Did I miss something?

Did I blink my eyes and Thanksgiving came and went without my noticing?

I ask these questions because the store shelves are filled with Christmas decorations and gifts. The fall and Thanksgiving decorations are already 50 percent off, and it’s two weeks before turkey day.

We sure are in a hurry.

I understand that feeling as I’ve always been in a hurry. I was that kid who, a week before Christmas Eve, carefully and stealthily unwrapped and rewrapped every present under the tree.

The thoughts “hurry up and grow up” went through my mind a lot. Whenever I’d ride in the front seat of my mom’s car, I’d sit up as tall as I could so other people would think I was a grown up.

My 15^th birthday couldn’t come fast enough because I could get my drivers license. I was the first one in line that day and the happiest person walking out of the DMV office, license in hand.

I couldn’t’ wait to be 18 because I could vote. I remember the grown-up feeling I had standing in the voting booth in Louisiana as the heavy curtains closed behind me. The feeling was even sweeter as it was a presidential election year.

I couldn’t wait to have children and then I couldn’t wait for them to grow up enough to have a conversation with me. I couldn’t wait for them to go off to college and now I have a hard time waiting until the next time I can see them.

I looked forward to turning 55 because most restaurants and stores offered a senior discount. No shame on my part in asking for the reduced rate either.

But the big discounts were still 10 years down the road. Instead of wishing I was old enough for that discount, I should’ve enjoyed having knees that didn’t ache every time I stand up.

When Covid hit, we were in even more of a hurry. We wanted a vaccine, stores to reopen and to go to concerts. We couldn’t wait until we were able to attend a live football or basketball game.

I remember thinking when life opens back up, I’m going to savor every single moment of being with others.

At the beginning of the lifting of restrictions, I did just that. We lingered with friends, made more trips to see family and didn’t mind standing in line talking to a stranger. We’d longed for human companionship and we finally got it.

But it seems we’re back to being in a hurry again, especially where holidays are concerned.

In the middle of June, it was get out of the way, Fourth of July, because Halloween is coming. As soon as the noise of the fireworks died down, store personnel were setting out candy for Halloween.

Halloween night, they were hauling all the plastic skeletons out of the store because Christmas was coming.

Forget Thanksgiving. The countdown has already begun to Christmas and, if I look hard enough, someone somewhere is counting down the days until New Year’s Eve.

We’re missing so much because we’re in a hurry to get to the next event, the next holiday, the next milestone.

I’m going to give thanks every day until Thanksgiving and celebrate all the days in December instead of wishing it was Christmas morning.

Because the day comes and is over, just like every single one before it. All those days we missed what was right in front of us because we were so busy looking ahead.

Not this year.

This old soul has learned the meaning of the word “savor.” That’s exactly what I intend to do.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

Recently, my grandson asked if we had any party favors for his upcoming birthday celebration. I told him to look in a cabinet in the hall. That’s my catch-all place for things that don’t have a home anywhere else.

A few minutes later, he came running back into the kitchen, claiming he’d found all kinds of treasures.

“Show me what you found,” I said smiling.

He held up a plastic bag with three jumbo packages of straws in it.

“Why do you have so many straws?” he asked.

“Well you never know when you might need a straw,” I replied. “Maybe they were on sale and that’s why I bought so many.”

Then he held up a bag filled with empty grocery-store plastic bags.

“Why are you keeping all these plastic bags?” he asked.

“You never know,” I told him. “I might need a bag to put your muddy shoes in it or I might want to put all the mismatched socks in one of those bags.”

“But so many?” he said.

I hung my head in embarrassment. It was time to ‘fess up.

The real reason for the plastic bags was I’d heard stores were going to stop making plastic bags. Shoppers would have to bring their own bags in a move to save money. I wanted to have some in case that prediction became a reality.

A plastic bag stuffed with other plastic bags might’ve been a bit overkill.

The real reason I had all those plastic straws was because I’d heard a doomsday report about plastic straws being phased out. We’d have to use metal straws – how to sanitize those will never be clear to me – or paper ones that fall apart after one sip.

So I stocked up.

Shortage reports always get me and I fall for them every single time. This phobia started when I was a teenager.

I heard a news report that there was going to be a trucker strike and 18-wheelers wouldn’t be rolling across the United States.

There would be shortages in canned foods and household goods. But the only thing I heard was there was going to be a toilet paper shortage.

I begged my mother to stock up on the Charmin. There were seven children in our house. Just thinking about running out of toilet paper was a nightmare scenario.

When she brushed off my panic, I took matters into my own hands. I saved my money and bought a few rolls to keep in my closet.

But the trucker strike didn’t happen and everything was fine. My dad, however, thought my irrational fear about the toilet paper was hysterical. So for Christmas, he gave me a four-roll package of toilet paper.

Whenever there’s a gasoline shortage, or just the threat of one, I immediately fill up my car and never let the tank get below three quarters of a tank. I start looking for a gas station when the tank is half full.

Paranoid? Maybe. But I won’t be the one running on fumes when the gas shortage does happen.

A couple of years ago, I heard there was going to be a shortage of chocolate close to Halloween. I think there’s still a few Hershey’s candy bars somewhere in that closet along with the drinking straws and plastic bags.

There are times I didn’t panic.

I did not stock up on toilet paper during Covid.

I also did not hoard hand sanitizer.

I didn’t stockpile bottled water this summer because I heard Sprite was going to stop making the green cans, so I bought a few cases of those.

You never know – those cans could be worth money someday.

So could those straws and plastic bags.

Who’s laughing now?

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

When I was young, I thought a monster lived in my closet and an alligator lived under my bed.

At night, I’d stand in the door, take a deep breath and run to the bed, making the last step in one giant leap.

All I could imagine was a hungry gator lurking underneath my bed, jaws open, ready to snag my foot if it hung out over the mattress. An arm would be just as tasty, I’d think, so all arms, legs and feet had to be tucked inside the sheet before I could go to sleep.

I outgrew that fear, but there’s no shortage of things to be afraid of these days, especially as an adult.

A new one for me is the fear of microplastic particles. These are small pieces of plastic we eat without knowing it.

These particles can be found in seafood, the air and in drinking water. If you heat your food in plastic in the microwave, they claim you can accidentally ingest microplastics. They say they’re not dangerous, but the seed of fear has already been planted.

This latest news announcement adds to the other claims of doom, destruction and catastrophes we hear about almost every day.

Some of these are real – Covid showed us we needed to pay attention to germs and wash our hands. Flu season sidelines most of us from time to time, and hurricanes and tornadoes are nothing to ignore.

My car beeps if I’m too close to the center line, the side line or any line. It beeps if someone is walking behind my car or another vehicle is behind me.

While I appreciate these warnings, some fears have been blown up to boost TV ratings and get people to click on their internet articles.

Shark attacks are one of these hyped-up fears.

Sharks have always been in the waters. After all, they date back to the prehistoric times. But if you listen to news stories, sharks are trolling the shores every minute of every day, their teeth ready to rip your legs from your body.

There’s a murderer on every street corner. Thieves are lined up at mall parking lots to follow you home so they can rob you in your driveway. Every rain storm could potentially become a named storm and destroy everything in its path.

Many of us have a fear of bugs, spiders and other crawly things.

Those aren’t just bees in your yard – they’re killer bees.

Those wooly caterpillars you see are a step away from the Monster from the Black Lagoon.

Any snake is a deadly one.

Okay, that one might be true.

There are the big real dangers out there – being in an automobile accident, a plane crash or even falling in your home when you went to reach for that bottle of ketchup on the top shelf of the pantry.

Yet I was able to move past all these dangers when I came across an article that reading fiction books is dangerous. Yes, reading – sitting in a chair with a Kindle or book in front of you is dangerous.

Books can trigger emotional problems, like a book about a cheating spouse can cause someone who’s been cheated on to head down a spiral.

I’ll admit that reading a Stephen King novel about a rabid dog, vampires or serial killers gives me the heebie jeebies, but in a good way.

Reading isn’t unsafe unless one considers opening the brain to new thoughts dangerous.

As in most things, a lot of these fears are groundless.

There’s no alligator under my bed. Not enough water and not enough room.

There’s no monster in my closet. She wouldn’t have enough room because of all the boxes and shoes I’ve got shoved in there.

Our dog is an excellent snake hunter, so I don’t have to worry about a snake sneaking up on me.

But just in case, I will keep my eyes peeled for anything slithering near my back door.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Twenty-five years ago, Thursday, Oct. 2, 1997 to be exact, this newspaper published my first column.

It began with “I’m somebody’s daughter, somebody’s sister, somebody’s mother.” Those descriptions haven’t changed.

Devoni Wardlow had the Thursday space, but she was moving on to a new chapter in her life. She encouraged me to apply for the job, and I submitted three columns. Managing editor Bob Haenel said I had the job.

The first few weeks were spent finding my groove. I wrote about my oldest son giving advice to his younger brother at his first dance – always act cool, keep asking girls to dance and have confidence.

For years, I wrote about the letters to Santa we published each December. I still remember the strangest advice a young girl gave to St. Nick – “Don’t drink the milk. I spit in it.”

The people I crossed paths with often made it into my column – Kit who worked in his family restaurant in West Virginia and mesmerized our sons with stories of the mountains. Rosie who has cut my hair for 30 years and would never use Aqua Net on my hair despite my writing she did.

Because I’m the biggest klutz around, I wrote about my missteps, embarrassing moments and cringe-worthy incidents. There was no shortage of those.

My youngest sons were in elementary school when I started, and my eldest was in junior high. Those boys provided me with more examples of failed motherhood than I could’ve possibly hoped for.

There were times when I didn’t think I had anything to say, and many of you would probably agree I should’ve taken a sabbatical that week. But I am proud to say I never missed occupying this space for the past quarter century.

I wouldn’t have that opportunity if it wasn’t for the owners and editors of Hartman Newspapers, and I thank you for sticking with me all these years. My husband and family faithfully read what I write and know when the computer keys are clacking, mom’s working.

I owe a huge debt of gratitude to former editor Bob Haenel. He pulled me out of the pit of despair more than once and believed in me when I didn’t. We all have heroes in our lives – Bob is mine.

I’m not well versed in politics, so I leave those column inches to those who are smarter than I am. My goal has always been to connect with other people, and humor is my favorite entry point.

But my favorite columns ae about the people in this community.

Because of them, I always have a feeling of sincere gratitude. The people who’ve overcome incredible obstacles keep me going. Whenever I want to give up, I think of how they didn’t stop.

Neither should I.

Their voices and stories play in my head all the time, and I’m thankful they allowed me to write about them. Trusting someone to tell your story correctly takes courage.

Mostly, I owe you, the reader, for taking time to read what I’ve written. Without you, there would be no reason to type out these words.

You’ve been with me as I did my best to take three boys from rambunctious toddlers to capable, grown men.

You’ve been with me as I navigated the waters of becoming a grandmother, teacher, and now retiree. The time has flown, but I’m so glad I had you as company along this fun and unpredictable ride called life.

I’m still somebody’s daughter, somebody’s sister and somebody’s mother. I’m also somebody’s wife, grandmother, aunt, cousin, friend, neighbor, and co-worker.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

There’s a new library being built out in Fulshear. I see the construction as I pass by the site, and I know it’s going to be quite grand.

I’ll miss our small little library where we know the librarians by name, they know our children, and the perfect book is never more than 25 feet away.

Libraries hold a special fascination for me. Not big, impressive buildings, but the cozy places, the one-room libraries. They’re slowly being replaced by bigger, sleeker and more modern libraries.

They have their appeal for sure, but my childhood memories of the library were created years ago. It’s what I picture when I think about the perfect place to curl up with a book.

The main library in my hometown was built in 1909, and I rode my bike there at least once a week, my yellow cardboard library card with the metal plate in the middle tucked in my pocket.

The only area I was allowed to visit was a small section on the first floor, but that didn’t matter. All the treasures I wanted were there.

When we moved to Louisiana, the Baker Public Library was a small, two-story building with the library on the first floor and meeting rooms on the second.

I felt important because I knew the Dewey Decimal System and how to look up books and magazine articles.

The librarian was an elderly lady, just like the stereotype one sees in movies. She had silver hair and reading glasses that hung around her neck, suspended by a silver chain.

I thought she lived at the library because, if given the choice, I’d probably choose the same.

In high school, I remember sitting at a library desk, an encyclopedia open in front of me, while I painstakingly copied down information for a book report.

All of us were careful to give the correct attribution because to not state where you got your information would result in a failing grade.

Two things I love about libraries are how they smell and sound. There’s a musty smell mixed with printer’s ink, glue that binds the books together, and the rich smell of the wooden shelves.

Today’s modern libraries have electronic books and metal shelves. They might be cheaper, but they don’t have the same feel of a bound book or the smell from the dozens of wooden shelves in the library.

Footsteps often echoed in the library because there wasn’t any carpet, just linoleum. I remember hearing the librarian’s thump, thump as she’d stamp books being checked out.

There was a card in the back of the books. She’d take out the card, stamp it and the card glued to the inside back cover of the book so you’d know the due date.

If the book came from the adult section – we all tried sneaking those in with our Hardy boys’ books – the librarian would pull it out, cluck her tongue and the book was returned to the adult part of the library.

Most times, she’d recommend books for us to read, based on what we were checking out. That’s how I discovered mystery writers like Phyllis Whitney and, as a teen, the master of all storytelling Stephen King.

Books that aren’t checked out for a while are often sold to help generate funds for the library. I’ve picked up quite a few gems over the years, and I always wonder how a particularly well-written book could go unnoticed for so long.

Then I smile, feeling like a pirate who discovered a long-lost treasure.

Whenever we go on vacation, I always find the town’s library and stop in. Most have a “Friends of the Library” sale, and I can usually pick up a paperback novel or magazine to read.

There’s no stopping progress, and I’ll be a frequent visitor when this new library is open for business. Until then, I’ll be content with the coziness of our neighborhood library.

If you haven’t visited yours lately, stop in. Browse the bookshelves, ask a librarian for a recommendation and see if there’s a book sale going on.

You never know what treasures you might find.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

In my hometown, schools were named after a saint or a city. Here in Texas, schools are named after people who’ve positively contributed to the educational system.

The history behind the names of some of the older schools in our area is a rich and diverse one. Some are named for those who enhanced the community outside a classroom.

One is named after Taylor Ray who was instrumental in establishing a school district in the late 1800s.

Manford Williams was determined to improve education when he saw the system needed assistance. He helped form the Lamar CISD and served for 26 years on the school board.

Campbell Elementary was the first school named after an educator, Bess Campbell. People still talk about the positive influence she had on their lives.

Cora Thomas was born and reared in Fort Bend County and taught for 38 years. Irma Dru Hutchison helped open Lamar Consolidated High School and taught for over 30 years.

I feel honored to have met some of the people who have schools named after them. Adolphus Elementary is named in honor of the late judge Jim Adolphus who was always a supporter of the educational system.

Culver Elementary is named after another judge, Thomas Culver, who supported the law, education and his family. I took a group of Cub Scouts to visit his classroom one afternoon, and he called out a friendly greeting to me and the Scouts from the bench.

Lindsay Elementary is named after the late Kathleen Lindsay. Although she wasn’t an educator, she was a pioneer in all aspects. She was one of only three women in her graduating class from the University of Texas’ law school in 1939.

She helped open Richmond State School and was instrumental in starting the Fort Bend County Library system, an idea of the Share-a-Book Club. They started with a bookmobile, and now there are 12 branches celebrating the system’s 75^th birthday.

In life, Mrs. Lindsay was the definition of grace and culture, and spending time with her was always a pleasure.

Such is the case with one of the newest elementary schools in Lamar CISD, Phelan Elementary.

Maxine Phelan is an educator who taught at Lamar CHS for many years. When I first came to this area, I was told she, Mike Cooper and Richard McDaniel were the epitome of excellence. Having met Mike and Maxine, those accolades are well deserved.

Maxine and I have become friends, and I know first-hand why her former students and colleagues respect and admire her.

The first few years of teaching were rough for me, but Maxine constantly told me to stay the course and showed me how to reach students in a positive way. That encouraging nature is evident in every aspect of her life, from school to church to family.

She is generous and kindhearted yet she knows when it’s time to get tough. Teachers not only have to teach the curriculum, but they’re often a coach, counselor or referee.

They’re supposed to have all the answers for parents, the community and their administrators.

That’s an almost impossible request because they’re dealing with human beings. Little ones who cry, laugh, act out and bring all their emotions with them to a safe place – a teacher’s classroom.

The positive impact teachers have on a student, a school and a community lasts a lifetime.

Just ask any student who was fortunate enough to have a seat in Ms. Phelan’s classroom.

To all the Knights at Phelan Elementary, know the original knight in shining armor is about 5 feet tall, has a razor-sharp mind and a generous heart.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Not yet.

That thought kept running through my mind as I watched our 15-year-old dog yelping in pain, unable to move.

She came to us as a temporary dog. One rainy night, our son and his family heard a sound outside their home. They looked and found a puppy struggling in the ditch, close to drowning.

They rescued and took care of her until she was about 8 months old. An opportunity to go to school out of state meant they’d have to give their dog away. They tried to find a home for Channell, but in the end, I told them I’d keep her until they got back.

I’ll admit, I’m not a pet person. I used to tell my boys they could have a picture of a goldfish for a pet, but eventually, they wore me down.

I told my husband I’d take care of the dog, but she won him over in a matter of days.

It wasn’t hard because Channell is a great dog.

She doesn’t jump up on the furniture, has never torn anything up and only barks if someone’s at the door.

When the grandchildren were young, she never bit or nipped at them as they often pulled on her tail or ears. She whines if my husband – her alpha mate – leaves without her, and he enjoys taking her places with him.

We know she’s getting older – she sleeps a good bit of the time and she lost her hearing a year or so ago.

When she gets up, she slowly stretches each leg out before tentatively moving forward. We don’t notice her aging because it’s been gradual over the past couple of years.

Two weeks ago, I noticed she wasn’t eating and had a few accidents inside, a rarity for her. I took her to the vet who diagnosed a bladder infection.

After a few days on an antibiotic, Channell rebounded, so my husband took her out to the country where she loves to run and play, even at her age.

He came home with Channell in a sling, the whimpering dog unable to walk or move. We think she fell but we’re not exactly sure what happened.

An X-ray showed no broken bones, but she has arthritis all down her back and it’s a wonder she’s as agile as she normally is.

The night after her injury, I kept getting up to check on her. The only parts of her that moved were a slight wagging of her tail and her big brown eyes looking at me, almost questioning what was happening.

I had no answers, but I touched the top of her head – the one place where she didn’t yelp when touched there – and told her what a good dog she was and how much we loved her.

Even though she couldn’t hear me, the words comforted me, and I hope she somehow could sense my caring and sorrow that she was in so much pain.

When I left to go to my mom’s birthday party in Louisiana, I quietly told my husband I supported whatever decision he might have to make about her future, and I was sorry if he had to make the hard one all alone.

But the next day, the old gal was actually moving around. She wasn’t running but she did manage to walk to the door and go outside. By the time I got home, she was almost back to her old self, and I thanked God for helping her recover.

Channell’s an important part of our family. When the time comes for her to cross the Rainbow Bridge, I hope we’re with her in those last moments so we can give her the caring goodbye she deserves.

But not yet.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Our mom is turning 90 years young next week.

Mom says she doesn’t feel 90, and she has the outlook of someone half her age.

As a front-row bystander to her life for many of those years, I have a few insights as to how Mom’s retained a young attitude.

#1:  She doesn’t see herself as old. By society’s measuring stick, she’s definitely a senior citizen, but she doesn’t accept that verdict. Recently, she went on a senior citizen’s trip to a casino in Baton Rouge.

When I asked how it went, she said the trip wasn’t any fun.

“All those old people slowed me down,” she said. When I reminded her that she was the same age as those she was complaining about, she sniffed and said “I’m a young 90, not an old one.”

#2:  She listens to her own voice. When there were hurricane warnings last year, Mom got in her car and drove around. She wanted to see what was going on out there.

My brother said the governor ordered everyone to stay home. Her answer was simple:  “Well, he didn’t tell me.”

#3:  She has deep beliefs. When we were kids, Sunday Mass was a requirement, not a choice. Even though she was probably tired and would’ve liked to relax on a Sunday morning, she made sure all seven of us were dressed, out the door and sitting on the front row.

#4:  She has a great sense of humor. My brother came to visit her and she asked if he was hungry. He said he wasn’t, but she said she could fix him a sandwich.

He declined. She offered leftovers. He declined. When he was leaving, she stood at the door with a paper bag, rattled it and said “We have pears!” We teased her unmercifully for weeks about being a food pusher.

Instead of getting mad, she gave all of us a plate with a pear picture on it for Christmas so we’d always have pears.

#5:  She’s not a great driver, but that doesn’t stop her. Even at the age of 89, she still gets out and drives herself around town. But not without minor incidents she tries to keep a secret.

She keeps asking my brother for bumper stickers advertising his Catholic radio station.

We thought she was helping promote the station.

Nope. She uses the bumper stickers to cover up the dents on her car, much like one would put a bandage over a scrape.

#6:  She loves the casino. When I asked her why she plays the slot machines when she shops thrift stores, she said: “Don’t think of those quarters as real money, and you’ll have a lot of fun.”

#7:  She knows every one of her children and grandchildren personally. She remembers our friends from elementary and high school and she knows who we hang out with as adults.

She knows what sports and activities her grandchildren play and enthusiastically supports them in whatever they choose to do, from soccer to baseball to playing an instrument.

#8:  She knows what to remember and what to forget. As a natural snoop, I grow frustrated when she can’t remember some of the family gossip that rears its head from time to time.

She told me it’s more important to know what to forget.

#9:  She’s loyal. Whether it’s a claim to fame at having watched “The Young and the Restless” for over 40 years to still being a top fan of Elizabeth Taylor and Sean Connery, if Mom thinks you’re great, you’re that way for life.

#10:  She gives great advice. She knows when to dry tears and when to say that’s enough.      Her advice is exactly what you need to hear at that exact moment, even if it stings a bit to hear the words.

Happy 90^th Mom. You are loved even more than you can guess. May the casino chips fall in your favor, and let’s hope there’s a 007 movie marathon on your special day.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Sydney’s eyes slowly opened. Her classmates were standing up, pulling on backpacks and stretching. Class must’ve ended, but she’d been asleep. That late-night job at Popeye’s was getting to her.

She popped a piece of gum in her mouth and slowly made her way out of the classroom. At the door, she once again noticed the now-faded sign Mr. Thompson had posted on the wall – “Stay on the path.”

What the heck did Thompson know about a path. She looked at the teacher – he was at his desk, his bifocals balanced on the end of his nose, as he frowned at the laptop screen.

They’d all heard about Thompson’s frustrations – he was secretly a rock star. Many times, they heard him brag about the gigs – did anybody really use that word anymore? – he’d snagged at some of the bars downtown.

But here he was, day after day, year after year, slaving away at teaching freshmen literature.  She had no interest in Jay Gatsby or Daisy Buchanan. She had even less interest in Shakespeare.

“Follow your dreams,” Thompson would tell them. “Stay on the path, get a good college education and don’t forget to register to vote.”

What kind of mediocre dream was that Sidney would wonder. Not hers, that was for darned sure.

She yawned, melded into the crowd, and made her way to gym class. For the first time, Sydney wondered if anybody else questioned the sugary goop pedaled by teachers.

“Don’t follow the path. Blaze the trail,” was a poster on the wall in the gym. That was a direct contradiction to what Thompson had posted, but the gym teacher was certainly different than the rock star.

Ms. Booker was young, and rumor had it she’d been courted by the WNBA. For some reason, nobody really knew, Booker had finished her college basketball career and returned home to take a teaching and coaching job at Southmore High School.

Booker sure hadn’t blazed any trails. She’d followed the path and it landed her in this back-woods town in a dead-end job.

Sydney yawned again. She hated her job at the grease pit, even more so because she closed up at night. It wasn’t that Sydney was a go-getter – the late-night shift manager made more money, and Sydney had to hand her paycheck over to her mother.

That woman had followed a path all right. The same one her mother and grandmother had followed – get pregnant young, drop out of school, take a job making minimum wage and spend your later years with yellow teeth and nicotine-stained fingers, complaining about the landlord.

“Do better in life, Sydney,” her mother would tell her in a tired voice as she laid on the couch, surrounded by cigarette smoke.

Sydney pushed the image from her head and wondered if she could escape dressing out today. Maybe she could claim she was sick, or she’d pulled a calf muscle. But before she could approach the coach, Booker blew her whistle.

“Don’t even come up here and tell me you’re too sick to participate today,” she yelled. “Unless you’re bleeding from the ears or nose, you’re dressing out.”

So much for weaseling out of gym class, Sydney thought.

She dressed out in her smelly gym clothes, not caring that she smelled like day-old fried chicken. As she stood with her classmates, noticing with smug satisfaction that nobody stood too close to her, Booker began to talk.

“Today, we’re going to talk about motivation before I make you run laps around the court,” she said, holding a basketball under her right arm.

“My college coach had a saying – sometimes the right path is not the easiest,” she said. “That’s definitely true in here. Sydney, stop that yawning and spit out that gum.”

Sydney swallowed her gum, not caring if it rotted in her stomach for the next 75 years as her best friend had told her numerous times.

“But sometimes, the right path is the easiest one,” Booker said. “And today, the right path is running around this court twice and then taking a seat on the bleachers.”

She blew the whistle and indicated the girls should start running. Sydney didn’t mind the warm-up. Running was something she enjoyed. She had a course she followed in the evenings – around her block, cross the street to the abandoned house, down the sidewalk, being careful to avoid broken concrete and the barking pit bull, and then around the corner for the last leg home.

The mindless running allowed her time to think, time to sort out where she wanted her life to go. That’s the mindset she adopted as she ran around the basketball court, past the nicked-up bleachers, past the rack of basketballs and past the girls who brought doctor’s excuses and got out of running.

Sydney wondered if those girls had a path already forged for them. Excuses after excuses to get out of doing what needed to be done. Her mother certainly had her fair share of excuses – she couldn’t ask for a raise because she was afraid of her boss. She couldn’t look for a different job with better pay because she didn’t think she had the skills to get a better job.

She was on that same path she’d always been on, and she’d passed the same markers, the same rejections and put downs she’d always heard. Familiarity was comforting if not exciting.

Sydney had decided a long time ago that wouldn’t be her lot in life, but as she turned the last corner for her laps, she realized something. In her four years at this god-forsaken high school, for the hundredth time she’d seen that stupid sign, she hadn’t blazed anything. She wasn’t an honor student; she wasn’t the fastest runner and she wasn’t filled with creative ideas.

She was a plodder, somebody who followed the path that others had laid out years before. What if she made a change, she thought. What if she decided to take the road less traveled – she’d heard something about that in freshman literature class.

Without thinking, when Sydney turned that last corner, instead of heading to the bleachers, she kept running out the door, into the hall.

“Robinson, come back here,” she heard coach Booker yell. But Sydney wasn’t listening. She was on a different path, not the same one she’d been on for the past 16 years.

She wondered how far she could run before she either ran out of gas or the security guard caught up to her on the golf cart.

Only one way to find out, Sydney thought. Keep running on a different path, starting right now.

And so, she ran.

 

We all have chores we secretly enjoy. Mowing the grass is a couple of hours where we don’t have to answer our cell phones or talk to anybody else.

I don’t mind washing my car. For an hours’ worth of work, I can get in a clean car, both inside and out, until it rains again. Thanks to the drought, that clean feeling lasted weeks.

There is one chore, however, I despise. I’ll put this one off until I can’t avoid the task any longer. The job? Cleaning out the refrigerator.

My husband went on a trip for a couple of days, so I took the opportunity to clean out the fridge.

A big job requires preparation. First, put on loud music. I found a YouTube channel with hits from the 1970s and Elton John got me in the right frame of mind.

Elton and Susie were hopping and bopping to the Crocodile Rock. I was hopping and bopping to wilted lettuce and shriveled grapes.

The next step was get an empty trash bag. Check.

Next, fill the sink with hot, soapy water.

And, last, take everything out of the refrigerator and stack the bottles and cartons on the kitchen counter.

Check.

During the pandemic, I watched more cleaning videos than I care to count. I know how to shampoo a rug and that dryer sheets can remove hard-water spots from shower doors.

Thanks to the organization videos I watched, our refrigerator is filled with small baskets.

One holds packets of cheese, one has packets of pepperoni as the grandkids love making their own pizzas and one has all the little things that don’t fit in the other baskets.

Then I took inventory. The milk had expired three days ago – that went down the drain as did the yogurt containers from 2020.

There was a bag with leftover chicken. I think I baked that, what, two weeks ago? I learned a long time ago to never open the Zip-Loc bag when the food’s been hiding in the back of the fridge for a while.

Oh, here’s that small bag of ground meat.  I might’ve been wearing a sweater when I first browned that ground meat, so in the trash it went.

Once everything was out and sorted, it was time to clean the shelves. That’s where the hot, soapy water comes into play.

I remembered seeing organizers tell viewers to take the shelves out, but that was too much work, and Elton had already sung “Honky Cat,” “Tiny Dancer” and “Rocket Man.”

I used a dishcloth and wiped the shelves clean.

Hey, I wasn’t getting graded on the cleanliness of the fridge, so spot cleaning was good enough for me.

An hour later, I was finished. The trash bag was full, all the bottles and cartons were back in the fridge and the soapy water was cold.

Goodbye, unpleasant chore. We’ll meet again right before Thanksgiving when I’ll need room for a frozen turkey to defrost.

As I patted myself on the back for a job well done, Elton was singing “I’m Still Standing.” And guess what, Elton? So was I.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.