I can’t find my car keys.

I haven’t a clue where I left my cell phone.

And my closet looks like a tornado ripped through it.

The only solution?

Clean out my purse.

How, you may ask, does cleaning out my purse help solve any of these dilemmas?

Well I’m not sure, but whenever my life’s a wreck and out of control, the first thing I do is clean out my purse because my purse is an extension of my life.

When I was a teenager, I needed a big purse, mostly for my hair brush – which back in the 1970s was as big as a barbell. There also had to be room for three tubes of lip gloss and two packs of gum.

As a young mother, my purse took a back seat to the diaper bag. That bag was great with the first child because I thought I needed everything baby related at all times.

In that diaper bag, I carried five or six extra diapers, a big tube of diaper-rash ointment, the large container of baby wipes, blankets, an extra set of clothes and plenty of toys.

With my second child, I started relying on my purse instead of the diaper bag. I pared down to two extra diapers, wipes and an extra shirt.

By the time the youngest one came along, one extra diaper, a travel pack of wipes and three or four Matchbox cars all fit quite nicely in my purse and I ditched the diaper bag.

My purse, I discovered came in quite handy with young children. It served as a booster seat in a restaurant, a pillow for a sleepy toddler and a physical barrier between two squabbling brothers. And because I had an indestructible purse, it didn’t matter when the purse was stepped on, thrown up on, used for third base or dropped in a mud puddle.

When the boys were older and no longer in need of toys or diapers, my purse became a holding ground for a reporter’s notebook, a big cell phone – which is how they were made back in the day – at least 10 pens and my camera.

Friends would show me their expensive purses, and I’d admire their accessory but I knew I had a real keeper with my reliable, sensible purse.

More importantly than the useful duties my bag carried out, my purse reflected my mood. The first time I realized my purse and my life were related was a few years ago when I couldn’t find my checkbook.

I realized I also couldn’t find the grocery list or a paycheck stub. I put two and two together and decided to clean the bag out and see if my mood improved.

I started with the wallet and emptied all the change. I realized first off that’s why my purse was so heavy. Then I took all the receipts out and made a stack of those.

Next to come out were the empty candy wrappers, runaway Tic-Tacs and Life Saver candies and all the pens that no longer worked.

I only put back when I needed, and a sense of calm came over me. I now carried around an in-control bag.

My life couldn’t be far behind. And, maybe it’s because I tricked myself into believing that fact, but now whenever my life’s a wreck, the first thing I do is clean out my purse and my wallet.

And after a hectic and busy week, where my car keys went missing every day and a candy bar melted in the bottom of the front section, a little cleaning just might be in order.

Now if I can just find my purse…

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

I went to a local high school girls’ basketball game recently, ready to watch some friendly rivalry between two cross-city teams. Watching the athletes warming up, I wondered how they’d gone to school all day long and then had the energy to play basketball.

The stands were filled with family and friends, and I thought the game would be pretty exciting because the teams were evenly matched.

The athletes were great – some of the fans were the problem.

This isn’t my first encounter with over-the-top fans. I went to a Pee-Wee football game once to see if the league was a good fit for my youngest son. While we were watching the game, an elderly man in the stands kept yelling “Spill some blood! Spill some blood!”

Right then and there, I decided Pee-Wee football was not for us.

Most parents enroll their children in organized sports because they want them to be physically active, make friends and learn to play on a team. Then there’s others who believe their child is better than everyone else and they push and bully their child and the coaches.

They’re the ones who scream at their child from the sidelines and blame the coach and every other child on the team for any and all losses. They’re in the minority, thank goodness.

But I’m realistic and understand the enthusiasm of football fans, especially with the Super Bowl coming up. Entire cities wear their team’s colors, fly their pennants from their car antennas and wear that team’s jerseys every game day. 

Years ago, we had season tickets to the LSU football games. Charles McClendon was LSU’s coach at the time, and, like most college football coaches, people either loved him or hated him.

There was one man who sat a few rows down from us at the games, and every other play he’d yell “You couldn’t beat Bunkie,” a small Louisiana town of less than 4,000 people.

I expect college football fans to react with passion and volatility – people take their college sports, especially football, seriously. How else can you explain how grown people will walk around with a foam block of cheese on their head?

Football fans love a winner and hate a loser, and LSU fans are no different. A few months ago, rumors were flying around Baton Rouge that LSU was going to get rid of long-time head coach Les Miles.

His record over the past 11 seasons with the Tigers is 112-32, and I thought the fans admired him and were happy with his coaching.

But I found out differently – it seems Miles has trouble beating Nick Saban who was the former LSU head coach and current head football coach at the University of Alabama. Saban left LSU for “greener pastures,” and beating him is a matter of pride for the Tigers.

Did it matter that Miles had beaten Ohio State for a national title? Did it matter that Miles has four times as many wins as losses? Nope. It only mattered that he hadn’t beaten Saban enough times.

But I’m not in Tiger Stadium. I’m at a high school basketball game and most parents are cheering great plays, three-point shots and when a player returns to the bench.

But a few parents are yelling at teen photographers for blocking their view. They’re yelling at the officials, they’re yelling at the coaches and yelling at the players.

If we ever wonder why young people today know how to behave at public events and scratch our heads because others have trouble, we don’t have to look far for the answers.

They learned from their parents.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

           Whenever I’m taking an interstate trip, I check the Web for closures and major traffic work along the interstate. Researching a recent trip to Louisiana, I came across an article from Red Dirt Report stating the I-10 bridge in Lake Charles is hazardous.

            This writer stated that the bridge is “very dangerous and should be closed.” The bridge’s underside was rusting away and could collapse at any moment, he stated. His advice? Take the 210-loop around the bridge and live to see another day.

            It’s hard for me to disregard a posting like that, even if I think it’s bogus. And as I approached the Lake Charles city limits, I debated which route to take. In the end, I took the 210 loop, but I felt like a wimp when I did it.

            My neighbor’s a bona-fide bridge expert, and I talked to him when I returned. He’s paid to inspect bridges, and he said the language used in these reports is technical and often misleading.

            The way comments are worded depend on the person writing the report. In his years of inspecting bridges, he’s only found two to be structurally unsound.

            I mentally slapped my forehead. I’m the person who checks on Snopes.com whenever I see some outlandish story on the Internet. From my days in the newsroom, I know to always double check the sources.

             But I still allowed that one report to sway my opinion, and it’s not the first time that’s happened. There’s one incident in my past that still causes me to cringe. When I was in high school, the local radio station reported there was going to be a trucker’s strike.

            The newscaster warned there’d be a shortage of everything – food, water and even toilet paper.

            For some reason, that last item in his report got to me. I begged my parents to make sure we stocked up on everything, especially toilet paper.

            There was no trucker’s strike, but for Christmas that year, my dad gave me a four-roll pack of toilet paper.

            Back in the 1970s, on the back of a Barbra Streisand album was a warning that we only had 10 years left. After that, we’d be shivering in the dark, our planet a used-up shell, thanks to mankind’s greed.

            My father and I had many arguments about that situation. He believed her warning was a made-up scheme by the oil companies and I believed we should heed Bab’s warning.

            Forty years later, we still have oil and Babs is still churning out albums.

            Today, National Public Radio reported on the Zika virus. This virus has been around since 1947, and a scientist on the show said it was very unlikely it would ever cause damage here in America. But the NPR folks are reporting on the virus as if the seven plagues of the pharaoh are loose in the land.

            And that’s not the only trouble we’re facing. The Democrats/Republicans are going to lead us into Armageddon, if any of them can even find their way to Washington D.C. The heavy snowfall in the north means global warming is real and the return of water to Texas means the drought is over but the mosquitoes will be back and that means West Nile Virus.

          But we can take some comfort. The bridge in Lake Charles hasn’t collapsed yet, there’s plenty of “Off” on the store shelves, and I don’t plan on going to Africa so I don’t think I’ll be exposed to the Zika virus.

           The only thing I’m worried about is catching a case of “Chicken Little” and falling for every panic story that comes along.

            But just to be on the safe side, I think I’ll stock up on toilet paper.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

Road trips are a wonderful opportunity to stop at places you normally wouldn’t think of as being a destination.

I try and deviate from the I-10 concrete whenever I go to Louisiana so I can experience the small towns and back roads.

One year, I took Highway 77 North into Baton Rouge instead of I-10. Even though the road had lots of turns, I saw a slice of Cajun Country I would’ve missed barreling along at 70 miles an hour.

The wooden farmhouses were situated back from the road, surrounded by waving stalks of sugar cane and rusted sugar cane pots. Cows and horses grazed in nearby fields and cattle egrets soared above the cut fields, knowing they’d find tasty morsels left by the harvesters.

But I was in a hurry traveling through Cajun Country around lunch time this past weekend. I started thinking about boiled shrimp and crawfish, and I could practically smell cornbread baking in the oven. I saw a sign for Breaux Bridge and decided to exit the interstate.

Anyone familiar with Cajun history and Louisiana knows Breaux Bridge is the self-proclaimed “Crawfish Capitol” of the state. As soon as one leaves the interstate exit ramp, it’s not hard to understand why they think their crawfish is the best.

Every inch of ground within eyesight of I-10 is covered with junky crawfish and MardiGras trinkets designed to take money from tourists.

The traffic’s bumper to bumper, chain fast-food joints are jammed in back to back, and that little-town charm is nowhere to be seen. Perhaps deeper into the city the old Breaux Bridge lives, but I was in a hurry and grabbed something at the first place I saw.

I wish I’d waited because the next exit heading east was for Henderson, and that’s a much better representation of what the area used to be like than the commercially-packed Breaux Bridge exit.

Down a narrow two-lane road in Henderson, travelers will see simple homes owned by folks who make their living from the rivers and lands in and around Breaux Bridge. Youngsters still ride their bikes down this road, although they’re careful to watch for people headed to Pat’s of Henderson at the end of the road.

Pat’s is a well-known staple for true Cajun foodies, and it’s relaxing sitting on the deck, watching jon boats go by, fishermen lazily casting their lines into the water.

As I pushed my way back into the merciless I-10 traffic, a box of greasy fries and shrimp next to me, I thought about a trip we made to Yellowstone National Park years ago. I’d picked up a Yellowstone Park travel guide book, and the man who wrote it  knew the backroads of the national park.

We followed his advice and were always pleasantly surprised. One afternoon, while waiting in grid-lock traffic in the park, I read his entry about a side trip inside the park.

We were nearby, so we followed his route. At the end of the one-lane road, we walked about 50 yards along a path worn down by deer and other critters and found a beautiful waterfall and a small lake filled with crystal-clear, icy-cold water.

I wrote the author a letter, thanking him for his advice that allowed us to experience the simplistic beauty of Yellowstone the way it was meant to be seen – quietly and up close.

I thought about that trip to Yellowstone as I passed the exit for Henderson., regretting I hadn’t waited and gotten off at that quiet exit. I knew the poet Robert Frost was right: “I took the road less traveled, and that has made all the difference.

      This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald

 

 

I was walking through a box store and noticed all the Christmas merchandise was marked down to 60 percent off. Right across from the remnant tinsel and ornaments were racks filled with bathing suits.

The temperature is still in the 40s and we’re looking at bathing suits?

I shouldn’t be surprised at how holidays are on super-sonic speed in the stores. Clerks are rolling in dollies on Dec. 26 and replacing bows and tinsel with Valentine candy and hearts.

Managers will say it’s because people want to get started on their holiday decorating projects. I can understand needlepoint kits to make stockings for the family – not that I have any idea how to even begin making one of those – but most of the offerings are just to take your money.

Do we really need a dancing Santa, 15 holiday pillows or a Frosty the Snowman cookie jar? And the prices they charge for holiday items is highway robbery.

I found a Thomas Kinkade village centerpiece for $149.99 with an additional $20 for shipping and handling. I paid that much for a living room chair.

My friend claims centerpieces take up space on the kitchen table where he can spread out his newspaper in the morning. Ever since I almost caught my sleeve on fire at a friend’s house while reaching over her centerpiece, I’ve sworn off having anything higher than a bowl of artificial fruit on our table.

But still the list of new trinkets and decorations grows each and every year. Walk into any store a month before a major holiday, and you’d be amazed at the decorations you never dreamed you need to have.

The Fourth of July requires a red, white and blue tablecloth, matching napkins, napkin holders, red and blue plastic cups and plates and centerpieces made out of stainless steel pails with American flags stuck in the middle.

Doesn’t matter that most of us have hot dogs, chips and watermelon — foods that never even touch a plate — for our Independence Day picnics.

No matter what the season, if you think the holidays are being rushed, you’re right. Christmas shopping starts right after the Fourth of July firework stands roll out of town, and St. Patrick’s Day shamrocks appear on the shelves the evening of Feb. 14.

It’s only two weeks past New Year’s Eve, but the shelves are already crowded with pink heart-shaped boxes and artificial roses. We’re drooling over boxes of chocolate-covered cherries and pecan clusters.

As we do most things, we’ve moved past the little box of chocolates. Now you’re encouraged to order a 36-ounce Whitman’s giant sampler for only $30.

But it’s not just your honey who deserves that Whitman’s box. No, we’re horrible people if we’re not buying a box of chocolates for our mother, father, daughter, son, cousin, mail carrier, the person who cleans the offices where you work  and even the dog.

Yes the dog.

You can order a “Love and Kisses” Valentine gift box for your dog for just $9.95 filled with organic cookies for Scamp.

But what about Whiskers?

Fret no more. You can get a gift basket for your cat, filled with treats and a fun toy, for just $20.

That’s before shipping and handling.

And this for an animal that’ll roll around in anything dead and a feline that spends most of its time licking the kitchen floor.

But as someone who abhors the cold weather and loves the heat, I’ll admit to being a little happy seeing those beach towels and bathing suits in the stores.

If I can just walk past those chocolates…

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

About eight weeks ago, my sister, Diane, and my mom were watching television. All of a sudden, my mom’s speech became slurred. My sister looked over and Mom’s face was drooping on one side. She immediately knew Mom was having a stroke.

Luckily Diane’s company, RoyOMartin in Alexandria, La., is a major supporter of preventive health care. Earlier this year, employees created a video highlighting the signs of a stroke using the acronym F.A.S.T.

F.A.S.T. stands for the three major signs of a stroke – facial drooping, arm weakness, speech difficulties and, last but most importantly, time.

Diane said when she saw Mom’s difficulty in speaking, the video flashed through her mind. She immediately got Mom to a nearby emergency room.

In less than five minutes, Mom was receiving the proper medical treatment. Luckily, she only had a TIA, commonly called a mini-stroke; and because of my sister’s quick thinking and knowledge about what to do in case of a stroke, Mom went home the next day.

Six weeks later, Mom suffered a stroke and, once again, because my brother, Joey, and his wife knew what to look for, Mom was immediately taken to the hospital with a mild stroke and received the right care.

Two weeks after the stroke, she was dismissed from the rehabilitation center and threatening to start driving again.

While we’re all relieved about Mom’s amazing recovery, we know that knowledge and quick thinking are the two paths that probably saved her life.

So often we brush off minor aches and pains when we’re younger, thinking we’re made of steel and nothing can keep us down. That’s true to an extent – the young human body is capable of amazing regenerative capability.

When we hit our 40s, that regeneration takes a bit longer, but we still think we’re somewhat invincible.

But we become a little more careful, pass on that extra scoop of vanilla ice cream and promise ourselves we’re going to start exercising and eating better.

But past 50, it’s time to take things a little more seriously. After 60, we’d better be paying attention to all that advice because we’re not Superman or Wonder Woman any more. But accepting our mortality is a little harder.

I went to dinner with friends not too long ago, and the conversation turned to bone density. Two friends’ mothers had problems with brittle bones, so my friends all had their calcium levels checked.

For 10 minutes, the conversation revolved around bone density levels, medications they were taking and upcoming diagnostic tests.

Finally, I’d heard enough.

“We sound like a bunch of old people,” I said. “When we were young, we used to make fun of people who got together and only talked about their aches and pains. Now listen to us – we’ve turned into them.”

They laughed and agreed. We were quiet for a minute, and then one said “So what’s your LDL levels?”

Sigh.

We can’t avoid getting older, so the least we can do is be knowledgeable about what to do when the unexpected happens.

Education is key to living a healthy, long life, and I credit my siblings with knowing what to look for and what to do for Mom when an emergency came up.

They acted immediately and with knowledge to get the proper medical care for Mom, and that’s the reason she’s up, moving around and resuming her daily activities.

I’m glad my siblings knew what to do in an emergency because the life they saved was our mother’s. Learn the facts because the life you save may be your own.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Tomorrow is the first day of 2016, and we all know that after we eat the last slice of pecan pie and finish off the eggnog, it’s time to make our New Year’s resolutions list.

I’ve had highfalutin’ resolutions – lose weight, make myself into a likeable person – and I’ve had the meager resolutions – lose one pound and trim my toenails.

But I’m not one to tell you how to live your life. When I look back on mine, the missteps have far outnumbered the high jumps. I’ve stumbled and fallen more than I’ve run across the finish line with a ribbon on my chest.

So this year, my resolutions aren’t grandiose and they could be, in the words of Mary Poppins, pie-crust promises that are easily made and easily broken.

But they’re doable.

First, clean the hair out of our hair brushes.

I ignore that job until I can’t drag the brush through my hair. But the soap dispenser is right next to the sink, so excuse time is over.

Next, I’m going to match up all the socks in my sock drawer and throw out the ones that have no partner. Maybe they can find their “sole-mate” in the singles pile.

Maybe one of my resolutions should be to stop making stupid puns.

Back to the list. One of my resolutions is to clean out the vacuum cleaner bag. My husband cleans it out every single time, but I let the bag fill up so it feels like I’m dragging around a 250-pound critter instead of the vacuum cleaner.

This is one we did a couple of weeks ago, but I don’t think we quite finished the job – clean out the medicine cabinet. When our granddaughter needed some antibiotic cream for a cut, we pulled out the tube but realized it was out of date.

So we went through the medicine cabinet and it was embarrassing how many medications had expired. We looked at the U.S. Food and Drug Department’s website and found ways to dispose of medications and for the closest controlled substance public disposal locations for those that could be toxic in landfills.  

Now all of those resolutions are pretty much work, so I’ve got a few that won’t cost a dime and are actually fun.

First, I’d like to visit the butterfly garden at Seabourne Creek Park in Rosenberg again. Volunteers work year round on that garden, and it’s an easy stroll from the parking lot to the garden. There’s nothing like being surrounded by flowers and butterflies to make your worries disappear.

While I’m in Rosenberg, I’d like to stroll the downtown streets and visit the shops. It doesn’t cost a dime to window shop but I’d love to see what’s inside some of the stores.

Living as close as we do to Houston, there’s a lot of free activities I’ve shied away from, but 2016 seems like a great time to start.

There’s browsing through the eclectic vintage shops in Montrose and the pricey shops on Kirby. The underground tunnels in Houston sound fun, if I can just figure out how to get down there. And it doesn’t cost a dime to stop and listen to a street musician instead of hurrying past them.  

Personally, I’m going to apologize to the people I’ve angered. Whether or not I meant to cause harsh feelings doesn’t matter at this point – an apology is long overdue.

Apologizes don’t cost a dime but the rewards of clearing the slate last far beyond swallowing my pride and taking responsibility for my words and actions.

Happy New Year to you and yours and may 2016 be a happy one!

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

It’s Christmas Eve and I hope you’re relaxing in your living room with the lights of the Christmas tree twinkling in the background, your shopping finally finished.

If you’re anything like me, your living room will be far from that tranquil scene tomorrow morning. Many of us will face hills of discarded wrapping paper, cranky children wading through that paper and at least two sticky spots where somebody spilled egg nog.

Instead of snow falling outside, we’re running the air conditioner, wearing shorts and our flip-flops are by the back door.

No designer Christmas tree in our living room – there’s ornaments held together by hot glue, macaroni angel ornaments that are over 30 years old and most of the McDonald’s Happy Meal ornaments from the last 20 years ago.

Some of the ornaments are hanging by paper clips because, despite buying a new box of hangers every year, I can’t ever find those boxes when we’re decorating the tree.

There’s red, blue and purple miniature colored lights on the top two thirds of the tree, but the bottom is solid white lights. The reason is simple – I forgot to buy another strand of colored lights. Instead, I bought three boxes of small white ones, but we’d already put the colored ones on the tree so we left them alone.

I don’t think Martha Stewart would approve but the tree has a quirky look I’m starting to like.

This year, though, the Christmas tree stands straight and tall. That’s because I wasn’t involved in putting the tree in the stand. Usually I’m the one holding the tree while my husband attaches the trunk to the stand.

He’ll keep asking if the tree is straight, and I think it’s straight until he says he’s finished. Then I step back and realize I wasn’t holding it completely straight. I’ll go down with the ship proclaiming the tree – no matter if it’s at a 15-degree angle – is completely straight.

My daughter in law, who’s a lot taller than I am, stepped in to hold the tree which she did perfectly. She’s now earned the permanent title of Santa’s helper.

There’s curling ribbon on all of the presents, and that’s been my decorating stamp for the past decade. I’ve tried other embellishments, but they didn’t work out.

There was the year I used twine as ribbon because I saw it in a magazine. We had to get my husband’s Swiss Army knife out to cut the strands off every single package. I thought I was going to get strung up by that twine by the end of the evening.

Another year I thought about using real ribbon until I saw satin ribbon was $2 for 10 feet of ribbon. And then I found curling ribbon – 500 feet for $1.88. We have every color of the rainbow of curling ribbon.

I did wrap the presents that go out of town in a different color paper but only because I bought a jumbo roll of green wrapping paper three years ago. That paper never runs out no matter how many presents I wrap.

When there’s no longer presents underneath the branches, the tree will look lonely, but the smiles on the faces of the people I love when they open the boxes will remind me that gifts aren’t meant to stay pretty under the tree – they’re not worth anything until the recipient sees what’s inside.

But tonight, before one of the holiest days of the year, I’m making myself stay awake until I hear Santa’s sleigh pass overhead.

And then I’ll pray “Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.”

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

We were at a friend’s house for dinner not too long ago, and as soon as we finished the main course, the hostess cleared the table.

We joined in, thinking it was time for dessert and coffee. We helped slice up the cake; but as soon as the first person finished their dessert, the hostess once again jumped up and started picking up plates and forks.

I felt a little sad that we were missing out on one of the best parts of dinner – the after-the-meal conversation.

Here we were, grownups in a world filled with political upheaval, terrorism, the fate of the Astros, LSU and Aggie football but we weren’t taking advantage of an opportunity to let our food digest as we leisurely discussed and solved the world’s issues.

Growing up, lively discussions were as much a part of the Hebert Sunday dinner as mashed potatoes and gravy. Even though politics are supposed to be a taboo subject, we Heberts did not follow that particular rule because it was ever so much fun to rile up the relatives.

My grandmother, a staunch Democrat who grew up with Franklin D. Roosevelt, was a first-hand witness to the Depression.

She said if we put a Republican in the governor’s office in Louisiana, we’d all be “goose steppin’ down Canal Street.” Throw in my brother, who was president of the Young Republican’s Club at our local high school, and those dinner conversations could get quite heated.

But the best person to egg on was my father. He grew up in the Eisenhower days and firmly believed the Communists were behind every political malfeasance that came to light.

The words “it’s a communist plot” were his final answer to every political argument we had around that oval dinner table.

To this day, 15 years after Dad’s passing, whenever we hit a stalemate when debating the quandary of what the world’s coming to, the final word will be “well, it’s a communist plot.” That releases the tension and everybody’s on good terms again.

And then there’s the family story of the true definition of heartburn. One Sunday over dessert, my grandmother said heart burn wasn’t really in the heart. We all nodded in polite agreement and then moved back to the conversations we were having.

“Yep, heartburn really isn’t in the heart,” my grandmother said to the ceiling.

“I didn’t know that,” said my mother, the eternal peacemaker.

Once again, we all went back to our conversations.

“That’s right,” my grandmother said. “Heartburn really isn’t in the heart.”

At this remark, my sister buried her head in the napkin, but we could see her shoulders heaving with laughter.

And then my middle sister, who’s always had a rebel streak, made a statement.

“You know, heartburn isn’t really in the heart,” she said with a straight face.

My grandmother agreed with her wholeheartedly, looking at her like she was a genius. At that point, we all had to leave the dinner table with our napkins over our mouths so Grandma wouldn’t see how hard we were laughing.

Now whenever there’s a lull in the conversation around the dinner table, someone invariably says “You know, heartburn isn’t really in your heart.” And that starts the laughing all over again and the need to explain the joke to newcomers.

I thought about those dinner-table conversations as my friend was hurrying to clear off the dessert plates so I stopped her.

“Sit down, let’s talk and we’ll clear the table together later on,” I said, putting my hand on her arm. “I’ll tell you all about heartburn. Did you know it’s really not in the heart?”

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

“Do you have your tree up?” my mother asked last night.

“Ma, it’s the first day of December,” I replied, a bit of exasperation in my voice. “Of course I don’t have the Christmas tree up.”

When it comes to holiday decorating, I’d definitely make Santa’s naughty list. I don’t have tubs filled with Christmas decorations up in the attic, I don’t own Christmas towels and there’s not a 12-foot inflatable Frosty the Snowman in our garage.

“But it’s already December,” my mom said.

I reminded her that we’re still eating Thanksgiving turkey and Halloween Kit-Kat bars so it’s inconceivable that we’d have Christmas decorations up on the first day of December.

The truth is, I’ve never been a holiday decorator. When the boys were young, I relied on them to make our holiday decorations in school. For years, most of the ornaments on our tree were either made from macaroni, construction paper or were the feature of the week in a holiday Happy Meal.

I’d hang their construction-paper rings on the tree and convince myself garland and tinsel would detract from the boys’ glitter-heavy hand-made stars and Popsicle-stick Christmas trees.

When we lived in Pecan Grove, we felt the pressure to outline our yard with lights. Luckily my husband took care of stringing the lights and running the extension cords. We met the bare minimum, and I was happy with that situation. When over-sized lollipops were big in yard decorations, I wanted to get a few. A friend told me how to use wrapping paper, twine and a big dowel rod to make them. I thought they were pretty nifty until the boys decided to stage a full-out battle in the front yard using the lollipops as battering rams.

One year, I bought a couple of light-up reindeer for the yard. Because I’m basically a cheapskate, I bought small light-up plastic reindeer. The neighbor’s son came over and asked why we had had dogs instead of reindeer in our yard.

“Those are reindeer,” I told him.

“Those are the size of a puppy,” the 8-year-old said.

From then on, my husband christened them the “rain-dogs,” and they’ve been a staple in the Adams front yard for many years.

But it’s not just the outside where I slack off. Inside decorations are pretty much limited to the tree, a nativity set and occasionally a miniature winter village for the writing table.

A few years ago, the lights burnt out on the cord, and I couldn’t find replacement bulbs. I boxed the set up and forgot I didn’t have bulbs. But I keep getting the box out of the attic year after year, smacking myself in the head for not finding the bulbs and the box went back in the attic after the holidays.

I keep seeing knick-knacks in the store to put on shelves, but there are some items on our shelves that haven’t moved in years. I’m certainly not going to box them up and replace them with ceramic Santas and Rudolphs for three weeks and repeat the process.

In my defense, I did put garland and twinkling lights around our front staircase banister when the boys were young. Although it looked nice, the only real benefit was the pointy garland kept the boys from sliding down the banister when they thought I wasn’t looking.

But I’m not a humbug – I insist we have a real tree and I get choked up up the first time we turn on the tree lights. Late at night, I’ll curl up on the couch and think about past Christmases and I can almost hear my sons’ voices asking me if Santa will bring them what’s on their list.

But the tree’s not going up until the first weekend in December. Or maybe the second. Or the third…

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.