My grandfather was a predictable man. He watched “Gunsmoke” every Saturday night, went to bed at the same time and always made sure he washed out the same plate, cup and saucer after dinner to use the next day.

I thought about my grandfather as I was rummaging around in our cutlery drawer, looking for one particular, mismatched fork. Finally, I spotted it in the bottom of the dishwasher, and I carefully retrieved it, happy I could finally sit down to dinner.

That’s when I sighed and realized an unmistakable fact – somewhere along the way, I’d left behind carefree and crossed over into predictability.

It’s easy to pooh-pooh that thought, especially when I tell myself I’m still hip and cool. Then again, using the words “hip” and “cool” is an automatic giveaway I’m over the hill.

I tried to rationalize my way out of admitting I’d become a stick in the mud. Using that one particular fork for every meal was a preference, nothing more.

Then I thought about the coffee cups.

We must have two dozen mismatched coffee cups in the kitchen cabinet. I can’t in good conscience throw them away, and my sisters have an unbreakable mantra about cups that keeps them in my cabinet – one must drink out of a cup or mug that bears an inspirational or special meaning. Hence the reason I use my “Barney Fife Nip It In The Bud” coffee mug day after day.

And I’m a bit persnickety about one bath towel. I usually buy a new towel when there’s a sale, and a worn one goes out to the garage… except for this blue towel.

It’s my favorite, even more than plush new ones because that old towel is incredibly soft. I wash it and put it right back on top of the stack in the cabinet. Why get rid of something that’s perfectly useful, I tell myself.

Truth be told, the curmudgeon signs are everywhere. I switch the channel with a big “harrumph” whenever a “Saved By The Bell” rerun appears, and I complain about people who drive too fast on neighborhood streets.

I’ve used the same wallet for the past 15 years because it’s finally soft and I know what’s in all the little hidden pockets, and I’ll use a purse until the straps break.

Next to my computer monitor is a beat-up address book, some with addresses erased five or six times. But I know to look for my cousin’s address under her maiden name, even though she’s been married 20 years.

I park on the same row whenever I go to the grocery store, even if the lot is empty, because that’s the only way I can find my car. More than once, I’ve wandered the parking lot, watching my ice cream melt, while searching for my vehicle.

I sit and stew at the stop light if the car next to me is vibrating from loud music, and I value soft flannel pajamas over silky ones.

I believe a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, washed down with a glass of cold milk, is fine eatin’, and there’s no better dessert on the planet than a plain Oreo cookie.

I simply appreciate the value of something weathered yet useful, something that might not be trendy or perfect but is useful.

Although I’d never consider myself a wild child, I am predictable, and I’ve come to accept that fact about myself.

Persnickety? Maybe.

Practical? Yep.

My grandfather would think that was just dandy.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The first time I went to Seabourne Creek Nature Park, I thought it was a great place to fly a kite. With open plains, a lake and not much more, the 164-acre park looked like someone dropped a pond in the middle and then walked away.

All that’s changed, thanks to a partnership between the City of Rosenberg and the Coastal Prairie Chapter of the Texas Master Naturalists. Through their work, Seabourne Creek Nature Park is now inviting as well as educational.

According to Karl Baumgartner, the project manager for the restoration project, back in 2009, city managers agreed to set aside 20 acres at Seabourne for native prairie restoration.

Best of all, the Coastal Prairie Chapter of the Texas Master Naturalists volunteered to initiate and organize all projects at the park, and they wasted little time.

Over the last two and a half years, they have transformed a stark piece of prairie into an educational and thriving garden. Two grants from the Rosenberg Development Council allowed them to plant native trees and install irrigation systems.

Picnic tables and covered pavilions are located throughout the park, and it’s not unusual to find a Master Gardener on hand, weeding a garden, counting birds or building something new.

Baumgartner’s active with Boy Scout troops in the area, and he enlisted Eagle Scouts to develop nature projects.

One Scout built a chimney swift tower and another built an observation deck overlooking a meadow that’ll be filled with wildflowers in the spring.

A stocked butterfly garden invites visitors, both insects and human. People can stroll along the 4-acre lake where they can rest on a bench, fish for perch or bass or simply enjoy the serenity.

A wetlands area attracts waterfowl, and over 118 species of birds have been officially photographed and identified in the last 18 months at the park, many on the monthly bird hikes offered by the Master Naturalists.

Currently the Master Naturalists have a Prairie Restoration Project underway where they’re transforming former cow pastures back to prairie conditions, complete with native grasses and plants.

In addition to upgrading the park, the Master Naturalists also want to educate the public. An artist, who created the interpretive signs at Brazos Bend State Park, is making similar signs that will be placed throughout the park. The signs will allow visitors to understand the complexity and simplicity of nature.

Signs will also identify the different plants and trees so visitors come away with more than a pleasant day at the park – they’ll know about nature in the city where they live.

Baumgartner is hoping to have a bond issue passed so they can build a nature center. The center he envisions is similar to one at Brazos Bend State Park and one in the Katy school district.

He said Katy’s facility is booked every day of the year, and he wants to work with school districts in this area so students can visit a nature center within minutes of any school.

Luckily the R.W. Lindsey covered gazebo, on-site restrooms and water fountains provide everything visitors could need. All that’s missing are inquisitive minds.

Educating people about the wonder, beauty and fragility of nature ensures they’ll become caretakers, just as the Master Naturalists are at this hidden gem off Highway 36 in Rosenberg.

Baumgartner invites you to come visit. When you do, bring a picnic lunch and walking shoes so you can enjoy this beautiful and interactive park.

But don’t forget the kite.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The other day, my 4-year-old granddaughter was describing her house to me. She talked about chasing the dog in the back yard and learning to do cartwheels in the den. Then she sat back and smiled.

“My house,” she said stretching her arms up over her head, “is gigantic.”

When we’re youngsters, things seem bigger than they really are. I remember the first time I went back to my grandparents’ house after they’d passed away.

I was in my late 20’s, and it was the first time I’d seen the house vacant. What once seemed so big now seemed small, especially the dining room.

As an adult, I realized the room was normal sized, but the area I remembered was gigantic, able to sustain numerous conversations while accommodating children playing tag in and around the table.

I wandered around the house, and I found myself looking at the house as an adult, growing sadder that the huge place I remembered was only that big in my memories.

I lingered outside, especially in the “the big yard.” After Sunday dinner, everybody hustled out there and played Wiffle ball. Our uncles were the pitchers and the hitters and the nieces and nephews took the outfield.

We loved having the adults play with us, and we were happy to run after wild balls that landed in my grandmother’s hydrangea bushes. But standing there as a grown woman, the yard was rather small, not the gigantic place I remembered.

Back then, the trees we climbed seemed tall enough to practically touch the sky, and my cousins and I would stay up there for hours. We talked about comic books, toys and things we were scared of, but we felt safe in the comfortable branches.

Looking at that grove of trees as an adult, they weren’t nearly as tall as I’d remembered, but the limbs still seemed a comfortable place to sit. On impulse, I climbed up and looked around.

I could still see the tower on my grandparents’ house and the house where our friends once lived. Most afternoons, we’d walk along the stone wall in front of our house, trying hard not to fall off. As a kid, it seemed like that wall went on forever, but looking at it through adult eyes, the wall was only about four feet long.

Reality. It’s how adults look at life. Trees and back yards no longer seem bigger than life.

Instead of looking at our yard as a place of mystery and intrigue, it’s a responsibility. We trim the trees, cut the grass and then merely glance at what’s supposed to be a relaxing area on our way out the door to work.

The rooms in our house require upkeep – dusting, mopping and sweeping. We spend time in the living room watching movies or falling asleep on the couch, but we seldom kick back in a chair and let our imaginations roam to faraway places.

I’ve never tried to execute a cartwheel in my living room. I watch my dog romp in the back yard, but I don’t chase her. I’m a grown up, and I seldom see adventure around every bend.

But the look on my granddaughter’s face made me realize that the only ingredient bigger-than-life adventures require is a fertile imagination and the willingness to look at life through the eyes of a child.

And when we can do that, then the world really will seem gigantic.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

For over 10 years, my work mornings began in a quiet newsroom. But I always had company – Russell Autrey. He’d be sitting at the editorial desk, reading the newspaper, a cup of coffee in one hand, and he always had a cheery “good morning” for everybody.

After a bit, Russell would grab his camera bag and head out the door. A couple of hours later, he’d be back, close the door to the dark room and, 15 minutes later, emerge for his second cup of coffee as the negatives developed.

While waiting, we were privileged to hear “Russell stories,” and those involved his many adventures in the 60’s and the “fact-is-stranger-than-fiction” scrapes he’d gotten into over his life.

The buzzer would go off in the dark room, he’d retrieve the negatives and then pull the images up on the computer. I’d wistfully watch over his shoulder as shot after shot appeared on the screen, each one amazing.

Somehow, Russell managed to find beauty in the every day, from an elderly woman mowing her yard to anxious moms and youngsters waiting for the school bus on the first day of school.

Those photos could’ve been easily forgotten, but luckily the Fort Bend Museum is hosting an exhibition of Russell’s work. Over the next few months, the staff will change out the pictures so visitors can see how Russell sees the four seasons of the year.

Currently, the exhibit features daily photos he took for the newspaper as well as some dating back to the early days of his 30-year career.

Russell’s prints easily fill dozens of boxes, and he’s got a story to tell about every one of them. There’s the one of his son, Cole, and a friend supposedly hovering over Morton Street for a story about Halloween.

Russell and Cole had many adventures together, including the time Russell spotted a tornado at First Colony Mall. Cole grabbed the wheel of the still moving car while Russell snapped the finger of the tornado touching the roof of the food court.

It’s impossible to look at Russell’s elegant black-and-white pictures of a poor sharecropper without feeling empathy for the man’s dire situation. Russell photographed the man casually holding a pipe with a mangled hand, but still retained the man’s dignity while allowing the viewer to enter that bleak world.

There’s the many colorful pictures from festivals, beaming youngsters with their turkeys at the county fair, dignitaries and future presidents of the United States at the annual fair parade and weathered farmers working their cotton fields.

As gorgeous as those photos are, I must confess my personal favorites are when Russell and I collaborated on stories.

We worked on one about young cowboys in Fort Bend County, and we had a blast at a small diner out in the country, listening to the cowboys spin their tall tales.

We spent one Sunday morning at Mount Mariah Baptist Church, and Russell snapped over 300 pictures. I saw spirituality at its purest in that little wooden church and what I can’t even begin to express in words, Russell caught on film.

That’s because Russell has an eye for the small details that make up life. This humble artist teaches us that beauty is all around if we pay attention to the details and appreciate what’s been in front of our eyes all along.

Although the museum has hundreds of artifacts from Fort Bend County’s past, they’ve got a wonderful treasure on the walls, and that’s the stellar work of the state’s best, and one of my favorite people in the world, Russell Autrey.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. The Fort Bend Museum is located at 500 Houston St. in downtown Richmond. Visit www.fortbendmuseum.org for more information.