The year 2018 is coming to a close, and it’s hard to believe we’re racing toward the mythical 2020. We still have to get through 2019, so it’s time to write the annual resolutions list.

You know what I’m talking about — the unrealistic list we all make in January and toss in the wastebasket by the time Valentine’s Day rolls around.

This year could be different if I alter my mindset as to what to improve, what to change and, most importantly, understand the difference between the two.

Instead of the same old, same old list, I’m going to take a different direction in 2019. In no particular order, here’s the list:

Stop nagging. I can hear my family fist pumping the air with this one. I admit I’m a nag. I offer the same advice a dozen different ways, rationalizing I’m being helpful.

That thinking is wrong.

My sons are adults and fully capable of running their lives without my comments and observations. Family members and friends don’t need my opinion about what they’re doing and, frankly, I’m probably wrong anyway.

Listen and talk less.

I’m guilty of adding my own personal narrative or anecdote when someone’s telling me about a problem or a situation in their life. I think if I tell them what happened to me, my story will help them.

That thinking is wrong.

If someone’s talking about their family, their problem or asking a question, I need to keep the conversation on them. That means truly listening to what they’re saying instead of thinking about what I’m going to say.

I will heed that old saying – God gave us two ears and one mouth for a reason.

I think my husband will stand on the kitchen table and applaud this resolution.

Pay attention.

We laugh about the time our 3-year-old granddaughter told my husband to pay attention. In my case, it’s no laughing matter.

I often don’t pay attention to what people are telling me – not because I don’t care but because I’m not paying 100 percent attention. The older I get, the more I’m realizing I need to concentrate on the task at hand, not the dozen other things running around in my head.

This year, I’d like to slow down and make note of the things I have to remember in my phone instead of a piece of paper I’ll lose because I’m not paying attention to where I left the note.

Let go.

My uncle died when he was young from kidney failure. Marshall’s death was a tragedy, and my mom’s family was rocked to the core, especially my grandmother.

For the rest of her life, she wore only black or navy blue and there was always a sad anger about her.

Whenever someone passed away, she looked in the book she had of the people who’d sent flowers to Marshall’s funeral. If they hadn’t sent flowers to her son’s funeral, she did not send flowers to their family.

She checked that book for 40 years.

I don’t want to be a bitter person, but I can feel the seed growing in my heart. So it’s time to let go of the anger and resentment I’ve been carrying around. The people I resent have no idea I feel this way, and the only person I’m hurting is myself.

Besides, my friends and family are tired of hearing me complain.

I’m tired of hearing myself complain.

Instead, I’ll fill my mind with good thoughts and give out compliments instead of complaints.

This thinking is right.

I might not be able to live up to these ideals all year long, but I’m going to try. And that’s what the new year is all about – trying to live a better life.

Happy New Year!

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

 

 

 

 

The 5-year-old boy walked up the steps, his bowtie straight, his white shirt tucked in.

He took a few steps onto the stage, turned to the audience and, with his right hand in front of his waist and his left hand behind his back, he bowed courtly to the audience.

His smiling piano teacher, Rhonda Klutts, handed him his music, and he sat down to play.

His feet dangled above the ground, but his tiny fingers correctly tapped out “Jingle Bells.” At the end of the song, everyone let out their breath and polite, yet enthusiastic, applause filled the church.

And so it went at the first recital for Miss Rhonda’s Christian Piano Studio.

It was also the first piano recital I’ve ever attended.

I wasn’t sure what to expect at a recital for students who’d only been studying for a couple of months. “Chopsticks” with two fingers maybe, but not both-hands-on-the-keys renditions of “Up on the House” and “Away in a Manger.”

None of the students were over the age of 12, and every one was a little scared. But with their piano teacher’s hands on their shoulders, they took a deep breath and jumped in.

Some played softly, some more confidently, but they all finished. A few times, Rhonda came up and put her hands over theirs on the keys to get them redirected, and the audience was patient until the pianist was ready to begin playing again.

I can’t imagine the fear a child has when they sit down at a piano bench, knowing everyone can hear every mistake they make. I credit their teacher with giving them the courage to keep going.

There’s a bit of bias here – I’ve known Rhonda for over 20 years, the last 10 as a co-worker. I met her when she was directing a school choir at a somber funeral, and I’ve grown to be her friend as well as an admirer.

She’s always wanted her own Christian piano school, and after retiring from 30-plus years as a music teacher, she made that dream come true.

So few of us have the opportunity to see our dreams turn into reality. Rhonda didn’t make the decision easily because she adored her career as a music and choir teacher.

But she felt the time was right, and she and her husband, Joe, moved to a home that could accommodate an in-home studio and a new direction.

She transitioned into a second career as a small business owner doing something she loves – teaching young ones how to read music, learn the scales and then make the notes on a page transform into music one can hear.

At this time of the year, we think about finding the perfect gift, and I can think of no greater gift than to instill in children a passion for the arts, whether that’s playing a musical instrument, learning how to direct a play or write a special story for others to read.

Combine that with finding the courage to play for family and friends to hear is truly an accomplishment.

To anyone who teaches children a special skill, please know that your gift is a life-long one, and the child, and the world, will be a much better place for having the arts continue to flourish.

May your holidays be joyful ones, and in the words of the old song, “May all your Christmases be bright.”

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

The grandchildren were visiting, and we decided to bake some cupcakes on a rainy, cold afternoon.

The smell of a cake or pie baking always perks me up, and I figured the same would be true for the young uns.

I pulled two cupcake tins out of the cabinet, and noticed how discolored they’d become.

Those cupcake tins, practically brown from 40 years of baked-on grease, have served their purpose well. They’ve allowed us to bake hundreds of cupcakes and corn-bread muffins.

One year, I melted all the bits and pieces of crayons in the boys’ room in the tins and made discs of color for coloring book fun.

The baking sheets are in the same worn shape. Some are warped but they still provide a great baking surface for chocolate chip cookies and Thanksgiving rolls.

Tonight, I found myself re-looking at a lot of things in the kitchen and in the house. Stacked on the shelves were the now-faded Pyrex mixing bowls I’ve had since the late 1970s.

I’ve seen the exact bowls in antique stores, but I’ve never thought of not using the bowls that have come in pretty handy all these years.

My favorite memory of the green Pyrex bowl is coming into the kitchen one morning and finding my 3-year-old with the bowl between his legs, his hands stained red as he scooped up red Jell-O by the handfuls and slurped them down.

There’s the plastic spatulas in the drawer, and every single one is burned in the middle from where I put them down on a burner or the side of the frying pan.

Years of being in the dishwasher has bleached them out, but as long as they’re useful, I’m still going to flip burgers and pancakes with them.

Our dishwasher’s done a number on a few more of our more seasoned kitchen utensils. There’s no more red writing on the side of the Pyrex measuring cups. We just guess – yeah, that looks like a half a cup – and dump the water in the green Pyrex bowl.

Looking around, there’s a lot of Pyrex in our kitchen from the gold and avocado small casserole dishes to the white cookware with blue flowers on the side. I’ve broken a few of the lids, but there’s replacements online, so I’ll keep using them, just as I have for the last 20 years.

All our drinking glasses are etched. Sometimes it’s hard to tell what’s in the glass, but the cheapskate in me can’t throw away those glasses when they’re still usable.

They’ve been doing their job for about 25 years and, until I accidentally break them, they’ll keep showing up on the breakfast and dinner table.

There’s some Corell dishes still in every-day use here. Sure they have an outdated pattern on them, but who cares. They hold sandwiches and mashed potatoes quite nicely, so they’ll stay in use until we literally wear the strawberry pattern off the plate.

All true Louisiana cooks have at least one Magnalite pot in their cabinet. I’ve got a big one I use for gumbo, a smaller one for jambalaya and a pot for simmering gravies. I got those pots in 1975, and even though they’re a little pitted and no longer shiny, no way they’ve outlived their usefulness.

I’d like to believe that, like their owner, the dings, scratches and worn spots add character and in no way detract from their usefulness.

That’s how I am – a little worn around the edges but still quite capable of doing my job – making cupcakes, gumbo and, best of all, memories.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Most of us want to make a positive difference in the world. We hear about people running races to find a cure for a childhood disease or wearing pink to raise awareness about the devastating effects of breast cancer.

There’s clothing drives, food drives and fund raising efforts being held all over the world to combat hunger and homelessness. Here in our community, organizations raise thousands of dollars to help those in need.

Those efforts are worthwhile and definitely needed.

There is a way, however, we could make the world a little better place, and it only takes two minutes of your time.

It might not seem like you could accomplish a lot in that short amount of time, but consider taking two minutes in the morning and two in the afternoon to genuinely ask another person how things are going.

Most of the time, we give a superficial answer to a superficial question.

“How was your weekend?”

“Fine. How about yours?”

“Fine.”

“Do anything fun?”

“Nah, just worked around the house.”

“Me too. See ya.”

That’s usually how our encounters go – just enough to acknowledge the person, ask the polite question and move on.

Ask any more, and we appear nosy or pushy. Don’t ask that second question and it looks like we don’t care or only asked to have something to say while we’re waiting for the elevator door to open or for that person to get out of the way of the coffee maker.

Truth be told, we often don’t know anything more about that person other than they work where we work.

But if we allowed ourselves to ask a genuine follow-up question, we just might find out something interesting about the people we come into contact with each and every day.

The willingness to personally connect has been waning for the past few years.

The days of dropping in to visit relatives or friends for a cup of coffee and a chat are long gone. We’re either too busy or we don’t want to barge in on people without being invited.

We text friends and family members instead of visiting or calling on the phone. The times we do talk are because we can’t text.

There’s a self-imposed barrier between us and other people, and we make little effort to break down the wall.

Whenever opportunities for conversations come our way, we deflect and run.

I often get exasperated when my phone rings or someone stops by my room to chat. Later I find they had something on their mind they wanted to talk about with another person, but I felt I had to file papers or clear off my desk instead.

So today, even though it was two hours past quitting time and I was working late to get caught up, a colleague stopped by and we chatted for about 20 minutes.

Mostly small talk, but at the end of our conversation, Rachel’s the one who said if we’d just take two minutes to talk to other people, we could perhaps make the world a better place.

She’s right.

Take the two minutes. Forget the filing. Forget catching that elevator. Spend one or two minutes talking with someone you encounter every day but never seem to have the time to stop and listen to them talk, sometimes about nothing, sometimes about what’s important.

Their body language and face will tell you if they’re willing to talk, so pay attention. Sooner or later, they’ll remember you were someone who seemed to genuinely care about what they had to say.

Be that person.

Two minutes.

That’s all it’ll take to make someone’s world a little brighter.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

I don’t know.

Three small yet powerful words that can answer most of life’s questions.

What are you going to do with the rest of your life?

What are your plans after high school?

When are you going to settle down and get married?

We’ve always been told “I don’t know” is not an answer. “Yes,” “No,” and “Maybe” are responses, but sitting on the fence with a perplexed look on our faces isn’t really an answer.

Perhaps we’re selling those three words short.

“I don’t know” means quite a bit. It can mean we’re not sure and we don’t want to commit.

Sure the job we have stinks, but when people ask us when we’re going to move on or find something else to do, it’s tough to say we’re stuck at a job we hate.

It’s harder to say we’re staying at a dead-end job because we have to pay the utilities and mortgage on a house we’re already regretting buying and having to put a new battery in the junker mini-van.

Walking away from overwhelming responsibilities to do something different isn’t at option at this point in our lives.

We tell ourselves we don’t know all the time. A glance in the mirror causes us to do a double take – was that really me with that huge derriere, gray hair and double chin?

What was I thinking when I put on those too-tight pants this morning? Maybe I was thinking they’d look okay with a long top but the shirt didn’t cover as much as I thought it would.

Or maybe I wasn’t thinking. Those clothes were the first things I grabbed after a tossing-and-turning night. I really didn’t know what I was putting on except I could reach them in the closet and they were clean.

Little kids respond with “I don’t know” except when asked who broke the cookie jar. On that question, they blurt out “not me” and eventually rat out their little brother or sister. But when pressed, ole “I don’t know” is the culprit.

When they’re growing up, the questions never stop – why do I have to take a bath, why do I have to eat vegetables, why do I have to go to bed?

Most of us take our time and answer the questions as best we can, but inevitably, questions come up where we have no suitable response – death, moving, a shortage of money. There’s no explanation a child can understand except I don’t know.

When the questions involve the tooth fairy or Santa Claus, we hem and haw and throw out a fairy tale we heard when we were kids. If the children don’t buy those answers, we almost belly up to the bar – I don’t know if there’s really a Santa, but if you don’t believe, you don’t get anything.

That response usually stops the questions.

“What’s your curfew?” was our question to said teen when they came rolling in an hour late.

“I don’t know,” was the answer. “Did I even have a curfew?”

Of course they had a curfew. Of course you wanted to know who they were with and where they went.

When your child asks why you have to be so strict, you can spend hours defending your reasoning.

Or you can answer fairly quickly and with frank honesty – “I don’t know.”

Parents are always supposed to know, but let’s face it, most of the time, we’re winging it, secretly praying we’re making the correct decisions and saying the right words.

But we don’t really know if what we’re doing is the best answer or the best solution.

So why not be honest.

I don’t know is a perfectly acceptable answer.

I just know it.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

The mid-term elections are over.

Most of the candidate’s yard signs are in storage, and we’re no longer getting political calls and text messages on our phones.

I’m still wondering how these political pollsters have my personal cell phone number since I’m not a volunteer nor have I ever posted my number on any political site.

My dad would have the answer:  communists.

He was convinced the communists were around every corner and the culprit behind every political fiasco.

It didn’t help that we had random air raid drills at our elementary school where we were supposed to crouch underneath our desks when the atomic bomb was dropped on us by the Russians.

Now it seems ridiculous to think that hiding underneath a school desk would shield us from radiation, but the fear of the communists was so high, we did anything to escape their evil clutches.

To add to the paranoia, there were posters all over the school walls to be on the lookout for the, yes, evil communists.

We no longer have to worry about the communists, or any other shady shenanigans, slipping by unnoticed. These days, people, robots or trolls leave comments on every online news story, blog and video.

Frankly, they’re fun reading for a variety of reasons.

First, the comments reinforce my belief that there are really stupid people out there. I used to wonder how these ignoramuses maneuvered through big words like “economy” and “deficit,” but then I realized that they weren’t reading the story.

They were simply restating the rhetoric they’d seen somewhere else, copied the words and pasted them in the comments section. That’s the reason why so many comments spout the same political garbage post after post.

Some of them reflect the writer’s intellectual level, especially their writing skills. The ability to spell and capitalize words has atrophied in direct relation to the growth of the Internet.

Not only do hot-headed posters misuse “you’re” and “your” – excuse me while I put on my Grammar Police hat, but “you’re” is an abbreviation of “you are,” such as “you are screaming in print when you type in all caps.” “Your” should be used when stating “your opinions are pointless.”

Some of the comments make good sense, especially when calling out ridiculous “breaking news stories” that are often no better than “The National Enquirer” headlines or stories out of a dime novel from the 1950s.

Witty, snarky commenters have a field day with ridiculous stories, and that’s when I applaud the freedom of the press on the Internet. These writers make me laugh out loud, especially those who have an acerbic wit and the English skills to match their right-on-target comments.

There are often intelligent and lucid points of view from both sides of the political table. Even when I don’t agree with what the writer states, if their comment makes me stop and think, that’s a great brain exercise.

This newspaper encourages and runs signed letters to the editor. I especially applaud these people because they can’t hide behind some cute or clever online persona. They allow their opinion to be printed in the newspaper with their named signed at the bottom in the town where they live for everyone to see.

I read each and every letter because they make me think and applaud the writer, even if I disagree with their position.

My dad loved reading the opinion page in the newspaper, and I know he’d love reading all the online news and political comments. He’d tell anyone who’d listen where these far-fetched beliefs come from – yes, the communists.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I texted my sister last week, asking her for her home mailing address. I wanted to send her a card, but I didn’t have my address book at the office.

She texted me back her address along with an extra comment – “Get with current technology and put my address in your phone.”

“Who deals with an address book anymore,” she said with a laugh when I called to thank her for the address.

I figured everyone had a tattered A-Z address book with the home addresses of all their friends and relatives penciled in the pages.

They don’t. At least not any more. People keep up with email or Facebook addresses because few people mail letters or cards to other people.

Perhaps keeping home addresses is out of touch with today’s way of communicating – emails, evites and texting – but there’s something special about getting a card in the mail – the U.S. mail – that’s been addressed by hand and has a hand-written note on the inside.

In a metal box in my closet are letters my father, mother and grandfather wrote to me, and those letters are priceless. They’re a tangible reminder of my loved ones’ personalities, their being that shines through the shaky and slanted penmanship on the paper.

I looked online for other obsolete items in the home. Topping the list was encyclopedias. I’ll go along with that idea, but I have fond memories of sitting down with the Childcraft “How and Why” books for hours, reading about animals, different countries and the mysteries of the ocean.

Today, I can find all that information in seconds on Google, but I’m glad I have memories of getting the actual book off the shelf, year after year, and reading the books together with my younger siblings.

Phones have long been on the extinct list, and I wouldn’t trade my cell phone for all the wall or rotary phones in the world.

But there were long hours of sitting with a pink Princess rotary phone in my lap, wrapping the cord around my wrist and fingers, while talking to my high school best friend Trudi about who was the cutest Beatle – John or Paul.

Much has been written about the uselessness of a paper map, and I’m the first one to let an electronic voice in my car tell me exactly where to turn, where the traffic jams are and when it’s time to slow down because there’s a radar gun ahead.

But I’m glad my dad taught me how to follow a route on a paper map and that our sons know how to read a map as well. Those of us who know how to fold up a paper map get extra bragging rights.

The article also noted that photo albums are obsolete now that we have digital displays that flash images like a miniature television screen.

On this entry, I’ll disagree.

I love looking through old photo albums, especially with the older members of my family. Those black-and-white photos with the black triangular paste-in corners open up the memory floodgates.

Their rich stories about the old days connect me to the past much more than walking past a flashing digital display on a bookshelf. I now find myself flipping through photo albums with my grandchildren, passing the tradition on to another generation.

I wouldn’t trade my much-erased and dog-eared address book, oversized photo albums or the faded family pictures on the wall for all the high-tech, speedy electronics in the world.

So pass me that princess rotary phone because I still remember my best friend’s phone number.

Trudi, we still need to talk about George and Ringo.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

Twenty-one.

That’s the age many teenagers dream about because they’re officially considered an adult.

Twenty-one is a top casino game where players try to beat the dealer.

This week marks the 21^st year I’ve been writing this column.

I took over the Thursday slot from Devoni Wardlow, a friend and fellow writer, when she moved away from the county.

I submitted three tentative editorial columns to then managing editor Bob Haenel, and he gave me the green light.

Grateful and terrified were the two feelings that accompanied me on that first week back in 1997 when I introduced myself to readers of The Herald-Coaster.

I thought I’d run out of topics after three months. Twelve weeks turned into six months which turned into a year, 10 years and then two decades.

For many years, my sons provided most of the ammunition for these columns. They’d pull some stunt, look at me with a sigh and say “This is going in the column, isn’t it.”

Absolutely.

Who could pass up writing about seeing their child sneak a Halloween pumpkin down the stairs in April, their first days of school or the stockpile of smelly socks I found in the back of their closets?

There were columns about the toys they had to have growing up – the White Power Ranger sword where I literally sprinted out of West Oaks Mall, ran the red light to get to the Toys R Us across Highway 6 and nabbed the last Power Ranger sword in stock.

Over the years, I’ve tried to capture motherhood in a humorous light. It’s either laugh or cry when one realizes the reason the washing machine is groaning and whining is because the college kid put in 25 pounds of stinky jeans and towels in the same load.

I’ve stayed away from politics as I don’t feel I’m qualified to pontificate on the pros and cons of who and what’s on the ballot.

I’m like most people – I vote for the candidate I hope and pray will do a good job and vote yea or nay on issues I think are in the best interest of the community.

Writing for this newspaper has allowed me to meet so many wonderful people from all walks of life and from all economic levels. They are often unrecognizable to the general public, but their contributions are the framework of what good citizenship is all about.

Some of the columns that are nearest to my heart are the ones I’ve written about people who dedicated their lives to improving this community – the late Arthur and Lydia Mahlmann, Hilmar Moore, Frank Briscoe and Kathleen Lindsey, to name a few.

And there are those I’ve written about who are still active well into their later years – Virginia Scarborough and Lucille Jackson are at the top of the list, and there’s hundreds more I’d love to write about.

I’ve worked with some of the best writers, reporters, photographers, carriers and newspaper support staffers around, and they’ve contributed more to my life than they’ll ever know.

Although there’s always a knot in my stomach every Thursday morning when the presses are running, working for this newspaper has provided me with a constant sense of gratitude.

I’m humbled and grateful to the Hartmans for allowing me to keep writing for them, to Bob Haenel for believing in me and giving me and other female opinion writers a chance, and to Scott Willey for allowing me to continue occupying this space on Thursdays.

Mostly, I’m grateful to those of you who take time to read this column. You’re the reason I sit in front of the computer, peck away, eat cookies, hit the delete button at least a hundred times and finally hit the send button.

Thank you for sticking with me for 21 years. Who knows what adventures are ahead?

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

The grandchildren were able to make a day visit this past weekend, and we decided to find a pumpkin patch for a head start on Halloween. That holiday is a special one as it’s their dad’s birthday.

When Chris was born, I remember thinking he’d enjoy having his birthday on a day when he could dress up and get free candy.

But he didn’t really get to celebrate his big day because his friends had no interest in attending a birthday party when they could be walking around at night in a ninja costume getting free Hershey bars and candy corn.

So we planned ahead and had his party a week early. That strategy stuck with us, and when the grandchildren were able to visit, we went pumpkin hunting early.

At the pumpkin patch, there were dozens of pumpkins in every shape, color and size. As the grandchildren roamed the spacious lot, they examined and judged almost every single pumpkin.

Few made the cut. Too bumpy. Too tall. Too short. Too round. Not round enough. Too big. Too small. I told them the only requirement was that they had to be able to carry their choice to the car.

Immediately 10 were eliminated from the running.

With their best of the best safely in their arms, we made our way home where supplies were waiting.

We’ve elevated our game from when a knife and a long spoon were the only tools needed. For our sons, the decorations were whatever they drew with a crayon and their dad handled the carving duties.

As grandparents, the sky’s the limit. I had stick-on jewels in every color, pipe cleaners, orange pom-poms, googly eyes, sheets of Halloween stickers, markers, Sharpies and bottles of paint.

The older two decided they wanted theirs carved while the younger two wanted theirs whole. Later I found out it was so they could cuddle the small pumpkins while their older brother and sister wanted to put a candle inside to make theirs scarier.

While we were decorating, I started thinking about Halloweens when their dad was young.

I’ll admit it — I wasn’t the best costumer. When my boys played baseball, I convinced them to be baseball players. During the soccer years, they were, yes, soccer players.

There was a year the boys went as salesmen, complete with a shirt and tie – not my best year – and the year they were pre-teens and went as road kill, an idea I borrowed from a friend.

There was the year I spent two weeks making a Flash costume and a clown costume, and they played in those for the next two to three years. Ninjas and mummies were always easy, and I’d offer extra candy if they’d choose those ideas.

One year, the youngest boy wanted a Wolverine costume he’d seen while trick-or-treating.

I didn’t order the costume, thinking he’d forget.

He didn’t.

For a solid week after Halloween, he said Santa was going to bring him that Wolverine costume. When the costume finally came back in stock in early December, I had to pay extra for expedited shipping, but the costume was waiting for him on Christmas morning.

Happy hunting out there all you vampires, princesses and puppy dogs. Here’s hoping your plastic pumpkin is overflowing with Reese’s peanut butter cups, Kit Kats and lollipops.

And, for us, the best treat of all, happy birthday Chris.

 

Denise’s email is dhadams1955@yahoo.com.

My son was sitting on the floor sorting out his mail when he happened to glance underneath my desk.

“Where did you get this fabulous speaker,” he said, holding up a box with the JBL logo on the side.

Embarrassed, I admitted it was a Christmas gift from his brother almost a year ago, but I’d never opened the box. I appreciated the gift, but there was another reason the gift stayed in the unopened box for nine months.

“I’m not sure what’s in that box,” I admitted.

“Are you kidding,” he said, shock in his voice. “It’s only one of the best Blue-tooth speakers on the market.”

When I opened the present, I remember thinking it was a thoughtful gift, but I didn’t quite understand how a Bluetooth speaker worked.

Besides, I didn’t think I needed anything fancier than the inexpensive MP3 player I bought off Amazon. I figured out how to put songs on it and, last week, downloaded an audiobook so I could listen to novels while out walking.

I was perfectly fine with the two little speakers hooked to my computer, my Black Friday earphones and a small radio in the kitchen. What did I need with a Bluetooth speaker?

But then Chris pushed a button on the back, and the speaker came to life. With a huge grin on his face, he paired his phone with the speaker and it was like Toby Keith was giving a concert in the room.

Chris explained how easily I could play music from my phone.

I had to belly up to the bar again.

“I don’t have any music on my phone,” I said. “I just use the phone for texting and making phone calls.”

He looked at me like I confessed to churning butter instead of buying Land O Lakes at the grocery store.

“You can play songs from YouTube,” he said and asked me what songs I liked.

“Black Velvet,” I said without hesitating.

The old song by Alannah Miles is one of my favorites. I’m not an Elvis fan, but that sultry song is one of the best around.

In seconds, I was singing along in that “slow, southern style,” and I was amazed once again at the sound and depth of the music coming out of that little speaker.

After he left, I took the directions out and felt stupid seeing how easy it was to use the speaker. All I had to do was pair it with my phone – yes, I can actually do that – and then I could listen to all my favorites as loud as I wanted.

When the house was empty, I paired my phone with the speaker and jumped onto YouTube. I found Wilson Phillips’ song “Hold On,” another favorite, and then went right through the playlist for Martina McBride and James Taylor.

“Sweet Baby James” always makes me cry, and being surrounded by Taylor’s voice while I chopped tomatoes and cucumbers made kitchen duty fly by.

Needing something to kick away the sniffles, I danced my way through all of Credence’s songs – “Favorite Son” and “Bad Moon Rising” which led me to Tina Turner’s version of “Proud Mary.” There’s no way to not sway and sing through those songs.

When I was washing the dishes, I called up Tracy Chapman’s “Give Me One Reason” and thought about how music has kept me company on long car drives, lonely nights and on glorious days when I felt I had nothing to lose.

I should’ve opened that box months ago.

Thanks, Stephen, for giving me a great gift that brought the sounds of joy back into my every-day life.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.