I was leaving College Station at one of the heaviest traffic times of the day – straight up noon – and Texas Avenue was bumper to bumper as far as I could see.

I tried to think about the Aggie landmarks I’d seen over the weekend to get my mind off my growling stomach.
There was the newly renovated Kyle Field featuring a huge bronze statue salute to the 12^th Man tradition. The Memorial Student Center’s request to not walk on the grass honored those who’d lost their lives in battle and it was impossible to walk more than a few yards without seeing something Aggie maroon.
My brain was totally immersed in “howdys” and “gig-ems” but my stomach was yelling “forget looking at Rudder Tower – look for the Taco Bell tower.”
It seemed every fast-food joint was clogged with long lines of frustrated drivers, so I kept going, thinking I’d find something less crowded on my way home. I saw all the familiars, but I wanted something more than a soy patty with a pre-measured squirt of mustard and ketchup on a stale bun.
By the time I got to Navasota, my stomach was ready to mutiny, so I pulled off. I saw the fast food golden arches, but I decided to check out the downtown area.
Whenever we travel, we often bypass the chains and look for an in-town eatery, and so I decided to give Navasota a try.
I wasn’t disappointed.
Just minutes past the busy highway were stately homes surrounded by sweeping green lawns and shaded by giant trees.
Pretty soon I was in the downtown area on Washington Avenue, and I saw a sign on the left-hand side in front of The Filling Station advertising the “Hell Burger” and “The Dead Texan.” That looked interesting, so I pulled in, my stomach thanking me.
A happy teenager welcomed me and handed me a menu. While she finished checking out a customer, I looked around at the diner that had once been a gas station. There was a homey feel inside, a welcome relief from restaurants that all look the same.
A few microphone stands and a set of drums stood out of the way by one wall, and the scuffed concrete floors said there’d been quite a few Texas two-steps danced in here.
I looked at the people in the restaurant and noticed lots of cowboy hats and cammo hats. Two young boys wearing baseball hats and cleats, their feet not quite touching the floor, talked sports with their dad in one corner while a businessman read a newspaper – not his phone – over a basket of chicken tenders.
When it was my turn to order, I asked the waitress for a recommendation. She said I’d be happy with their 100-percent beef burger because they went to the butcher and market every day. I took her up on her offer and got my burger and fries to go since I had a long drive in front of me.
To say she was right about that burger is an understatement. After a weekend of same-old, same-old cafeteria food, that hot, well-seasoned hamburger hit the spot.
I know the difference between soy burgers and real burgers, and this one was genuine. The fries were crispy on the outside and soft on the inside, and the veggies on the burger were cold and crisp.
Something tells me I’ll be back to this quiet gem just south of Aggie Land. I just hope The Filling Station’s got a slice of from-scratch apple pie reserved for a weary traveler.
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Intrigued, I read a column from a writer who decided to stop hitting the “like” button on Facebook.
Elan Morgan said she didn’t want to help Facebook’s advertisers track her online life. She wanted to know what would happen if she stopped liking posts and instead added comments. In that way, she could reconnect with people through words.

There’s a lot of merit in what she wrote, but frankly, this world needs a lot more likes, and I don’t care if Facebook knows what I like.

This is what they’ll find – I love desserts. If somebody posts a recipe for a chocolate cake with chocolate filling and chocolate icing, I’m liking that bad boy from here to Tuesday.

Likewise with any dessert that includes crushed candy bars on top. I liked a recipe for one calling for a can of sweetened condensed milk, a whole jar of caramel topping and Butterfinger candy bars and my hips are still not speaking to me. I’m seeing a lot more recipes for desserts on my Facebook feed, and all I can say is “bring it on.”

I also “like” pictures people post of their family, and if your son or daughter loses a tooth, catches a huge fish or wins a trophy, I’ll immediately “like” that post because I know you’re a proud parent.
If you post a picture of your grandbaby, I’ll “like” that picture a dozen times over. That’s because I know what it’s like to be over-the-moon crazy about your grandchildren. I’ll take it further and comment that her smile is gorgeous, his rosy cheeks are adorable and she looks just like her mama.
And if Facebook wants to track that I love babies, then track away, social media giant.

If you post a YouTube video of the stupidest answers from “Family Feud,” I will immediately “like” that post. In a world of apocalypse endings, crooked politicians and global warming — oh, I’m sorry, climate change — a laugh from the question “name something that comes after the word pork” and the contestant’s answer is “cupine,” is exactly what I need. Track away.

I won’t “like” your obscene or vulgar links on Facebook, and I’ll admit to being a fuddy-duddy when I see photos of young girls in “hoochie-mama” clothes.
A word of advice girls – don’t debase yourself by posting half naked selfies to the world. Have more dignity and pride and remember that true beauty comes from the inside. Not your bosom.

I also won’t “like” stupid human trick videos because somebody’s always getting hurt, and I don’t find that humorous. I’ll watch your smart dog tricks videos all evening long but politely skip over any video of a cat.

I’ll “like” your vacation pictures but I wish there was a “green-with-envy” button. I laugh over the Maxine posers and the snarky e-cards with comments like “I just wanted to lose weight by staying in bed, watching TV and eating Girl Scout cookies. Is that really too much to ask?”  

For those with sad posts, such as the passing of a relative or the loss of a pet, “liking” the post is surface sympathetic. If I can, I’ll pull an old-fashioned move and give you a phone call because nothing beats human contact.  

While I think Morgan has valid points, I’ll not be stingy with my “likes.” If that means Facebook knows I like dogs, ice cream and clips from “The Office,” I’ll keep hitting that button and add to the positivity in this world.

Even if, sigh, you post a video of your cat.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

  With a milestone birthday looming at the end of the summer, I decided to follow the experts’ advice – eat healthier, get more sleep and exercise.

A good first step in eating healthier is avoiding the chips and salsa when we go to a restaurant. I tried asking our servers not to bring the chips to the table, but I thought my boys were going to string me up like a piñata.

I try to get more sleep, but between the dog and my allergies, I’m up at 3 a.m. and then fighting a losing battle to get more shut eye.

And that brings us to exercise. I know the health benefits of exercise, and I know I’ll feel so much better if I get moving, but I find all kinds of reasons to choose the couch over the cross trainers.

First, it’s too hot outside. When it’s 85 degrees before 7 in the morning and the humidity hovers at 99.9 percent, it’s tough for me to put on cheerleading pom poms and hit the pavement. At night, the gnats and mosquitoes are so vicious, not even Deep Woods Off does the job.
Not willing to pay $69.95 for an exercise video through Amazon, I jumped on YouTube – telling myself that was not exercise – thinking all I had to lose was a couple of chins.

I was amazed at the number of free exercise videos offered. I first clicked on an aerobics fanatic  in skin-tight cheetah leotards sweating, jumping and barking orders at the camera. I was terrified just watching her.

So I searched for “exercises for older women.” I found a strange lady with an exercise studio next to her hypnosis room. She pointed out the rolls of fat on her abdomen, gave sex advice and would break into an Irish jig from time to time.

Then there was the aerobics instructor with a ball cap on sideways showing the audience how to punch and jab to get in shape. After he viciously  lunged at the camera for the third time, I decided he was a bit too intense for me.

There was a video for those who simply want to walk. This instructor pretty much stayed in one place, stepping in place like a wooden soldier. The work out wasn’t too intense as judged by her dog that slept next to her the entire video.

I found one with two women who promised an easy-to-understand workout for beginners. I decided to jump in with these two, and I did all the arm waves, the jumps and winged my way through the dance steps.  

I thought I was doing quite well until I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The sight of my arms flailing and fat jiggling while trying to maintain straight posture wasn’t pretty and I was grateful nobody had a camera capturing my work-out moves.

Then I remembered years ago when I used to watch “Gilead – Bodies in Motion” exercise videos on television. I’d come home from work, fix my son a snack, and then I’d do the exercises that gorgeous hunk was showing his audience.

Thirty years later, Gil is still around, still gorgeous, and still for free but now he’s also on the Internet. I put on a pair of shorts, cranked up the computer speakers and started following along. After 10 minutes, I was out of breath and my legs were cramping.

My last stop is seeing if anybody’s come up with an exercise video to the hokey pokey. I believe I can master that one.

“You put your right foot in…”

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

  This Saturday is the Fourth of July, a day when we celebrate the freedoms we enjoy in America. Sometimes the real reason for the Fourth gets buried underneath watermelon rinds and hot dog buns, but the majority of Americans appreciate the high price so many men and women paid for liberty.

The list of those freedoms is long, but there are a few that jump to the top of the list. First, the right to disagree. Over the past few weeks, we’ve engaged in heated arguments about sensitive political topics.
No matter what side of the issue you’re on, the fact that you can freely voice that opinion is one of the building blocks of our country. And even though there are those who want to silence the voices that disagree with them, that’s not the way the hand is played in the United States.
I once worked for a man who’d immigrated to America from Hungary under mysterious circumstances. One day, I casually asked how he came to this country and he stated talking.
In his country, people could talk about politics in public places but they didn’t. If you were overheard disagreeing with the politicians in power, the police would come knocking at your door, and you’d be hauled off for questioning.

Wanting better, in the middle of the night, he went to an unfenced spot on the border and waited for the guard to pass. When the guard was far enough away, this guy took off running.

He said he could hear the guard yelling at him to stop, but he kept going with just the clothes on his back and the little money he’d saved. A week later, someone was shot crossing the border at that exact spot.

The right to speak your mind without worrying the police will come pounding at your door at three in the morning is something I’m extremely thankful for in this country. Sure we get hate emails or nasty looks when we do speak our mind, but with freedom comes the risk you’ll offend someone. 
I’m thankful we can travel all over this country’s 3 million square miles without anyone stopping us at the state line, demanding a passport or official papers.
Not only can we follow the wide-open roads, we can follow our dreams, from anchoring a set of bull horns to the front grill of our old caddy to starting our own business and watching our ideas become reality.
Take a look at NASA –engineers believed we could land on the moon, and they accomplished that feat. Because we dreamed we could explore the universe, we know what the surface of Mars looks like and our satellites continue to find new planets and stars.
More than anything, Americans are willing to take a chance. Here in Fort Bend County, we brought in community and technical colleges as well as a major university, hoping enough people would want to further their education.
Thousands have filled those classrooms, believing an education is their best shot at achieving the American dream.
That dream is different for all of us. Martin Luther King Jr. talked about his vision for America. So did Bobby Kennedy, Oscar De La Hoya, Steve Jobs, Oprah Winfrey and the family that runs the store on the corner. Thousands of people have followed their gut and made their dream a reality.
Americans put into action what we imagine in our heads because we have the freedom to pursue our dreams.
So when those fireworks go off this Fourth of July, I’ll be giving thanks for the freedoms we enjoy and to the brave people who paid the price for those freedoms.
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Growing up in New York state, I seldom saw a person of color, but my Lebanese family probably qualified as the official immigrants in the city. We were darker skinned than people with last names like Anderson and Clark.

We did our best to fit in – we loved potato salad and fried chicken, but we ate food our “American” friends couldn’t pronounce – kibbee, tabooley and fataya.
Our grandparents spoke Arabic to each other instead of English, even though the first order of business my grandfather performed at his store each and every morning was to post the American flag.

When my family moved to Louisiana, I was in middle school and definitely the outsider. Trying to fit into the established culture of Louisiana in the late 1960s wasn’t easy.

I spoke with a pronounced Northern accent and, worse than any other social mistake, I was a “Yankee.” The prejudice toward people different than those who grew up in that town was subtle but it was there.
It was in the way elderly people of color deferred to the white people. It was in the way older whites spoke to people of color, the superior tone in their voices conveying a flawed belief that they were better because of the lightness of their skin.

In the aisles of the Winn Dixie, I heard quiet talk of the Ku Klux Klan, and whispers of Klan meetings in our Louisiana town.

But I came to see black people differently through a classmate, Gerald. He was smart, funny and had a constant smile. He was the first friend I had who was not white, and he made me see that just because people are a different color on the outside doesn’t mean we’re different on the inside.

But he still couldn’t come to our houses, nor we to his, and that wall was one we didn’t think we could ever tear down because prejudice was part of the Southern fabric of life in those days.
Not only that, but people were scared. No one wanted a cross burned in their yard, and there were whispered stories of families who’d had that happen because they were supportive of civil rights.
The Confederate flag was flown openly and proudly and no one questioned why we flew the flag of slavery and prejudice at the same level as the American flag that stood for equality and freedom.

That’s because the Confederate flag – like offensive bumper stickers and racist and homosexual jokes at parties – are seen and heard so often that society becomes desensitized to just how hurtful and damaging those signs are.

But the time for overlooking is over. The heart-breaking and horrible hate crime that took place in Charleston S.C. is a wake-up call to the undercurrents of prejudice in this country.
A despicable white man sat down in a historic African-American church and listened to members talk about the word of God for over an hour.

Then he pulled out a gun and killed them, face to face, in cold blood.

The word “monster” doesn’t come close. Evil, twisted and doomed to hell are more appropriate. He won’t get the “mentally ill” or “terrorist” pass from me. I won’t repeat his name because to do so would give him even more publicity.

The names I will repeat, with respect, sadness and sorrow are those who lost their lives that day:  Depayne Middleton Doctor, Cynthia Hurd, Susie Jackson, Ethel Lance, the Rev. Clementa Pinckney, Tywanza Sanders, the Rev. Dr. Daniel Simmons Sr., Sharonda Coleman-Singleton and Myra Thompson.

We can help them rest in peace by no longer ignoring subtle prejudices. Take down those Confederate flags, and scrape them off truck windows.
Stop judging a person by the color of their skin. Don’t listen to the racial jokes or look the other way when you see injustice. Stop excusing cruel behavior because they’re “good ole boys.”

And remember what Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. said:  “The ultimate tragedy is not the oppression and cruelty of the bad people, but the silence over that by the good people.”

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

There’s two family reunions this summer, and my to-do list for the first one is pretty short – print my boarding pass, load up books for my Kindle and get my face waxed.

My heritage is half Lebanese and half Cajun. Although I’m not sure what side passed on the abundant hair gene, I do know that for all of my life, I’ve dealt with hairy arms, hairy legs and a hairy face.
When I was a teenager, my older cousin, Sylvia, took me under her wing.

She showed me a green and white box, “Jolen Crème Bleach,” and told me the paste inside would hide my moustache. The directions said the crème would turn dark hair into soft light hair.
Since I had more hair on my upper lip than my Uncle Eli, I took her advice and used the bleach.

To my inexperienced eyes, the hair disappeared. What I’m sure it looked like was this clueless  dark-skinned girl with dark hair walking around with a blonde moustache, fooling no one.

When I was in my 20’s, I was having a free facial. The lady told me two things – I should have two eyebrows, not one, and electrolysis was the solution for the hair on my lip.

Talk about a double burn. It’s not enough that I walked around with a hairy lip, now I had to contend with my uni-brow.
My Lebanese/Cajun eyebrow went from one side of my face to the other side. That woman told me to buy a good pair of tweezers and start plucking.
I took her advice to heart and got after that uni-brow. So much, in fact, that my eyebrows would have to cross the width of the Mississippi River to touch again.

But tweezing and electrolysis hurts. So when my pain threshold and checkbook both started screaming in pain, I told myself to live with the hair.
I became adept at talking with my finger over my upper lip and I learned how to position my hand in just the right way under my nose so people thought I was deep in thought, not trying to hide something.

Then a friend suggested waxing. It was much cheaper than electrolysis, she said, and not as expensive. All I had to lose was some hair, so I went with my sister and sisters-in-law to a salon.
Here’s the conversation from that visit:

“I’d like to get my upper lip waxed, please.”

The lady looks closer.

“Oh, you need your brows done too,” she says.

So when I get in the room, she takes out a magnifying glass and says I need my chin, the sides of my face, my eyebrows and along the hairline all waxed.

In other words, the whole face.

To the non-informed, waxing consists of going into a softly lit room with gentle music playing. Then a quiet woman with tiny hands comes into the room and assures you everything will be okay.

She takes a wooden stick and dips it in a pot. She tells you the mixture will be warm on your face, which it is, and you begin to relax. Then this nice woman puts a piece of cotton gauze over the warm wax and gently rubs it over the wax.
The tender woman instantly mutates into Magilla Gorilla who, with one mighty tug, rips the wax and gauze off your face along with every hair follicle in its way.

You want to dunk your head in a bucket of ice water to stop the stinging. But then Magilla’s applying that nice warm wax to another hairy spot and you realize the truth – your hair, your problem.

So at the family reunions this summer, I know how to figure out who’s related to me.

The girls who look like my Uncle Eli.  

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Parents are biting their knuckles as they watch their sons and daughters packing for a new life in a dormitory or apartment.

The kids think they have life all figured out.

Mom and Dad know differently.

The Internet is filled with graduate advice and life lessons, and family members feel it’s their duty to make sure they impart the wisdom they’ve learned over the years.

But teenagers ignore any speech that starts with “let me give you a little advice” because they know everything. Let’s be honest – they do know everything because what they don’t have in their heads, they can find on their phone.

Suggestions and bits of folksy advice don’t work. So, Class of 2015, here’s some “get ‘er done” words:

Don’t look like an idiot. Your phone’s pretty smart, but there are some things you need to know to impress those over the age of 35. Why? Unless you’re working at a fast-food joint, those are the people signing your paycheck.

You should know the names of the Beatles. They’re John, George, Ringo and Paul. Chuck Berry was the first true rock-and-roll legend, even though Elvis is the king.

Nobody can replace Marilyn Monroe when it comes to sex appeal, James Brown is the godfather of soul and Karen Carpenter had the voice of an angel. If you don’t know who these artists were, fire up Google. And commit that to memory.

Learn some manners. Chew with your mouth closed, open the door for others, hold your fork like an eating utensil, not a shovel, and put your dirty clothes in the hamper. Don’t drop them on the floor like a snake shedding its skin.

Thank others on a regular basis. This order comes courtesy of Terry High Football Coach Tim Teykl. People like to be acknowledged for what they do, and they are seldom recognized. Be the one that rights that oversight. But not through a text. Show some class – write them a note.

Quit driving like a maniac. Obey the speed limits. Quit changing lanes like you’re playing hop-scotch. Use the signals more than your horn. Don’t tailgate and keep at least a half tank of gas in your vehicle at all times. You never know when an emergency’s coming up.

Stop texting and driving. The most important direct order you’ll ever get because the life you save may be yours or your mother’s or your sister’s. No life is worth driving 80 miles per hour because you want to show off or get there faster.

Be nice to people.This is basic kindergarten advice, graduates. Not only is being nice the right thing to do, but you never know when that person you told off is going to be your boss. Vent to your dog. He’ll never repeat what you said and he’s much more forgiving than people.

Save your money. It’s so tempting to get the latest phone upgrade, order more movies from NetFlix or buy those new shoes. Quit buying fad items and put that money in a sock in your drawer until you regain your senses.

Find something good in every person you meet. Most people have good inside them. Look until you find it. But know when to stop wasting your time because it’s most people, not all people.

And there you have it, Class of 2015, some suggestions for life.  Don’t thank me – I’m simply telling you the same thing your parents and grandparents have been telling you all your life.

So do what they say. You’ll be glad you did.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The lightning show was incredible. Throughout the night, my living room lit up as if I’d flipped a giant light switch on and off and there were a thousand sparklers in the room.
A second later, the skies rumbled and roared so forcefully, the house shuddered. The rain pounded on the side of the house so hard, I thought it would take the paint off.

It’s tough to look at the pictures of flooded highways in Houston and not feel sorry for all those who lost property or were scared during the rampage. Not to offend those affected by the flooding, people in California, farmers or gardeners, but oh, there are times I miss the drought.

For the past five years, most of Texas didn’t see a drop of rain. This year, the drought ended, and we’re getting the rain we prayed for.
But there are things about the drought I found myself missing as our dog sat across my lap in the middle of the night, shaking with fear from the storm outside.

Mosquitoes. When we were in the middle of the drought, we went to an outdoor concert, and it never occurred to me to bring mosquito repellent.

Now with the rains, I can’t walk to my mailbox without spraying myself with “Off.” Coming home, I opened the car door to get the newspaper at the end of the driveway, and, not thinking, left the door open.
By the time I closed the door, there were 10 hungry mosquitoes buzzing around in my car.

Umbrellas. For five years, I never wondered where I’d left my umbrella. When the drought ended, I had to search all over the house for one. The umbrella I did find was dry rotted from lack of use and I had to throw it away.

Outside parties. We never had to wonder if we’d have to cancel an outdoor event during the long, dry spell. We knew it wasn’t going to rain for weeks. Swim party? Any day from May through September was just fine. Not only no rain but no mosquitoes – double bonus.

No surprises. The weather forecast for 2010-2014 was – hot, hotter, hotter than Hades. Every single day. At the time, it was miserable, but with all these rains, flooded streets and never knowing if the skies are going to open up and drench everything in sight, a little dry spell would be welcome.

Fire ants. These vicious little critters are the scourge of the earth, worse than locusts and stinging caterpillars. During the drought, they escaped deep underground and weren’t as much of a problem.

Now that it’s raining, it’s as if they signaled each hibernating colony to rise up and build mega-cities across our lawn. The company that discovers a way to eradicate these beasts, short of a flame thrower, should win every science prize ever invented.

To be fair, there are things I missed during the drought – a sky filled with fluffy white clouds, rainbows after a late-afternoon shower, splashing through water puddles and the sounds of light rain on the roof.

But after seeing a sky filled with ominous black clouds, late-afternoon showers that last for days, water puddles that turn into raging rivers and rain on the roof that sounds as if angry aliens are starting an invasion, I’m feeling a bit nostalgic for dusty roads.

I suppose we’ll have to take what Mother Nature dishes out, get out our boots and dance in the rain.  

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

One of the most beautiful Houston venues is The Hobby Center for Performing Arts where Theatre Under the Stars, TUTS, stages productions.
Last week, I had the chance to see “The Music Man” with a group of teens, most of whom had never been to the center.

They were amazed at the majesty of the theater, and we were all holding our breath when the curtain went up for the first scene. “The Music Man” opens with a group of fast-talking traveling salesmen. The dialogue is rapid fire, the stage car set was beautiful and the costumes were spot on.
And then I noticed it – all the salesmen were White. In fact, there wasn’t a person of color in the entire cast.

I know “The Music Man” takes place in Iowa in 1912. Back then, people of color, if they were even included in a show, were either chauffeurs or maids.  I’m sure when Meredith Wilson wrote the musical in the 1950s, he didn’t think about including different races.
As I sat there, squirming a little in my seat, I wondered why TUTS was staging a musical with an all-white cast in a city as diverse as Houston. It could be for the money as “The Music Man” is a well-known play and brings in the bucks.

Perhaps they think we shouldn’t tamper with the original script or change the writer’s vision or words.
Rubbish.
Theater and music are nothing if not creative and cutting edge. True artists push the envelope for society and, as a result, works of art are often adapted to reach a modern audience.

One of the most popular modern musicals is “West Side Story.” It was written in the 1960s as an updated Romeo and Juliet love story. I don’t remember Shakespeare reciting “When you’re a shark,” in his works,  but the new story line stayed true to Shakespeare’s words while still reflecting prejudices between families, races and cultures.

I flipped through the playbook to see what TUTS is offering the rest of the season, and here’s a list of their upcoming shows:  “Matilda The Musical,” “A Christmas Story, “Bridges of Madison County, “Mary Poppins,” “Oliver” and “A Gentleman’s Guide.”
All White people. To be fair, two productions, “The Little Mermaid” and “Cinderella” feature one or two cast members who are different ethnicities. “Hairspray” has a strong message about the Civil Rights movement. But it’s not being staged in The Hobby Centre. We’ll have to sit outside to see that one.
During intermission, I asked some of the teens if they were enjoying the show. They gushed about the beautiful surroundings and the quality of the performers and the orchestra. Then I asked if they noticed anything about the cast.
One Black girl said she noticed there wasn’t a face of color in the cast but said that’s just the way it is. A young man standing nearby said he noticed the same thing and came to the same conclusion. White teens noticed the same omission and said it was a bit uncomfortable to be sitting next to students of different races and not seeing anybody like their friends on the stage.
That the White students noticed the slight gave me hope. But the students of color who said “that’s just the way it is” saddened me more than the lack of diversity on the stage.
Our high schools don’t have a problem mixing races and cultures when casting plays, and the audience, the players and our communities are richer for that decision. Those directors understand that talent trumps ethnicity and race every single time.
Too bad the “professionals” don’t get it.
 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The first thing I did on my 15^thbirthday was stand in line at the Department of Motor Vehicles in Baker, La. so I could earn my driver’s license. I was there before the office opened because I couldn’t wait to start driving legally.

I always wanted to drive, and I begged to sit next to my dad on long car trips. He’d explain how to keep up with traffic, how to merge and how to conquer the interstate.

In town, I practiced in our old Ford sedan. I don’t remember much about that car except it was a standard with the stick shift on the steering column and it was fast.

When I was a senior in high school, my dad gave me his old Pontiac Executive. That car was a lumbering tank, and five could sit across the back seat with no problem.

The car had a few issues – I had to pump the brakes to stop and mornings required my holding the choke valve closed so my brother could crank it up.

But the car was mine, and it was a sad day when we sold that Pontiac. After that came a few junkers until I bought my very first car – a white 1980 Honda that was just right as it was usually just me and our eldest son.

But as much as I liked that little car, eventually we had to get a bigger vehicle for our growing family, and we became owners of a minivan, the suburban parents’ go-to vehicle.

Although some people turn their noses up at minivans, I loved ours. In fact, I loved our minivans so much, we owned two back to back to accommodate bats, bikes and boys.

I pushed our last van a little too far, though. I didn’t want to put 600 miles on a new vehicle, so I took our aging minivan to Louisiana one last time.

That was a huge mistake as it kept overheating. I finally called my husband to rescue us in Beaumont, and that was the last time I saw our minivan.

By this time, though, our boys were grown, and it was time to downsize. I bought a sedan and came to enjoy a smaller car.

When my father passed away, I cried almost every afternoon in that car, missing my dad so much, I thought my heart would break.

One afternoon, somebody rear ended me and bent the frame. When I saw the car in the junk yard, I thought I’d be happy to see that sad car out of my life, but I stood there and cried one last time for the loss of my safe place.

Two more sedans followed; but as our grandchildren now number four, we decided to move back up to a larger vehicle to accommodate the youngsters.

It might seem odd to upsize, but the right car’s been in my life at the right time.

A huge Pontiac Executive kept a know-it-all teenager safe and sound. That little white Honda was sporty and economical, just like my life.

The minivans suited our family perfectly; and when I transitioned from a baseball mom to a working woman, sedans fit the bill.

Now I’ve moved into needing a vehicle that will keep our grandchildren safe and sound.

Because I’m hoping one day my granddaughter will sit in the front and we can talk about the rules of the road and the joy of driving.

And come full circle.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.