One of the games I love playing with little ones is hide and seek. Not that I enjoy looking underneath every bed in the house for my giggling grandchildren but because of how they believes they’re invisible when they’re standing in the middle of the room or behind the curtain with their sneakers plainly visible.

And so it is with people in their cars. We think when we’re in our vehicles, nobody can see what we’re doing. That might be true if our windows are tinted midnight black with a reflective coating Superman couldn’t see through, but not all of us have that luxury.

Most of us are quite open to the world in our cars, but we forget that from time to time. Like I did the other day.

It was one of the fresh fall afternoons when the air was crisp and the mercury had dipped below scorching. I rolled the windows down and enjoyed a cool breeze on the way home from the grocery store.

No car ride with the windows down is complete without music blaring, I thought, so I slipped in a familiar Barbra Streisand CD.

All the lyrics came back and I started humming along. But then, I couldn’t resist and I found myself singing along. Pretty soon, I was belting out the songs, word for word with the diva, not a care in the world as I drove down the highway.

Was I off key?

Oh yeah.

Did I care?

Not in the least.

Because for those few minutes, I felt free and young and talented and totally uninhibited.

Until I stopped at a red light and noticed a car next to me. Immediately I shut my mouth and pretended I didn’t notice the driver giving me a funny look. To cover up, I started talking to myself.

Now 20 years ago, that would’ve gotten me an even stranger look, but with hands-free cell phones, I looked totally normal having a pretend conversation when there wasn’t anybody in the car with me.

The driver next to me didn’t have to know I was covering up the fact that I was pretending I was standing on a stage, belting out pitch-perfect songs to a packed audience.

I kept on pretending like I was talking – really singing the chorus quietly to myself – and I’d glance over every few seconds to see if he was noticing anything.

He could’ve cared less about me because he had his own show going on. First he took a few selfies, complete with Elvis Presley lip curls and a cavalier raised eyebrow.

And then he did something that made his opinion totally worthless – he started looking up his nostrils in his rear-view mirror and, believing he’d found something, went on an exploratory mission to find it.

And I thought singing in my car was a little off.

But people do all kinds of crazy things in their car, thinking nobody can see what they’re doing. They pluck their eyebrows, floss their teeth, and cram handfuls of popcorn, Fritos, Cheetos, and Doritos in their mouths while sitting in traffic.

I’ve seen women put on mascara and eyeshadow while waiting for the light to turn green, and men shaving in their cars – yes shaving – when waiting in traffic.

Once, while driving on Highway 59, I saw someone reading the newspaper and another driver – who came whizzing by me – with a paperback book propped up in the middle of the steering wheel.

I suppose they thought nobody could see what they were doing in their vehicles. They, like my little grandchildren, were invisible to the world.

But it’s a free country, and an imagination is a wonderful asset. Especially when you’re behind the microphone, er, I mean the steering wheel.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

            The audience in the auditorium quieted down when the B.F. Terry High School choir members began to walk onto the stage. There were red, white and blue decorations around the room, and a prominent American flag hung from the ceiling.

            The concert began with over 100 students slowly and reverently singing “The Star Spangled Banner.” We usually sing that song before sporting events, and many of us forget the meaning behind the words.

            I found myself doing the same, glancing down at the program to see what songs were coming up. But then a big screen came down from the ceiling, and a grainy black-and-white video began playing.

            The video was Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.’s “I Have a Dream” speech. The film from 1963 showed thousands of people in Washington D.C. listening to the civil rights leader talk about his many dreams. One was for people to be judged by the color of their character, not by the color of their skin.

            He also hoped his four children would one day hold hands with white children, and I thought about that dream as I looked at the choir students on the stage. Black students stood shoulder to shoulder with white students, brown students and students with disabilities.

            At the end of the speech, the screen came up, and two dozen young teens began the “United by Love” performance. The idea for the concert came from choir directors Rhonda Klutts and Marlayna Shaw, and they said their students immediately embraced the idea and concept.

            Songs were chosen for their meaning about acceptance and understanding. The words from “Colors of the Wind” set the tone –if you “walk in the footsteps of a stranger, you’ll learn things you never knew you knew.”

            The choir, and indeed the school choirs in our diverse county, reflect those lyrics. There were faces from all ethnicities in the choir on the stage that evening, just as there are in our grocery stores, churches and the hallways of our schools. Many people still judge others by what’s in their shopping cart, the language they’re speaking or the clothes they’re wearing, but our children understand how to get along with each other. They seem to accept and celebrate each other’s customs and cultures.

            So why is it so hard for adults?

            In between songs, students read narratives about equality, getting along, acceptance and forgiveness. They asked for members of the military, police officers, law enforcement, fire fighters and EMS personnel to stand and for the audience to thank them for their service.

            They then recognized any families who’d lost a loved one while serving our country, and there was somber applause for those who stood. What a contrast to some of the disrespectful shenanigans politicians and professional athletes are engaged in these days.

            Toward the end of the concert, I thought about all the grievances and differences we have in this world –someone’s skin is darker than ours, someone wears a hijab or someone speaks with an accent – and realized these teens are onto something with their concert.

            We have to move on to a better world and that starts with each individual person, each individual heart and each individual hand reaching out to someone else in love, understanding and peace.

            At the end of the concert, almost 200 students stood around the auditorium, shoulder to shoulder, and sang “When You Believe.” I don’t think there was a dry eye in the full house at that point because there really can be miracles when we believe and act on those beliefs, just as these teenagers showed us.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

            Maybe it’s because the weather’s cooling off or because the smell of soups and stews is in the air, but I’ve been picking up cookbooks lately, browsing for recipes.

            I’ve never been a gourmet cook. In fact, I’m not much of a cook period. Our kitchen is small for a reason – I don’t want to spend any more time in there than I absolutely have to.

            But as we’re empty nesters and all my friends want to talk about is their blood sugar levels, cholesterol and lipids, I’ve started to examine my eating habits a little closer.

            And I have to admit that my days of driving through a fast-food joint and picking up fries and a burger are probably over. The days of adding a milkshake to that order are definitely a memory. But instead of whining over the grease I won’t be licking off my fingers, I decided to see if there might be something to actually turning on the stove and cooking something for dinner.

            I started online by searching for “quick meals” and the first item was from Country Living. I could deal with that, I thought – fresh vegetables and healthy eating. The first dish called for red peppers and tons of onions, and that was out. I dislike onions and hate red peppers. Plus it was cooked in a cast-iron skillet, and I don’t have one of those.

            It got worse – “Pierogies with Sausage, Cabbage and Pear.” I have no idea what “pierogis” are and I don’t see cabbage working in partnership with pears. So on to the next recipe.

            “Thai Noodle Soup with Shrimp and Pumpkin.” First, I’ve no clue what Thai noodles are, nor have I ever seen those in the local grocery store where I shop. Secondly, I’m not a fan of eating pumpkin. Those are for carving up and putting near our front door on Oct. 31.

            And shrimp goes in etouffee or deep-fat fried with lots of breading and hush puppies and fries and … wait a minute. I’m supposed to be thinking of healthy foods. So I decided to switch tactics and typed in “quick healthy meals.”

            The first site that popped up was from the Food Network. I’ve watched cooking shows on that network, and they look pretty complicated. But I thought the “20-Minute Chicken” might be worth a look.

            I was wrong.

            This was for 20-minute chicken thighs with couscous and dill. I don’t have a clue what couscous is and dill is what I associate with a pickle. Then I saw grape tomatoes and that made me think about watermelon and how much I miss summer meals like barbecue and burgers and more barbecue.

            The next day, I went to the library and the friendly librarian pointed me in the direction of cookbooks. I quickly got lost in the dozens of cookbooks on the shelf to fit every dietary need. There was a totally gluten-free cookbook, three or four for vegans, a paleo diet cookbook and a dozen or so dealing with just chocolate.

            As much as I wanted a chocolate cookbook, I settled for one with 300 easy and healthy recipes. Didn’t matter that there was a picture of cupcakes and pizza on the front – the book claimed to be healthy.

            I opened it to a random page and found prosciutto and arugula pizza. Again, not a clue what those two ingredients are. But I checked the price —   $20 a pound for the prosciutto at an online store. That’s more than steak.

            And I don’t have a clue where to find arugula in the store. But I wanted to give the cookbook another try, so I closed my eyes and randomly picked a page, and “Indian Chicken with Cucumber-Mango Sauce” popped up. There were six or seven ingredients, but the recipe looked easy enough. Sitting down, I started making a list with all the ingredients I’d need. All was fine until I got to the last item on the list – thinly sliced fresh mint. I don’t have a fresh mint plant.  I think I saw some mint plants at the hardware store, but that’s 20 minutes away.

            Sighing, I opened up the pantry and saw a box of Trix cereal. Let’s see – it’s colorful, it’s cheap and it’s already here. And for a continental flair, I’ll have breakfast at night instead of early in the morning and really shake things up.

            As they say in the fanciest kitchens in the land, dinner is served.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

A recent article from ScienceNOW stated that male babies leave traces of their DNA on their mother’s brain, and those traces can persist for decades.

As the mother of three boys, that revelation could explain a lot about why I do the things I do. But first, let me state I believe girls are as capable as boys in every regard – brains, competence, caring, logic and a thousand other characteristics.

There’s always exceptions to the perceived rule. Not all girls love pink and lace and not all boys like camo and mud. But my experience as a parent showed me that there was a difference.

Before I had children, I thought I could raise my offspring the same – no gender-biased toys for my kids, I said. When they were young, that logic worked. They loved the stereotypical girl toys as much as their stereotypical boy toys.

But after a certain age, it was clear the boys didn’t like the same things their mother liked. But there were similarities.

We understand and speak the same language – one-syllable words and short sentences do the trick with boys and me. Phrases such as “stop it” and “drop it” come out of my mouth a lot more than logical, sensitive explanations.

Whenever someone’s trying to make sure they’re being deliberate and thoughtful in their explanation, I often want to blurt out “can you just cut to the chase?” Now I know the reason – boy DNA in my brain.

My sons also used everything as a weapon. A stick wasn’t a stick – it was a machine gun. A rock was a grenade. And a tree was for climbing and a safe place to throw rocks at passersby.

The boys and I differ in that I think sticks are just sticks, but I have been tempted to throw a rock through a driver’s car window as he comes tearing down my street going 90 miles an hour.

And then there’s a tolerance for dirt. If I’d let them, my boys would go for days without bathing. They reminded me of our dog – if there was dirt or mud, they were rolling around it.

Perhaps that explains why I can go without dusting the furniture for weeks and why, when the boys came in with muddy jeans, I wasn’t at all concerned. Dirt and mud, I told myself, wash out.

My sons and I both love comic books and super heroes, but I didn’t get that love from them – they got it from me.

I’d rather spend an afternoon in the comic-book shop than I would a department store, and I was the first one in line when the first Spiderman movie came out. I shrugged it off as making my sons happy, but they knew I was the one who wanted to see that movie.

Before I pass myself off as a woman who lacks female DNA, there are things I do my sons never understood. They never quite got why I teared up at the end of the book “Laura Charlotte” by Kathryn Galbraith.

The children’s book is about a little girl and her flannel elephant. The grandmother and Laura Charlotte’s mother figure prominently in the book, and their multi-generational affection for each other makes me sob every time I read the book to my boys.

But my nieces understood how important that female connection is in a family and how much strength we girls get from each other.

My nieces also understand why I’m sniffling at the end of “Fiddler on the Roof” and why lipstick – not plastic X-men – is a required item in a purse.

Maybe having a little male DNA in my brain isn’t a bad thing. And maybe, if the universe is balanced, there’s a little female DNA in my sons’ brains, courtesy of their mom.

But, for me, I’m a blessed woman having had the privilege of parenting three boys. Now I know I’ll have a piece of them with me all my life.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.