up the staff so Kylie could dance.

In minutes, Lauren came back to our table with a big smile and held out her arms, inviting our granddaughter to come dance as the music began.

The waiters and waitresses were clapping and kicking, and our granddaughter was right there with them. All of us had happy tears in our eyes, watching Lauren and the wait staff helping our young granddaughter learn the dance.

Our granddaughter twirled, clapped and spun with the teens. At the end, the manager proudly bestowed a smiley face sticker on our granddaughter’s shirt, and the huge grin on that little girl’s face is one we’ll never forget.

Later that night, I opened my e-mail and read a letter from parents whose son, Alex, had attended the Boy Scouts of America’s Cockrell River Camp, a summer camp north of Houston.

Alex has High Functioning Autism and is easily overwhelmed. During registration, Alex’s worried parents made sure they talked with all the counselors about their son’s special needs.

It was easy to see these were parents who kept a close watch on their son yet wanted him to experience
summer camp as independently as possible.

In the letter, Alex’s parents noted that one Eagle Scout, Will Baumgartner with Troop 1880 in Richmond, took it upon himself to be Alex’s unofficial helper. Because of Will’s voluntary involvement and willingness to help someone with special needs, Alex was able to complete numerous merit badges and enjoy camp.

The biggest surprise, however, came at the swimming hole. At the beginning of camp, Alex was overwhelmed with the swimming test, so when it was time for the Aquafest race, Alex got into the water and stayed in one spot, not moving.

The swim directors jumped in the water next to Alex and encouraged him. Because these two young men came to Alex’s rescue, the rest of the campers began calling Alex’s name, and the parents said it was like a “Hallmark moment” to see the whole camp cheering for Alex.

So many times, we hear about the callousness and viciousness of people in our world. That self absorption is evident all over the place, from people who cut us off in traffic, jump ahead of us in the grocery store line and think only about their time and what the world can give to them.

But young people like Lauren and Will make this world a better place, and people like them, people who live from the heart, are all around us.

From volunteering to help a special needs boy earn a merit badge to helping youngsters on the playground at Vacation Bible School or simply taking a few minutes out of a busy work schedule to teach a child how to dance the Cotton Eyed Joe, life is a better experience when we reach out and improve the world one unselfish act at a time.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I wrote this for a dear friend who’s relocating from the area.

Looking back,
We often yearn for what’s left behind.
Friends. Family. Familiarity.

Even now, these people and events shape us,
Mold how we think, how we ponder and how we feel.
Our life lens is chiseled because of where we’ve been,

But it is the present that defines who we are.

So live.
Experience the moment.
Taste the sea and feel the wind lift your wings.
Look forward to the sunrises and savor the sunsets.

As you look ahead,
You’ll see a foreign course — cloudy and vague.
Ambiguity. Anticipation. Acceptance.

As you travel that new path,
Gather the memories you’ve made.
And add new friends, new experiences and new challenges.

But, every once in a while,
Look back and smile.

Remember from whence you came.
Thankful for where you are.
Hopeful for where you’re going.

– July, 2010

Twenty-one nail holes, four trips to town and $50. It took all that to successfully hang one mirror on the laundry room wall. How can something so simple turn out so difficult? Well, it all started with a plastic panel… We moved to a new house with white and beige everywhere, including, oddly, a narrow, white plastic panel in the middle of the laundry room wall.

While my husband was out of town, I thought I’d surprise him by covering up the panel. A long poster might do the trick, so I picked up an inexpensive print, but it was too short.

Realizing I should measure the panel before I bought anything else, I hauled out my trusty wooden yard stick, wrote down the panel’s width and the length and headed to the local resale shops.

If a poster of Elvis or Hannah Montana was what I wanted, I was in luck. However, I wanted something a little more subdued.

Since I knew about a few consignment shops in Houston, I braved Westheimer at rush hour. But the right-sized choices were a faded 1985 poster from the balloon festival in Albuquerque or Elvis. I passed on both choices.

So I filled up my car, again, and went to one of the huge box stores. I found an inexpensive abstract picture but realized I’d left the measurements at home. Still, it looked to be the right size, so I bought it.

Bad choice. The picture was six inches too short and two inches too narrow.

This simple project had now turned into a grit-your-teeth mission.

Once again, I headed into town, measurements in tow, and found a nice mirror for less than $25. The only drawback was the mirror weighed 40 pounds and required two heavy-duty picture hangers.

Not a problem for a do-it-yourselfer, so back at home, I measured, carefully marked and nailed in the first picture hanger. Then I attempted to nail in the second picture hanger.

But less than two strikes in, I hit metal. I moved the hanger over a couple of inches, knowing I could move the clip on the back of the mirror. Ting! Hit metal again.

This job was harder than it looked.

I decided to use a nail and tap a few holes in the wall to avoid hitting metal again. Six holes later, I found a good spot, but that meant I had to move the hangers on the back of the mirror.

An hour later, I’d measured and moved the hooks on the back of the mirror so they lined up exactly with the hangers on the wall. I hoisted that mirror up and placed it on the hooks. Whew — it was straight.

Unfortunately, the picture was two inches to the left of the plastic panel.

I yanked that mirror off the wall, dropped it on my foot — that mirror really is heavy — and eyeballed where I thought the hanger should go. This time, by sheer luck, I managed to get it hung so it covered the plastic.

However, there was that little matter of all those holes in the wall. I have a collection of paint chip samples and found one that seemed to match the wall color.

Ten dollars and an hour later, I had a small can of custom-mixed paint, spackling and a paint brush. When the paint dried, it was quite obvious someone had tried to cover up a poor patch job.

I called the neighborhood builder, and he promised to send over a painter and my husband would never know the damage I’d inflicted on that wall.

The grand total for covering a piece of plastic? Twenty-one nail holes, a professional painter, four trips to town, two tanks of gas, a bruise the size of a grapefruit on my foot and $50 worth of pictures.

Nothing to it.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

For the past 12 years, I’ve been writing a weekly column for The Fort Bend Herald, a daily newspaper in Rosenberg, right outside of Houston. Working for a newspaper came naturally. My grandparents owned a newspaper in Bridge City, Texas, and my grandfather, Herbie, was a well respected editor in that town, always championing the working person, and my dad was the newspaper’s Linotype operator. My mom was the editor for the newspaper at the Exxon Plastics Plant in Baton Rouge, and my siblings are writers, artists and poets.

So the path was well laid for me. My family accepted my absences and late-nights at the computer, and my siblings pushed me to reach for the stars. My mom still posts my articles on the refrigerator, and my friends keep my spirits high. My fabulous editor at the Fort Bend Herald, Bob Haenel, encourages me when I’m discouraged and continues to persuade me to follow my dreams. I especially thank the Hartmans for allowing me to continue writing for them now that I’m a teacher.

People sometimes ask what’s my favorite part of being a reporter, and the answer is easy — people. Every person I’ve interviewed has left an impression on my soul, and it’s mostly to be thankful for what I have, grateful for opportunities and eager to greet each and every day. I stopped complaining about seeing the mess in my sons’ rooms after interviewing a mother who was blind. I stand when the American flag passes by, remembering the sacrifices the World War II, Korean, Vietnam and Iraqi vets I’ve interviewed gave so I could be free. Every person I interviewed reminded me that life is a gift and life, with all its flaws, is a wonderful, joyous journey.

Thank you for visiting here. I’ll do my best not to disappoint!

For all of us who learned how to sew on a Singer sewing machine…

My granddaughter loves dressing up, and my daughter-in-law is always scouring stores and garage sales for dress-up clothes. Watching my granddaughter wrap a blanket around her waist, pretending it was a ball gown, I knew I had to make Kylie a princess outfit.
Luckily, my grandmother taught me how to sew when I was in my early teens. Marguerite was a fabulous seamstress, and she made all her clothes and her daughter’s clothes.

One summer, she agreed to teach me how to sew. The two of us went to the local TG&Y, and she showed me how to look through the big pattern books to find what I wanted.

There were patterns for everything — dresses, coats, pants and jackets. As we flipped through the pages, Grandma pointed out which patterns would be good choices for a novice.

We settled on a Simplicity pattern with a dropped-waist dress, a thin belt and cap sleeves. Grandma showed me how to read the back of the pattern so I’d know how much material I needed, what length of zipper to buy and to check for any extras, like interfacing or lining material.

I remember we paid less than a dollar for the pattern, and we chose bright red material and thread to match.

Laying the material on the kitchen table, Grandma made me carefully cut the pattern pieces out of that thin tissue paper and then showed me how to pin the pattern pieces in place, paying close attention to the pieces that needed to go on the fold.

Sipping her coffee, Grandma patiently explained what all the pattern markings meant — this was a line for hand stitching so the material wouldn’t fray on the curve and the black, diamond notches were markers to make it easier to line up the pieces.

Grandma said it was important to press the curves and all the seams as we went along, so the iron and ironing board were set up next to the sewing machine.

She showed me how to weave the thread in and out of all the metal loops and gears on my mom’s black Singer sewing machine and how to load the bobbin. Grandma showed me how to use the foot pedal, easing up around the curves and a little faster on the straight seams.

Day after day, we sat down together, Grandma guiding me through every step, checking my seams and making me rip them out and start over if they were wrong.

I learned how to make darts and how to sew a gathering stitch. I learned how to baste a zipper in place and to clip the curves on the collar and sleeves.

When the dress was almost finished, she showed me how to make a belt loop by hand and how to hem, my grandmother’s stitches so tiny, the thread practically disappeared into the material.

That initial sewing lesson has served me well in life. Not only have I made my own clothes, but also my sons’ play clothes, curtains for our home and doll clothes for my nieces.

Now with a granddaughter, it was time to haul my trusty Kenmore out of storage. Running my fingers over the metal gears, I remembered those long-ago afternoons with my grandmother.

At the time, I thought I was only getting sewing lessons, but Marguerite was really passing on life lessons.

She taught me to stitch carefully, press out the wrinkles as you go and know it’s possible to create something beautiful from the small pieces and moments in your life.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

Every once in a while, I take a detour from looking at life through a humorousl lens. This is one of those rare weeks. And, yes, there’s a bumper sticker going on my car the minute the relentless rain, courtesy of Hurricane Alex, stops.

I was stuck in Houston recently in rush-hour traffic. Looking around, I noticed a beat-up truck in the lane next to me. The back of the F-150 was covered with bumper stickers, and it wasn’t hard to figure out where this person stood on the issues.

A member of the National Rifle Association, this person also was a staunch Republican, disliked the Obma administration and said the only way someone was going to get their gun was to pry their cold, dead finger off the trigger.

I realized, as I read all the signs on the back of that truck, that I seldom see political bumper stickers any more.

Back in the Volkswagen bus days, it seemed everyone proclaimed their political beliefs on their bumper from conservative Richard Nixon supporters to anti-establishment stickers calling for society to “Make Love, Not War.”

The young team of Bill Clinton and Al Gore generated their own red, white and blue presidential hopeful stickers, and a new generation was introduced to political bumper stickers when Barack Obama began his run for the presidency.

However, we often hesitate to publicize our political preferences for fear of being labeled a right-wing nut case or a spend-thrift liberal.

But the real reason is worse than being afraid to offend. People today are less concerned with the environment, politics or civil rights because we’re an “all about me” generation.

Forget saving the planet, being involved in politics or promoting a social cause. If we do have a bumper sticker, it’s usually about our own business or that our child made the honor roll.

Most min-vans and SUV’s have some type of child bumper sticker on the back, and we all know said child is a member of a ballet troupe or an athletic organization. There’s nothing wrong with congratulating one’s child, but we no longer take a stance about anything that doesn’t personally involve us.

I found myself thinking back to the last time I had a bumper sticker on my vehicle, and I realized it was almost 30 years ago.

When I was in my 20’s, I was affiliated with an active church on the Louisiana State University campus. The priests at this parish were Claretians, an order primarily involved in churches on college campuses.

In talks with Father Chris, I discovered the Claretians took vows of poverty, and they were committed to social concerns and issues of peace and justice.

When the diocese decided to abruptly terminate that order’s service on the campus, a major uproar broke out in the city. I proudly affixed a “Keep the Claretians” bumper sticker on my car.

The next Sunday, my parish priest pulled me aside and said he’d noticed the sticker. I asked if it was a problem, and he said it might be better if I removed it.

I politely refused and, just for principle, kept that sticker on the back of my vehicle until it literally fell off.

Sitting in traffic, looking at all those bumper stickers on the back of that truck, I found myself wondering if I still have the courage to put a controversial bumper sticker on my vehicle.

The voices in my head said I might not for a variety of reasons — I don’t want to offend and I want to keep my personal religious and political beliefs private.

But those days of fighting the establishment made me feel alive, willing to stand up for what I believed. And, yes, proud that I took a stand.

My back bumper is quite plain these days. I think it’s about time to spruce it up.

This column originally appeared in The Fort Bend Herald.