"Bravery is being the only one who knows you're afraid." - Franklin P. Jones

I would say…
I’m never afraid.

But I won’t because I am.

I would say…
I go to sleep every night without a fear or a worry.

But I won’t because I can’t.

I would say…
I never obsessively worry.

But I won’t because I do.

It's a thing with me. I worry.

It's my not-so-secret secret. Its force on my heart is unavoidable - I want to retreat and sometimes I do. I retreat from here, I hide from certain people, I want to run away, and sometimes mentally, emotionally I do.

But I have a choice. There's always a choice. And while I'm excellent at preaching The Choice to people around me, I'm not always good at taking my own advice.

"You have a choice every day," I admonish. "A choice to live your life and make decisions for your life that only you can make."

"Facing the truth and realizing it's actually better than what you're worrying about is a fantastic feeling," I told someone tonight.

I want to say I take my own advice.
But I don't every day.

I want to say I face my own truth.
But most often I run from it.

So, what can I say?

I can say that
I'm getting stronger.

I can say that
I'm getting wiser.

I can say that
these traps that trip me up are losing strength.

I can say that
I choose truth.

And then, the battle raging in my head ceases and peace, like a river, floods in.

week in review

We ran out of gas (not my fault) on a tipping slope (again, not my fault) and Ev needed a little extra help supporting her head. Mainly, she thought it was a game.




Her and I swang in the hammock and enjoyed rain falling on us.




Skye loves me.


She would also rather I paid more attention to her than my work when I get home.



When peace like a river...

may history teach me, as I write it

In the last 30-some odd hours, I've been taken back 20 years to Oct. 16, 1991, the day of the Luby's massacre.

It was some sort of fate that forced our October 1991 book to open to Oct. 17, 1991 when I cracked it open in our library Wednesday. Story after story after story lined the archaic pages for days, months after chronicling the day's events, the press conferences, the release of the victim's names, the final number of those dead and wounded, the autopsy report of the shooter, the 9-1-1 calls and dispatch communications.

"We're going to need a lot of help," one officer said through his communication device.

Our photo editor brought me a small urn-like box today. "Luby's negatives and prints," was scrawled on the side in permanent marker.

Dozens of pictures, carefully labeled on the back, were in the box and despite the whirlwind of newsroomness swirling around me, it was all shut out as I sifted through the photos. The truck crashed through the window in the dining room, bullet holes in the windows, police officers guarding the door, ambulances, victims being loaded into Army helicopters that landed on the frontage road, an officer tending to a victim and then three frames later covering the man's face with the white cloth draped over his body, an officer carrying a stack of body bags into the building, victims being treated, Luby's employees talking to police, people hugging, crying, a survivor who's parents were shot and killed hugging other victim's family members...it all captured the story of loss and mayhem.

These are moments that stand still for me.

They are also moments that put into perspective the importance of my role as a journalist. It's easy to preach that we are history's record keepers, but until you're immersed in newspapers and photos 20 years old, you don't actually get it.

Today's news is tomorrow's history. How am I doing at preserving it?

doubling, tripling back

"Writing, I think, is not apart from living. Writing is a kind of double living. The writer experiences everything twice. Once in reality and once in that mirror which waits always before or behind." ~Catherine Drinker Bowen, Atlantic, December 1957

I had a friend once say she was jealous of my job because at the end of every day, I could see tangible evidence of my work in the form of a news story.

The truth is that there is sometimes little time to celebrate the printed one, because our minds are already on the next story and the next one and the next one.

It's a revolving, looping door and within one day, I go through many loops and double back many times.

It starts with an idea and then the idea is developed into a concept and the concept is nurtured into a story. The story is written, and we double back to the idea. Sometimes the idea is modified. Sometimes the story is modified to comply with the idea. And it's repeated until they align. Sometimes the process is accelerated (daily deadlines), sometimes the process is matured. Sometimes the process is whipping along at such speeds that all you can do is hold on.

This happens every day for every person in the newsroom and for nearly each looping, doubling back, there I am.

It's casting a line, waiting, drawing it back in. Casting, waiting, drawing. Looping and doubling back.

There are bigger loops too that are in my head. Front page today, front page tomorrow, front page Sunday. Inside section centerpiece today, tomorrow, the next day. What's going out front Monday? Tuesday of next week?

I have to cast my line further than the day under my nose, but still come back to today to the smaller loops rotating in my bigger one.

It's a challenge, living in the moment my readers are in, but planning days ahead of them.

Is today Wednesday? No, it's Tuesday, but it's Wednesday's paper I have in my head so I come back to Tuesday, but I can already tell you what's on Thursday's front page. When I get better at this, I'll be able to tell you what's on next Thursday's front page.

The loops and doubling back make time race by in increments of moments, hours, days, weeks.

Is it Sept. 18 already? Yes, because the water conservation package we've been planning for two weeks is running.

It is a kind of double living, this casting the line, waiting, drawing it in.

Then I lay in bed awake at night and think of all the things I haven't had time to think about during the day.

I could marry you. If you knew me.

I’m an optimistic realist, but how does that translate into my celebrity crushes?

My optimism would like to believe that my chances of bumping into Mike Rowe in Starbucks and him asking for my number are pretty good.

Realistically? Not bound to happen.

Same goes for Danny Forester, who my heart instantly sank for while watching “Build it Bigger” and him getting stuck in concrete on top of a dam in the middle of whatever country he was in at the time. I Googled him. I found his number. I called it. I did not leave a message (despite urging from my little brother.)

I have a crush on Joel Stein. I Googled him too: is Joel Stein married? Yes. Yes, he is.

You all know I like football. I really like it when Jason Witten (#82, tight end for the Dallas Cowboys) takes off his helmet. He’s 29! Optimistically, I could love him.

“What do you have to do to meet these guys?” I asked a friend in the Starbucks drive-thru. It’s a favorite place of ours. To talk, to converse through the microphone with the drive-thru employee, to compliment their new “fall line-up.”

My optimism is stretching.

But, really. Who do you have to hang out with to know these people?

We decided on the following:

Charity events. Night clubs, maybe strip joints. Know a friend. Of a friend of a friend. Or, develop a story idea in which these individuals must be interviewed.

Optimistically, it might not be as hard as I’m mentally making it out to be.

Realistically, it’s probably harder.

he found me and smiled

When my now 14-year-old brother texts me and asks me indirectly if I will go to his football game in the town 30 minutes from my office, I clear my afternoon schedule, press through my final meeting of the day and the myriad of questions that stack up when people see me gathering my things, I make arrangements to edit night stories from home, and I bolt early - the first day in six months I've done so.

I'm a planned 30 minutes late. I have to remember what number jersey he wears (10, the number between Colt McCoy and Jordan Shipley - if you don't know them, Google them), then I find him and yell his name in a non-obnoxious sort of way to make sure he sees me. He waved, and I waved back.

His team was up 6 to 0, then the Hornets scored bringing it 8 to 6 after a two-point conversion.

He was standing on the sidelines, but his coach put him in as quarterback on what I think was third down, if I remember right. He had a passing play on fourth down, and two plays later, on second or third down, the ball was snapped:



...he faked a hand-off right, but held onto the ball and ran left...



....and ran 40 yards for the winning touchdown....



I'd set my camera down so I could stand up and cheer for him. Later, I found out he told Mom last night that he hadn't scored a TD yet, but that today would be the day.

And it was.

He strutted off the field in what I imagine was a great moment for him. His teammates were yelling and clobbering him. His chest puffed out a little. His eyes didn't divert as he walked to the cooler and got a drink, but on his way back to the cluster of teammates, his eyes searched the stands and landed on me.

Beneath his helmet, his mouth split open in an incredible grin.

I matched it and simultaneously tears stung my eyes.

Moments later, it started raining, which is a big deal in Texas.

They won! And after the game, after he'd stripped all his pads and gear, he strode off the field, through the gate into the bleachers, and he hugged me. And I hugged his wet, sweaty little self.

I told him I was proud of him, he smiled. I asked him about food, he said they'd stop on their way back to our town to get some, but first he had to watch another game.

He hugged me again. Grinned.

And I left.

on the wild side of danger

I have a friend and together we solicit danger.

When I say danger, I mean fire ants. And ill-advised exposure to sun.

It’s funny, though, how the element of pain is erased by the power of a good memory.

When I think of our 24-hour trip to the coast, I remember Scuttlebutts, and not the second-degree sunburns I sustained on my face. Or the first-degree burns on 40 percent (total guess) of my body.

When I think of last Thursday night, I remember the delicious margarita and our roaming conversation on her back porch.

I don’t remember the fire ants so much, except that it’s really a great story that I’m about to tell you.

After a lengthy conversation about their dogs and one’s propensity to running away and never returning, I opened the front door to leave and the dog who likes to run away and never return, ran between my legs. And down the street.

Out popped one of their other dogs, who I managed to grab by the collar while we watched Molly juke back and forth and then trot away. I think I was probably yelling.

And then in the middle of the whole foray, my friend starts screaming about fire ants. In a matter of seconds, the following ensued:

1) I didn’t believe her
2) Her husband grabbed the dog I was holding and ran after Molly
3) I looked down
4) At the same instant I saw them, I felt fire spreading across my sandaled feet
5) I started screaming
6) I ran in the house
7) My friend didn’t want me in the house, I was bringing them in with me
8) I refused to go back outside
9) My friend accepted my decision
10) We slammed the door
11) We furtively started smashing the small insects
12) I threw my shoes off
13) We kept killing them
14) Our lower extremities were burning and starting to itch
15) I popped a Benadryl
16) My friend kept moaning that the bugs were crawling in under the door
17) She grabbed what she thought was cinnamon and poured it along the door frame. It was cumin.
18) She got the vacuum.
19) I got the actual cinnamon.
20) Her husband returned with Molly and the other dog.
21) He wondered why we had cinnamon out. And cumin.
22) We were still burning and itching.

Swallowing more often then usual to make sure my throat didn’t swell shut, I left in a hurry and popped another Benadryl. I stayed up till midnight to write a story due the next day just in case I had to further medicate myself and sleep off the side effects. I didn’t.

When the burning and itching finally subsided two days later, I was left with great memories.

Excellent margaritas. Rewarding conversation. A lot of dead fire ants.