A year ago, on my 66^th birthday, I flippantly said I had a goal. I was going to visit Route 66 the year I was 66 and take a selfie with a Route 66 sign.

A bit of history – Route 66 was the main road between California and Chicago and is nicknamed “The Mother Road.” During the Depression and the Dust Bowl, Route 66 was flooded with people heading west with dreams of a better life.

After the economy improved, people wanted to sightsee, and Route 66 was the best way to tour a good bit of the country. A 1946 song by Bobby Troup made the road even more popular because people wanted to “get their kicks on Route 66.”

When interstates became the fastest way to travel, the popularity of Route 66 faded. But people had fond memories of the old road.

Folks did their best to preserve some of the iconic Mother Road signs and gas stations, and tacky souvenir shops are now popular tourist attractions.

My off-hand comment became something friends and family would ask about. Every month, I’d remind myself to make good on that promise.

Covid put a damper on most of the year, as did commitments that popped up. The promise to myself took a back seat to everything else.

I told myself standing on Route 66 and taking a selfie was a silly thing, a trip just to say I did it. Then I’d think about the travel expenses and time away from home, and the thought became a whisper.

A few weeks ago, my grandson drew a beautiful, geometric-inspired picture with an armadillo in the middle. He included a variety of icons, but there was one that jumped out – an interstate sign with the name “Route 66.” He’d remembered, and there was no way I’d disappoint that darling.

Logging onto Google Maps, the closest place to visit Route 66 was Oklahoma City, 450 miles from my front door.

A couple of weeks later, I packed up the car and headed north. My nephew, Jarrod, lives around Dallas so we made plans for lunch in downtown Denton. My next stop was the welcome station in Oklahoma where I took a picture on my phone and texted it to the grandkids.

Later in the day, I found a hotel and then headed off to the Round Barn, an iconic stop on Route 66. The barn was closed, but there was a Route 66 sign on the premises, and I took a selfie there, fulfilling a promise I’d made almost a year ago.

I don’t break promises to other people, but broken promises litter my path like pieces of confetti. I’ll lose weight, take that fitness class, clean out that cabinet, write more letters

But when my grandson believed I’d make the trip, there was no way I’d back out. I’ll admit, after I took that selfie with the Route 66 sign, I held my head a little higher.

Instead of coming straight home on the interstate, I headed east and visited a Route 66 museum in Chandler, Okla. A knowledgeable volunteer told me the history of the museum and pointed out some of the iconic sights people saw along Route 66 back when The Mother Road was popular.

The first thing I’m going to do when I get home is give my grandson the T-shirt I bought for him with Route 66 printed on the front. I want him to know his encouragement motivated me to keep my promise and get my kicks on Route 66.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

My fear of heights is irrational.

But it’s real.

My phobia started on a trip to California. We were traveling along Pacific Highway, a breathtaking highway. The road hugs the coastline and can be breathtaking.

However, our friend, who was driving the car, was speeding. We’d come around a curve and it seemed there was six inches between our tires and the drop off into the ocean. It was so scary, I laid down on the floor in the back seat with my eyes closed.

The next time was when I was visiting my son in Taiwan. He planned a trip up a mountain to visit a spa and see the countryside from up high.

The road to the spa was curvy and winding and straight up. I spent our lunch break with a hot towel on my head. I slept on the way down, refusing to face that part of the trip.

A trip to Colorado a couple of years ago should’ve been gorgeous, especially a planned leg from Durango to Telluride. There’s twists and turns, steep climbs and stomach-dropping descents.

I thought I could make it, but half way there, my brother took pity on me and we turned around.

Last year, we decided to take a coming-out-of-Covid trip, and I chose Arizona. All the pictures show deserts so I figured we’d be horizontal the whole time.

I was wrong.

The view out of Phoenix was flat and calm, but didn’t last long. We were headed to a quaint town, Prescott, and we had to climb 5,367 feet to get there.

Google Maps doesn’t tell you that extremely important piece of information when you’re plotting a trip.

We couldn’t see around the curves, and when we did, it was a petrifying view of either plunging straight down or climbing up a steep road, engine straining, with the knowledge that what goes up must come down.

Perhaps watching videos of people driving on mountain roads would be reassuring, I thought. After all, they got home safe and sound.

My fears intensified after watching these drivers weave back and forth, avoiding the “falling rocks” and “dangerous gorge” signs along the way.

Maybe it was just me who was scared on that Phoenix to Prescott road. So I watched a video of a family driving the same trip.

When they arrived in Prescott, their little girl looked like she’d been on the losing end of an encounter with a vampire – her eyes gaunt, her face white, her mouth hanging open.

“She has a stomach ache,” her mother said to the camera.

“She had a terrifying experience,” I yelled at my computer screen.

The next trip I planned was to Boston because it’s 19 feet above sea level.

I checked.

On a recent phone call with my eldest son, we talked about my acrophobia.

“What are you scared of?” my son asked. “That you’re going to fall off the road?

“Yes,” I said. “There’s a reason roads are nicknamed ‘Highway of Death’ and ‘Death Road.’”

“You’re in a car that weighs 2,000 pounds. You’re not going to fall off a road going 30 miles an hour. When’s the last time you heard of an accident like that?”

“Today. Some people had a Jeep roll down the mountain right in front of them,” I said triumphantly.

He had no answer for that. I didn’t tell him they were on a rocky mountain road in a vehicle built for mountain travel. I wouldn’t get off the interstate for all the chocolate in the world.

Before we take another trip, I’m going to see if I can find a hypnotists who can ease my fear of heights.

If they can convince someone to squawk like a chicken, they just might be able to help me relax the next time I plan a trip more than 20 feet above sea level.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

I’d been seeing the invitation in my email for a few weeks. A good friend was retiring from teaching and coaching after over 30 years in the trenches.

Scott was an outstanding educator and coach, and was one of the first friends I made when I became a teacher.

He and his wife, Lisa, have a fun food blog, Eats with the Moody’s.

A few years ago, I interviewed them about their travels around the state. Their fun and down-home reviews featured out-of-the-way places where good food was plentiful and the prices low.

Like so many of the people I interviewed, we became friends. Our friendship has survived Scott transferring to a different school, moves and my retirement from teaching.

Scott was a principal his last couple of years in education, and he included me on his pep-talk emails every day. That’s the way Scott is – always encouraging, always smiling.

His retirement party wouldn’t be a formal, fancy affair – it was barbecue and beer in West Columbia, a little over an hour from my house.

I wanted to go, but I dreaded getting out. Although Texas has opened up after the pandemic, Covid reluctance was still dominating my life. I skipped a lot of functions over the past two years, blaming the virus.

The truth is – I’m out of practice going to parties. I’d think about having to get dressed up – not something I look forward to, thanks to the extra pounds Covid hibernation has caused – and choose to stay home.

I had a lot of excuses, and I was on the fence up until the day of the party.

Scott deserved to have friends show up. He spread such joy and laughter to so many of us over the years, and the reasons I wouldn’t go sounded lame, even to me.

All of us have missed so much over the past couple of years. There’s been so many friendships I’ve let wither, so many I’ve neglected. At first, that neglect was because of Covid but then the isolation became a way of life.

Saturday morning, I thought about staying home, watching a movie, and then going to bed early.

Safe.

Quiet.

But that’s not what living’s all about. So I picked up my car keys and purse and made the long drive down to the outdoor barbecue venue.

Scott and Lisa chose the perfect place for his party – casual and relaxed with a live musician on the stage singing country and western songs.

I parked next to Terry High alums Alan and Judy, and we hugged and traded stories about our grandchildren on our walk from the lot.

I saw so many familiar faces, people I hadn’t seen in years. Scott was talking with Vera, my first principal and one of my best friends. She literally saved me my first year, and her advice guided me so many times.

Johni and Steve were there, also from Terry High. Johni was one of the most respected English teachers on campus, and she was just as nice and friendly as the last day I saw her.

We’d all aged a bit, but the bonds between us were still there. I watched as Scott and Lisa made sure everyone had brisket, and the love between them was heartwarming.

I looked around at the people there, all gathered because of the love they had for Scott. People were talking in groups and pairs while others were jamming to the music.

They were enjoying being with other people, and I know I wasn’t the only one soaking up physically being around friends.

I’m finished turning down invitations and opportunities to celebrate life. Our time here is too short and too fleeting.

I think I’ll go back and read “Eats with the Moodys” and find some great barbecue joints for my husband and me to experience. Scott and Lisa reminded all of us that it’s time to get livin’ again.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Top Morning Headlines

Tuesday, May 24, 2022

The war in Ukraine continues

The coronavirus is still around

Johnny Depp trial

Uvalde massacre at 1:27 p.m.

 

Top Morning Headlines

Wednesday, May 25, 2022

One day after Uvalde massacre

Deadly shooting in Uvalde

Calls for gun control

Johnny Depp trial

 

Top Headlines

Monday, June 6, 2022

A week after Uvalde massacre

Weekend of violence across America

The war in Ukraine continues

Johnny Depp joins TikTok

 

Two weeks after one of the most horrific crimes in our country was committed, the shooting of innocent children and teachers at Robb Elementary School in Uvalde, the story has dropped from the main headlines even though funerals are still ongoing for the 21 victims.

How quickly we forget.

The blame game, though, is in full swing.

Blame guns.

Blame the NRA.

Blame poor mental health accessibility.

Blame the police.

The reaction has been the same since the Columbine massacre in 1999.

But there’s seldom concrete action to get at the root of the problem of school shootings.

I remember the first time I had to participate in a school-shooter drill. We told the students where to hide and to remain silent and hidden until the danger was over.

The thought that kept going through my mind, as I’m sure it did for other teachers, was how did we get to this point?

The danger signs were there for all of these violent shooters. They posted troubling and violent messages on social media. Their teachers and acquaintances pointed out their abnormal behavior, but were told not to judge other people.

These young people slid through the system with nobody willing to appear judgmental by pointing out disturbing and serious mental issues.

We all agree our schools are vulnerable. Some of the remedies I’ve read go from the ridiculous to the draconian.

Having only one entrance and exit to a school is ridiculous. Some of our high schools have 2,000 students and over 150 teachers. Getting them in and out one by one through a metal detector would take hours. I shudder thinking what would happen in case of a fire.

There are steps we can take toward making our schools safe, and to say safeguarding schools is expensive is an argument I don’t buy. We spend millions of dollars testing children to see how they’re performing academically.

Instead, we should spend money on having mental health specialists on every campus. We need to actually pay attention when a teacher or student reports a student is displaying the characteristics all these shooters share – posting violent thoughts on social media or in journals. Saying or writing they want to hurt others. Buying assault rifles.

Install two-step access doors at all secondary entrances and exits. Make it difficult for someone to enter a school unless they have a key or a key card. Those two minutes when a shooter has to break through a door could be the difference between life and death.

Numerous security cameras should be installed and monitored on every campus, especially at all entrances. Spend money on security personnel to monitor those cameras.

We do that at home for under $200 and monitor our homes no matter where we are. Our schools should have better security measures than we have at home. We do more to safeguard our vehicles and homes than we do the place where our children are now the most vulnerable.

We live in communities that are gated, and home owners and visitors pass through a monitored gate to get in. Most homes have a chain-link or wooden fence around their yards. But our school grounds are wide open.

Social media sites allow people to post pictures of strangers on the street, anyone who rings their doorbell or the license plates of a suspicious vehicle. Neighbors are alerted when there’s something off.

If only our schools were that safe.

The steps we need to take to safeguard our children aren’t easy and will cost money and tough choices.

Don’t forget what’s really important. Don’t let what happened in Uvalde slip away, unnoticed and overshadowed. We need change now.

If now isn’t the time, then what in the world will it take to make it be the right time.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Knowing I’d be making a road trip to Baton Rouge, La. and back, I stocked up on audiobooks from the Fort Bend County Library.

One was by a favorite comedian – Jim Gaffigan. The title – “Food:  A Love Story.”

Gaffigan covered his obsession with food with his usual dry humor, but there was one particular category he didn’t quite cover: Mood Foods. These are foods that go with a particular frame of mind you’re experiencing.

Everyone has a go-to food for whatever cloud or sunbeam is hanging over his or her head, but here’s my suggestions. Feel free to add your personal choices to my list.

Sad Foods:  When you’re devastated, most of us don’t want food. But for the times when you’re feeling down or melancholy, ice cream is my go-to cure.

Not the off-brand chocolate brand but high-fat, high-calorie Blue Bell Dutch chocolate ice cream.

If all you have is vanilla ice cream, add a river of chocolate syrup, a mountain of whipped cream and top it off with a cherry. Lactose intolerant? Bake a pan of chocolate brownies and eat them right out of the pan while they’re still warm.

Comfort Foods:  These are foods from your childhood, the ones your mom, dad or grandparents made sure you had when you were feeling homesick.

These include fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, beef stew and tortilla soup. All should be homemade for the ultimate cure.

Sick Foods:  Most of us don’t want to eat when we’re really sick. But for days when you’re feeling a little bit icky, Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup with a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich is a must have.

Happy Foods:  This would be foods you want when life is treating you like the queen of England.

Happy foods are, lucky for you, almost all foods. Well except vegetables, anything low calorie or anything low fat. Greek yogurt is not your go-to treat when you get a raise or promotion.

Guilt Foods:  These are the ones you eat when you’ve done something wrong and nobody yet knows you’ve blundered.

Guilt foods are always eaten alone and, for the best effect, in the dark. These foods include Twinkies, Ding Dongs or M&M’s. The whole bag.

Bored Foods:  There’s nothing on television. You’ve watched enough TikTok videos to last you a week and it’s too hot to go outside. Your checking account is at an all-time low so you can’t go shopping. That’s when you turn to the foods on the “I’m-bored” list.

My top choice is peanut butter right out of the jar. Forget bread. Forget crackers. Get a spoon and dip away.

Bored foods also include Oreo cookies. Take your time – eat one whole. Take the next one apart and eat each side separately. Take the next one apart and lick the cream off and then eat the cookies.

Angry Foods:  When steam is practically coming out of your ears, you need to eat something crunchy and hard.

Tacos are a good bet as are potato chips, Doritos or Cheetos. Be forewarned – the bags are tough to open, so that could raise your anger level even before you start munching.

Celebration Foods:  You just got a promotion, a raise, the universal waters parted and you got a parking spot close to the entrance. A celebration is in order.

A banana split is the way to go. A tiny celebration can be observed with whipped cream sprayed straight to the mouth. Also under the banner of “I did great” is cheesecake, a steak dinner or a thick slice of watermelon.

Scared Foods:  These are foods you eat when you’re scared to make a move, staying home alone for the first time or there’s frightening weather.

Cut-up apples are my best choice because I have something to eat and the security of a knife by my side.

So there you have it – my list of foods to eat when the mood strikes. Happy, or sad, eating!

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.   

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

An hour later, we were still stopped.

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

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

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

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

He also said the backup was 13 miles long.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

One of these days…

Yep, one of these days…

One of these days, I’m going to clean the dust off the top of the refrigerator.

I’m short so if I can’t see the dirt, it doesn’t exist.

That means the following areas are never dirty or dusty – the top of the fridge, the artificial greenery over the cabinets in the kitchen and the tops of picture frames. But they still get dirty and I know I need to clean them.

Sigh. One of these days.

One of these days, I’m going to learn how to bake bread.

I’ve been watching “The Great British Baking Show,” and these people not only know how to bake a loaf of bread, they whip up bakery goods I can barely pronounce. In a few hours, they create cardamom buns, focaccia, korovai and challah.

I think I want to bake bread, but when I see these people break out in a sweat from kneading sticky dough, I change my mind. Still, spending $10 on ingredients to get a $2 loaf of bread does call my name from time to time.

One of these days, I’m going to actually follow a healthy eating plan. I know what that plan looks like – low-fat food, lots of green, leafy vegetables, gallons of water and lean meats.

This healthy eating plan does not include french fries, cheeseburgers, chips, chocolate or crawfish etouffee. It also doesn’t include late-night snacks, the rest of the bag of Cadbury eggs from Easter or peanut butter on a spoon.

Healthy eating won’t happen as long as I’m watching that baking show with its chocolate cakes, puddings, scones and pies.

One of these days, I’m going to get my passport renewed. During the covid lockdown, I cleaned out the firebox in my office. Inside was my passport – only two stamps in there – but I noticed it had expired.

I read what one has to do to get a passport renewed, and, as expected, it’s a complicated process requiring all kinds of documents. For instance, my original birth certificate. I’m retired – like I know where my birth certificate is located. But one of these days, I’ll get over to the courthouse and renew my passport.

Because… one of these days… I want to travel outside the United States. I find myself daydreaming about visiting Switzerland like my good friend Patsy or seeing the sights in London like my friend Devoni.

All I have to do is get my new passport and then part with the money so I can hop on a jet to places unexplored.

One of these days, I’m going to visit the museums in Houston. I’ve visited the ones around here, and they’re fabulous.

But we live next to one of the largest and most diverse cities in the United States, a place that offers irreplaceable paintings, eons-old fossils and priceless gems.

There’s a museum that’ll take me back to the prehistoric days, one that showcases the atrocities of the Holocaust and one with funky cars painted in every color under the sun.

One of these days, I’ll drive to Austin and stand in the line at Franklin Barbecue. I’ll remember to bring a lawn chair and sunscreen and see why people are gushing about the restaurant’s barbecue brisket.

I love the barbecue eateries in our area, but to say I’ve been to Franklin Barbecue would give me some bragging rights among the pit masters.

Yep, one of these days I’ll hop in my car at five in the morning and go stand in that long line. Right after I get my passport renewed and clean the dust off the top of the dresser in our bedroom.

One of these days, I’ll quit daydreaming about what I want to experience, see, visit, and get with savoring the rich adventures waiting just around the bend.

Maybe that day is today.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.