Watching children is a fascinating study in how our perception of time changes. When we’re young, there’s no such thing as not enough time. We play until we’re hungry or our parents tell us it’s time to come in, take a bath and go to bed.

There’s no Google calendar going off every 15 minutes reminding us about a report that’s due, a dental appointment or that it’s time to send in the mortgage payment. As we move away from childhood into adulthood, we stay constantly aware of the responsibilities of time.

Exploring the importance of time isn’t anything original on my part. Quotes abound, from Ben Franklin’s “Lost time is never found again” to Professor Michael LeBoeuf’s “Waste your money and you’re only out of money, but waste your time and you’ve lost a part of your life.”

I shall politely disagree with Professor LeBoeuf because his analysis of wasted time doesn’t quite match mine. The first thing that comes to mind when I think about wasting time is sitting around doing nothing.

It’s practically impossible to do nothing any more. We’re busy with work, school or family from dusk to dawn, repeat the rush the next day and bang our heads against the counter when we read articles about how to more efficiently manage time so we can fit in a Pilates class.

Waste time? That doesn’t even come into the equation.

I can, though, recall a couple of hours I spent by a lake this past weekend. I didn’t fold any clothes, dust any furniture nor did I take a productive, brisk walk around the shore.

I simply sat, let my mind drift and, according to the professor, wasted time. But during that wasted time, I solved a couple of problems and found myself thinking about the past.

One particular memory came floating back – an afternoon 20 years ago at some land out in the country my parents once owned.

My father’s been gone 13 years now, and I distinctly remember the day our whole family gathered at their place. My dad always had big plans for that land, and because he changed his mind so often, we usually tuned him out.

That afternoon, though, my brother-in-law, John, had a camcorder and recorded my dad talking about all the things he wanted to do at the land.

We kidded John about wasting time recording Dad’s grandiose plans, wondering how he wasn’t bored stiff. But John was the only one who understood he was preserving my father’s hopes and dreams.

I’d give anything to go back and waste that afternoon listening to my dad talk about what would make him happy. But I’ve lost that opportunity, believing I had better things to do.

Sitting by that lake, I came to a conclusion. I’m going to throw out all the learned advice and try not to hurry through the mundane parts of life.

In those every-day, sometimes boring moments are where we find clarity. A hummingbird darting through the flowers is a reminder that even the smallest of us will survive if we keep going.

A child carefully choosing the right crayon for her masterpiece is a reminder to take our time when creating a work of art because creativity simply cannot be rushed.

An elderly man, standing next to a grove of trees, wearing suspenders and a flannel shirt, isn’t wasting time when he’s talking about his dreams. And, just as importantly, we’re not squandering anything if we stop what we’re doing and simply listen.

Because that’s not wasted time.  

Those moments are salve for our souls.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

As a long-time reader, I’ve always appreciated the power of books and how they can alter the course of our lives. As a youngster, I read every Nancy Drew mystery on the library shelf and was inspired to keep my wits about me at all times.

In high school, I stayed up all night finishing “The Godfather,” and the Corleone family idioms are part of my vocabulary. “It’s time to go to the mattresses” remains one of my favorite phrases.  

I’m also a fan of novels that take the reader through generations, including Taylor Caldwell’s generation-spanning “Captains and the Kings” and Alex Haley’s riveting “Roots.”

Although these gargantuan novels are cautionary tales about what not to do, I’ve come to realize it doesn’t take a book the size of an anvil to affect the way I look at life.

Short, little books are a goldmine. I’m not talking about the greeting card books filled with clichés and flowery statements. I’m talking about slender books that dispense sensible advice and words for living.

William Strunk Jr. and E.B. White’s “The Elements of Style” is only 85 pages, but it’s a must for anyone writing or editing. My copy has bookmarks and pages marked with Post-It-Notes and sits right by my computer.

Two of my favorite little books are gems I’ll pick up whenever I have a few minutes. One is a surprisingly short book from the master, Stephen King, that has nothing to do with vampires or gunslingers.

This book is about how to approach writing. Pay attention to how real people behave and then tell the truth about what you observe, King states, and the scariest moment in writing is just before you start.

Reading those words, I thought they applied not only to writing but also to life. All of us are scared when we start on something new, but the best way to get through that, as King states, is to simply and quietly get started.

That thought brings me to the best short book I’ve ever read, “The Last Lecture” by the late Randy Pausch. More than 5 million copies are in print, and one read through will convince anyone Pausch’s words are a solid-gold blueprint for life.

Pausch was a professor at Carnegie Mellon whose classes were always full. It’s an academic tradition at the university that a professor gave a last lecture before classes dismiss for the year.

When Pausch was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, the school didn’t want to ask the popular professor to give the last lecture.

But Pausch volunteered, and the video on YouTube has been viewed over 16 million times. His follow-up book is a longer explanation of the video, and each chapter reflects a man who sees joy and opportunity around every corner.

Pausch, in fact, claims that people can classify themselves into two categories from the Winnie the Pooh books – we’re either happy and optimistic Tiggers or gloomy pessimistic Eeyores.

Pausch doesn’t write about dying in his book – he talks about how to live life. Live your life the right way, Pausch writes, and your dreams will come to you. Manage your time like money because all of us have a finite amount of both.

I have a green crayon taped to my desk because Pausch says we shouldn’t forget to indulge the creative child inside ourselves. Every time I look at that crayon, I think about Randy Pausch and his little book about life.

And the Tigger inside me giggles for joy.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Growing up in Louisiana, where lands are divided into parishes, county fairs were only for Yankees. When we moved to Fort Bend County, people were excited about the county fair, and we weren’t quite sure what to expect.

Our first step into win-a-goldfish land was when our daredevil boys were tall enough to ride the big rides. Those clanking metal monsters are what I picture when I think of the fair, even though it’s been at least 15 years since I held my breath while my boys rode the Tilt a Wheel.

For some, it’s the smells of cotton candy and fried turkey legs that define the county fair experience. Others can’t wait for the rodeo attractions, the cattle and horses defining the fair for them.

There are some who do nothing but complain – the fair’s too dirty, too commercial and not what they remember.

It’s easy to single out those superficial aspects, but in the process, we forget the enchantment at the Fairgrounds.   

Rising up in the sky from the comfort of a Ferris wheel gondola and seeing the county from high up in the sky is a treat like no other. If we’re lucky enough to pause and sway at the top, we can literally see for miles.

For those who whine about the high calorie and fat count of the funnel cakes, I can’t argue. But I can point to the delicious first taste of a funnel cake, dusted with confectionary sugar as proof that there is a way to bottle satisfaction.  

Some complain about the crowds. It’s easy to overlook happy moms and dads pushing strollers when we’re on the lookout for pickpockets or thieves. It’s also easy to become cynical about the carnival workers, dismissing them as second-class citizens.

We don’t watch them take down all those carnival booths late at night after everyone’s gone home nor do we know what it’s like to live on the road 10 months out of the year. They’re the worker bees in this greased metal hive, and they make sure rides are safe for our families.

Over on a side stage, singers warm up to participate in the fair’s talent contest. There are professional singers on the program, but most folks would rather see someone they know belt out “Crazy” by Patsy Cline.

Away from the midway lights, one can find the exhibit halls. Inside are shelves filled with jars of jellies, pickles and relishes, their creators all hoping to win a coveted blue ribbon. Plants, quilts, paintings, photos and crafts of all kinds are on display, some with ribbons and others boasting coveted rosettes.

Many people miss my favorite part of the fair – exhibits by the youngsters. For the past year, dedicated young people have been nursing and grooming a steer, pig, chicken, cow or lamb.

They brushed the animal’s coat until it glistened like velvet; and at the auction, they stand by while their animal is sold to the highest bidder. They do so with a stiff upper lip because they understand life on a farm and that the money goes to a scholarship fund to help them go to college.

After 30 years, I’ve come to realize the county fair isn’t just a once-a-year event. The preparation goes on year round, from youngsters raising chicks, bands preparing to march in the annual parade and hundreds of committed volunteers working behind the scenes.

Because of them, we can watch our child win a blue ribbon and admire a silvery moon from the top of a Ferris wheel.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

While browsing in an antique shop, I came across a silver typewriter ball used on IBM Selectric typewriter. Back in the 1970s, they became the industry standard, thanks to that revolutionary font ball. They also came up with a great carriage return that stayed inside the typewriter body instead of a typist having to reach up and push a lever to make the roller go back to the left-side margin.

I was taught how to use a Selectric by our company’s head secretary, Betty. She showed me how to change out the “golfball,” and I still remember the thrill I felt when I first typed a memo on the company’s first tan Selectric.

In addition to that nifty type ball, the Selectric had a self-correcting ribbon. If I missed a mistake, Betty made me lightly dab Liquid Paper on the error, blow on the paper until that spot dried and then type over the mistake. She’d always check to make sure I hadn’t globbed on the Liquid Paper so the mistake was almost invisible.

The Selectric was overshadowed when I was asked to be one of the guinea pigs on a new word processing machine made by a rival company.

I didn’t know what a word processor was, but when a huge, sleek machine was wheeled into my office a few weeks later, I was thrilled.

The biggest difference was a screen that showed me what I’d typed and how the page would look before I’d print it out. The words and characters were recorded onto magnetic cassette tapes, much like a VHS tape for movies. Mistakes could be easily corrected in the machine’s memory before printing out a pristine copy.

No more hard returns at the end of the line, a skill Betty refused to learn, and no more Liquid Paper. I remember that smug feeling of thinking I was so smart at the age of 19 because I wasn’t afraid of trying new machines.

 

Technology Moves Fast

But technology moves fast. Pretty soon every secretary had a word processor, and those segued into primitive computers.

Of course these machines took up the entire desk, required floppy 5-inch discs and expensive printing ribbons, but they totally revolutionized how we carried out our business.

When they were rolling in modern personal computers, I was a full-time mom, so I watched the confetti-throwing technology parade march right past me.

When I did go back to the work force, everything had changed. I was in the newspaper business, and beige Macintosh computers were the “in” item to have.

It took a while to get used to the Mac language, but the logical and straight-forward operating system won me over. Finding I could highlight an entire paragraph with three clicks of something called a mouse, underline and bold words and sentences with clicks and drags was absolutely amazing.

 Today, I marvel at my nieces and nephews who can hook their parents’ television to the Internet through an iPad. Even my 5-year-old granddaughter knows how to find songs and games on my cell phone.

While watching my 2-year-old grandson play a pre-school game on the iPad, I thought about Betty. I wondered what she’d think of the technological wonderland we live in today.

She’d probably smile, say the bells and whistles were fine and then ask me to type a decent memo. She’d check my spacing, spelling and grammar. And, last but not least, she’d make me demonstrate my skill with Liquid Paper.

I’d like to see a 19-year-old beat me at that.
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

What is going on in this country?

A monster goes into a movie theater in a quiet Colorado suburb and starts shooting. Twelve people are killed and 70 others are injured while viewing the midnight showing of the new Batman movie.

A deranged individual walks into a quiet elementary school in Sandy Hook, N.J. and, in cold blood and with no known motive or warning, kills 20 beautiful young children and six brave adults.

And now a troubled man opens fire on a U.S. Naval yard in Washington D.C., killing 13 innocents and injuring eight more, people who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

There’s something terribly wrong going on in this country.

 

A History of Bloodshed

In the past, we were sickened and horrified when people were murdered. The 1892 case of Lizzie Borden became a media circus when Borden was accused of killing her father and step-mother with a hatchet. For decades, the Lizzie Borden murder case was considered one of the most gruesome on record.

Then came the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre. Seven people were killed that cold day in 1920 and sent the entire country into shock.

Forty years later, Charles Manson oversaw the killing of actress Sharon Tate and the LaBiancas, and the country was more fascinated with Manson’s diabolical hold over his commune members than the fact that innocent people, including a pregnant Tate, had been viciously tortured and murdered.

 The 1994 O.J. Simpson murder trial captivated an entire nation, but not because we grieved for the victims who were slashed and stabbed. We wanted to see if ex-football and TV star OJ was going to get away with it.

This week, I was in a restaurant when the news came on about the Naval Yard shootings. Most people glanced at the television and then went right back to their beer and nachos.

What in the world is going on when the cold-blooded murder of 13 innocent people in broad daylight registers nothing more than a glance at the television?

Perhaps the never-ending wars around the world and 24/7 coverage of every atrocity on the planet have taken their toll. Perhaps we’ve become anesthetized to violence, especially after Sept. 11, 2001. When those two airliners smashed into the World Trade towers in New York City, the safety bubble we thought reached from “sea to shining sea” was snuffed out.

We blamed that cowardly and vicious attack on terrorists from another country. With Sandy Hook, Aurora and the Naval Ship Yard, the blame lies solely on American monsters masquerading as human beings.

There has to be an answer, we cry. Some say outlaw guns. The retaliation to that is that only outlaws would have guns.

Some say we need better mental health care. I’m not sure there’s a psychiatrist out there who could’ve known these individuals would crack in such a deadly, callous and cruel manner.

As the police continue their investigations, we’ll all play the blame game, trying to figure out what triggered these devastating psychotic behaviors.

A bad home life. Illegal drugs. Unhappiness in the work place. A deep-seated psychotic problem we didn’t see coming or, if we did see that approaching train, we did nothing to stop it out of fear of hurting someone’s feelings or putting our noses into someone else’s business.

When the tears have abated and we start looking for closure, there’s still one simple question that has no answer in sight – what in the world is going on in this country.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

As I was sitting at the railroad crossing, waiting for a slow-crawling train to pass, I found myself slipping into a Walter Mitty mode of thinking.

For those not familiar with James Thurber’s fictitious character, Walter Mitty was a brow-beaten man who daydreamed of daredevil careers – surgeon, pilot and submarine captain.

Mitty came to mind as I listened to the escapades of Israeli super-spy Gabriel Allon, a character in a series of books on tape by Daniel Silva. Listening to Gabriel’s adventures, I found myself wondering what I’d do if I was a secret agent.

At this point, dear reader, you’re probably rolling your eyes, wondering how a middle-aged woman could ever picture herself as an international spy.

It’s easy. In your imagination, you can be anything you want to be.

In the quiet of my car, I’m not worrying about that slowly melting gallon of ice cream in the trunk. Nor am I worried about sideways glances from the truck driver next to me as I pluck my eyebrows.

I’m on a secret mission to Paris, the fate of the free world riding on my shoulders. I’m witty and urbane and thin, and as long as I’m going down this imaginary path, beautiful.

Hey, this is my daydream – get your own if you can’t suspend reality for the next few minutes.

I picture myself carrying super-secret documents in a pocket sewn into the jacket of my designer jacket. No heart-pounding nervousness for me. I am as calm as the sea on a windless day as I wrap my hand around a wad of cash in my pocket, payola for the French border patrol.

Reality hit me about this point as I looked down and realized the grocery list, not a spy document, was in the pocket of my 10-year-old shorts. There wasn’t a designer jacket in sight because it’s 101 outside and I’m sweating like a boxer in the 10th round.

And that wad of cash? Wadded-up Kleenex tissues as my allergies are horrible in the summer.

Sneezing, I return to my daydream where I’m stopping the bad guys, giving deadly karate chops and vicious body slams as I make my way through a gauntlet of thugs. I bribe the French guards, slip down an alleyway and give Gabriel my secret documents.  

Later, Gabriel and I will toast our victory over a late-night dinner of Chateau Briand and bubbling champagne. We’ll talk of past adventures and plan our next move through international espionage.

I’m brought back to reality when the train finally moves through the intersection. I realize there’ll be no champagne that night – left-over Hamburger Helper and falling asleep on the couch in my faded pajamas will have to suffice.

Coming through downtown, I find myself engaging in yet another adventure with one of my all-time favorite detectives, Aloysius Pendergast from the Douglas Preston and Lincoln Child novels.

I’m driving as efficiently and quietly as Special Agent Pendergast. Sure, he’s seamlessly moving in and out of traffic in his 1959 Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith while I’m trying to get around a lumbering red-and-white garbage truck.

While waiting for an opening, an ivory, brand-new Escalade passes me, the driver wearing expensive sunglasses and flawless make-up while talking on her iPhone 5.

I thought how unfair until I realized that, like Walter Mitty, I could be anything I wanted in the confines of my car.

Spy. Femme Fatale. Surgeon.

The sky’s the limit. All it takes is a little bit of imagination.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Whenever I’m having a tough day, I duck into a shoe store and spend the next hour trying on all the size 8 shoes on the clearance rack. I leave after finding the best deal, feeling like the weight of the world is off my shoulders.

So when I saw an article in a magazine about why it’s worth it to buy a pair of $595 basic black pumps, I was intrigued.

These $595 shoes are made by Manolo Blahnik, one of the most respected shoe makers in the world. The pump’s heel comes in a variety of heights and in different materials, including suede and snakeskin.

But $595?

That’s a La-Z-Boy recliner.

The writer called the shoe an investment. Stocks and bonds are investments. Diamonds and real estate are investments. Not shoes. But for the sake of argument, let’s go with their suggestion.

If you buy a $595 pair of shoes and wear them three days a week for one year, they claim, that’s only $4 per wearing. Wear those same shoes for five years, and that brings the price down to 76 cents per wear.

Obviously this writer has never actually talked to a woman who loves shoes.
Rabid shoe-a-holics would never wear the same pair of shoes three times a week for five years.

Women like to change their shoes to match the outfit they’re wearing.

That’s the reason we have 10 different pairs of black shoes. The flat and short-heeled pumps go with our slacks and the tall heels go with a dress. That’s also the reason why we have shoes in a variety of colors, including the same style shoe in ivory, tan and white.

If I bought Manolo Blahnik shoes using that same philosophy, I’m talking an entire living room of La-Z-Boy recliners.

That scenario also assumes I’d pay full price for shoes. Few shoe lovers pay full price because we love bragging about our shoe coups.

“See these sandals? Just $14.95 on the clearance rack,” we’ll whisper to friends.

Some shoppers love the prestige that comes along with paying a lot of money for a pair of shoes. Just like with $140 Jordan sneakers and $169.95 Coach purses, wearing a pair of Manolo Blahnik shoes is supposed to put you in that envious category of someone who can afford expensive shoes.

I’d rather have the La-Z-Boy.

Shoe Psychology

Later in the article, the author tried to sell readers on the shoe’s quality. The Manolo Blahnik BB pumps are made of reflective “speechio” leather, making the shoe scuff resistant.

First of all, what’s “speechio” leather? I think shoe snobs made up that description – a word I can’t find a definition for anywhere – to justify spending $595 on a pair of their shoes.

As I closed the magazine, I realized the writer of this article doesn’t quite understand the psychology behind how women shop for shoes.

They obviously never talked to a woman who stumbles onto a year-end shoe clearance sale. The thrill of finding that kind of sale releases the same feel-good endorphins as landing the biggest catfish of the day or realizing the tickets you won to the Texans game are on the 50-yard line.

Or finding a $100 pair of black pumps on the 75 percent off rack.

That’s worth more than a therapy session and you can walk away in those brand-new pumps with your head held high, knowing you only paid $25 for those babies.

Now that’s worth it.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The three of us were connected through children and activities, and I probably never would’ve met these three wonderful women if it hadn’t been for our willingness to be the carpool driver or the chaperone on a Scouting or church adventure.

Cindy, Diane and Patty didn’t know each other, but I knew them, and they have positively impacted my life. We weren’t what the dictionary would define as close friends, but our paths crossed many times over the past 20 years.

We were usually in a rush, hurrying children in and out of mini-vans, on our way to the next sporting event or after-school activity.

With three boys, Cindy Zerwas and I swapped stories of life in a house of guys, including finding out our boys thought it would be an adventure to jump out of windows onto mattresses on the front lawn.

Patty Bishop has three daughters so our daily routines were quite different – hers was pink bows and music lessons and mine was stinky sneakers and baseball practice.

Diane Uhlig is the mom of three boys, and we swapped stories of living in a wild house where noise and basketballs were constant companions. We also shared the fretting over helping our boys pack for a summer Scouting trip to the Boundary Waters in Minnesota.

I often take those types of seasonal friendships for granted, thinking those quick conversations aren’t memory makers.

But looking back, the friends I saw occasionally added so much to my life because they marked milestones, causing me to realize how quickly time was speeding past.

An encounter in the grocery store with these women put me into fast forward mode, and I’d go back over the past few years into the present tense. I’d find myself going down memory lane, remembering 2-year-old Christopher Uhlig with a sun hat, floaties and a swim ring.

When I heard Danielle Bishop was finishing up college, I couldn’t believe that little girl who played in the church choir with her dad was almost finished with her education. And Cindy Zerwas and I were both grandmothers – hard to believe our rambunctious boys were now mature, grown men.

Reconnecting

Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve caught up with their lives through social media. That’s how I found out Patty’s husband, Mike, recently went through a life-saving kidney transplant after waiting months for a donor.

That’s also how I found out Diane’s husband, Dave, is battling pancreatic cancer and that Diane is a breast cancer survivor.

It’s for Cindy, though, that my heart aches. She lost a valiant battle with brain cancer this week, leaving behind dozens of friends, her children, grandchildren, husband and loved ones.

All three faced the hardships in their lives with a brave face, humor and grace. Looking back on our conversations, I realized that’s the same way they handled being a parent. So it was no surprise that through their writings on Facebook, that was how they and their families faced incredibly difficult obstacles.

When we don’t see friends on a regular basis, their bad news hits us like a stone wall. When we walk away, what’s left are snippets – laughter, the pride in their voices when they talked about their children and the promise to see each other soon.

For Cindy, I no longer can keep that promise. But for Patty and Diane, I can.

As much as I treasure friends I see all the time, it’s the seasonal friends who help us recognize the giant milestones in our lives. They are our memory catchers.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Facebook’s a great place to keep up with friends, find classmates and waste time. Sometimes, though, the social media site allows me to reconnect with friends and acquaintances.

Such was the case when I caught up with Wayne and Theresa Vincent. When we lived in Richmond, we were usually in a hurry. Conversations were often in a parking lot with little time for more than the basics.

Through Facebook, I found that Theresa travels for her job, and her writings are beautifully descriptive of the places she’s visiting. While exchanging travel experiences online, Theresa suggested we get together for dinner.

It wasn’t until I asked for her house address that I realized they’d moved into Houston. Once their children all went off to college, the Vincents fulfilled a long-held dream of Theresa’s to move into the city.

Theresa loves museums, art, plays and the opportunity to walk to the grocery store, and she wanted to take advantage of what Houston has to offer without fighting big-city traffic.
Houston’s eclectic Montrose area is where they chose to set up housekeeping, and, during my visit,

I could understand why.

Montrose is a quiet, quirky part of Houston. Numerous vintage clothing stores and coffee bars line the main streets. Instead of generic store fronts, small shop exteriors are decorated with contemporary art and flowering plants.

I seldom see people walking the shopping areas in suburbia, but here, the sidewalks were filled with teen shoppers, friendly dogs on leashes, and college students sipping on lattes.

Along residential streets, bungalow-style houses reminded me of times when people sat on their front porches and greeted neighbors out for an evening stroll.

Conversation for the Soul

Wayne and Theresa’s Montrose house is on a quiet side street, and they’d renovated and updated the inside of their bungalow while not losing the house’s charm.

Sitting in comfortable couches, we caught up on what our now-grown children were doing, where they were working or going to school and the many changes in our lives over the last 10 years.

Looking at the clock, Theresa and I decided to grab a quick dinner as Wayne was heading off to his neighborhood softball practice.

We stopped at Aladdin’s Mediterranean Grill in the heart of Montrose. At first, I wasn’t too sure about the place as the inside looks like it hasn’t been touched since the 1970s.

With Theresa’s encouragement, I got in the serving line and saw foods I recognized. The servers were knowledgeable, the service was quick and the food was delicious.

Over hummus and freshly baked pita bread, we delved more deeply into the conversation the three of us had started earlier. Like before, we didn’t talk about work or whine about the size of our hips.

We discussed life. Our hopes. Our dreams. What’s important. What’s trivial.

I think the eclectic atmosphere Montrose weaves – art reflects life and quirky is the spicy seasoning in life – allowed us to step away from a surface exchange of information and enjoy a philosophical conversation about what’s important.

We can have a sterile discourse over Facebook, but genuine dialogue is best when breaking bread together and thinking deeply and honestly about what we want out of life.

Sometimes starting that conversation is as simple as remembering that right around the corner, there’s a big, huge world out there.

We just have to be willing to peek over the line.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.