Check-out lines often seem like they stretch out into eternity. I read once — in a magazine while waiting in the check-out line — that marketers spend a great deal of time deciding what to put on the shelves of the check-out lanes.

Those last-minute decisions shoppers make put a lot of money in the store’s pockets, and that’s why managers are constantly researching impulse buying.

Candy’s a huge impulse-buy item because by the time we get to the checker, our blood sugar is low and we’re often frustrated. Plus a candy bar isn’t a big-ticket purchase, so marketers feel most people will give in to temptation. If they don’t, their children will and, either way, they get your money.

But knowledge is power, I told myself as I waited in a long check-out line Saturday afternoon. I’d headed into town to shop for my son’s birthday, and I’d found some casual clothes for him in a discount fashion store.

This store lined their check-out lane with shelves, and as soon as I headed into the long abyss, the first few items tried their siren song on me.

Stacks of holiday towels and wash cloths began singing. I ignored them until I remembered my daughter-in-law loves holiday decorations.

Well, the towels were only $2.99, so I tossed a set into my basket, thinking I’d tuck them into her Christmas stocking. But there was no way the rest of that junk was going to entice me, so I moved along, feeling confident.

Wait. There’s a card reader for my camera. I’d been looking for a card reader for a while, and here was one for only $7.99. It could break, I thought, so I tossed another one in the basket.

Okay, that was an unexpected purchase, but it was something I needed. But wait, here’s some headphones. The volume on my computer is often low, and using headphones seems to solve the problem. But I can’t find the set I normally use.

I threw a package in my basket, telling myself it was only $4.99 and, after all, I really could use those headphones.

Then I came to a stop in front of the discount books shelf. I began to sweat. I’m a sucker for books, especially children’s books. I spied Shel Silverstein’s “Where the Sidewalk Ends,” and knew I had to have that book for my granddaughter.

And the holiday cookbook for my sister.

And the book of jokes for my son.

And the poetry book for my mom.

Then it was my turn to check out. I placed my items on the counter, thinking I might put some of those impulse purchases back.

But just then, the little voice inside my head whispered one more time — look at those holiday socks right next to the cash register.

Sure enough, there were some darling holiday socks my granddaughter would just love. I had to stop the cashier from totaling up my bill so she could add three more impulse-buy items to the ticket.

Some days the shopper wins, and some days the marketers win. This is one of those days where I lost the battle.

But, as I loaded six bags of clothes and other impulse purchases into the trunk of my car, there’s always tomorrow at the grocery store.

Let’s just hope I can make it past the Snickers and Twinkies with more success than I did the pumpkin towels and Frosty the Snowman socks.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I was walking down the grocery store aisle, looking for something quick for dinner, when I spotted the sign for frozen pizza.
Having something hot for dinner sounded pretty good, especially if I didn’t have to go to any more trouble than ripping open a cardboard box and sliding a pizza pan into the oven for 18 minutes.

As easy as that sounded, I found myself wishing I was as resourceful as my grandmother. She always made pizza from scratch, including the dough. She’d let me open the Fleischmann’s yellow yeast packet and pour the warm water over it.

She’d add flour and work those ingredients together, gradually sprinkling more flour over the ball to keep the dough from sticking to her fingers.

We’d sit and talk while she kneaded the dough, and it was amazing to watch that ball of gooey dough turn into a beautiful golden globe.

When the dough was smooth, she’d sprinkle flour on a wooden cutting board and, using an old wooden rolling pin, roll out the dough and then use an upside-down small bowl to cut out small circles.

She’d ladle tomato sauce on top of each circle, sprinkle fresh cheese on top and then pop the pies into her gas oven. Our mouths would water as the smell of freshly baking bread and cheese filled the kitchen.

Times change, though, and we went from those home-made pizzas to a brand that became synonymous with my childhood — Chef Boy Ardee. Whenever we saw my mom pull out that tall red box, we knew fresh pizza was on the way.

We had some old Appian Way pizza pans that, over the years, became slightly warped from spending so much time in the oven. That didn’t matter because we loved making our own pizzas.

With a Chef Boy Ardee pizza mix, we could all have what we wanted on a pizza, from pepperoni to extra cheese to hamburger meat to sausage. Many a night we spent watching “Dark Shadows” or “The Smothers Brothers” while waiting for those pizzas to finish baking.

When we were young 20 somethings, price and time mattered, and we discovered Winn Dixie’s frozen dinner aisle, specifically the section with the Totino’s pizzas.

They were cheap, filling and easy. No one cared about trans fats back then. At 10 for a buck, Totino’s fit the bill.

Then marriage and children came along, and it was back to the Chef. My sons loved kneading the dough and then spreading the crust to the edges of the pan. And then smearing the flour on their shirts, their hair and the wall.

Those were great until we discovered people would actually bring pizzas to our front door if we picked up the phone, placed an order and then gave them money when the doorbell rang. When Domino’s came along, our long association with Chef Boy Ardee came to a sad end.

Now that my boys are on their own, I often find myself strolling the frozen food aisle, looking for something quick for dinner. We’ve come a long way from those cardboard Totino’s days. Modern pizzas offer a variety of toppings from artichokes to roasted garlic to Kalamata olives.

Weight Watchers and Lean Cuisine offer low-fat, nutritious pizza choices. There’s also gluten-free and vegetarian pizzas.

Some taste wonderful and others are like eating cardboard. And while it’s a lot easier to pop a frozen pizza in the microwave, nothing beats the smell and taste of a pizza made with fresh bread dough, home-made tomato sauce and freshly grated cheese.

That’s what I call a pizza pie.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I saw my daughter-in-law’s vehicle pull into the parking lot as the high school choir began singing the National Anthem. Due to heavy traffic, they were running a bit late for the concert.
Luckily, the concert was a casual and family-friendly affair because the playlist featured songs from classic Disney movies. When I saw my 3-year-old granddaughter come around the corner of the car, a smile broke out on my face.

She was dressed in a classic Disney Snow White costume with a bright red ribbon in her hair and black tap shoes on her feet. The blue sequins on her dress sparkled as mother and daughter dashed into the auditorium, and we hurried to our seats on the front row.

As soon as the choir started with their next song, my granddaughter began rocking in her seat in rhythm to the music, a smile illuminating her face. When the song ended, she was clapping louder than anyone else in the auditorium.

The next song was a lively number, and Kylie was soon on her feet, her arms out by her side, swaying to the music. We tried to get her to sit down, but she didn’t want to sit — she wanted to dance.

She twirled in time to the music, loving the way her yellow skirt billowed out around her. When the choir sang the toe-tapping “Hakuna Matata” from “The Lion King,” the teens were moving with the music.

And down front, my granddaughter was dancing and clapping right along with them.

Kylie danced the entire performance, skipping and swaying in tune with the piano and those beautiful young voices. She was uninhibited and spellbound in the magic of the music.

The ability to lose one’s self in the moment is sometimes forgotten by adults. We’re concerned with following the rules, coloring inside the lines so to speak, so we keep our emotions in check. We don’t want others to think we’ve lost our senses.

But sometimes throwing caution to an arbitrary, strong wind is just what we need. How often have we sat in traffic with a great song on the radio and only hummed instead of belting that song out like Aretha Franklin or Elvis Presley?

Perhaps we believe we’re not as talented as other or we don’t want to look like we’ve lost our marbles, so we deny ourselves the opportunity to cut loose and lose ourselves in the joy of the moment.

The singers on stage, however, hadn’t forgotten what it was like to belt out a tune and love every minute of the experience. One of the choir members, Ernestine, is in a wheelchair, and I know choir is her favorite class of the day.

Her radiant smile reflected the joy in her heart, just as my granddaughter’s dancing reflected the happiness in her soul.

These two were not afraid for others to know they’d embraced the joy of the moment and were not going to let anything — not social mores, an audience or the thought of being judged by others — stop them from immersing themselves in feeling fabulous.

Toward the end of the show, my granddaughter began trying to sing with the choir. She didn’t know any of the words, but that didn’t stop her.

When I asked her keep her voice down a bit and let the choir sing, she gave me a questioning look.

“But I need to sing,” she said. “I just need to.”

And with that, I sat back, smiled and told her to go ahead and sing.

And dance.

And let the joy in her heart blossom.

Oh how I envy her.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Last Sunday, my family came over for dinner and to visit. After we’d eaten, I realized the dishwasher was already filled so we’d have to wash the dishes by hand.
As the sink filled with soap suds, I remembered the days when everybody washed the dishes by hand. When I was a young girl, my mom’s family gathered every Sunday after church for dinner at my grandparents’ house, and everyone chipped in for clean-up duties.

My relatives had the assembly line down pat, and I’m not sure if today’s young people  — reared on paper plates, take-out Styrofoam boxes and cheap plastic cups — know there’s a system for efficiently washing dishes by hand.

When heated debates about politics and football ended, everyone chipped in for kitchen duty. Some cousins were charged with scraping the food into an old milk carton so it could be added to the compost pile, and the uncles put the leftovers in smaller bowls and then in the refrigerator.

My grandfather was always at the head of the line to wash the dishes. He taught me to fill the sink with hot, soapy water and put a tablespoon of household bleach in the water to serve as a disinfectant.

Wash the glasses first, he said, because they needed the cleanest and hottest water possible to stay sparkling clean.

He showed me how to wash the inside of the glass, being careful to swab the bottom of the milk glasses. Next he said to wash the rim and then rinse the glass in clear, running water.

After all the glasses were clean, my grandfather said to refill the sink with hot soapy water, add a bit of bleach again, and then wash the utensils.

“Think about it,” he told me, holding a fork up to the window. “People put this in their mouths. Make sure they’re really clean.”

As the glasses, utensils and plates moved on to the dish drainer, aunts, who talked nonstop, took turns drying them and putting them away in the cabinets.

Last but not least were the pots and pans. Before the invention of rice cookers and microwaves, there was always a stack of heavy-duty cleaning on the drain board.

Washing pots and pans was usually unpleasant if we’d forgotten to fill the pans with water so they could soak. It took a lot of elbow grease and the trusty Chore Girl scrub pad to loosen baked-on rice in the bottom of a pot or on the side of my grandmother’s blue enamel roaster.

As the assembly line moved efficiently in the kitchen, someone made sure the leaf came out of the dining room table and my grandmother’s bowl of plastic fruit was back in the center of the table.

When the last pot was dried and the drainer was empty, my uncles retired to the living room to watch football and my aunts sat around the kitchen table, sharing hot coffee, pie and more talk.

They’d reminisce about the old days, give each other advice about life and relax now that the work was finished. Those days are some of my favorites from my childhood, and I’m glad I was part of a large, extended family that laughed, argued and cried together.

As I washed the dishes and my daughter-in-law dried them, our sons, granddaughter and my husband cleared the table and took care of the chores that accompany a family dinner. All the while, we laughed and talked.

There’s a rhythm in a kitchen, the give and take of seemingly mundane talk of family and friends that accompanies worthwhile tasks and puts a finishing touch on a slow Sunday afternoon.

This article originally appeared in the Fort Bend Herald.

As usual, I was running late on a Sunday morning and found myself too far away from town to attend church services at my home parish. Luckily, I was crossing Wallis’ city limits and pulled into the parking lot at Guardian Angel Catholic Church two minutes before Mass started.

A few years ago, Fort Bend Herald Photographer Russell Autrey and I collaborated on a story about the historic church, and that outing was one of our favorites. Russell captured the majesty of the church in his photographs as well as the intricate workmanship evident in the interior’s every arch and graceful curve.

Founded in 1892, the church is listed on the National Register of Historic Places, and, according to the city’s Website, the chapel was one of the last painted churches built in Texas.

The current building is the third one erected on the site — a tornado destroyed the first one and the congregation outgrew the second. Construction started on the current church building in 1913 and was completed in 1915.

Seventy-five families contributed toward the wooden building, and the Gothic style church was mostly built by volunteers. The generous townspeople who gave of their time also donated incredible talents, as the church is gorgeous from ceiling to floor.

First and foremost is the altar. Catholic churches built before the 1960’s often contain elaborate back altars, and Guardian Angel’s is no exception. The altar resembles a cathedral with scaled-down yet delicate arches and spires. Statues of humble angels adorn the altar, and painstaking workmanship is evident in their expressions, hands and robes.

The leaded, stained glass windows were created in Italy, and each window contains the names of parishioners, written in Czech, as well as emblems that reflect a Catholic belief. These gorgeous windows allow the sun to illuminate the church in a soft, amber glow, and electric lights are almost unnecessary.

In newer construction, ceilings are acoustically sound, but they’re often a boring, institutional white. Not at Guardian Angel.

The tall, domed ceiling is decorated with intricately painted medallions featuring saints. For this mostly farming community, the saints are those farmers hold dear, and the names are written in Czech and English.

Although the parish has a long history, the service was filled with young families, grandparents, young adults and teens, and it seemed everyone knew everyone.

After the Mass was finished, I spoke with people who were life-long parishioners. They said they treasure the church building, even though they sometimes take for granted the beauty of the interior.

The current pastor, the Rev. Twee Nguyen asked if I knew about the hidden statue of Christ inside a side altar, and I remembered that little known fact from my last visit. The statue is only revealed on Good Friday, and it’s a replica of Michelangelo’s “Pieta” sculpture.

So many other details hide themselves from those visiting the church on a quick visit. But in the quiet of the church, after the congregation had gone home, there was a definite feeling of warmth and home inside those old, wooden walls.

For once, I was glad I was running late for it gave me a chance to catch my breath and refresh my soul. From the worn spots on the wooden pews, I figure I’m not the first wandering soul to seek refuge from the storms of life.

I unexpectedly found that serenity at a quaint, wooden church in a small, country town.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. Note that Guardian Angel Catholic Church is open daily for tours. Call 979-478-6532.