Baseball is supposed to be just a game.

The movie “Bull Durham” described baseball as “…. a very simple game. You throw the ball, you catch the ball, you hit the ball. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose…”

If America’s pastime was as simple as catching, throwing and hitting, millions of us wouldn’t have been glued to our television, phone or radio station listening to every minute of the World Series games.

The relationship athletes have with their fans borders on the religious. Athletes, especially baseball players, are held to a high standard, and their fans expect Herculean efforts from the team they back.

Grown men guard their baseball card collections from their childhood more than they do their Social Security number. We walk around with our favorite player’s name on the back of our T-shirts. Most gimmee caps have a team insignia on the front, and those hats are seldom removed.

Sporting memorabilia doesn’t fully explain this country’s fascination with baseball. Our connection goes much deeper because baseball’s more like life than any other sport.

At the entry level, baseball’s a pretty easy game to learn. Somebody throws the ball and somebody hits it. And somewhere out behind the pitcher, somebody catches the ball.

But the game ultimately depends on relationships. The infielders have to work in tandem if they hope to make a double play. The shortstop depends on the outfielder to get the ball in before the opponent gets to second or third base.

Of particular interest is the relationship between the pitcher and the catcher. The pitcher has to trust that the catcher’s making the right call and that the player crouching behind home plate is going to catch what’s thrown their way. Life’s the same way – we depend on others to understand our signals and then follow through.

Baseball also requires guts. Players have to live right on the edge if they’re going to steal a base, especially if they want to steal home. Taking a chance is risky in baseball, but it’s even more risky in life. Still, without taking a chance we risk either losing it all or getting ahead.

Errors are counted in baseball. So are they in life. A team can suffer a humiliating loss but come back the next night and go from the goat to the champ.

Batters have numerous opportunities at the plate to get on base, including not one strike but three. That’s three chances, and that’s more chances than many of us get in life.

What’s great about baseball is if you strike out in the first inning, you’ll be back at the plate with a clean slate in the same game.

We cheer for the homerun slugger, but the game is ultimately a team sport. Without everyone’s cooperation, there’s no way a team can win. We can rack up accomplishments, but most of us need the support of our family or friends to make victories possible and sweeter.

And so it goes in life. All of us make mistakes and think we’re down for the count. We all wish we had another chance to make things right.

Baseball shows us that we’ll get another chance to connect with the ball. We’ll get another chance to step up and show the world what we’ve got.

Every once in a while, we swing for the fences when there’s people counting on us, whether it’s in life or the bases are loaded, and bring in the runs. We succeed one base, one goal and one run at a time.

A simple game? I think not. In life, just like in baseball, there’s nothing better than stepping up to the plate, knowing you could strike out but stepping up anyway.

And when that bat connects with the ball, when we reach a personal goal or when we come down the stretch to score, the hard work pays off.

It’s that simple.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

 

 

Most people, when asked to name an influential person in their life, will immediately say a family member. If asked to name someone outside of their family, they often name a teacher. Two events have happened recently that reminded me of the positive impact an outstanding school or teacher makes in a child’s life.

The first is the closing of St. John’s School for Little Children in Richmond. When we moved to Richmond almost 30 years ago, I passed in front of St. John’s United Methodist Church on my way to the grocery store, and I’d see children laughing and playing on the swings and gym set.

I checked around and found St. John’s had a pre-school two mornings a week. I decided to check it out because my then 4-year-old son was extremely shy. I knew he’d be heading to kindergarten the next year, and I didn’t want to send him without his knowing school rules – how to stand in line, what a cubby was used for and, most importantly, how to get along with other children.

He wasn’t as convinced as I was that leaving home for a few hours was a good idea, and I remember having to pull him out of the van by his ankles to go to “school.” I felt guilty, so I’d circle through the Richmond post office drive-through lane over and over again during recess so I could see what he was doing.

His teacher would smile and wave to reassure me my little boy was okay.

It was different with my youngest son. He bounced out of the van every Tuesday and Thursday morning, and absolutely loved being away from mom and making new friends. As different as my two sons were, what was identical was the loving and nurturing environment they received at St. John’s.

In July, the school closed, and the church halls no longer echo with the sounds of sneakers skipping on the linoleum and happy voices on the playground. The memories we created there, however, will last for years as will my gratitude to the staff at St. John’s Little School.

Our community lost a tremendous teacher and friend with the passing of Diana Barnett. For many years, Diana was a beloved teacher at Austin Elementary, and I had the privilege of interviewing her. Her classroom was as cozy as anybody’s living room, and there was an energy in those four walls that emanated from Diana.

With her always-present smile and boundless creativity, “Barnett’s Kids” absolutely adored her, as did their parents, her colleagues and the Austin Elementary community. I was instantly won over by Diana, and I wasn’t alone. She was teacher of the year numerous times and was one of the most creative people I’ve ever met.

One of her former colleagues, Sue Bromberg, said Diana was with her every step of the way in her life and extended her friendship and care to Sue’s sons, even as they grew into adults. Diana was that irreplaceable mentor and special friend to dozens of people, and she never stopped teaching the kids that came through her classroom door.

Diana and her family moved to Arizona a few years ago where she continued positively impacting that community, school and dozens of families. There are few natural-born teachers in this world, and Diana Barnett was one of them.

A celebration of Diana’s life will be held tonight at 6 p.m. at Austin Elementary School in Pecan Grove. For those wishing, Diana’s family asked a donation be made to the M.D. Anderson Cancer Center. I usually make a donation to the school library when someone passes away, and book I’ve chosen to remember Diana with is “100 Things That Make Me Happy.” Diana Barnett, you were someone who made so many people happy.

I hope you’re drinking a Coke somewhere, Diana, and teaching somebody how to live life to the fullest, just as you did. Your legacy will live forever in the hundreds of lives you touched in your too-brief stay with us.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

I could smell the cigarette smoke as soon as I got near my friend. Now the stale smell bothers me, but when I was younger, I had no room to complain because I was a smoker.

I started smoking when I was a teen. My dad smoked and even though I didn’t like his habit, I told myself I was being “cool.” Unlike other types of teenage rebellion, smoking wouldn’t land me in jail.

I successfully hid the cigarettes from my parents until a family car trip. My mom was complaining about my dad’s smoking, and he went off on a rant that he was an adult and could do as he pleased. I’d recently turned 18, so I reached into my purse, pulled out a pack of Benson & Hedges and lit one up.

There was complete silence in the car, even though my siblings knew I smoked.

“When did you start smoking,” my dad asked quietly.

“A while ago,” I remember saying.

That was all he could say.

I kept up the habit until the day I found out I was expecting my first child. The minute I got the news, I tossed the pack to my best friend and told her I was done with cigarettes. I never smoked while I was pregnant because I wanted a healthy baby.

But when my son was about a year old, I went through some tough times and picked up the cigarettes again.

I rationalized I wasn’t hurting anybody and had almost convinced myself I could indulge in this one little vice.

Until one summer evening.

My toddler son was playing in the living room, and I was smoking a cigarette watching him. We had window air conditioners at the time, and I noticed that the smoke was staying in the room – I could see the haze near the ceiling.

I realized my child would be breathing in that second-hand smoke, and I was the one putting toxins in the air he was breathing. Feelings of guilt and shame swept over me. Over the next week, I tried to quit, but I couldn’t, and it scared me – I was hooked.

At about the time I realized I was addicted, my office offered a sweet deal to the employees – if they enrolled in a smoking cessation class for $50, anyone who was smoke free six months later would get their $50 back.

Believing my prayers had been answered, I signed up. The instructor had a logical and emotional game plan to help us stop smoking.

First, we had to switch to menthol if we smoked regular cigarettes and vice versa. His reasoning was it’s easier to quit something you don’t like instead of something you do like. Those cigarettes also had to have half the nicotine of the brand we were currently smoking.He told us cigarettes were our little buddies and that stopping smoking was as much an emotional break up as a physical separation.

The last two weeks, we had to give up one cigarette a day, starting with our favorite cigarette. Roger said it would be easier to break the habit of associating a cigarette with something we liked, like that first cup of coffee or after lunch, if we knew we could have another one later in the day.

On the last day of class, all of us smoked the last cigarette together. We were nervous because we weren’t sure we’d make it. But I felt I could be strong, if not for myself but for my son.

Six months later, I collected that $50 and I haven’t had a cigarette in over 35 years.

Putting down the cigarettes for good was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done and one of the few times I’ll pat myself on the back for achieving a goal.

Now when I hug my friend and the smell of cigarettes smacks me in the face, I know that will never be me again. I don’t have to worry about burning holes in my clothes, spending money on an addictive habit or having nicotine stains on my fingers.

And that’s a great feeling.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Whenever I’m in the grocery store and I see a child with his or her shoes untied, I have to physically restrain myself from bending down and tying that shoe. I have the same reaction when I see a child scrape their knee – “mommy mode” kicks in.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been a “mommy.” My sons all called me “Mom,” but the “mommy” was how I saw myself – I kissed their boo-boos to make them feel better. I banned peanut butter until they were in the third or fourth grade because I’d read the peanut butter could stick to the top of their mouths and they could choke.

I cut their sandwiches into squares or rectangles, depending on what they wanted that day, and I packed their lunch every single day from the time they were in first grade all the way to when they were a senior in high school.

It wasn’t that I was a super mom because I made plenty of mistakes, including sending them to school with stains on their shirts, hair that wasn’t brushed because I was tired of arguing with them or with unsigned papers the teacher needed but I’d forgotten to sign.

But when it came to giving advice, trying to solve their problems and wanting to know what was going on in their lives, I was 100 percent all in.

My sons are now grown men, and I wonder if I’m overstepping out of habit, still being “mommy” instead of “Mom.” The boys are probably too nice to tell me to stop fussing over them, but I see signs that I need to do so.

They seldom call to ask my opinion any more. They call their dad. He only gives out advice when asked and the boys call him for help with their cars and home repairs. They’ve moved on to man-to-man advice.

The advice I have to offer isn’t that important to them anymore. They don’t have scraped knees that need mommy’s kiss to make it better. They don’t need me to put the legs back on their Ninja Turtle guys and they know where to buy underwear.

In a way, it’s a relief not to have to constantly worry that they’re going to get hurt, lose their lunch money or won’t know what to do in a tough situation. They’ve all been through fender benders, have all had to look for a new job and have endured heartbreak and frustration.

And they survived, just like we all do.

From time to time, I have the selfish desire to go back to the days when they’d snuggle up in my lap, tuck their heads underneath my chin and let me rock them to sleep. I yearn for the nights of kissing them good night as they slept in their beds, a baseball mitt or well-loved panda bear tucked in next to them.

Then I see them buying their own homes, starting their own businesses, handling their finances and job situations and the pride I have in them for being such incredible men is overwhelming.

I asked my mom how she made the transition from mommy to mom, and she said she always knew her children were capable of making solid decisions. Life is all about learning as we go and to butt in is to rob children of the opportunity to grow into the adults they’re meant to be.

She’s right.

My mommy time is over, and it’s time to move into mom time.

And, who knows. I might discover, just as my mom did, that when I move into the “Mom” role, instead of having little children to fret over, I have three new adult friends.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

 

As writers, we’re supposed to come up with words for everything. We write about the back-room tactics of politicians and the feel-good activities of people in our community. On the flip side, we do our best to shine the light on those who manipulate the system for their own good. Most of the time, we do a fairly good job.

But there are no words for why someone would shoot up an elementary school.

No words why someone would open fire in a concert.

No words for those who grieve.

No explanations.

There are no sentimental clichés to make the tragedy any better. There’s not enough fire and brimstone that can bring back a sense of security or bring back those who perished.

No one could foresee that this level of evil exists in our country. How could anyone imagine someone could walk into an elementary classroom and massacre innocent children?

How could anyone see that a deranged individual would target innocent people who were simply outside enjoying a music concert with friends and loved ones?

The answer is – no one.

I wish I could think of the words that could take away the pain of the families who lost a loved one due to senseless violence. I wish I could bring back those young people, back to a life unfulfilled.

I wish with all my heart I could write something to those who ran from the terror to put a safe feeling back in their lives, but there’s no words for that. There’s no way to make them feel safe again, and there’s no way to erase what happened.

For years, millions of words will be written about these tragedies. We’ll examine the senseless violence committed against children and families in Sandy Hook, Columbine, Charleston, Virginia Tech, the University of Texas, the West Nickel Mine Amish School and at a movie theater in Aurora, Colorado. We’ll search for a reason why someone would open fire on innocent people. We’ll condemn the shooter’s family and friends for not paying attention and alerting others that this person was dangerous.

We’ll try and blame those who own guns for allowing people to stockpile weapons. And then we’ll blame those who try and take guns away for not allowing people to arm themselves against the lunatics in the world.

But rational reasons don’t exist. There are no explanations to comfort those who lost a loved one in an act of violence that rocked the entire nation. There are no words that can bring that friend or loved one back to life or make the nightmares and all-too-real fear stop for the survivors.

We’re shaking our heads in disbelief, hoping there’ll be someone with an answer for stopping the violence.

What’s left is the most basic form of empathy humans know – we reach out and pull the person hurting close to us. As we hug them tightly and blink back the tears, we’re wordless as we stroke their hair and vow to never let them go.

Words aren’t enough to heal the broken hearted. Only the comfort of those who love us and those who are mourning the deceased with us can get us through the horrors no person should have to endure.

Until we do find the words, we’ll continue to hold each other close for dear life because that’s the one answer that makes sense.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

Years ago, I had a conversation I had with a fellow reporter and his political, cultural and social views were 100 percent opposed to mine.

If I said “blue state,” he said “red state.” If I said “conservative,” he said “liberal.” Most of the time, I didn’t think twice about his views, until he said he believed in burning the American flag.

That one shocked me, and I had to stop and think about that statement for a long time.

I came to the conclusion that I didn’t want to see any flag burned or desecrated but, in the United States, I would uphold his right to express his views as long as no one was hurt or killed in the protest.

And that’s where I find myself as I read blogs, Tweets and online postings about NFL players taking a knee during the National Anthem. This started last year when NFL athlete Colin Kaepernick refused to stand for the anthem.

Kaepernick said he was not going to “show pride in a flag for a country that oppresses black people and people of color.” So instead of standing, he knelt during the anthem and faced a tidal wave of protests as well as people siding with him.

When I first saw him kneeling instead of standing, I was furious. Not because he was protesting but because of the respect I have for the many veterans I’ve talked to over the years.

I remember interviewing the late Charlie Kalkomey about his service. He didn’t agree to the interview because he wanted glory or recognition. He agreed because I asked and I think he wanted people to understand what so many veterans endured. During the interview, he quietly told me why he limped. It was because he was trapped on an enemy island during World War II and, while wounded, had to crawl through gunfire just to make it to safety.

I can still remember sitting in his office, feeling sick to my stomach for what he’d gone through. For the rest of his life, Mr. Kalkomey lived with that limp but never whined or blamed anyone for his war injuries. They were the result of his having performed his duty to his country.

I remember interviewing a Vietnam veteran who sobbed through the first part of our interview. He hadn’t talked about his service for over 40 years, and seeing pictures of himself at the age of 18 in the jungles of Viet Nam brought the knowledge of the youth he’d lost. No one knew the internal sadness and loss of innocence this veteran carried with him every single day. But he didn’t regret serving his country. He regretted that so many people didn’t give Vietnam vets the respect they deserved.

I remember the late Arthur Mahlmann and Frank Briscoe talking about hunkering down in foxholes in Europe while artillery exploded over their heads. They endured freezing winters and nightly terrors of not knowing whether or not they’d live another day.

I thought I was interviewing them because of their generosity to this community over their lifetimes. I found out they’d given much more than money and time – they gave their youth.

The World War II nurses I interviewed in Greatwood all had Purple Hearts and all had tended the wounds of soldiers in the battlefield, held the hands of bleeding service men and listened to the final prayers of those who’d been mortally wounded.

These women came home, put their medals in the closet and went about rearing their families, never asking for recognition or thanks.

So when I hear the national anthem played, I stand for the veterans and the people and way of life they believed were worth fighting for. It’s my way of thanking them for putting their lives on the line every day of their service.

So while I understand one’s taking the knee during the national anthem and have to grudgingly say America allows that freedom, there is no way I would not stand.

The reason is simple.

So many stood for what was right and so many died so we could continue fighting for justice, whether it was in a foxhole in Europe, a jungle in Vietnam or the attitudes of prejudiced people.

They fought so we can disagree, protest and demand change.

They fought for you.

They fought for me.

They fought for America.

I understand your decision to kneel.

Understand mine to stand.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

Next week, my mom will be celebrating a milestone birthday – 85. I remember the days when she was 39 for about 15 years, but now that she’s in her 80s, our family doesn’t miss an opportunity to celebrate another year with our mother.

Her daily schedule is ambitious. In the morning over coffee and cereal, she finishes the newspaper’s daily crossword puzzle. Except on Sundays. She said that one’s too hard.

She does all her own shopping and housework and is always making soup or dinner for someone who’s under the weather.

Once a week, she volunteers in the gift shop at Lane Memorial Hospital. She loves greeting the customers and helping them find gifts for loved ones. She’s the first to take someone else’s shift if they’re ill or going out of town, and that’s in addition to her regular hours.

One day a week, she enjoys “lunch with the ladies.” There’s quite a few older women in the complex where she lives, and a group goes out to eat on Fridays. Over soul food, egg-drop soup or fried fish, they catch up on what’s going on in the neighborhood, talk politics and discuss their great-grandchildren.

After lunch, Mom often plays cards with another group of ladies and then it’s home in time to watch the soap opera she’s watched for over 20 years, “The Young and The Restless.”

On Monday nights, she fixes a complete dinner for my brothers and their wives. The main reason they visit is because they genuinely enjoy Mom’s company. But Mom knows having dinner together is her sons’ secretive way of checking on her, seeing if anything needs repairing around the house and making sure she’s taking her medications.

She manages her own checking account, pays her own bills, loves surfing the Internet, playing “Cookie Jam” and reading Facebook posts.

She remembers the birthdays of her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren and always sends a card and a few dollars to the little ones. In turn, they all know who she is and, from time to time, have all spent time on her lap.

As I write this, she’s in the hospital, recovering from a small blood clot in her leg. She’s furious because we’ve got a huge party planned for her next week, and she is fuming in that hospital bed because she has things to do to get ready. Although all her children are grown with families of their own, she’s still the boss and is making sure we’re doing what supposed to be done for the party.

First, and most important question – what are we eating?

I told her our in-town brothers and sisters-in-law have caterers lined up and that we all have a list of what we’re supposed to supply for the party.

“What about entertaining the out-of-town guests?” she asked.

Triumphantly, I said her sons had already thought of that – they’ve arranged visits to the Baton Rouge casinos and lunches at Cajun restaurants. Rides are arranged for transportation to and from airports and everybody has a place to stay.

“You raised us right,” we told her, and, with that answer, she was satisfied to do everything the doctors are asking because she wants to be up and ready to see family.

We know the promise of seeing her loved ones is the best medicine in the world for our mom, and she said she’s leaving that hospital in plenty of time to get ready for her party, even if she has to drag that pole and drip along behind her.

I pity anybody who stands in the way of this 4’11” Lebanese matriarch.

We know we’re extremely blessed to still have our mom with us in good health and of sound mind. So we’re rolling out the red carpet for her 85^th birthday and celebrating Dee Hebert with food, laughter and, most of all, love.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

 

I heard the giggling before I saw what triggered the laughter. The happiness came from the dozen or so children sitting in a circle with Gene and Doris Tomas as they sorted a mountain of mismatched socks for Lamar CISD’s food and clothing pantry, Common Threads.

Doris and Gene were some of the hundreds of volunteers who came to Common Threads in the days after Hurricane Harvey to donate their time to help those affected by the storm.

Attack Poverty and Friends of North Richmond helped out some of the hardest hit homes in our community, and the work isn’t finished yet. Churches have organized work crews that are working seven days a week to help residents already struggling financially.

These organizations don’t just pop up when there’s a tragedy. They’re helping the neediest year round, from making sure children have shoes and school uniforms to providing diapers and formula to young parents.

Social media played a huge role in getting helpers to donation sites. Armies of volunteers would search on Twitter or Facebook to find a neighborhood or family in need and then arrive to do whatever they could to help. Groups formed online pages where people can search for places to volunteer and help out.

At Common Threads, parents with their children, teachers, businessmen and women, teens, athletes, coaches, retirees all came and found a way to give back. Every day, coaches and young athletes unloaded donations, delivered supplies to area hotels where displaced families were staying and volunteered for any job that needed to get done.

Firefighters and EMS personnel were busy 24/7. Businesses and churches donated hot food, water, supplies and money to relief funds. Most fanned out into the community to muck out houses, remove sheetrock and salvage as much as possible. Many of our business owners provided food for volunteer workers, even when their livelihoods were suffering.

For hours, people worked behind the scenes, making sure the power stayed on, the Internet lines kept us connected and supplies were delivered as soon as the roads were passable.

People not only donated food and clothing, but they donated their talents. Barbers and hair technicians cut hair at police stations and recovery sites, putting a bit of normalcy back into people’s lives. People with boats went from house to house during the worst part of the flood. Four-wheelers and ATVs drove through drenched neighborhoods, retrieving people who couldn’t navigate flooded streets.

Simonton and Valley Lodge were hard hit and over a dozen trucks were lined up near the entrance as volunteers fanned out and helped at homes for people they’d never met before. We were at a house in Simonton and the homeowners were removing ruined furniture and carpet. Two state troopers, one from another county, stopped and offered to help along with the young National Guardsmen riding with them. They quickly picked up the ruined living room furniture and deposited it at the curb, much to the relief of the exhausted homeowners.

So often, law enforcement personnel are criticized but, during the flood, they were pitching in to help wherever they were needed. House after house. Family after family. Neighborhood after neighborhood.

Those who weren’t flooded cleaned out closets and pantries to donate what they could. Young moms and retirees took in laundry, and bilingual folks helped displaced people get through the overwhelming mountain of paperwork required for financial aid.

This area was slammed by one of the worst hurricanes to ever make landfall. people worked together to make a positive difference in the midst of tragedy. It’s humbling and uplifting to watch prejudices disappear. White, Black, Asian, young, old, rich, poor – none of that mattered as volunteers all over southeast Texas stocked shelves, sorted clothing, gathered supplies and then delivered them with a smile to those in need.

No complaining. No racial barriers. Just people helping people. Volunteering brings out the best in people, the best they didn’t even know they had in their hearts.

The road ahead is long, so please continue giving and helping where needed. If you weren’t able to help out during the initial flood, don’t worry. Organizations are going to need volunteers for months, so please consider adding your name and muscle to the list. If you’re willing to give of your time and effort, there’s a place for you. Most of all, Fort Bend County, thank you for your incredible generosity, your gusty optimism and your willingness to start over, bigger and better than ever.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

School starts next week, and parents are frantically downloading school supply lists, fighting the mobs on the pen-and-pencil aisles and reading every article on Pinterest about how to pack the perfect lunch.

Having been there and done that, I thought I’d pass on a few back-to-school tips you might not read in a parenting magazine.

Only bought two tubes of glue instead of four? Don’t sweat it. These days, all school supplies get dumped into a big bin and the teacher doles them out during the year. This is to make sure everybody has an equal amount of supplies. It’s also to prevent children from sharpening their pencils all the way down to the eraser on the first day because they’re fascinated with the pencil sharpener.

So turning in two glue sticks instead of four will not be a big deal when the teacher is trying to keep little Susie from crying because she sees Lydia has the Paw Patrol lunchbox she wanted.

Your child will survive not having a pencil that writes with blue lead on one end and red lead on the other. They will survive not having the latest Despicable Me backpack and they will survive having a bag of grapes in their lunch instead of a bag of chips.

Lunchboxes are not only cool but they’re also useful. Your child will use said lunchbox as second base when one’s not available after school. They will also play “kick the lunchbox” on their way home in the afternoon or while waiting for you in the nightmare carpool line.

Paper lunch bags are wonderful unless your children are boys and require two sandwiches, two pieces of fruit, a Little Debbie Cake, two juice boxes and a bag of chips in their lunch every day.

Then you have to go to one of the huge box stores and buy a case of oversized lunch bags that will last you until your last child graduates from college.

It’s not just the kids who have to survive school.

So do parents.

You will survive the vicious drop-off and pick-up line. Here’s a tip – bring a book to read. Better yet, bring two. Listening to books on CD or playing the radio will simply drain your vehicle’s battery because you’re going to wait in that line a long time. A really long time.

Your child will volunteer you to be a chaperone on a field trip. Whatever it takes, beg your child to not sign you up for the zoo field trip.

A trip to the zoo sounds fun until you remember that those trips take place on a school bus that’s not air conditioned. A zoo visit requires you to walk at least five miles in humid 98-degree weather to look at smelly animals that are all sleeping.

Volunteer to be a class reader or decorate bulletin boards. Volunteer to sit in the dunking booth. Even volunteer to work in the carpool line.

Anything but the zoo.

Your child will make friends. Your child will be friendless. Your child will be happy to go to school and then a pack of wolves couldn’t drag them out of bed.

And you, mom and dad, will also have days where you fret incessantly about your child because you sent them to school when they were worried they wouldn’t make any friends, thought the teacher didn’t like them or were worried about a quiz.

You’ll worry they won’t have anybody to play with during recess or they’ll get hurt or they’ll get in trouble. The hardest part of sending children back to school is letting them spread their wings and fly when you’re not there to watch them soar or not there to catch them when they can’t seem to get off the ground.

Your job is to lovingly remind them there are good days and bad days. In life, one decides what kind of day to have, not the other way around. And as you tuck them in at night, be sure and listen to their school adventures and reassure them that even though they don’t have a Paw Patrol lunchbox, life is still pretty good.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

 

Two men came into the restaurant while we were eating dinner in Norwich, New Hampshire. They resembled hippies with their long hair and beards, but my husband said they probably were hiking on the nearby Appalachian Trail. Opened to the public in 1937, the AT, as it’s called, is a 2,180-mile walking trail from Georgia to Maine, and thousands of people make the pilgrimage every year.

We struck up a conversation with the men as my husband has hiked portions of the trail. Sure enough, they’re what’s known as “through hikers,” people who start either at Mt. Katahdin in Maine or Springer Mountain in Georgia and finish the entire odyssey in one trek.

The trail takes walkers through gorgeous territory, from mountains to forests, and weaves through Tennessee, North Carolina, Virginia, Maryland, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, New York, Connecticut, Massachusetts, Vermont and New Hampshire.

Both said they’d retired from their careers in their mid-50s, picked up their hiking boots and gear and headed out to complete a long-held dream of hiking the entire AT.

Most hikers adopt a trail name, and the gentlemen we were talking with had done the same. “Tripod,” a soft-spoken man, said he hailed from Georgia and “Tin Man,” a tall, slim man with an easy smile, had retired from a second career as a firefighter.

Tripod said he felt guilty about leaving his wife for a few months to hike the trail, so he came up with an idea that fit his spiritual nature. For every mile he walks, people donate money to help build water wells in Nicaragua. So far, he’s raised over $10,000, and Tripod said he felt he could help a ministry that mimicked his life on the trail where water sources are often scarce.

“We’re out here fighting for water every day, so I can’t imagine what people have to go through to fight for water every day of their lives,” he said.

He did have a plan for ending his trek in grand fashion. When Tripod came off the trail, he was heading to a dealership, purchasing a motorcycle and riding that bike all the way home to Georgia.

“Tin Man’s” life path was as rocky as some of the places on the AT. He watched firefighters help his father during his numerous heart attacks until his father passed away when he was 3 years old. Those early memories stayed with him when it came time to choose a career.

He didn’t want to put his widowed mother in financial difficulty for his college education, so he joined the armed services, enrolled in classes and discovered he was pretty smart. Smart enough to use the G.I. bill to earn a degree in nuclear engineering and enjoy a career in that field before heading over to his real passion, firefighting.

The two met on the trail and said walking all those miles allowed them to realize they’d lived good lives so far. As they talked about their journey, there was a calmness surrounding both of them, and I felt myself relaxing the more they talked about the peacefulness that came to be part of their daily life.

Each bend on the trail, each fork in the path took them to places they’d never been, and they got through over 2,000 miles by simply putting one foot in front of the other. They kept going, and that’s probably the best advice anybody can follow when it comes to accomplishing a goal.

It doesn’t matter if you’re a bearded and dusty hiker in the middle of the forest in Virginia, a tired and cranky commuter on the freeway in Houston or an unemployed college student, hungry for an adventure before responsibility comes bearing down.

It really doesn’t matter if you hike on the AT, through a state park or around the block in your neighborhood.

Adventure starts with taking that first step into the unknown and believing the answers will become clearer with each mile you travel through the unknown.

You might not ever step foot on the AT, but you don’t have to go that far to find answers. They’re as close as the next step you take.

            To donate to Tripod’s mission of helping drill a water well in Nicaragua, email him at jacarr242@gmail.com. This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.