On my 15th birthday, I was the first one in line at the Department of Motor Vehicles for my driver’s test. There was no greater gift my parents could’ve given me than permission to get my license.

After all these years, I still love getting behind the wheel of my car, cranking up the engine and heading out. My car is the means to freedom – to explore new places, visit friends or check out a new cafe.

When I’m driving by myself, I can crank up a Josh Groban CD and sing along at the top of my lungs. I can listen to books on CD and play my favorite passages over and over again.

Most of my trips are short ones, but on long trips, I love to stop at welcome centers because states usually put their best foot forward there.

Florida’s welcome site offers free orange juice, and Mississipp’s center is a relaxing place to spend a few minutes.

The Texas welcome center near the Sabine River is an opportunity to have your picture taken in front of the giant star and then stroll on the outdoor boardwalk where the noise and heat of the interstate disappears while you see a slice of Texas up close.

When I saw a sign for a new welcome center in the heart of Louisiana’s Atchafalaya Basin, I decided to exit the bumper-to-bumper traffic and see what they had to offer.

I’m so glad I did because the center was a step into a true slice of the Pelican state, from the old bricks on the floor to the smell of freshly brewing Community coffee. Welcome center volunteers are usually friendly, but these folks chatted with everybody who came through the door.

An animatronic display features a talking raccoon, turtle and alligator, and some kids and I enjoyed watching a fun explanation about Louisiana. Outside, bronze statues of pelicans and turtles are a perfect place for youngsters to climb and sit.

Before I left, I picked up a map of Louisiana, even though others around me were checking their smart phones and tablets for the best way to maneuver down a crowded interstate.

Those travelers can stay glued to their smart phones. For me, nothing beats unfolding a paper highway map and seeing the whole state at once and deciding to follow the small black lines instead of the heavy red interstate lines.

While on those narrow black lines, I’ve driven past acres of tall sugar cane stalks and delicate Spanish moss swaying from ancient live oak trees.

Those maps have guided me to local coffee shops and bakeries as well as the opportunity to see the real people and sights of a city instead of a quick burger and soda a quarter mile from the interstate.

While following the thin black lines, I’ve driven over creaky wooden bridges that suggest you just might not make it to the other side and past local farmers selling watermelons and corn on the side of the road. Travelers never see this side of life if they don’t get off the thick lines of the map.

Even though my smart phone can give me verbal directions, nothing’s better than turning off that phone and enjoying a slice of cherry pie while looking out over a slow-moving Main Street.

As I folded the map back up – a feat in itself – I knew that any time I wanted a bit of adventure, all I had to do was get out that paper map and get behind the wheel of my car.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

For some people, the perfect way to relax is hiking. For others, serenity involves a long warm bath. For me, it’s time spent on the beach.

There’s the rhythmic sound of the surf, gulls laughing overhead and the fresh smell of salt water.

Five minutes sitting on the sand and I’m instantly calm.

Until Mother Nature’s lullaby is shattered by insensitive people who think everybody within 50 feet of their boom box wants to hear their music.

That’s what happened to me during a recent trip to the Gulf.

I love to set up my umbrella and chair early in the morning when the beach is quiet and watch the waves as they perform an ageless tidal waltz.

I’m not alone – there’s runners and fast walkers, couples casually looking for seashells and people who stroll along the shore, laughing when the water circles their ankles.

There’s groups who play music softly so everybody can enjoy the beach. And then there’s the group that plays music as loud as they can, gets drunk and ruins any chance for a relaxing family day.

Unfortunately for me, that last group decided to show up, boom box and beer cans in full force during our vacation. The first day, they carried on until after sun went down. I fumed but said nothing.

The next morning, I bought ear plugs, knowing deep down I was being a coward by not confronting them.

Sure enough, they came down to the beach right before lunch and started the whole process up again – I could hear the popping of the beer cans right before they cranked up the boom box.

That was the final straw. I walked over to their party and asked them to please turn the music down so those of us who seek the quiet could enjoy that as well.

They were stunned, but as I walked back to my umbrella, they turned the music up even louder and started yelling profanities.

That night, I wrote them a letter and, the next morning, tucked it inside their umbrella. I have no idea if they read the letter or if what I wrote made any difference because we left to come home.

But their reaction wasn’t the point.

I’m tired of bullies.

I’m tired of people cutting me off in traffic with only inches to spare between their bumper and mine.

I’m tired of people who run right up in front of me while I’m in the grocery line when a checker opens up because they think their time is more important than everybody else’s.

I’m tired of obnoxious people who get their way at the expense of others, like me, who are afraid of the consequences.

When I walked over to ask them to turn down their music, not turn it off, my stomach was churning.

While they continued to yell at me and make obscene gestures, I was a little afraid.

But when I saw there were teens and children with them, I felt sorry for the youngsters because of the example they were being shown and was glad I mustered up the guts to go over there.

If they’d turned the music down, they could’ve taught their children to consider others’ needs and not just their own. Conversely, we teach them to be selfish, rude and obnoxious through crude behavior.

I ended the letter thanking them for giving me a column idea – to remind myself and others that living a life of consideration and respect, fueled with a bit of courage, is the right road to take.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. Thank you, Brett Downer, for the great headlines week after week.

I was simply reaching over to put two pieces of fried okra in my take-out box. That maneuver should’ve taken about 10 seconds. Instead, my hand accidentally bumped into the straw sticking out of my completely full glass of soda and the soda spilled all over the table, my lap, down my right leg and all over the floor.

For most people, spilling something in a crowded restaurant would be embarrassing. I got over that hurdle a long time ago because when the good Lord was handing out gracefulness, I was tripping over my own two feet to get in line.

My clumsiness is well documented, starting back in high school. I was in the pep squad, and because I had a car, I always volunteered to pick up supplies. When the squad decided to have a barbecue, I headed into town to pick up two glass gallons of barbecue sauce.

I remember coming over some elevated railroad tracks when the car in front of me stopped suddenly at the traffic light.
I had to slam my brakes on to avoid hitting the car, but because I’d put the two one-gallon containers of barbecue sauce on the seat instead of on the floor, they toppled over, crashed into each other and barbecue sauce came sloshing under my seat, instantly swallowing my shoes and the carpet in a tidal wave of thick red sauce.

I blotted up sauce for weeks and repeatedly shampooed the carpet, but the smell never went away. My best friend said every time she got in that Pontiac she craved a barbecue sandwich.

Cars and I share a long history of my clumsiness. As a new driver, I wasn’t good at calculating distances and I backed into our house.
It was an accident, but that incident causes me embarrassment every time one of my nieces or nephews are upset about getting into a fender bender. One of my siblings blurts out “Well at least you didn’t run into the house like Aunt Denise.”

Every shirt I own has a grease spot on the front that no amount of Spray and Wash can remove. My son, Stephen, says he doesn’t understand why I buy white shirts because they’re a walking billboard for my clumsiness.

He’s right. The last time we were at a Mexican restaurant, I looked down and there were three huge splotches of red salsa on the front of my brand-new white shirt. They coordinated quite well with the big smear of green guacamole.

My big toe is still smarting when I banged it against the steps yesterday, and there’s a bruise on the outside of my arm from when I fell into the wall after banging my toe. I’m an expert at hiding broken glasses, bowls and plates in the middle of the garbage bag so my family won’t discover the latest Mom casualty.

I’ve dropped my cell phone on the concrete, in the pool, in the toilet, from the top of my car – don’t even ask how I managed that one – and the only thing that saves my phone from utter destruction is the heavy-duty Otter box cover I told the cell phone salesman was not optional.

There is an upside to being this awkward. I don’t spend a lot of money on clothes because I’ll ruin them. Our dishwasher gets a break because I use paper plates whenever possible. And I only buy barbecue sauce in plastic containers.

Anything else is asking for trouble.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

One of the best ways to relax is sitting outside early in the morning, a cup of hot, fresh coffee nearby while I listen to the critters in our back yard getting ready for their day.

Squirrels scampering, doves cooing and butterflies flitting around the flowers are soul refreshers. But don’t be fooled by those cute critters. Mother Nature sometimes wears a cute mask to hide the mischief.  

Take squirrels. They look adorable when they waggle their fluffy tails, and their branch acrobatics are on par with any circus entertainer. They’re cute until they invade the bird feeder.

I watched one industrious squirrel jump out of the tree, grab onto our bird feeder and straddle the metal feeder upside down while he scarfed down all the bird seed.

And then there’s the armadillos. They look like miniature tanks as they waddle around the yard at night, and their poor eyesight makes people feel sorry for them.

Until you discover an armadillo has been digging huge holes in your yard, holes you discover when you accidentally step in one and twist your ankle.

Still feeling sorry for them? I think not.

Let’s not forget insects. Watching the bees and wasps flit from flower to flower is a good reminder of the cycle of life.

Until they build a nest in one of your light fixtures, shorting it out and then kamikaze you when you try and spray the nest.

Snakes are also a fixture in back-yard flower beds. I see no redeeming quality about a snake. Forget lecturing me that they eat mice and rats. The only good snake is either dead or in a box, headed to the back of the subdivision.

Raised on Bugs Bunny cartoons, I always had a soft spot for Pepe Le Pew, the French skunk who loved female cats and was always trying to woo them.

But when a skunk sprayed our dog and it took weeks and gallons of tomato juice to get the stink off that dog, skunks were demoted to the rank of pest.

Bats are incredible creatures for the yard. They eat mosquitoes by the pound and people build houses to attract them to their back yard.

Bats terrify me. I see one and I’m convinced they’re looking to build a nest in my hair. So whenever anything resembling a bat comes close, I head for the house, hands over my hair, screaming my head off.

Ants also serve a purpose in the back yard. Ants have wonderful attributes — they work hard, they never sleep and they require very little food.

Unless they’re fire ants. There is no good reason, and I mean no good reason, why fire ants are on the planet. They cannot be killed or destroyed.

You might think you’re getting rid of them with the latest and greatest ant killer, but those indestructible creatures maliciously burrow deeper underground and lie in wait. After the first rain, fire ant mounds pop up every two feet in your yard.

And those vicious devils sting without mercy.

There’s other creatures in the back yard that conjure up visions of sweetness. Frogs are cute. Until you accidentally step on one in your bare feet. Birds are great until you find your lawn furniture covered in bird droppings.

Which leaves our dog. She’s a relentless squirrel stalker, sounds the alarm when she sees a snake and chases wasps all day long.

That’s the kind of back-yard guest I’ll take every day of the week. Now if only she could come up with a way to kill those fire ants…

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.  

When my husband was transferred to Texas over 20 years ago, I was heartsick. My family lived in Louisiana, and I didn’t want to move.

The one saving grace was we’d found a home in a family-friendly, established neighborhood, Pecan Grove.

Our first winter in Pecan Grove, my children were delighted when they heard the Pecan Grove Volunteer Fire truck coming down the street carrying Santa Claus. When he threw them candy and yelled out “Ho, ho, ho,” they were in heaven.

Our first summer, we saw signs at the station for something called Five Miles My Way. We discovered the event drew hundreds of people from all over Fort Bend County, and we signed up. For years, our boys competed in the bike contest and my husband ran the course.

The best part of the Fourth of July in Pecan Grove was the fireworks display. That first year, neighbors told us to take a blanket and lawn chairs up to the golf course at dusk. When we saw the display the firefighters staged, we were amazed.

Those fun events are courtesy of the PGVFD and that’s in addition to their main directive, responding to 911 calls.

 

An Earned Prejudice

I’ve been accused of being prejudiced when it comes to the PGVFD, and I’ll admit that bias right up front. I’m one of their biggest fans, not only for what they’ve done for the neighborhood but for what they’ve done for me.

They came to my house one evening when I detected a burnt electrical smell. My husband was out of town so I called and asked if someone could come by and check out the house.

A team was at my house in less than 10 minutes and inspected the attic, the garage and every plug in the house.

I remember seeing the PGVFD volunteers at called-in emergencies and giving “good neighbor” talks at the elementary schools. Some of my favorite memories are when I took my Cub Scouts to the station and firefighters let them hold the big fire hose and pretend to put out a fire.

Most vividly, I remember the day when they pulled a young girl from a swimming pool and saved her life.

The PGVFD provides many more services, and it would take double this column space to list them all. Less than 30 percent of the residents in Pecan Grove pay for this service. That’s embarrassing.

The reasons I heard when I lived there was they thought another department covered Pecan Grove which is incorrect. There were those who lived in the apartments and thought they didn’t need to pay. You’re part of the neighborhood, and you need to pay for the services you receive.

There’s the disgruntled whiners who don’t want to pay an additional fee to the PGVFD because they already pay their taxes.

Justify that statement when your house is on fire and nobody’s there to put it out in time because you refused to pay $9 a month to the fire department.

I spend more than that on a medium take-out pizza.

If you live in an area where there’s a volunteer fire department, pay up and don’t let them get into the position the PGVFD finds itself – having to hold raffles and fund raisers to keep their doors open.

It’s time to step up. There are numerous donation sites, including one online at gofundme.com. You could also participate in the Five Miles My Way event on July 4. Applications and T-shirts are available at the PGVFD.

You could also buy lemonade from some enterprising youngsters in Pecan Grove who, unlike adults, understand the importance of firefighters.

Keep the PGVFD alive and support those who support you.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

We turned the television on at 11 a.m. and there, just like they have been since I was in high school, was one of television’s superstar couples, Nikki and Victor from “The Young and The Restless.”

Victor’s a little grayer, and Nikki looks like she’s had a little touch-up surgery, but there’s no mistaking the popularity of a couple that’s divorced, reconciled, fought and loved each other to the extent these two have over the past 30 years.

“So what’s the problem this week?” I asked my mom who’s an avid Y&R fan.

“We’re not sure who the father is of Nikki’s son,” she replied. Then she gave me the background of all of Nikki’s affairs and the possible blood lines of her children.

“People who post to the message board have all kinds of ideas about what Victor’s up to and what Nikki’s next scheme will be,” my mom added.

My youngest brother was in the room with us, and he tried to hide a smile behind his laptop.
It’s hard for him to understand the trials and tribulations of the people in Genoa City and why their shenanigans have kept viewers captivated for years.
The story of Nikki and Victor includes numerous divorces, amnesia, alcoholism, betrayal and murders. You know, all the run-of-the-mill tribulations every-day people face.

“I’d never get involved in those soaps again,” I told my mother, opening my laptop to check my email. “All those ridiculous storylines that nobody could ever believe.”

The first email was from my son, Stephen. He and I routinely compare notes on HBO’s popular mini-series “Game of Thrones.” I’d sent him an email after the season finale so we could compare our thoughts about what’s going to happen in the next season.
My main question was about who’d be riding the dragons when the series returned.

He replied that the message boards were hot for Bran riding a dragon, but we’re not sure because Bran, who has the gift of second sight, will probably become a seer and bond with the heart tree.
Then there’s the fate of The Imp, who just finished killing his former lover and his father, and the evil Cersei Lannister who had three children fathered by her twin brother, Jamie. Don’t even get me started on the anguish Jon Snow is feeling after watching the love of his life, Ygritte, die right in front of his eyes.

My brother asked what I was doing and I told him I was drafting a message to my son about the “Game of Throne’s” finale. My mom asked what I was talking about and I started filling her in on the show’s back story.
Just about the time I got to the part about Daneryn “Khaleesi” Targaryen being the mother of dragons and hatching them out of the fire, my brother looked at me over the top of his laptop screen.

“So you want to give Mom a hard time about watching a soap opera when you’re discussing the fate of flying dragons?” he said, a smile on his face.
I started to say the show I was watching was much more highbrow than an ordinary soap, but clamped my mouth shut when I realized the big pile of hypocrisy I was stepping into.

I’m just as guilty of being a soap opera addict as my mother, but secretly, I know I’m a cut above. After all, “Game of Thrones” is science fiction and the first word in that description is science and that’s about real stuff.

Now let’s see what the message boards have to say about Jon Snow’s hair…

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Time crawls along slowly in a hospital. The hands of the big clock on the wall seem to reluctantly click from one number to the next.
Here, time is measured, not in minutes, but from when the nurse comes into the room and when she’ll return, when the doctor is scheduled to come in and when lunch will arrive.

And in between those events is an almost unbearable period of waiting.

I’m with my mom following her left knee replacement surgery, and she came through the procedure with flying colors. She’s spending the next week or so in in a rehabilitation center, and life here is different from life in the outside world.
Before 7 a.m., Mom’s in the gym where physical therapists guide patients through leg lifts and arm stretches. A stopwatch sits next to Mom and she has to lift her leg as many times as she can until the buzzer goes off.
Next to her, an elderly lady – her hair Lady Clairol Jet Black, her thin arms a difficult road map of purple skin and raised veins – sits erectly in a wheelchair and stares into space. 

“It’s time for me to go back to my room,” she announces to no one in particular.

A young therapist, her pony tail bouncing, tries to convince this woman the exercises are for her own good, but she shifts in her wheelchair and her mouth tightens.  

“I’m not doing anything except going home,” the woman says and everyone in the room looks away, concentrating on their own exercises.
They know if they allow their minds to drift away, they might never come back. They know without the exercises, their bodies will go back to the state they were in before they came in for surgery, and they don’t want that, most of all my mom.

At 81, she’s setting the bar high. She completes all her exercises and follows all the rules. She doesn’t complain, even when the physical therapy is tough for her. But for a woman used to living on her own, living on someone else’s time schedule has been difficult.

Like many seniors, she’s developed her own routine. Dinner’s about 6 p.m. followed by whatever’s on TV or a community meeting. She goes to bed when she’s ready and gets up when her body tells her.
But not in the hospital. She’s on someone else’s schedule where the base structure is marking time and waiting.
In the evenings, we wait for the nurse to come and dispense night-time medication. We can hear the heavy cart beeping as it rolls down the hall and the creak of one of the heavy doors as the nurse enters a patient’s room.

We know the nurse will be in that room for at least 20 minutes, so we chit chat until Mom dozes off or talk about the mindless shows on television that, because there’s no other game in town, hypnotize us.

When the cart stops outside our door, we wait for the nurse to pull up the right chart and come in with the meds, to readjust the dressing on Mom’s knee and perform all the routine blood pressure and temperature checks.

The nurse leaves and Mom is instantly asleep as she’s waited as long as she could wait for the nurse to come and, now that she’s finished, she can finally go to sleep.

Mom will sleep until the next time the nurse comes in to check her vital signs. And then wait for the routine to begin again.

And we’ll wait until it’s time for Mom to go home and she can go back to living on her own time.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald

I looked up at the top of the slide and standing there, his hands on his hips, a bright red cape tied around his neck, was my 2-year-old grandson.

“Who are you?” I called to him as I walked up.

“Superman,” he said, sliding down the slide and jumping up at the bottom, just like the Man of Steel does when he lands.  

James flung his cape behind him and took off, on his way to foil a villain. As he ran across the playground, he kept looking behind him, making sure his cape was flapping in the wind. Every once in a while, he’d stop and pretend to karate chop the bad guys.  

That scene took me back 25 years to when his father ran around with a cape pretending to be Batman or Superman, depending on his mood for the day. I could also picture my youngest brother who did the same when he was a preschooler, terrorizing all the mailboxes up and down our street with his super-human strength.

Children love to pretend they have magical super powers, and when mom ties a cape around their shoulders, they transform into someone with incredible powers to rule the universe.

Or at least the family dog or a much younger brother or sister.

 

Started Early

In our family, the love affair with super heroes started when we were kids. My dad would often stop at the local 7-11 on his way home and pick up comics for all of us. I was an “Archie” comic lover while my brothers preferred “Silver Surfer” or “The Flash.”

At night, we’d pass around the comics and my brothers grudgingly read “Baby Louie” while I came to love their superhero comic books. I didn’t care for the war comic books as they were too gruesome, but I loved the Marvel and DC heroes, especially Wonder Woman with her invisible plane.

When the insecure teenager Peter Parker first appeared as Spiderman, I was hooked. I couldn’t identify with either Batman or Superman as they seemed invincible, even though Batman was still a human and Superman could be foiled by a chunk of green kryptonite.

But Peter Parker was a superhero with acne, no money and no friends. He couldn’t get a girlfriend, everybody hated Spiderman and Parker got pushed around all the time. I couldn’t get enough of those comics and, to this day, I’ll choose Spidey over Superman.

When my boys were growing up, they too loved Spiderman until the X-Men came along. They had every action figure from the series – Gambit, Wolverine, Sabretooth and Beast – and they had constant wars with Batman and Superman.

They also loved dressing up like their favorite superheroes, so we had a variety of capes – a red one they could wear to pretend to be Superman, a black one so they could be Batman and some generic capes they could wear just to be wearing a cape.

They wore those capes everywhere we went. We were like the Justice League in the grocery store when they’d march down the produce aisle, their capes providing them with super-human power against the broccoli and eggplant.

Watching my grandson run around the playground, his imagination providing him with bad guys to fight and foes to overcome, I felt as if I’d stepped back in time. I was so happy he’d inherited his father’s love of playing superhero and glad I was there to watch him protect the world.

After all, isn’t that what all superheroes are supposed to do?

 This column originally appeared in The Fort Bend Herald.

    He died on Memorial Day, fitting as Bert Bauerlin’s service to country during World War II was one of his proudest achievements. But for my family, “Mr. Bert” was our mom’s boyfriend and the second grandfather to my sister’s family.

When my sister and her family moved to Virginia, Bert and Mary Bauerlin were their friendly neighbors. I remember my niece and nephews always talking about Mr. Bauerlin – watching him tinker around in the garage and telling stories – and the love they had for their next-door adopted grandfather was evident.

When Mary passed away, my sister and her family grieved with Bert and, as the years passed, learned to go on. Then one day, Bert noticed the attractive widow visiting next door, and Bert and my mother began talking.

Theirs was a conversation that lasted over 10 years. Every night at precisely 10, my mom’s phone would ring and everything came to an abrupt pause while Mom had her conversation with Bert.

We didn’t mind. In fact, we were reassured that someone was checking on Mom every day. Bert’s children were also reassured their father had someone checking on him every day. 

Bert never missed a holiday – Christmas, Mother’s Day, Mom’s birthday and Valentine’s Day always meant a knock at the door with a beautiful arrangement of fresh-cut flowers. Mom loved talking about Bert, and she actually blushed when we’d tease her about her boyfriend.

Bert kept up with the accomplishments and escapades of the Hebert family, and we kept up with the comings and goings of the Bauerlin family. Mom and Bert’s vacations always included stops at their children’s’ homes, especially when they were on the way to Bert’s favorite getaway – his Navy reunions.

The last one they attended was tinged with sadness as so many of the World War II veterans were passing away. The trips grew harder now that most were in their late 80’s or early 90s.

He also loved coming to Mardi Gras in Louisiana, and that’s the only time I met Bert in person. He was gracious and smiling and knew something about everyone from my mother’s stories.

He especially wanted to thank me for sending him one of my favorite movies, “Searching for Bobby Fisher” because Bert was an avid chess player and he loved the story of father and son bonding over the art of chess.

We were all so grateful Bert had come into my mother’s life and she into his.  They shared the same memories from growing up in the Depression to listening to Patsy Cline’s “Crazy” to muttering about the downhill slide of the American youth.

They needed each other to appreciate the old days and to understand the present ones.

Last year, Bert ended up in an assisted living center to recuperate from an illness. The 88-year-old desperately wanted to go back to living on his own terms where he could watch his black-and-white movies of The Duke and Charles Bronson without interruption.

But his health began to deteriorate, and the sharp, quick-witted and self-sufficient Bert began to grow fainter. For Mom, not getting that 10 p.m. phone call was devastating, but she came to gradually accept that the Bert she knew was, little by little, fading.

And although we grieve that Bert’s no longer here, Mom said he’s passed to the next level and that’s what he wanted.

I shall always think fondly of Bert whenever I look at an American flag, knowing how proud he was to have served his country.

Rest well, Mr. Bert. You’ve earned it.

 This article was published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I’m exasperated if it takes Google longer than 30 seconds to load.

I’m tapping my foot impatiently if I’m in the slow line at the market.

I completely blow a fuse when the driver at the front of the left-turn lane is asleep when the green arrow flashes and I have to sit through an extra light cycle.

So I’m wondering why it is I love to watch baseball games, a sport that moves at its own pace.  Over the past two weeks, I’ve watched a baseball game at Minute Maid Park – where Nolan Ryan walked past me and I didn’t realize it was the great pitcher until he’d rounded the corner – and in Sugar Land to watch the Skeeters play.

In Houston, the Astros tickets were a lot more expensive, and we had to shell out money to park. Both had overpriced drinks and processed cheese nachos, but that 25-minute drive home in Fort Bend County was a lot easier than the 45-minute trek from downtown Houston.

Both parks buzz with activity before the games. At Minute Maid, the outfield was meticulously groomed, and scores of workers raked the infield so that not a footprint was left.

They did the same at Constellation Field although it was hard to keep the field immaculate with so many youngsters on the infield for pictures and awards.

What’s the same at both parks is that all fans want their home team to win. They know the  players’ bios by heart, boo the umpire when there’s a bad call and cheer like mad when a baseball soars into home-run territory.

Both teams love the youngsters. The Skeeters organization honored a variety of youngsters before the game started. Fans were clapping and laughing good naturedly as star-struck 5-year-old Little Leaguers ran from first base over the pitcher’s mound and then across the field to their moms.

At the Astros game, people stood and applauded as a young cancer patient stood on the pitcher’s mound, took his wind up and threw the ball to home plate. Catcher Jason Castro ran the ball back to the young boy and then signed it for him.

I don’t think there was a dry eye in the place when Castro gave that young boy a hug before heading back to the dugout.

When it was time for the first pitch, excitement filled the air, even though the Astros aren’t having that great of a season. That’s because true fans never doubt their team will rally and put runs on the board. And the fans are what make both the Skeeters games and the Astros games so special.

At Minute Maid, we chatted with Julie, a plain-clothed security guard in our section. She said she’d been coming to the ball park for over 10 years, and she never tired of the crack of the bat, the sounds of the crowd cheering when an Astros player smacked a ball out to the Crawford Boxes and of seeing the youngsters clutching their well-oiled mitts to their chests, hoping they’ll catch a foul ball.

They should never stop hoping because when we were at the Astros game, two twins, well into their 70s, were lucky and quick enough to catch a foul ball when it came their way.

The smile on their face could’ve belonged to one of those 5-year olds running the bases at any baseball game in any stadium in the United States.

So I’ll still honk my horn in agitation at the daydreaming driver at the front of the left-turn lane but I’ll sit back in my seat at the ball park and happily sing – “take me out to the ball game.”

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.