I tend to be someone who often exaggerates.

I embellish the facts a little bit.

Okay, I exaggerate all the time.

Years ago, our dog was barking at the barbecue pit. When I opened the lid, there was a rat in there.

Every time I told that story, the rat got bigger and bigger. It snarled at me when I opened the lid, I’d tell people.

In reality, the rat was probably the size of a large mouse. With the way I was screaming, I scared that rodent more than it scared me.

A couple of weeks ago, I wrote about my sister-in-law’s dogs. They went after a snake that had gotten in the house.

The way I described the situation, the snake was as big around as a thick rope and about five feet long. I probably told people it was hissing and had reared up to strike.

In reality, the snake was only about five inches long and not even as thick as a pencil.

In my defense, a rat is a rat, and a snake is a snake.

We live in a world where exaggeration is how events are reported. The reason – hyping it up sells the news.

Newspapers used to keep track of how many subscribers they had and how many newspapers they sold each day.

Now news organizations base promotions, raises and revenue amounts on the number of “clicks” articles get.

A reporter could write an important article about the national debt but it probably won’t get as many clicks as people wanting to know about the best deals at Costco.

If you want a plain news story with just the facts, good luck. Most of the online news is hyped up. For example, a recent headline read:  “Southwest Airlines makes a change passengers will love.”

This headline made me curious – what exactly is Southwest doing that I’m going to absolutely love.

Get ready – Southwest is promoting its rewards program for those who fly through the end of November.

This is nothing new.

I’ve been using Southwest Airlines for many years, and they’re always running sales – one-way fares as low as $39 is a common promotion for them.

Southwest is using the same enticements they’ve always used. The difference is now they’re using sensational words to get your attention, your click and your money.

When it comes to health, the headlines are often doom and gloom. Here’s one – “the common mistake that could be wreaking havoc on your cholesterol.” That’s a clever headline because we all want to know how we can stay healthy.

The “common mistake?” Not working with a doctor to manage your cholesterol. That’s common all right – common sense.

A favorite tactic is using the line “here’s what happens to your body if you eat this one food every day.” You don’t know if it’s something good or bad so you click on the article.

Let me save you some time.

If you eat high-fat ice cream every day, you will gain weight.

If you snack on celery and cucumbers instead of ice cream, you will probably lose weight.

If you eat cheeseburgers and fries every night, your body will expand around the waist and your cholesterol will shoot up.

There. No need to ever click on those misleading headlines again.

Other words they use to get you to click on their articles are “stunned,” “heartbroken,” “sizzling deals,” “I can’t stop watching,” and, one of my favorite over-used phrases “swear by.”

An old newspaper saying was “if it bleeds, it leads.” That’s still true, but a rare sighting, an incredible product, and “here’s what everyone should know,” grabs the lead every time.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

There are a few things every household has.

A bathroom.

A front door.

A junk drawer.

Having a junk drawer is Housekeeping 101. There has to be a place to throw all those extra ketchup packets, obsolete paper take-out menus, twist ties and odd kitchen tools.

I’ve watched a few YouTube videos where overachievers empty out a junk drawer, buy expensive plastic inserts and put everything back nice and neat.

Go ahead and spend all that money on fancy dividers, but in two weeks, that drawer will revert to its original reason for existing – storing junk.

Things will migrate into chaos, but that’s okay. It’s a junk drawer and half the fun is rummaging around in there because you find all kinds of treasures while looking for what you want.

On a hot afternoon, I decided to straighten out a few messy places in the house. I went through the place where I keep dust rags and old towels. I threw away the ones with lots of rips and holes and kept the ones with only a few holes.

Then I spotted the junk drawer. I opened it and looked around. I had a couple of dividers in there, but those had been buried underneath junk years ago.

Instead of dreading cleaning out this drawer, much as I had with the old rags and towels, cleaning out the junk drawer was like being on a treasure hunt without the threat of quicksand or venomous snakes.

I started rummaging around. I found a 9-volt battery and one Batman walkie-talkie. Underneath those were a few small screwdrivers.

These are the ones that fit perfectly in kids’ toys. Must’ve been why I tossed that 9-volt battery and the walkie-talkie in here.

I found dozens of twist ties. I keep those because they come in handy when tying the strands of Christmas lights together before storing them for the year.

There were at least a dozen assorted small screws and nails. No use sorting those, I thought, and left them in the bottom of the drawer along with extra buttons, drapery hooks, nails, thumb tacks and paper clips.

Then I found something I’d been looking for since last year – extra matches.

At the last birthday party, none of us had any matches or a lighter. I remember when every restaurant had a bowl filled with matches by the cash register. Not anymore.

So I bought a 12-pack of matches, and then tossed them in the junk drawer. I hope the next time we have a birthday party I can remember where I put them.

I must have a thing for glue because I found three or four glue sticks – all dried up, of course — some kind of bond adhesive, caulk, Gorilla glue and a package of Super Glue. None of these, by the way, ever work for me.

There’s a set of pliers in here, along with a hammer and my dad’s beat-up flat-head and Phillips screwdrivers.

There’s also a few cheap metal wrenches that come with furniture. You’re supposed to throw them away, but those of us who can’t stand throwing things away – remember the towels with holes – believe those little wrenches could come in handy one day.

That day hasn’t come yet, but I’m hopeful.

There’s a role of kite string in the drawer. When I picked it up, I smiled, remembering when we took our son’s Cub Scout group kite flying.

The boy in the group who wasn’t the fastest or the strongest turned out to be the best kite flyer in the bunch. He got his kite up higher and faster than all the other Scouts.

That string is a reminder of fun days and fun times. And maybe that’s what most of the things in a junk drawer are for – they remind us of some happy memory.

Putting together a bookshelf with a small child, blowing out birthday candles or watching a shy child come into his own because we found a place where he could shine.

I closed the drawer without straightening anything out. A messy drawer is exactly what’s it designed to be – a place for memories.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Sooner or later, we need a doctor. Maybe it’s a back ache, an accident or something’s not right. We want someone to hear and cure us.

Good luck.

The medical field has changed dramatically. When I was in the first grade, we lived in upstate New York. Most of the kids headed to the high school to sled down the school’s hill whenever there was a heavy snow.

I was one of those kids. Unfortunately, I came down fast one day and ran into a boy holding a sled. The sharp metal part of the sled caught me in the forehead. My mom took me to the town doctor’s home where he saw patients.

Dr. Cash was where we went to for colds, ailments and the chicken pox. That day, he stitched up my forehead and gave me a lollipop on the way out.

Those days are long gone. Today, you have to choose a primary care physician from a list of approved doctors. It doesn’t matter if you have someone you like, the doctor has to be in your network.

Don’t get too attached to that doctor. Insurance companies love changing who’s on their preferred list and who’s not.

Once you reach the age of 65, you’re on Medicare. In theory, Medicare is supposed to cover most, but not all, of the costs for approved health care services. After you meet the deductible, you pay your share.

The key words here are “supposed to cover most” and “approved.” If some bureaucrat doesn’t think you need the expensive heart medication, you’re out of luck unless you want to pay for it or your doctor fights for you.

Two years ago, I started having trouble with my legs. It hurt to walk, sleep and drive. I went to my primary care physician, and he recommended a vein doctor.

I paid over $350 for no relief and no answers. I did some research and found I should probably see an orthopedic doctor. I found a practice close to our home. The receptionist who booked my appointment recommended Dr. Jacob Worsham.

She said he was great.

She wasn’t wrong.

Dr. Worsham looked at my x-rays and diagnosed osteoarthritis, the most common form of arthritis among older adults. Dr. Jake, as he likes to be called, recommended an easy-to-follow, three-step process – cortisone shots, gel shots and then knee replacement.

I got the shots that day and they worked like magic. I resumed my life. A few months later, I could tell the effect was wearing off, and I went back for more shots. Worked like a charm as has the third round.

I bragged about Dr. Jake to my family. When my husband went in for a broken elbow, the hospital said they were sending in an orthopedic surgeon. Who should walk in but Dr. Jake.

Not only did he repair my husband’s elbow, but my husband has full range of motion and the scar is invisible.

Dr. Jake is leaving the Houston area to be closer to his elderly parents. What I wanted to say when he told me, but couldn’t because I was choked up, was thank you, Dr. Jake.

You listened to us.

You made us better.

You did so with confidence, a friendly and professional attitude and genuine caring.

Fabulous health care professionals are out there. They make the time to listen to their patients, really listen, and do their best to help their patients feel better and to hopefully find a cure that works.

Best of luck, Dr. Jake.

You gave me my life back, and for that, I am eternally grateful.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

“You can’t train a good snake dog. They’re just born that way.”

These were the words of wisdom Bob Haenel gave me many years ago. I was telling the newsroom about our dog barking at a coiled-up snake in the yard.

Earlier she’d also cornered a big, black snake on our patio and had alerted me to a snake on the patio. Bob was right – Channell was a good snake dog, and she was born with that instinct.

It’s no secret I’m terrified of snakes. Big snakes, little snakes — anything that slithers. I don’t even like walking in front of the glass cages at the zoo where they keep snakes.

This past week, my brother and his wife went on vacation. They had a house sitter to take care of their two King Charles Cavalier dogs. They’re primarily lap dogs who want to be close to people.

Ella is an older dog, content to sleep most of the time, and Trixie is a young, always bouncing puppy.

I was going to Baton Rouge to stay with my mom while they were vacationing.

Jimmy and Peggy graciously offered me the use of their house while they were gone and the sitter said she’d come when I left. A win for everybody.

All they asked was for me to make sure the pups had food and water. There was a doggie door so Ella and Trixie could go in and out as needed, so they were pretty self-sufficient.

Easy, I thought. The dogs barked when I was came in, but by the second day, they knew I was a friend.

If I watched television, Trixie curled up next to me. Ella preferred the cool wood floor. They were quiet company, and we got along famously.

I was writing on my laptop about midnight when the dogs started barking furiously. They were by the door that leads out to the garage. I wondered what in the world would get them so riled up.

I got closer and saw they were barking at something on the floor. It was a snake. Not a big one but a snake is a snake is a snake.

I screamed.

They barked.

I screamed louder.

They barked louder.

I looked around for something, anything, to kill that snake. I knew I had to hurry up because snakes are fast even though Ella had that snake cornered.

There was no way I could sleep in the house knowing a snake was loose, just waiting to slither up the chair where I’d be sitting or, horrors, waiting for me on my pillow.

I remembered seeing a broom in the pantry. I ran to get it and the dogs stayed put, Ella keeping that snake right up against the wall while her younger sister barked and jumped around behind her.

I opened the door to the garage and got ready behind the dogs. I took the broom and tried to grab the snake with the bristles. It worked but the snake shook free and dropped to the floor.

I screamed.

Trixie barked.

Ella wasted no time. She grabbed that snake in her mouth and shook it furiously.

When she dropped it, I was ready and swept that dazed snake out the door and then slammed it shut. My heart was beating and the dogs were still barking. I reached down and petted those dogs, scratched their heads and told them how proud I was of them.

Then I found the bag of doggie treats and gave them half the bag.

Ella slept on the floor in front of the door for the next few hours while Trixie snuggled up next to me.

I told my brother that Ella has a warrior’s heart. So does her little sister Trixie and our matriarch, Channell.

Bob is right. You can’t train a snake dog.

But when you find one, that’s a treasure.

We have three. I’d say we hit the lottery.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.   

When you get past a certain age, there are truths you come to accept. Some truths are easier than others.

I remember riding my bike around the block where we lived. Out my grandparents’ driveway to Second Street and round the corner. In the middle of that street was a set of stone stairs. I’d stop there and pretend I was resting and looking around.

What I was really doing was stopping to let my “horse,” aka my bicycle, get a drink of water and cool down. Like so many kids, I wanted to be a cowboy. In my imagination, my bike was a part-time horse.

I got a little older and realized the bike was nothing more than steel and rubber wheels. The truth is, these days, I ride my bike because my knees won’t allow me to walk around the block.

I read “Black Beauty” when I was about 10 years old and thought I knew everything about horses.

The first time I rode a horse was right after I’d finished that book. The horse didn’t realize I’d read that book because he galloped, didn’t do what I wanted him to do and tried to bite me.

I hung on for dear life on that ride, thinking this wild horse was nothing like Black Beauty. Now, the only horse I’m interested in is can the horsepower in my car get me safely over the ramps on the interstate.

For many years, I considered myself somewhat organized. But one frustrating afternoon, after looking for my car keys for an hour, I ordered Marie Kondo’s organizing book.

I had to face a bitter truth. I was surrounded by clutter everywhere I looked – letters and cards, photographs and hundreds of books.

Kondo advised only keeping things that give you joy. So I assessed.

All those pictures make me happy because they remind me of good times and celebrations.

Many of the letters are from relatives and friends who are no longer here. Seeing their handwriting reminds me of them. That gives me joy.

The mementos are either gifts from my childhood or something I picked up while traveling.

All of them bring me joy.

But I did follow one key bit of advice from Ms. Kondo. The book “The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up” did not bring me joy so I donated it and instantly felt better.

Reading a book does not make one an expert on the subject in the book nor can the content in the book motivate me to do something I really don’t want to do.

It’s even worse when I watch a YouTube video.

Cleaners visit a hoarder’s house and, with the snap of their fingers, the house is clean.

I watch that and think I can clean out our garage in a couple of hours. I’ll watch another one and believe I can rearrange my kitchen pantry.

In the time I spent watching those videos, I could’ve cleaned the garage, the kitchen and washed a few loads of clothes.

In reality, there is no need to clean out our garage because my husband is already neat and organized.

These people would probably have me throw out his collection of screws, nuts and bolts he’s collected over 40 years. Truth be told, those odd screws have come in handy quite often.

I’m not going to move the washer and dryer to clean underneath them. I’ll clean that mess up when we move.

I’m not going to take everything out of the kitchen cabinets, install rolling shelves and re-season the cast-iron pots.

I’ll keep reading the books and watching the how-to videos. The best thing they accomplish is keeping me from doing the actual work.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

One dollar.

That’s all it took for our grandson to have a fabulous time on an errand that would normally be the last thing an 8-year-old boy would want to do – clothes shopping with his big sisters.

Jason was willing to go shopping with us because I told him he might see something he’d like to buy.

He said he’d been saving up money from doing a few jobs around his house. When we were ready to go, Jason held up a small Zip-lock bag and showed me his treasure trove.

He had seven dollars in change and folded up dollar bills in that small plastic bag. We left the house, everyone thinking about what they needed to get that afternoon.

We went in the first store where we waited patiently for the girls to try on a few T-shirts.

“Can I play on your phone while we wait?” Jason politely asked. Of course I handed it over. I knew waiting for sisters to try on clothes wasn’t where this active little boy wanted to be.

For a half hour, Jason sat on the floor, happily playing his game. He walked with us while we meandered along, never asking us to hurry up.

On the way to the mall’s main hallway, Jason spotted a group of massage recliners, the ones people sit on when they’re tired.

Jason, though, was ecstatic. He looked at the tag and saw he could get a massage for one dollar.

“I have money!” he said, pulling out the Zip-lock bag out of his pocket.

I thought it was a waste of money – a three-minute back massage for a dollar. I suggested he wait and see if there was something else he’d rather spend his money on.

He agreed, but I could tell he wasn’t convinced.

Jason looked in the toy store. Even though there were a few things he could buy, he insisted he was going to wait and get a massage before we left the mall.

“Are you sure you don’t want one of these small things near the cash register,” I asked in the toy store.

“No ma’am,” he said, smiling. “I’m gonna get that massage.”

We kept shopping and he was agreeable the whole time, happily waiting for his sisters while they browsed and tried on outfits.

We had lunch, and I forgot about the massage chair. We finished our pizza and stood up.

“Let’s head to the car,” I said. “I’m a little tired.”

The girls agreed, but not Jason. His disappointment was quite evident.

I looked at his face, those big brown eyes so trusting, the very top of the Zip-lock bag peeking out of his pants pocket. He’d been so patient, waiting for his turn, not once complaining.

That’s when I decided – there was no way we were leaving without him getting a massage. We went back the way we came in. When Jason spotted the massage chairs, he ran over and sat in every one.

“I want to be sure I get the most comfortable chair,” he said.

When he found the one he wanted, he carefully took a crumpled dollar bill out of the bag, smoothed it out and slid it into the money slot.

The chair started to vibrate and he laughed and laughed with pure joy.

That afternoon, the girls and I bought clothes.

Jason, however, bought something much more valuable, my husband said.

He bought a joyful experience.

For one crumpled and well-spent dollar.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Teachers are already busy decorating bulletin boards, creating seating charts and making reading nooks comfy.

They’re making sure each child has a place in the classroom, from personalized placemats to name tags over backpack hooks.

Parents are likewise getting their children ready for school. Haircuts and dental appointments are scheduled, new shoes are in the closet, and pens, pencils and notebooks are in new backpacks.

This coming year, children will learn to read and how to find and check out a book from the library. They’ll memorize their student identification number so they can get their lunch all by themselves in the cafeteria.

Parents and teachers will worry, children will hope they can snag a swing at recess and teens will wonder if they’ll have friends to help them through the coming year.

The most important education, however, comes from what we don’t prepare for –life lessons. Over the course of the coming year, teachers will be called upon to teach lessons that weren’t covered in college.

They’ll have to handle kindergarteners and first graders who miss their parents so much, they can’t stop crying. Teachers will learn to console those children but also build their confidence so they can face the day by themselves.

Middle school teachers coax confidence from a shy sixth grader who’s being bullied or ignored by the other pre-teens. These teachers will have to react quickly to youngsters who are changing from little kids to pre-teens. Those mood swings are real, as any one of them will tell you.

High school teachers are handling young adults. They know how to make their own meals and be the one in charge.

Many hold down part- or full-time jobs in addition to going to school full time. They’ve learned how to balance adult responsibilities on young, still forming shoulders.

Teachers learn to accept the circumstances their students endure but still push them to learn geometry, chemistry, trigonometry and history.

More importantly, teachers have to convince a child living in poverty that an education is a ticket out of the situation.

They teach children growing up in wealth that they have to rely on themselves to make it in life. Not their parents’ money or influence – the one person they can rely on lives in their skin.

Coaches have a daunting job. They have to be tough on their athletes, to push them to achieve both mentally and physically.

They teach boys and girls to be part of a team. In a society that’s focused on the individual, to become part of a team and give up the spotlight for the greater good is a delicate skill.

Administrators must look beyond the pretty bulletin boards and color-coordinated cubbies to how well the teacher connects with the kids in his or her class.

Let’s hope the principal remembers the teachers on staff are people who struggle with often insurmountable problems they did not create. The same goes for the kids in the classroom. Most are doing the best they can.

Do teachers discipline and correct yet smile and love? Parents understand how difficult this is as a mom or dad but they often forget how difficult this balancing act can be in a classroom.

This year, let’s look for academic and athletic achievements but, most of all, growth in each child’s and each adult’s belief in themselves.  At the end of the year, they can all be more than they believed they could be on that first school day in August.

Above all, let us pray for grace and gratitude in the classroom for everyone.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

(This short story was a writing exercise in my writing class, The Story Spinners. We could choose a picture, a phrase or a word. I chose a word, “suit.” We had an hour to write and polish.)

 

One-word Prompt:  Suit

Lorraine hadn’t meant to go through the clothes in the plastic box, the one she’d slid in the back of the closet years ago. But she was looking for the bomber jacket she’d worn to the homecoming game her freshman year of high school. Her daughter wanted to wear it to a costume party.

“Mom, JoJo spilled the Rice Krispies all over the floor,” came a young voice from the kitchen. That voice belonged to her daughter, Katie. At five years old, Katie believed she was the boss of the house, a role her older sister, Angela, felt belonged to her.

“Angela, can you sweep that mess up?” Lorraine answered.

“Too late,” her eldest daughter called back. “Satchel licked them all off the floor.”

Lorraine didn’t want to think about all the dog spit now on the kitchen tile. On the positive side, the kids wouldn’t be eating the cereal off the floor, something she’d caught three-year-old JoJo doing more than once.

“Mom, did you find that jacket?” Angela called out.

Angela was 11 years old, about to start the sixth grade. She was the reason Lorraine had hauled the box out of the closet and was going through clothes she hadn’t seen in years.

On top was the maternity top she’d worn the day she went to the hospital to have her last child. JoJo was a big baby, and that jersey maternity top had been stretched to its limit by the time she gave birth.

“I could probably wear that right now,” Lorraine thought. With each pregnancy, she’d gained a few more pounds and now she was packing about 40 more pounds than she had when she’d married Al.

She dug underneath the maternity top. Somewhere in that box, she knew, was the black bomber jacket she’d worn to that homecoming game. The theme was the 80s. Most of the girls wanted to look like Madonna, but not Lorraine. She wanted to look like Kelly McGillis from “Top Gun.” She’d found a fake black leather jacket at a thrift store and went to the game pretending she was a boss Top Gun instructor. When Lorraine spotted Al Boudreaux wearing a black leather jacket and white T-shirt, she knew he was the one for her.

Lorraine heard another crash from the kitchen.

“Nothing broke,” Katie called. “JoJo spilled the Rice Krispies again.”

Lorraine sighed.

“Let the dog have them and then put that box up where your brother can’t get at it,” Lorraine yelled back. That black leather jacket had to be in this box somewhere.

Then she saw it.

The suit.

The gray jacket was neatly folded, and Lorraine took it gently out of the box. There was that light stain on the lapel from when she’d spilled her coffee the morning before she presented her first case to a judge as a public defender. That case had been the first of at least a dozen she’d presented before she left the office, pregnant with Angela. She looked at the suit again. Lorraine remembered how she’d fallen in love with the suit when she spotted it in Maison Blanche. The tailored fit accented Lorraine’s slender hips and waist.

“I probably couldn’t get that jacket over my thigh,” Lorraine thought bitterly. She unbuttoned the jacket, opened it and felt the satin inside. She remembered thinking she didn’t want to sweat in the jacket, not when she’d paid full price for the suit. But there was something about that gray suit, something that made her feel powerful when she wore it.

“Mom, Alle’s coming over and we want to try on costumes for the end-of-the-summer party,” Angela said. She was standing in the doorway, her hand on her hip, an exasperated look on her face, a face that was almost identical to her father’s. Angela looked at what Lorraine was holding.

“What’s that?” she asked.

Lorraine quickly folded the jacket and put it to the side.

“Nothing,” Lorraine said. “I just got sidetracked. I know that bomber jacket is in here. It’s probably at the bottom.”

Angela came and sat next to her mother. She picked up the jacket and felt the material.

“Was this dad’s?” she asked. Angela was too young to remember women had to wear suits back then to appear as powerful as a man. If a woman showed up in a dress to the courtroom, she wouldn’t be taken seriously. Angela didn’t know the obstacles women had to overcome. Probably if she asked her daughter to name five females who paved the way for equality, she’d have a hard time.

“No, it was mine,” Lorraine said, gently taking the jacket back from her daughter.

Angela looked in the box having lost interest in the jacket and started rifling through the clothes. She found the pants that went with the suit.

“Why did you keep this?” she asked, holding up the pants. The waist was so small, it would probably fit Angela, Lorraine thought. Why had she let herself go? Why hadn’t she gone back to the classroom after Angela was old enough to go to daycare? Lorraine could’ve resumed her job in the public defender’s office. She could’ve fit into that suit because the weight hadn’t started creeping up until she’d had her second child and felt like a milk machine and chauffeur for Angela’s ballet and music lessons.

“Here it is,” Angela said, holding up a black leather jacket. While Lorraine had been lost in thought, Angela had continued looking in the box and had come up with the jacket. She stood up and slipped the jacket on.

“Perfect fit,” she said, twirling around. “This jacket is perfect for my look as a biker chick.”

Angela left the room before Lorraine could say anything. Biker chick? Hadn’t she taught her daughter about the importance of being a self-assured, confident woman? Didn’t she know a woman didn’t need a power suit to assert herself in life?

No, she thought bitterly. I taught my daughter it was okay to let herself drown in insecurity and put her dreams aside for everyone and everything else. Lorraine took the suit out of the box and hung it on a hanger on the doorknob to the closet. She heard another crash from the kitchen.

“Mom, JoJo spilled the milk and Satchel is licking that off the floor,” Katie called.

“That’s okay,” Lorraine called back. “I’ll mop the floor later.”

Lorraine looked at the suit one more time. The girl who fought for the rights of the unjustly accused, the one who wore this suit and wore it like a warrior, was still inside her. The suit was simply armor. She straightened the jacket on the hanger and called out to Angela.

“Let’s talk about who you’re going as to the party,” she said. “Did I ever tell you about Amelia Earhart?”

 

It’s 101 degrees outside. Going for a bike ride, a walk or even a car ride, is hard to get excited about, especially when it’s a comfortable 78 degrees inside my house.

To keep my mind somewhere else, I cleaned out the pantry – did those fruit cups really expire in 2018 – my office and the refrigerator.

Three trash bags later, I’m done. Instead of dusting or vacuuming, two chores I avoid like the plague, I decided to sit down and escape with a movie for a couple of hours.

I’ve always been a movie junkie. My mom and I would curl up on the couch on Sunday afternoons and watch tear-jerker movies. My favorites were “Imitation of Life,” “Backstreet” and “Madame X.”

Occasionally we’d get lucky and an MGM musical would be on. A favorite was “Seven Brides for Seven Brothers,” the barn-raising dance scene one of the best of all time.

I loved “Singing in the Rain,” but my sons grew to hate that movie. On school mornings, I’d sing “Good Morning” to wake them up. One of the boys said whenever he hears that song, it’s like fingernails on a blackboard.

This hot afternoon I tuned into “Rush Hour” with Chris Tucker and Jackie Chan. Not an award-winning movie but a fun one, and that’s exactly what I was looking for.

Chan was 44 years old when he made this movie. At that age, my knees were starting to give out and I needed bifocals. Chan was jumping off buildings, boats and hanging from the rafters.

Another hot afternoon movie is “Seabiscuit.” The true story of this remarkable racehorse, the owner, the trainer, and the jockey would be impossible to believe if it wasn’t true. The movie is always inspirational and a good reminder to never give up.

I’m one of those dinosaurs who still has DVDs and a machine capable of playing said discs. Here’s my list of some recommended escape-the-heat movies you can find online or rent:

“The Sandlot.” The line “You’re killing me Smalls” is one that I’ve used at least a dozen times in my life. For anyone who recognizes the line, the result is always a smile.

“The Mummy.” Brendan Fraser might’ve won an Oscar as an obese father, but as a young actor, nobody swashbuckled like Frazier. When he kisses Eve’s knee in “Blast from the Past,” he cemented his image as a heartthrob.

“City Slickers.” Most of the jokes are out of date – young people have no idea how hard it was to program a VHS player nor would they recognize the theme song from “Bonanza.” It’s still a fun way to spend an hour and a half.

The “Back to the Future” movies are always a good bet, especially the first one where we’re introduced to Marty McFly and Doc Brown. And, Doc’s right, if you’re going to time travel, what’s better than a DeLorean?

A good bet is any movie with Denzel Washington, Matt Damon, Meryl Streep, George Clooney, Viola Davis or Sandra Bullock. Harrison Ford also delivers great performances, especially as Indiana Jones.

Whenever I don’t want to feel like I’ve totally wasted the afternoon, I’ll watch a classic. I can always find something profound in “To Kill a Mockingbird.”   If I need a good cry at the end, I’ll pop in “Karate Kid” or “My Dog Skip.” If I want to feel like there’s hope in this sweltering world, it’s “Rudy” or “Field of Dreams.”

The movies are a great way to escape bad weather, housework or whenever things are going sideways.

Order up a film from your internet provider and sit back with some popcorn and spend a hot afternoon with some familiar film friends.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

One empty small Cheetos bag.

Just one.

An empty one at that.

Who would’ve guessed that one small empty Cheetos bag would attract a city of ants to wage war on our tent in the middle of night.

Last month, I took our 8-year-old grandson to Cub Scout Day Camp. We went home in the afternoon, cooled off in an air-conditioned house and slept in our own beds.

Taking my granddaughter to a four-day, overnight Scout Camp presented a whole new level of expertise, something I didn’t possess. My husband is an outstanding Scouter and camper, but he couldn’t make the trip. So he made sure we were prepared.

He gave us the necessities from cots, to sleeping pads, flashlights and practical advice. But, like most things, I learn the hard way, and I learned quite a bit about camping during those four days.

First, the tent. We were lucky because the camp provided roomy canvas tents on pallets. There were a few things I didn’t know about a tent.

Ventilation flaps open on the sides of the tent, not just on both ends. It’s also a good idea to open all those flaps when the Texas temperature is 85 degrees at night.

There’s no light in a tent. The little flashlight we had wasn’t the same as having an overhead light. We finally figured out my cell phone put out enough light for us to move around at night.

There’s another thing a tent doesn’t have – a ceiling fan. Luckily my husband sent us with a battery-powered fan and two rechargeable batteries. Good thing because I had to change the battery out about 3 a.m. all three nights.

A tent is no protection against insects. Those ants, attracted by that one empty Cheetos bag, found a million hiding places inside that tent, from the sheets to the pillows and our clothes.

We had to take everything out of the tent and shake them all out. Because it was hot and we were late for breakfast, we tossed the sheets, towels and blankets over two camp chairs outside the tent.

Rain might feel like a friend, but it’s not. Everything gets wet, especially the stuff we hung on those chairs.

Rain, when mixed with dirt, creates mud.

A muddy campsite is no fun.

Wet muddy shoes are no fun.

You walk at camp. Every day. Everywhere. And, on one afternoon, in wet, muddy shoes.

The sun comes up early and there’s no escaping the sun.

There’s no electronics.

No television.

No refrigerator.

No hair dryer.

Despite the lack of modern conveniences, our granddaughter absolutely loved camp. She loved the enthusiastic camp staff so much she wants to be one when she’s older.

She never complained, not about the heat, the ants or building a fire when the temperature was 100 degrees.

I whined about almost everything. You have to take practically your whole house with you when you go camping, why sleep outside when there’s air-conditioned hotels… the list is endless.

And for what? To wake up to the birds singing? A sunrise without buildings in the way and the smell of fresh dew on the grass?

To watch a young girl get a bull’s eye on the archery course or turn a canoe like an expert?

Was it worth the heat and miles of walking to watch my granddaughter lead the Morning Prayer in the dining hall, or catch a wide-mouth bass in the camp’s lake?

Was it worth it to watch my 10-year-old granddaughter steadily swim 100 yards to pass a swim test and come out of the pool with a huge smile on her face?

Absolutely positively yes.

 

    This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.