When I was a teenager, going to high school football games was the highlight of the week.

I was in the pep squad, and we cheered on the Baker Buffaloes from wooden stands on Friday nights. We memorized hand signals and cheers and erupted into screaming applause when one of our players made a huge play.

As an added bonus, whenever we made a touchdown, the buffalo on the wooden scoreboard would snort smoke from its nose. Yes, football in a small town was exciting and memorable.

Later, we had season tickets to Louisiana State University football games, and those games are as clear to me today as they were 30 years ago.

Charles “Charlie Mac” McClendon was the head coach, and we all held our breath when the “Golden Band from Tigerland” marched on the field before every game, snapped their instruments into place and played four notes.

Instantly, thousands of fans were on their feet, cheering the Tigers, sticking with them through thick and thin.

The LSU stadium is nicknamed “Death Valley” although I thought the name “Deaf Valley” was a better one. The cheers were so loud, you couldn’t hear the person next to you, even if they screamed into your ear.

I learned the different penalty signals and grew to appreciate a collective “boo” whenever the refs made a bad call. For LSU fans, that was every single time the Tigers received a penalty.

Their rivalries with Ole Miss and Alabama remain legendary, and I vividly remember one match up against Alabama when we got drenched but stayed the whole time because the game was so exciting.

I thought about those days while watching Monday Night Football with my eldest son. He and his brother have Fantasy Football teams, and they watch games differently than we did back in the days of the Steelers.

The internet defines fantasy football as “selecting real players to create fake teams that earn points based on real players’ performances on the field. If your fake team scores more points than other people’s fake team, you win (and get to rub it in their face on Tuesday morning).”

That definition comes nowhere close to how complicated fantasy football is. Even after numerous explanations, I’m still not sure how it works except one doesn’t cheer for a team. You bet on individual players.

My son tried to explain the process, and he probably thought he was watching the game with a first-grader.

“So what team are you pulling for,” I asked as I sat down.

“Neither one,” he said, his phone in his hand. “I’ve got players on both sides.”

He showed me this complicated table on his phone with percentages, numbers and names.

My mind wandered and I remembered becoming a fan of the Pittsburgh Steelers back in the 1970s.

There was a young, brash Terry Bradshaw who broke all the conventional rules. The Steelers had the powerful Franco Harris and “Mean Joe” Greene. They were unstoppable, and it didn’t matter that we lived in Louisiana. The Steelers were my team, and that team won the Super Bowl.

I know fantasy football is complicated fun and perhaps the individual is more important than the team these days.

But…

I wouldn’t trade one minute of sitting in Death Stadium, one hour of cheering on the Baker Buffaloes or the love I still have for the Steelers for all the digital numbers on an iPhone.

For me, it’s all about the team.

I still believe in the Texans, the Cowboys – yes, you can like both – and I pray LSU beats Alabama until the end of time.

For this football fan, the team is ultimately more important than the individual.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

One wrong turn.

A missed exit off I-10 near Lake Charles, La. was all it took for me to find myself where I didn’t want to be – smack in the middle of where Hurricane Laura blasted through Louisiana.

I meant to take a road further north of Lake Charles to make my way through the state, but I somehow missed that exit and unexpectedly found myself in downtown Sulphur, one of Laura’s hardest hit areas.

Sulphur was the fast-food exit along I-10. One could stop there and choose from a dozen fast-food joints before heading into Lake Charles and heavy traffic.

I never ventured past the first half mile off the interstate, but on a gray, rainy day, I found myself looking at what a small town looks like exactly a month after a Category 4 hurricane comes through.

The destruction was unbelievable.

At the end of every driveway, both businesses and residential, piles of debris and water-logged furniture, wood and sheetrock were stacked up so high, it was hard to see past them.

Sheets of metal roofing waited at dozens of curbs like curling ribbon on a birthday present.

Businesses were demolished. Most of the roofs were gone from the front of the store to the back. Where plate glass once gave shoppers a view of what was inside, now there was only a vacant room with insulation and wires hanging from the ceiling.

Some brave businesses had hand-lettered signs out front stating they were open for limited hours, but most were dark and vacant.

Giant live-oak trees, some as big around as a hotel fountain, were lying on the ground as if a pro wrestler had picked them up and slammed them down. Most trees were ripped in half and the leaves had been blown off those that remained.

There were dozens of utility trucks on the roadways with hard-hat topped workers at the top of utility poles, attaching new wires to the new poles, to get power back to people who are still in the dark.

A school was boarded up with empty yellow buses filling the parking lot. Chunks of the building were gone, tarps and wood covering the openings.

The school sign flashed a message for students to remember they’re loved and to finish classes online because there was no way the school could open in the foreseeable future.

At first, all I could see was the sad destruction, the devastation and the overwhelming work as I wondered how people could pull themselves out of a hole that wide and that deep.

But people were going about the business of rebuilding. They were hauling debris and waving at each other as cars and trucks passed their homes. Those waves were accompanied by a tired smile, but a smile nonetheless.

And then I smelled a distinctly Louisiana fragrance – cayenne pepper. A food truck was operating in a parking lot with a hand-lettered sign stating they were selling boiled shrimp and crawfish.

That’s a way of life most have known for generations, and no hurricane was going to stop them from enjoying a semblance of civilization, of family and of home.

Little by little, month by month and probably year by year, Louisiana will rebuild, just as these Cajuns did after Betsy and Camille, Katrina and Rita and Ike and Carmen.

I realized Sulphur’s more than a one-stop town off the interstate. It’s home to over 20,000 people who’ve survived floods, economic downturns, Covid and now this hurricane. There is no way they won’t rebuild, no matter how long that rebuilding takes.

The saying “laissez les bons temps roulez” will ring through the bayous again.

Cajuns are resilient and nothing, not even a Class 4 hurricane, will ever stop them from “letting the good times roll.”

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

The assignment was straight forward – write a research paper about an influential American.

I was attending classes at Wharton County Junior College in Richmond about 15 years ago, and decided to write my paper about Barbara Bush.

The former First Lady was someone who used her political position to shine a light on important issues – education and reading. As an avid reader, I was happy someone in power could perhaps convince young people to pick up a book or newspaper.

After we turned our papers in, I was standing in the hall talking with three young classmates. The conversation turned to strong female leaders, and it was clear they weren’t familiar with strong women on the national level.

I asked them to name an influential woman from the last 50 years. They thought and then one girl blurted out an answer.

“Betsy Ross,” she said confidently.

“That was over 100 years ago and doesn’t count,” her friend replied.

They laughed, but I groaned inside.

These three had no clue who’d paved the path for them so they could go to college and pursue the career of their choice.

With the death of two influential women this past week, Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg and former Fulshear mayor Viola Randle, I started thinking about the women who made it possible for other women to go after their dreams.

Over the years, I’ve had opportunities to interview leaders in our community, and I sought out women who’d led the way.

I had the pleasure of interviewing Ms. Randle at her home. She was unpretentious, funny and sharp as a tack.

She helped run a business and a city as an African-American woman, and she opened the door for many young women in this county.

Other women stepped up back in the 1990s in this area. Lupe Uresti served on the Rosenberg City Council and was mayor of Rosenberg in 1992. Dorothy Ryan also served on the council and was mayor in the 1990s.

I also had the good fortune to interview and develop a friendship with the late Kathleen Lindsey. She was one of the few women in her law class at the University of Texas, was instrumental in starting the Fort Bend County Library system and an elementary school was named after her.

Most of us have strong women in our family histories, women who overcome great odds, often as part of their every-day life.

Our family is no exception.

My great-great grandmother came to America because she knew there was no future for her family in Lebanon. She saw poverty and wars and believed she could make a better life for her and her sons in the United States.

Her husband refused to leave his home country, so she left without him. She came to America, sold apples and did whatever she needed to do to keep her sons fed and clothed.

So many women walk this path every single day, most without thanks or others knowing about their quiet strength and positive influence in their families’ lives.

We should tell our nieces, granddaughters and daughters about the strong women in our families. As mothers and aunts and fathers and uncles, it’s our responsibility to make sure our girls believe they can be a vocal part of society and be the change makers the pioneers in our families and community showed us was possible.

If we want our daughters to realize how powerful they are, they need to know they have a solid foundation on which to build. They need to realize the dreams they have can come true if they are strong and refuse to give their seat up to someone else because of the color of their skin, their gender, their religion or their beliefs.

It’s time for our girls to realize the strength they have inside themselves.

Help them find that grit.

Tell those stories.

 

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Although the coronavirus has us socially distancing, life goes on.

People have found ways to continue toasting happy events, and many of those ways are quite creative, even though they’re not what we initially had in mind.

My nephew, Ben, is engaged and had a big wedding planned for the first part of October. He and his fiancée, Shevy, had venues booked, and we were making plans to attend their wedding in Virginia.

Covid stopped all that.

Ben and Shevy had to cancel everything. As a family that loves to celebrate together, the news was disappointing. We also realized we wouldn’t be able to host a bridal shower for Shevy and scrambled for an alternative.

Showers are a big deal in many families, mine included. My mother’s idea of what makes a great shower and mine are often at opposite ends of the spectrum. A few years ago, she came over early to help with a shower I was giving at my house.

She was inspecting the plates of snack foods and stopped at the chicken-salad sandwiches.

“You didn’t cut the crusts off the bread,” she said, pointing at the triangles of sandwiches on the plate.

“And I don’t plan to,” I told her. To me, that was too much work and I had no intention of standing by the sink and cutting crusts off all those sandwiches.

“People know sandwiches have crusts,” I told her as I dumped some chips in a bowl and put a can of store-bought dip next to the bowl.

While I finished a few last-minute preparations, my mother quietly got a serrated knife out of the drawer and cut the crusts off the sandwiches.

People at the shower commented on how elegant the sandwiches looked. My mother smiled. I rolled my eyes. But the next time I hosted a shower, I grudgingly cut the crusts off because I learned that little extra step did give the sandwiches a fancy look.

My sisters-in-law, nieces and sisters go all out for showers, and I’m amazed at the professional level of culinary and decorating skills our nieces have demonstrated. They created original invitations, made party favors that matched the colors of the wedding and decorated their tables in an up-to-date, modern style.

Following their grandmother’s advice, they cut the crusts off all the sandwiches.

We have brilliant nieces.

But we were still stumped on what to do for Ben and Shevy. Sister Diane came up with a Zoom shower, yet we were quite nervous about how to run the shower. Zoom meetings are usually for business or school, so we weren’t sure what to do when.

Despite our worrying, the shower came off flawlessly. My sister found a game where people got points for finding obscure things in their home, if you consider a VCR obscure, and points for having more than 1,000 pictures on one’s phone.

Relatives from all over the country, including France were there, and it was wonderful to see everyone, even if it was electronically.

We laughed, played the game, watched Ben and Shevy open their gifts and because we were all in the same area – a computer screen – nobody was left out of conversations.

Nothing beats being at family functions in person, but the virtual shower was pretty simple. When the call was over, we were finished – no dishes or pots to clean, gifts to haul out to the car or leftovers to divide between the hostesses.

Preparation chores were non-existent – no bathrooms to clean, rugs to vacuum or furniture to dust.

Best of all – no cutting the crusts off the sandwiches.

I think we hit gold.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

The quiet.

An unfamiliar setting for me.

Most of the time, noise is comfortable – family conversation, the dog snoring, the hum of the air conditioner.

Over the past few months, though, the racket has grown disturbing. My husband suggested we take a morning trip over to Seabourne Creek Nature Park in Rosenberg to escape the news for a bit.

I love nature, but not necessarily the outdoors. There’s mosquitoes, snakes and the unrelenting Texas heat and humidity. But other places of interest were either closed or unavailable, so I agreed.

Seabourne Creek is located on Highway 36 within eyesight and earshot of I-69. I was surprised by the number of people in the park. I admired their toughness – the temperature was quickly rising, but they jogged along the pebble paths, oblivious of the sweat.

Our first stop was the butterfly garden. I remember seeing this patch years ago when there were only a few small plants. Now the garden is bursting with color – reds, yellows, greens, blues and purples. How those plants can grow in the brutal Texas heat is beyond me, but the dozens of butterflies seemed quite content to feed.

Families were at the park, mostly around the lake fishing. Dads and moms were baiting hooks while their children did cartwheels, spinning to a stop when they heard a fish jump in the water.

Couples were seated on park benches watching the birds and enjoying the shade. One pair told us some pretty birds were over by the lake, so we headed there. I was hoping for some photos and my bird-watching husband was looking forward to seeing some songbirds.

On the walk to the lake, I noticed for the first time how quiet the park was. Even though the freeway was close by, the sounds of civilization were non-existent.

No trucks lumbering past, no car horns, no radios blaring. Just birds rustling in the trees, tiny frogs calling to each other and the crunch of the walking path gravel underneath our feet.

When we came to the educational garden, my husband and I separated, and I was all alone with the plants. Although I didn’t know the names of any plant or bush in the lush garden, that didn’t matter. Volunteers had listed the names of all the plants on signs, along with botanical information, and I silently thanked them for their tedious work.

Taking pictures of the flowers, hoping to catch a butterfly sipping on nectar, I realized how weary I’d become of the news and the world. Turn on the television or the radio, and all we hear is bad news, and that’s all there seems to be.

A hurricane decimated central Louisiana, quiet magnolia-lined streets and a laissez-faire way of life left in shambles.

Around the world, unemployment numbers are high, many businesses have closed down and there doesn’t seem to be an end to this pandemic. I feel guilty for having a roof over my head and pessimistic for the future.

But here in this park, where the entrance is free and the prairie is wide open and constantly blooming, the quiet gave me hope.

A belief that volunteers will make sure we have a quiet sanctuary where we can catch our breath and recharge.

A reminder that getting back to nature is the jump start we need to believe that the world will go on, change and renew.

A kick in the pants that there is good in the world.

We just have to go find it.

And often, we find that good in the quietest of places.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. For photos of Seabourne Creek Nature Park, visit Denise Adams’ Facebook page. 

There are few genuine things and people in this world. Such was the case with William “Junior” Hartlage who passed away this week.

Years ago, photographer Russell Autrey and I came up with an idea for a special section in this newspaper featuring cowboys.

Fort Bend County was changing. Acres of open prairies and pecan orchards were giving way to master-planned subdivisions and four-lane highways.

I’d seen young cowboys at the Fort Bend County Fair and wondered how they stacked up against the seasoned cowboys in the county. As a city girl, I was enamored by the cowboy mystique. They could rope cattle, fix fences and work year round, regardless of the Texas heat or the bitter cold spells.

Editor Bob Haenel gave us the green light to profile young cowboys and weathered cowboys. I wanted to find a genuine cowboy so I went to the one person I knew would have the answer – Frank Briscoe Sr. at Fort Bend Feed and Farm Supply in Rosenberg.

I went into the store, greeted by the rich smells of leather and sounds of chirping chicks, and asked Mr. Briscoe if he could recommend someone for the story.

“Junior Hartlage,” he said with his drawn-out Texas twang. I called Mr. Hartlage, set up an interview and headed out to the country.

He was tall and soft spoken, and welcomed me into his and Charlotte’s comfortable home. Junior, as he asked me to call him, told me stories of growing up in Fort Bend County when the county was farmland as far as the eye could see.

They had cattle drives across open acres where houses in New Territory now sit side by side. He remembered sleeping under the stars near Sugar Land, listening to coyotes howl at the moon.

If I wanted a feel for what life was like for a cowboy, he asked me to come with him while he vaccinated some cows.

We went outside and stood on a narrow wooden platform with stairs on each end. The farm hands would steer a cow into the chute, close the two ends, and Junior would give each cow a shot.

I stood back a bit because I’d never been that close to a cow, especially one that wasn’t happy about being in the chute.

All of a sudden, a cow reared up and knocked Junior off the platform. He fell onto his back into the dust as the crew wrestled the cow under control.

Junior picked up his hat and stood up. As he knocked the dirt and dust off his jeans, he looked straight at my face and pointed his cowboy hat at me.

“You don’t tell my wife about this,” he drawled.

I assured him I wouldn’t and I didn’t. At that moment, I thought Junior Hartlage was the toughest guy I’d ever met.

The story was complete after interviews and photos with the young cowboys, and they said there’s no other life they would wish for themselves.

They talked of how ranching was in their blood, and that was exactly what Junior said when I was leaving his place.

Russell and I finished the story, confident that the Texas cowboy mystique was aptly being passed down to young cowboys who loved the lifestyle they’d chosen.

Junior was the real deal, a genuine cowboy, and I was so glad I got to meet him.               He sat tall in the saddle and quietly commanded respect, a respect he’d earned from a lifetime following his dream, something few people get to do.

Junior Hartlage was the real deal.

You’ll be missed, cowboy.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Between hunkering down for Hurricane Laura and isolating from the coronavirus, watching movies my main escape path.

Throw in two nasty national party conventions, brutality in the streets and worries about schools reopening, and shutting out reality is a priority, not a luxury.

Since they haven’t made a lot of movies in the last six months, revisiting the oldies is something I’ve come to enjoy. I think every family has a list of favorites, and the “Hebert Nation” is no different.

So here’s a partial list of my family’s top movies, and if you haven’t seen them, why not give them a chance.

First is a musical from 1971 – “Fiddler on the Roof,” and the Heberts know all the words to all the songs.

The movie is about a Jewish family in 1905 in Russia. Father Tevye is a poor milkman with only daughters and he dreams of one day being a rich man.

Our dad identified with Tevye as he always dreamed of being rich and had three daughters who married who they wanted, not who the father had chosen.

The movie’s theme of prejudice against the Jewish people in the village still rings true as we watch minorities continue to fight for equality and justice. But mostly the songs are fabulous and will make you laugh and cry.

Another favorite is “Princess Bride.” I had to admit a few weeks ago that I’d never seen this 1971 movie. My sisters set up a three-way movie night so I wouldn’t remain ignorant, and I thoroughly enjoyed the flick.

The film’s about a beautiful young woman who has to wait for her one true love to find her. The movie has one-liners that fit into life’s daily conversations:  “Inconceivable” and “My name is Inigo Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die!” Yes, that second line will actually fit seamlessly into a conversation.

The comedy’s is a little dated, but not knowing about “The Princess Bride” definitely puts you at a disadvantage when someone says “You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means.”

Although musicals aren’t for everybody, they are a fun escape. If you can’t spend a couple of hours with Gene Kelly and Debbie Reynolds as they tap and sing their way through the raindrops, then you really need to get out in the next rainstorm – which is probably today – and twirl around a bit.

Another favorite is “Seven Brides for Seven Brothers.” Not as well-known as some of the other MGM musicals of the 1950s, “Seven Brides” is a perennial favorite of the Hebert girls, and at the top of my sons’ most-hated musicals list.

If you’re not tapping your feet during the barn-raising dance sequence, you need to go twirl in the rain and dance a little jig.

Sometimes snuggling up on the couch when it’s rainy outside is a good time to watch a drama, especially if there’s a good cry involved at the end.

Two of my mom’s favorite tear-jerkers were “Stella Dallas” with Barbara Stanwyk and “Imitation of Life” with Lana Turner. Stella Dallas was a street-wise gal who knew she’d never fit into the high-society lifestyle of her husband.

She doesn’t want to embarrass her daughter at her wedding, which Stella told her she wouldn’t attend, but her step-mother understands there’s no way Stella would miss her daughter’s wedding.

She orders the drapes to remain open to the street so Stella can watch Laurel get married. Just try and keep a dry eye during that scene.

“Imitation of Life” shows how women were battling prejudice against the races back in 1959 and how that hatred divided families. And, as in “Fiddler on the Roof,” these prejudices are not any closer to being solved.

So sit back, snuggle up under a blanket, and revisit the classics from the old days. As Tevye tells the audience, what’s always important is “Tradition!” Honor your family’s tradition by tuning in to a favorite flick.

Pass the popcorn please.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

 

I’m a weather junkie.

A Weather-Channel, radar-following, hurricane-tracker addict. The weather men and women on television are as familiar to me as my neighbors. I check the weather every morning and especially before heading out.

I particularly dislike driving in bad weather. When the rain starts pelting my car, I’ll usually find a safe place and pull over until the storm passes.

Sometimes, though, it’s hard to get away from the storm.

My mom and I were traveling along Highway 190 in Louisiana. It’s the old east-west route through the state, one I’ve traveled many times as Interstate 10 has become an orange-cone parking lot.

As we got closer to the Atchafalaya Basin, I noticed the tall trees on the side of the road were swaying, gently at first and then more violently.

The shorter trees were visibly shaking, and branches were pumping up and down like puppets on a string.

Dust-devils were kicking up and spinning on side roads, and I could feel the wind pushing my vehicle. That feeling made me sit up straighter in my seat and start silently praying Hail Marys.

My mom asked why I was being so quiet.

“Don’t you see how those trees are practically bent over,” I asked her.

“It all looks fine to me,” she said looking out the window. “Everything will be fine. God’s in control.”

I pulled over into a gas station’s parking lot to check the weather radar.

There was an ominous line of dark red and yellow a few miles north of us, and it extended all the way to Baton Rouge. Soon, the storm would catch up to us or us to it.

Ahead was a tall bridge, and I did not want to be at the top of that structure when a strong gust came through.

“I’ve never seen you like this before,” my mom said. “You’re usually the one in charge, the one who’s unafraid. I’ve never known you to be a chicken.”

She was right.

I was scared.

Scared of going over the bridge. Scared of being tossed around like a rag doll. Scared of having my mom injured.

Mixed in with the fear was the shame of being a coward.

The only thing to do was to keep going and hope we could get home before rain and lightning joined the wind.

I got back on the highway, marveling at my mother’s calm demeanor, her faith in me and the Lord.

We made it over the bridge, the wind not as bad as I’d feared, but I held my breath the entire time.

“Look ahead,” my mom said. “There’s clear skies up ahead. God is showing us the way. Just head toward that light. You can do it.”

Those words had the desired effect. I had a mission now, a goal to achieve, so I kept driving.

My hands were still gripping the steering wheel, my stomach was churning, and I kept going, not because I was brave, but because there was no other choice.

Perhaps when the storms come, it’s okay to admit we’re chicken. It’s okay to feel like a failure and okay to feel like we can’t take another step forward.

But when you do, when you move forward, even though every fiber of your being wants to crawl back to safety, you’re on the way to becoming a little bit braver.

My mom taught me a good lesson. Sometimes you just have to look for the clear patch ahead, ignore the chaos all around and just keep going whether it’s clear sailing or stormy skies.

Just keep going.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The first segment I heard on the radio this morning was a follow-up on the Beirut explosion. The damage caused to this beautiful city on the sea was intense, and the number of dead and injured was staggering.

That story was followed by a news report on the looting in Chicago, and listening to the gunshots and sirens made me even sadder for the world.

Then there was a story about Covid-19 and schools reopening and how sick teachers would be, the daily danger level, how kids needed to be back at school, that parents needed to be back at work and thousands of jobs were being lost and… I turned off the news.

Columnists have the flexibility of giving readers their interpretation of what’s happening in the world.

Was the bombing in Lebanon a case of careless storage or the work of a terrorist? I could spin that column either way and scare the fire out of everyone no matter what road I took.

I could write about the reckless looting in Chicago’s high-end shopping district and throw blame to both sides.

When it comes to reopening the schools, there’s enough arguments, pop facts and opinions to keep the internet spinning for months.

Many columnists, this one included, give out advice. If only people would learn to get along, we write, the world would be a better place.

Nothing anyone has ever written, not the Emancipation Proclamation or speeches from Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., has changed intolerant minds.

So what to write about. What could possibly keep your interest and not make you unwrap another chocolate bar or bite your fingernails any shorter.

Happy things comes to mind.

But, columnist, aren’t you being a Pollyanna? Aren’t you turning a blind eye to what’s going on in the world and isn’t it your job to write about current events.

Maybe.

But when the current events are as depressing as spilling a bottle of Big Red on your new white shirt, then it’s time to think about something cheerful.

So let’s go down that lane.

Puppies. With their little wagging tails and big eyes, puppies are absolutely darling. So, for that matter, are kittens. They like to go to sleep on your chest and make the sweetest sounds.

Until they relieve themselves on you. Or chew up your shoes or the legs on a kitchen chair. Or destroy your slippers.

Not so cute now, are they.

Sunsets are happy. The oranges, reds and yellows blend to close out that days’ woes in warm shades.

Unless you’re in Texas where the temperature is still in the upper 90’s as the sun sets, the oppressive humidity reminds you of a sauna bath and the mosquitoes are feasting on your upper arms.

Music usually makes us happy unless, of course, we listen to a song that reminds us of the guy who dumped us or takes us back to our high school days when we’re listening to a golden oldies station. Then we remember, sigh, we’re a golden oldie.

As if we needed any reminders.

So the question remains – what to write about.

The only thing I can come up with is hope.

I hope people continue to clean up the world and their hearts. I hope there’s a vaccine for this coronavirus, and I hope the world can return to a sense of normalcy coupled with an appreciation for the things we’ve taken for granted.

I hope we can learn to get along and I hope my great-grandchildren are able to live in a world without war, diseases, famine or prejudice.

This columnist refuses to give into despair for she knows there’s always two sides to every situation and every story.

We can continue to play with puppies and kittens if we remember that cuteness often comes with a few scratches.

And a sunset can either signal the end of the day or that a new dawn’s right around the corner. Life is, after all, a series of choices, and we can choose to find the happiness in life or drown in the despair.

I trust you choose wisely.

A columnist can, after all, hope.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald

In an effort to start getting rid of the extra Covid pounds – oh let’s be honest, the fall, winter and spring pounds – I laced up my sneakers and went out for a walk.

Barely a block in, my legs and knees started aching, and I limped back home.

“Old age,” I told myself.

“Years of not taking care of yourself,” the snide little voice in my head shouted back.

Both voices were correct, so I promised to walk more to get into better shape.

Each morning, I’d come limping back. I noticed, though, that my legs and knees didn’t hurt when I walked around barefoot.

My tennis shoes could be the culprit although I hated to blame something I’ve come to treasure – shoes.

For years, I thought buying shoes was practical. Find your size, try them on and buy the shoes if they fit.

I totally missed the boat.

Shoes aren’t just for protection. They’re optimistic, fun and shoes mark special times in our lives, from our first lace-up shoes to our favorite bedazzled flip flops.

They come in all shapes and sizes. There’s flats, high heels, sneakers, sandals and pumps.

You can try all of them on for free. In the shoe store, I used to slip on high heels and imagine myself on the red carpet at the Oscars.

Slip on sneakers and you can pretend you’ll be running a marathon. Reality sinks back in once you realize those high heels are almost $100 and a decent pair of running shoes is twice that price.

Most of us can remember our favorite pair of shoes as a kid. In “The Sandlot,” PF Flyers saved the day. I remember having a pair as a kid and believing I could run faster and jump higher because of those shoes.

I watched Cinderella try on that magic slipper and snag a prince and crying when Dorothy closed her eyes, clicked those ruby red heels together and said “there’s no place like home.”

Tap shoes are some of the best shoes a little girl can have. I spent many happy hours tap dancing around the house, down the driveway and on the sidewalk in front of our house. Best of all, tap shoes make noise and annoy parents and siblings.

But I grew up and, somewhere along the way, came to believe shoes needed to be practical, comfortable and quiet.

A few years ago, I stopped in the shoe store after a long, tough day and ran into a friend. She had the same tired look on her face I did and she told me shoe shopping is therapeutic.

As I looked at all the shoes, I remembered how much fun I had with my sisters and sisters-in-law shoe shopping. An hour later, I found myself a lot happier when I left, fancy shoes in a box. These days, I seldom pass up an opportunity to browse around a shoe store, even though the fanciest place I go is the grocery store.

I thought about my love affair with shoes while out on that painful walk. I started wondering when I’d bought the sneakers I was wearing. I know I had them in the last house we lived in, and that was eight years ago.

Maybe my limping wasn’t because of old age. Maybe the problem was my walking shoes.

That afternoon, I bought a good pair of sneakers – on sale – and tried them out. Not only did I make it down the block the next morning, I made it all the way around the block that evening without any pain.

Those new sneakers might not be made out of glass and they’re not ruby red, but they sure worked their magic on me.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.