Time is measured in a variety of ways – a grandfather clock ticking away year after year in the front hallway, an Apple Watch that not only marks time but also records the wearer’s heartbeat, blood pressure and steps taken.

Then there are the subtle ways – our hair that slowly turns from solid auburn to silver or the wrinkles that weren’t there a few years ago but now define our faces.

This week, I realized a back yard marks the passage of time.

Growing up, we lived next door to my grandparents. Next to their house was the “big yard” where family gathered every Sunday afternoon for a fun game of wiffle ball.

Our uncles taught us the game and allowed us to score runs around the make-shift bases. We cousins have fabulous memories of those impromptu games, all played in the big yard.

I went back to visit as an adult, and the yard that once seemed gigantic was actually small.

Grass now covered the bases, and those cheers and laughter were merely specters in my memory.

When my boys were toddlers, our back yard was filled with Little Tykes and Playskool riding toys. Blow-up wading pools filled out the space in the summer until, the biggest big-kid gift of all, a swing set went up.

My boys didn’t realize what a treat it was to have a swing set in their back yard. Growing up, our back yard was only big enough for a clothes line and a small patch of grass.

Didn’t matter because we could go to Oak Leaf Park where there were a dozen swings and slides and, our favorite, the now-banished merry-go-round.

But our inexpensive metal swing set was the highlight of our young family’s life in the afternoons.

Our boys would try for hours to see if they could swing high enough to do a loop-the-loop over the top, back to where they started.

Afternoons were spent seeing who could jump off the swing and land the farthest away from the letting-go point.

But time passes, and we replaced the swing set with a wooden fort where adventures were created in the covered sand box underneath the floor of the fort.

A ladder allowed the boys to climb up onto an enclosed area where they’d pretend they were pirates or figuring out how they could catch the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus.

About the time they outgrew the fort, we added a trampoline. The boys found they could do front flips, back flips and land on their rears and bounce back up.

The trampoline was popular all the way through their teenage years because they’d sneak out onto the roof of the garage, jump on the trampoline and bounce into the pool.

But teenagers leave home for college and their own lives. We left the trampoline in the yard until the springs rusted, and we had to take it down. The fort was a gift to a young family that needed a place for their growing children.

Then our grandchildren arrived, and we realized we needed to start the process all over again. In went a swing set, complete with a slide and teeter-totter, and my husband happily weed-eated around the four poles.

For the past few months, the swing set sat unused because our grandchildren outgrew the swings and slide. This week, the disassembled set went to the recycling center, and my husband finished putting together a new trampoline this afternoon.

The back yard was once again filled with the laughter of children, and I realized what goes around comes around.

The pendulum came back to where we started so many years ago but, this time around, I’m going to enjoy every minute until our back yard is once again quiet.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

 

I am the daughter of a dreamer.
My father dreamed big, saw himself not only achieving his dreams but going beyond what even he could imagine. He lived his life in a grandiose way.
When I was a young girl, he drove a big white Cadillac. Those of us old enough to remember The Beatles will remember the Caddys with fins gracefully sweeping up the sides and chrome bumpers as big as a kitchen table.
These were not economical vehicles – the car stretched at least a half block when parked and probably got 10 miles to the gallon.
Didn’t matter to my dad.
“Driving that car means I made it,” he said.
Successful, big-shot salesmen only drove a Cadillac. The grander the fenders and bumpers, the better.
When his business failed, which most of them did, he never looked back. He simply picked himself up and moved on to the next venture, telling us this new one would be the big break, the big deal.
There was no step-by-step progress for him. It was always the giant deal that was going to make him rich and successful. Others might question his methods, but my dad never doubted himself.
He was livelier than the other fathers, funnier and a much better dancer than anyone else we knew.
He could charm everyone from grandmothers to little children, and his charming Cajun phrases flowed like honey, even more so when he’d had a few beers.
When I got older, I gradually realized not all of his dreams were going to come true. In fact, most of them would never be more than the words coming out of his mouth. Most of them left us further in the financial hole.
I resented him for those dreams.
And because I resented those dreams, I had few of my own. Over the years, I took the safe, cautious path.
But a person who lives life to the fullest is impossible to resist. My dad was that way and charmed all his grandchildren. Pops was fun, gregarious and they knew he loved them without reserve.
He taught them to laugh and to appreciate the little gifts in life, like the small river that ran through some property he owned. Along the sandy banks of that river, they were pirates and explorers, conquering the mighty waters.
It was easy to catch his enthusiasm and he never lost that zest for life, even when his own was confined to an oxygen tank and a motorized chair.
All his life, he never stopped believing that one day, he’d make it big.
I thought about his dreams when considering what I want to do with the rest of my life. I find myself facing the second half of my time on earth, retirement coming sooner than I thought it would arrive.
Avenues that stretched out endlessly before me are narrower and with a definite end.
When I reached this stage of my life, I thought dreams would be silly and pointless. After all, my dreams growing up were simple goals, not unrealistic scenarios where I’d be a seasoned traveler, a writer who moved people to laughter or a person in the community my sons would brag about.
But I’ve traveled to a few places, I think I’ve put a smile on a few faces through this column, and I’ve never been drunk in my life.
My dad’s bravery and willingness to gamble on himself sustained him through the darkest times, gave him a reason to get out of bed in the mornings and put a smile on his face when I have a feeling he wanted to cry.
So maybe, just maybe, it’s time for me to start dreaming.
My dad would say… it’s about time.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Today we celebrate freedom. Cue the sparklers, turn on the grill and settle in to watch “Independence Day.”

According to www.history.com, the Fourth of July’s been an official American holiday since 1941, but most of us learned about American history in elementary school.

As a reminder, in 1776, delegates from the 13 colonies adopted the Declaration of Independence, demanding we be a free nation and not under British rule.

The founders of this country faced death to establish a country where people could rule together and not bow to a king. To make sure people never forgot tyranny, they passed the First Amendment.

This amendment establishes five basic freedoms:  freedom of religion, freedom of speech, freedom of the press, freedom of assembly and freedom to petition the government.

Freedom of religion would seem to be a given.

Unless one’s religion is different from someone else’s.

Then there’s a lot of finger pointing and explaining why they’re wrong and you’re right.

Freedom of speech is great in theory, but when confronted with racial slurs, bigotry, prejudice about others due to the color of their skin or their gender, many people want to put a gag on anyone pushing boundaries.

We supposedly have the freedom to say what we want as long as we’re not slandering someone else, but we’re paranoid about being politically correct in what we say and write.

Thanks to the internet and everyone having a cell phone, whatever someone says, whether they’re angry, young or intoxicated, can be used against them for years.

The press can be thanked for having the courage to report bravely about cover ups and wrongs, such as Watergate, harshly detaining families at the borders and brutal detention camps in Guantanamo Bay.

Despite the real press’s ability to expose wrongdoings, somewhere along the way, newspapers have taken a beating.

That’s thanks to agenda-driven bloggers and sloppy online posters who post whatever they want and pass gossip and innuendo off as journalism.

There’s no adherence to the journalist’s code of ethics, double checking facts or verifying sources.

Even news sources that are supposed to be unbiased put their own spin on the news, and readers must think deeply, research the facts and not accept someone else’s manipulation of the facts.

We’re supposed to have the freedom to assemble but seeing protesters with professionally made signs being egged on by hate groups makes it almost impossible for those with legitimate gripes and complaints to assembly peacefully.

We have the freedom to petition the government. Good luck with that. The last time I tried to get information out of the government, I had to fill out a dozen pages and wait six weeks for an answer. So, yes, we’re free to petition the government, but don’t hold your breath waiting for an answer.

These are simple and basic human rights, but they’re routinely denied, not just in this country but around the world.

Because we’re often shown only the bad side, it’s tough to be a flag-waving American. We see pictures of families detained at the border, a dead father and child in the water.

We hear about decades of racial profiling, poverty and homelessness. We question what kind of country allows these injustices to happen.

But then we see people of all color and cultures volunteering at the local food pantries, coming out in droves to donate and help when hurricanes hit and helping neighbors rebuild their flooded homes. We see communities donating bike after bike for a stranger they saw walking along the road and then paying for his funeral.

Yes, some of our freedoms have suffered, but they’re intact and being protected by most Americans who remember on the Fourth of July the price paid for freedom.

Working together, we can make sure that fight wasn’t fought in vain.

I believe in America. More importantly, I believe in Americans.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.