We were standing in a circle on the soccer field, looking at each other. The team our youngest grandson belonged to had too many players.

The assigned coach proposed splitting the team. He asked if someone would be willing to take the older players and he’d take the younger ones.

Everyone had a reason to say no. Some were working a lot of overtime, some had no experience coaching or with soccer. Others were silent, knowing they didn’t want to take on another responsibility.

Finally one dad, Josh, said he’d do it. He cautioned everyone that he often worked out of town and would miss some games and practices, but he’d take on the job. Another dad said he’d help him and a couple of other dads said they could fill in if need be.

Josh’s wife took on the duties of team manager and everyone breathed a sigh of relief that the mantle of coaching energetic 7-year-olds had passed them by.

At the first practice, Coach Josh lined up all the players and enthusiastically told them they were going to have a great season. They needed to listen to him, obey the rules and have fun.

They knew they were supposed to kick the ball into the net, but that’s about it. They had no idea what the words dribble or defense meant.

But Coach Josh patiently took them through drills – kicking the ball up and down the field, lining up to take a shot into the net and, most importantly, picking a name for the team.

A week later, the Bulldogs were ready to play, and the most enthusiastic person on the field was Coach Josh. He high-fived players who dribbled the ball, he patted them on the back when he saw them trying and gently explained what the rules were when they broke them.

At half time, most players sit with their families for snacks. Coach Josh told these 7-year-olds to come sit in a circle on the field with him so they could talk strategy about the game.

They sat in a tight circle, drinking their Capri Suns, their faces glued to Coach Josh’s, as he talked soccer with them.

In life, we’re often called to step up and, many times, we can’t or we won’t. I will be forever grateful Josh stood up and accepted the responsibility for coaching the team, but especially our grandson.

He made it a point to instill confidence in our grandson. Josh would send us texts about drills to run with at home, and he always took time after the game to talk to each player about something they’d done right.

He missed talking to our grandson after one game, but he texted us with what he would’ve said.

I hope Coach Josh knows those kids will always remember him. He made a positive, life-long impact on a team of first graders. He taught them fairness and teamwork. He taught them how to dribble a soccer ball and how to cheer with abandon when someone makes a goal.

Coach Josh also influenced the other parents. He did have to miss a couple of games and practices because of his job, but other dads stepped right up.

They followed Coach Josh’s example, and encouraged the kids to score with a smile and accept a missed kick with a smile.

When you volunteer, the rewards far outweigh the time commitment. You make a positive impact on a child, and that’s a gift that lasts a lifetime, both for you and the child.

The time spent with young children is fleeting. Blink and they’re headed to middle school. Look away and they’re packing for college.

Thank you, Coach Josh, for helping our grandson find confidence and a smile. Thank you for stepping up.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

 

In the movie “Field of Dreams,” one of the repeating lines is – “If you build it, they will come.” Here in Fort Bend County, the field has been built and, no doubt, they will come.

Over 70 acres of beautiful acreage was donated to Fort Bend County by Simonton native Dr. Harold Daily back in the mid-2000s.

The donation was particularly generous, especially as Fort Bend County was changing from rural to suburban. Thousands of homes are on the drawing board along with shopping centers and restaurants, and prices for land are soaring.

But Dr. Daily envisioned something different for his family’s land. He wanted a nature preserve with a playground and sports areas, particularly baseball fields, for children and families to enjoy.

Darren McCarthy is the Parks and Recreation Director for Fort Bend County. He’d previously overseen the Rosenberg parks system, but he saw the potential at Daily Park and wanted to be part of the experience.

He hasn’t been disappointed. The site has transformed and there’s more to come.

On site is a covered pavilion, complete with restrooms, picnic tables and barbecue stands. Open fields are perfect for kite flying, flag football games, soccer or baseball games.

Volunteers have donated time to developing the park. My husband, Rick Adams, is an active mentor for Boy Scouts looking for projects to complete their Eagle badge.

McCarthy said the Scouts have been instrumental in making improvements, thanks to Rick’s leadership.

These young men have added benches around the lake area and a walking trail through the woods near the lake. Future Scout plans include building a bluebird trail to attract songbirds to the area.

Master Naturalists are also on board to help with future educational projects, and plans are for a community center to be built on the property.

In keeping with Dr. Daily’s wishes, it was fitting that the official opening of the Abe and Lizzie Daily Park, named after Dr. Daily’s parents, took place with a friendly baseball game.

McCarthy said Dr. Daily wanted to see a ballgame at the park, and volunteers and county employees worked tirelessly to make his dream come true.

Tents were set up, youngsters were invited to play ball and officials were on hand under a hot Texas sky.

Throwing out the first pitch at the Inaugural Ballgame, presented by the Fulshear/Katy Area Chamber of Commerce, was Dr. Daily. McCarthy said the 95-year-old delivered Precinct 1 Constable Chad Norvell a solid pitch over home plate.

McCarthy said the park is a peaceful, natural oasis. The sounds of congested freeways and leaf blowers are a distant memory out here. Visitors can often spot a bald eagle overhead, and sunrises are spectacular.

Dr. Daily has a dream of having an all-abilities playground at the park, and McCarthy said he can’t wait to build this playground.

There will be at least three soccer/football fields and at least three baseball fields on the site. Forty acres of donated land are close to the Brazos River, and this area will remain undeveloped as a nature preserve.

Once the rains return to the area, McCarthy envisions a tranquil body of water where people can fish and relax under the shade trees that encircle the lake.

This beautiful nature area is possible because Dr. Harold Daily unselfishly donated family land to the people of Fort Bend County.

His dream was so people could step away from the hustle and bustle of life and enjoy the simple pleasures – an afternoon flying kites, walking the nature trails or leisurely looking at trees, butterflies, flowers and shy lizards.

Because of you, Dr. Daily, they surely will come. Thank you for your generous donation to generations of people in Fort Bend County.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.   

Some people like modern homes – grey cabinets and white walls, sleek furniture and little to no knick-knacks on the floating black shelves. Others prefer a beach-style home with turquoise, orange and yellow furnishings.

Others, like me, are what I’d describe as clutter decorators. Picture throw pillows, rugs, pictures on coffee tables, knitted blankets draped on the backs of overstuffed couches and walls painted in warm shades.

Clutter is comforting to me. I’m surrounded by “stuff.” Nothing’s expensive. In fact, most of the items wouldn’t fetch more than two bucks at a garage sale.

But they mean something to me and remind me of a special time or of the special people in my life.

There’s small frames containing pictures of my sons, my mom, sisters, nieces and nephews and small gifts from friends and family. I look at each one and remember when they gave them to me, and that memory makes me smile.

There’s a small photo of my dad with his three daughters, taken just months before he passed away. Although I think of my dad often, that picture reminds me how much he loved his girls.

Bookshelves hold my favorite books – most of the Stephen King novels, novels signed by James Lee Burke and a few precious books written by Pat Conroy.

I’ll actually take one off the shelf and re-read passages from time to time. Those books are familiar friends that keep me company on rainy nights.

My desk is an organized study in chaos. Notebooks are stacked next to each other and there’s quite a few because each one is for something different. One for trip ideas, one for my many failed diets and one filled with self-loathing entries.

There’s Post-It notes on every shelf – passwords and phone numbers I want to keep handy – and a special saying my brother wrote – “Don’t forget the sun is shining just because you’re in a tunnel at the moment.”

I’m also a self-admitted pen-a-holic. I have a variety of great pens in coffee cups and holders around my desk. There’s also a wicker box with scratch paper for quick notes I write to myself.

In our house, I’m the only clutter kook. I looked at the nightstands in our bedroom, and my husband’s has a lamp and two small books on it. They aren’t there for show – they hold down his phone cord so it doesn’t slip behind the furniture.

My nightstand has a Kindle, six paperbacks I’ve promised myself I’ll read, a back scratcher, a clock radio, lamp and an extra pair of reading glasses.

Instead of apologizing for the clutter, I’m going to embrace it and hope my way catches on as a new trend.

No longer should we clutterers apologize for the stacks of blankets in the corner or a curio cabinet filled with Precious Moments figurines.

We’ll no longer apologize for our rock collection – mine is in the family room – or bowls of Mardi Gras beads we snagged at a parade. We clutter because the clutter gives us joy.

I can hear people clucking their tongue and see them waving their finger at me – shameless, materialistic me. There’s actually a 12-step group, “Clutterers Anonymous.” But we’re not hoarders – those people need serious mental therapy – we simply like having familiar things around us.

In reality, we’re carrying out a positive service to the world.

We keep the landfills clear because all this stuff is in our houses, not the trash.

We help the economy. We’re the reason manufacturers make tiny spoons from every state, keychains with people’s names and cowboy salt-and-pepper shakers.

Cotton manufacturers love us because one can never have too many holiday throw pillows or shirts proclaiming “Mom and dad went on vacation and all I got was this shirt.”

For antique dealers, we are their bread and butter. Not only do we furnish them with things to sell, we buy most of that stuff back.

It’s time to accept a new mantra – Accept the Clutter.

Maybe I can get a pillow with that embroidered on it. It’ll fit right in with the other five pillows on that chair in the living room.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

I was cruising along Interstate 10 through Louisiana, headed home after spending a few days helping move our mom to a new place.

Tired but happy we’d accomplished so much, I didn’t think much when I came up on stopped traffic a few miles short of the Texas border.

Traffic on I-10 is always heavy, plus there was ongoing road construction. I wasn’t too worried. I had just finished lunch and was listening to my brother’s podcast. Probably they were moving trucks from one side of the interstate to the other, I thought.

After about 20 minutes of not moving, I checked online to see what was happening.

Google Maps showed an accident ahead. Not a big deal, I thought. Make sure everyone’s okay, clear the wreck off the road, and we’d be on our way.

I turned off the car and picked up a paperback book I keep in the car for emergencies.

An hour later, we were still stopped.

I tossed the book in the back seat and walked around the car to stretch my legs. I propped open my door, opened an audiobook and listened to that for a while.

Then I checked my phone for traffic updates but didn’t find anything new. Frustrated, I chunked the phone in the passenger seat, feeling my anger building.

Two hours later, we were still stopped. A man walked past on the shoulder of the road and I asked if he knew anything.

He’d heard two 18-wheelers had collided, and they were having trouble clearing the road because other cars were involved.

He also said the backup was 13 miles long.

My heart sank. We were trapped. There were concrete barriers on both sides of the interstate and no nearby exit.

Traffic is often frustrating. Besides traffic jams, there’s a variety of scenarios on the road where you want to take a baseball bat and bash in someone else’s taillights.

Like when you’re stuck in traffic next to someone blaring their sound system so loud, your teeth rattle.

Then there’s the person who tailgates your vehicle, believing they can bully you into moving faster.

It’s extra frustrating, as a friend posted to my Facebook page, when you’re stopped in traffic and when things start to move, there doesn’t seem to be any reason for why everything came to a complete halt.

Or when people finally get to the reason the traffic is stopped, they rubberneck, adding even more slowdowns.

At one point, the traffic started to move, but we went 10 feet and then came to a full stop again. It was like the traffic gods were dangling a candy bar in front of us and then yanked it away.

Frustrated doesn’t come close to describing how I felt at that point.

I was looking at the cars racing along on the opposite side of the road, seething inside because every one of them knew why we were stopped but they couldn’t tell us.

When people started moving – three and a half hours later – nobody touched their brakes until Beaumont where, oh happy day, there was another wreck that blocked all but one lane of traffic.

People zoomed past that wreck and the police cars without a backward glance.

I made it home as the sun was setting, 10 hours after starting what is normally a six-hour trip.

Then I found out my sister caught an early afternoon flight in Baton Rouge and was back home in Virginia before I’d made it to Houston.

Patience is a virtue, my mom keeps saying. All I know is the next time I drive to Baton Rouge, I’ll take my chances on the back roads.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.