The Astros band wagon’s rolling through Texas, and everywhere I look, at least every other person’s wearing an Astros T-shirt or hat.

The morning after the incredible Jose Altuve hit a double to clinch a spot in the World Series, I saw a man in the grocery store wearing an Astros American League championship shirt.

I’m guessing he was one of the hundreds of fans that waited in line the night before to buy anything with an Astros logo on it.

The Lone Star state’s no different than any other state, and Texans usually find a way to go over the top.

Most SEC college football fans are over the top – the Florida Gators, the Georgia Bulldogs and the Aggies. But they come in second to a college team whose fans go above and beyond every single year.

Those who support the LSU Tigers.

Game days find the Baton Rouge area covered with purple and gold, from tiger-striped chairs, jackets, hats, blankets, barbecue mitts, license plates, people’s shutters and their tailgating gear. Those who move out of state consider purple T-shirts necessary attire.

But Astros fever is about as high as I’ve seen it, and with good reason.

We love winners.

When we first came to Texas over 25 years ago, getting tickets to see the Astros play in the Astrodome was a cheap afternoon.

We attended quite a few games with our boys, and we always came home with some Astros loot – a foam pillow, a tote bag or a foam bat.

The tickets were inexpensive for a Major League game, and the boys could run up and down the Astrodome aisles because there weren’t too many people there.

The boys all wanted Astros hats and Dome dogs, and we could pick those up for a few bucks.

When my grandson wanted a Jose Altuve jersey two years ago, that youth shirt set me back over $50.

For a shirt. And an Astros World Series official jersey is over $140.

But that’s what happens when the winner emerges.

True die-hard fans aren’t surprised. They know this fandom happens every time their team wins. But what about the fan that hangs in there year after year with a team that has a zero in the win column?

I know about those fans because my dad was one of them.

For all his adult life, my dad believed in the New Orleans Saints.

They were one of the worst teams in the NFL and I thought that anybody who supported them had to be crazy.

But every summer, my dad would tell us that this would be the year. Yes sir, this would be the year the Saints would go to the Super Bowl.

And their record would be the worst in the league.

But my dad’s faith never wavered. He passed away before the Saints won the Super Bowl in 2010, but I had a feeling he was sitting in heaven’s bleachers yelling “Mais oui, I told you so!”

He never begrudged anyone who joined the Saints band wagon. He was always happy when fans saw the light and cheered on his favorite teams.

And so it is with the Astros.

People walking around with an Astros shirt on should be proud of their home-town team. They beat the odds, proved the naysayers wrong and stood behind one of the shortest players in professional baseball to watch their team go for a second World Series pennant in less than five years.

They say everything’s bigger in Texas, and the love Texans have for the Astros is about as big as it gets.

Just don’t tell an LSU fan.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

It’s been over 15 years since I’ve waited in an elementary school carpool line.

Fifteen years of forgetting the highs and lows of being an impatient parent in the long, torturous tunnel known as the drop-off line.

Lots of movies poke fun at the people who monitor the school drop-off and pick-up lines. The guards are usually blowing a whistle, redirecting parents going the wrong way and smiling at the children.

They’re strict about which way cars drive, and parents better not even think about cutting the line, driving in on the out driveway or taking too long to drop off their darling.

Those are all infractions that can get your tires slashed and, worse, get you shunned by other parents in the drop-off line.

My two oldest boys liked riding the bus. I didn’t question my good fortune, but that luck ran out with the youngest child. He claimed he got car sick on the bus, so I had to take him and pick him up from school every single day.

So I got to be quite familiar with the unspoken rules of the drop-off and pick-up line.

First, no lollygagging. When your car pulls up to where a teacher is waiting, your child better be ready to jump out of that car, backpack zipped, and lunch box in their hand.

No last-minute hugs and kisses, no time to comb their hair one last time and definitely no time to tie their shoes.

Because if you do any of those things, you face the wrath of all the parents in the line behind you, and they can be a ravenous mob, especially as their coffee hasn’t kicked in yet.

Afternoon pick-up lines are bit more laid back. After all, when you pull up to the curb and the teacher on duty opens the door for your child, the cool jazz music you enjoyed while waiting in the line evaporates into a burst of “guess what we dids” and “guess who threw up on the floor” stories.

Or they’re crying because they lost their lunch money, somebody looked at them with the “stink eye,” they have way too much homework and everybody hates them.

That’s when you’d gladly go to the back of the pick-up line and wait all over again.

I thought about all those memories when I was dropping my grandchildren off at Huggins Elementary one morning. I was new to their system, but no worries. I was an old hand at the drop-off line etiquette.

People coming from the north had to merge with people coming from the south. Two long lines had to merge into one line which would then go past the curb where smiling fifth graders would help children out of the car.

“This’ll never work,” I thought. I could see where the north-bound lanes would think they were lined up correctly and so could the south-bound lanes.

But people were civilized and the cars merged just as they’re supposed to do on the driving training video. People pulled as far up as they could, and smiling fifth graders were right there opening the doors and children were jumping out, ready to face the day.

And then it was my turn.

I didn’t pull all the way up because I was too busy making sure everybody had their backpacks zipped up and their lunch boxes were securely closed. I gave last-minute kisses and affirmative directions to have a great day and keep smiling.

Then I realized I was letting my grandchildren out at the last spot at the drop-off lane instead of way up ahead where I was supposed to be.

I thought for sure whistles would sound and people would lay on their horns, but none of that happened.

Teachers and fifth graders smiled and waved as I drove off, and I didn’t feel as guilty as I would’ve 15 years ago for being the kink in the garden hose.

I’m glad to see forgiveness is there for “that” person in the school carpool line. Now I just hope nobody asks me to pick the kids up in the afternoon.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Usually I don’t check my email on Saturday mornings, but I had a little time before heading out to run errands.

I’m glad I checked.

There was a message from my cousin Kathy that our cousin Pamela was in town for a few hours – did I want to get together at her mom’s house for a quick visit?

My first thought was my long to-do list for the day.

My second thought was a promise I made last year – no regrets. If I didn’t head into Houston and see my cousins, I’d get everything done on my list before 2 p.m. We didn’t grow up together, so it might not be a big deal to decline.

But I knew the right answer. Family’s important. I pointed the car toward Memorial City Mall and thought about the cousins in my life.

On my dad’s side, I have 25 first cousins, and there was always somebody our age when we got together for family crab boils.

Sylvia is a year older than I am, and we’re more like sisters than cousins. She helped guide me through the turbulent teenage years, and she’s still helping me cope with tough situations.

On my mom’s side, there’s also 25 first cousins. We spent many hours together at a grandparent’s house or an aunt’s kitchen, and those smells and scenes are as fresh to me today as they were all those years ago.

Kathy lives in the Houston area, and I get to see her from time to time. However, Pam lives in Virginia, and I hadn’t seen her in over 30 years. We call her mom Aunt Vickie, and I’ve looked up to her ever since I was a little girl.

Aunt Vickie was always on the go. She’d come over to my mom’s house in the mornings, pushing a stroller loaded down with all five of her children.

She’d bring along a loaf of freshly baked banana bread, articles she’d cut out of the newspaper for my mom and enough positive energy to fuel us for the day.

She ran marathons long before they were popular, wrote a booklet for incoming college students and taught business classes at the local business college.

My Aunt Mary is 89 and still going strong. As the eldest cousin, she was one of the first women in our family to go to college, and, as she put it, threw open the gates to equal opportunity for Lebanese girls.

When Pamela answered the door, I would’ve recognized her anywhere – the gorgeous ringlets so much like my Aunt Bev’s, the high cheek bones and her mom’s beautiful smile.

For two hours, Pamela and I sat at Aunt Mary’s kitchen table and compared memories about our hometown, the familiar smells in our grandmother’s kitchens, our children and grandchildren.

On the way home, I called my sister to tell her about the visit, and she looked Pamela up online. Pamela never gave me a hint that I was talking to one of the most prestigious educators on the East coast.

She’s a professor and chair at the exclusive William and Mary College. She’s written multiple books, was a Fulbright scholar in Dublin and has published numerous academic papers.

Bragging isn’t in Pamela’s DNA, nor is that trait evident in her siblings who are all highly-ranked professionals and scholars.

A true educator, Pamela quietly taught me something about grace and selflessness –take a genuine interest in the person sitting with you instead of figuring out what to say next. Our mothers, aunts and grandmothers taught us the same lesson, and they were all taught at the kitchen table.

I’m humbled and thankful to have five generations of strong, intelligent women as role models.

The next time an opportunity comes up to spend time with a remarkable woman, count me in.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Saturday morning at Sam’s Club isn’t exactly how I pictured spending my day off.

With 12-hour work days Monday through Friday, Saturday and Sunday are when I get the chores finished that had to wait during the week.

Changing the sheets on the beds, a little sweeping, getting the laundry under control, filling out lesson plans and grading papers fill up those two days.

I slip in fun activities for sure, but it seems work and the to-do list are never far from my mind.

That worry must’ve been evident on my face as I walked the aisles at Sam’s, pushing a big basket with snacks for our grandchildren and paper goods to last a few months.

I noticed a man walking my way. He was middle-aged, his eye glasses on top of his head and a slight spare tire around his middle.

He had a friendly grin on his face and, when he got to me, he slowed down and whispered something close to my ear.

“Smile. It’ll make you feel better.”

The encounter happened so quickly, I wondered if I’d heard him correctly, and he was gone before I had time to realize what he’d said.

One word kept rolling around in my head.

“Smile.”

I didn’t realize I wasn’t smiling until he pointed it out.

I slowed down and, for the first time in a while, paid attention to my face.

He was right.

My mouth was downturned and my eyebrows were tense as were my shoulders and back.

A total stranger jolted me out of the “woe-is-me” mood I’d been in for hours, maybe even days with a willingness to look at me, not past me.

I looked around the store, and most of the shoppers were wearing frowns, or at least looks of intense concentration.

The children weren’t smiling either, especially as their parents were hurrying them along so the shopping would go faster.

I’ve always thought of myself as a happy person, one of those glass is half full kinds. But it had been a long time since I really felt that way.

Slowing down, I relaxed my shoulders and put a smile on my face. That smile could’ve looked like a fake one, you know, the “fake-it-till-you-make-it” persona most of us project through life.

But the smile on my face wasn’t fake.

Neither was the smile reflecting a sunny disposition.

The smile was one of hope.

Because of that man, I could feel the tiredness riding on my shoulders lifting. I began to concentrate on all the good, wonderful blessings in my life instead of the dreary have-to’s.

And guess what. The smile did its job.

That stranger’s willingness to take a few seconds to whisper a few words of encouragement made me see the world through a different lens.

For the rest of the day, I made a conscious decision to smile at people in the store. To smile at the check-out clerk in the grocery store and especially to smile at my husband.

I even smiled at our dog.

They all smiled back, and although I was tempted to pass on the words that stranger gave to me, I knew my smile hadn’t taken a strong enough hold for me to be assured I’d keep the smile in my heart.

Anything worthwhile requires practice, whether it’s trying out a new sport, learning how to cook a new dinner or learning a new song.

And so I’m practicing.

Something as fundamental as happiness especially requires practice, and the best practice for living a life filled with joy starts with a smile.

So smile.

It’ll make you feel better.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.