I said I wasn’t going to do it, but I did.

  I said I would resist the demands of Madison Avenue to shop early, but I gave in.

  It’s not even the end of November and, much to my embarrassment, I’m almost finished with my Christmas shopping.

  I don’t start Christmas shopping in the summer nor do I start at Halloween. I wait until December because I love the spirit of the holidays.

  My favorite pastime the first weekend in December is drafting my Christmas list, leisurely deciding what to get for everybody on the list.

  That’s about the time my husband hauls all the Christmas decorations out of the attic, and the next weekend we head out to the country to cut down a tree.

  We let the tree sit overnight so the limbs fall a bit, and we decorate the tree on a Sunday afternoon while listening to holiday songs. When the boys lived at home, they’d spend hours shaking the boxes under the tree, trying to figure out what was inside.

  Back then, we’d spend Christmas in Louisiana, and all the Heberts gathered together for Christmas Eve. We’d attend Mass in the morning and then spend the rest of the day playing with all the new toys and visiting with cousins, aunts and uncles.

  Our tree stayed up until the needles were so brown they fell off; but by that time, we’d usually had enough of ho-ho-ho-ing and were ready to get back to the familiar grind.

  That was how Christmas used to be. That’s before email, cell phones and cyber shopping became the modern way to shop. My sons now send me emails with a direct link to the gift they’d like or they text me their Christmas list so I know exactly what they want.

  Using their cyber list, I took advantage of Black Friday and Cyber Monday sales which was easy but there was little holiday cheer about the experience. And even though I want to pat myself on the back for being organized, there are things I’m going to miss about the Christmas shopping experience.

  I’m going to miss the crowds of people and driving past houses whose yards are practically dancing with holiday lights. I’m going to miss listening to canned Christmas music playing over the loudspeakers as I elbow my way through the store.

  For even though we’ve heard those songs 100 times before, there’s nothing like humming along with “Silver Bells” while carrying bags of treasures found at stores where you know the owner instead of clicking the “order now” button with a mouse.

  Emails and text messages are efficient, but I sorely miss reading my sons’ hand-written letters to Santa Claus. I miss seeing my boys’ faces on Christmas morning when they dashed into the living room to see what Santa left for them.

  But maybe all is not lost. Surely I’ve missed a few gifts on the list and hopefully I’m not as efficient as I think. After all, there’s nothing wrong with having a few surprises underneath the tree.

  I might have to browse the packed aisles of our hometown stores while listening to those familiar holiday tunes play overhead and let the spirit of Christmas wash over me.

  I’ll still sit down the first weekend in December and make my Christmas list. But this year, I’ll use my iPhone and key in what everybody wants so I’ll have that list at my fingertips. We old-timers have to keep up with the changing times but some holiday traditions need to stay put.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

  For 15 years,  I’ve had the privilege of having a column printed on Thanksgiving Day. I’ve written about nostalgic Thanksgivings – sitting around the huge dining room table with my grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins while we enjoyed the traditional Thanksgiving menu of turkey, dressing, sweet potatoes and gravy alongside traditional Lebanese dishes of tabooley, stuffed cabbage rolls and baked kibbee.

  I’ve also written about the Cajun side of our Thanksgiving feasts that included fried turkeys, oyster dressing and deep-dish pecan pie.

  There was the first year I cooked Thanksgiving dinner all by myself and the absolute terror I felt when facing a raw 15-pound bird, two packages of cornbread dressing and a dozen bake-and-serve rolls.

  There was the year I forgot to defrost the turkey in enough time and got up four or five times during the night to change out the water so that huge bird could go in the oven at 6 a.m.

  Over the years, you’ve indulged reading as my sons went from mischievous toddlers to grown men. My dad lived long enough to read some of my columns, and my mom occasionally cuts one out and tapes it to the refrigerator, right alongside the pictures of her great grandchildren.

  So in trying to think of something new to say on this Thanksgiving, something different than what I wrote in 1997, 2001 or 2008, I’m left scratching my head, discarding every story line that pops into my head.  

  It’s easy to write about the sentimental slices of life – family friends, neighbors and co-workers. Little kindnesses grease the wheels – someone holding the door open for me and someone letting me merge into traffic without trying to take the bumper off my car.

  What not to write about seems easier, like my unsuccessful attempts at maneuvering a turkey, ham, apple pie and sweet potatoes in one oven in a four-hour time frame. Nor am I going to write about the sublime joy of munching on Thanksgiving leftovers while sitting watching a college football game on TV.

  I’m not going to write about Thanksgiving days from the past when the kids sat in one room and the adults sat in the other room, they having verbal fights about politics while we literally had food fights.

  I’m also not going to write about the pre-dawn Black Friday shopping trips my sisters and sisters-in-law enjoyed for years.

  What I am going to write about is what a day of Thanksgiving means. A day to give thanks for the big things like our families, our health, house, job, car and enough cash in our pockets to go out for ice cream every once in a while.

  Thanksgiving is a time to ponder the experiences that make life worthwhile – the sound of children laughing, the memory of our father’s voice and how our mother’s hands felt when she fretted over our hot foreheads.

  Friends who understand our humor, especially those who’ve known us all our lives and still laugh when we tell the same joke over and over again, are right up there when I say my prayers of thanks.

  A soft pillow to snuggle up with at night. Comfortable slippers. A hot cup of coffee first thing in the morning. Finding a pair of jeans that fit. The company of a faithful dog. An unexpected chatty email from a best friend. A child curling up in our laps to take a nap.

  It’s the little things that turn into the big things that I’m most thankful for as those little things stay with us the longest and ensure life’s often rocky path is a little less bumpy.

  Happy Thanksgiving and may your day be filled with a bounty of small but meaningful joys.  

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

 

 

 

  Mercifully, the elections are over. The “I voted” oval stickers are tucked away in a precinct closet until the next election, and electronic voting gadgets are carefully stored in a locked cabinet.

  Victory parties remain in full gloating mode, and those who lost are licking their wounds, planning their strategy for a come-back run or looking for another line of work.

  Voters are thrilled the 2012 elections have come to an end because we’re no longer bombarded with political telephone calls or trying to see a sea of past red, white and blue cardboard signs crowded around every street corner.

  We can go back to watching television shows and complain about the number of insurance and hair coloring ads instead of the number of negative political ads.

  As much as we gripe about all that aggravation, elections put money in somebody’s pocket, and those dollars help the economy. Newspapers and magazines were happy to take candidates’ money as were television stations, Websites, billboard companies and sign makers.

  Pollsters were happy to cash checks for running fictitious scenarios so political action committees could see where to spend their money.

  Campaign strategists used high-tech projection software and analyzed minute details from electronic polling to tell their candidate what issue to talk about and where to spend their time and money.

  Email and the Internet have been prime players in elections for the past few years. Email blasts from friends and political groups filled our mailboxes. YouTube videos used patriotic music and spliced together videos to make candidates look worse than slimy geezers who take candy from babies.

  This time around, Facebook and Twitter became major players as people tweeted and posted about candidates, battling and spreading lies, innuendoes, gossip and slogans.

  The presidential debates struck me as which man could get the sharpest jab in. Forget answering our questions about the economy, jobs, pollution and other issues that are tops in our minds. The debates were simply opportunities for one-upmanship.  

  Now it’s all over. The airwaves are filled with pundits analyzing why Romney lost and Obama won. We’ll be looking at analyses and reports for weeks; and every time a major election comes around, we’ll endure experts rehashing and dissecting this election and this campaign.  

  And then the presidential campaign of 2016 will swing into gear as potential candidates attempt to make their voice heard in the wilderness as the whole process starts all over again.

  A few years ago, I remember seeing a young Bill Clinton and Al Gore standing on the stage accepting the office of the presidency and vice presidency of the United States.

  I was terrified, thinking we were turning the reins over to two green-behind-the-ears guys who wouldn’t have a clue how to run this country.

  But like their politics or not, the United States survived, just as we lived through sub-par presidents like Zachary Taylor and Herbert Hoover.

  We survived Richard Nixon whose paranoia caused most Americans to lose faith in the White House. We survived Andrew Johnson who mismanaged Reconstruction after the Civil War.

  We flourished under presidents George Washington and Thomas Jefferson who laid the groundwork for the United States. We came to admire Abraham Lincoln who fought for equality.

  As Mitt Romney said in his gracious concession speech, “I believe in America.” So do the millions of people who cast their vote in the 2012 election process.

  For the next four years, Mr. Obama is the president of the United States, the commander in chief. No matter who you voted for, it’s time to move forward. We Americans do that quite well, and we’ll survive or triumph, not only for the next four years but for decades to come.  

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

  The parenting lifecycle is anything but straight forward. Once our children are placed in our arms, we diaper and burp, feed and clothe and watch them feverishly for any hiccup in the road.

  Along with those parenting jobs, the long-term assignment of teacher kicks in. We teach our young ‘uns to pick up their toys, share with others and say “excuse me” when they burp.

  As they get older, the mentoring continues –how to ride a bicycle, how to drive a stick shift and how to buy life insurance.

  For most of their lives, parents remain in that advisory role.

  Unless children grow up to be smarter than their mom.

  That’s what happened to me.

  My Aggie boy is a whiz with computers and especially the Internet. He knows I like watching movies but I can’t always get to the Cineplex. He told me about an online movie channel, and the site offers a variety of movies I can watch on my computer monitor.

  I lost the password we’d set up, so I called him and he gave me the password over the phone. my handwriting is sloppy and every attempt I made the next night met with an “incorrect password” prompt. I tried everything – uppercase, lowercase and then I just gave up.

  Exasperated, I sent my son an email listing the password and asking if it was correct.

  His return email was quick and short – “Do not ever email passwords. I will call you.”

  I slapped myself in the forehead, and my reply note was apologetic. After I sent the email, I sat in front of my computer and realized the tables were turned.

  We’d crossed from “you know everything, Mommy” to “you’re an idiot, Mom” line.

  About the time I turned 12, I knew my parents didn’t have all the answers. I wasn’t upset about this revelation. Instead, I began to see my parents as flawed human beings who were doing the best they could.

  I did everything to try and keep my sons from seeing me in that light. Unfortunately, real life stomped all over that fantasy, especially as they saw me lose my car keys on more than one occasion, lock myself out of our house and fumble my way through directions for the VCR and then the DVD player.

  Forget learning the subtle differences between a Blu Ray and a regular DVD or understanding how fiber optics work. My boys knew these facts like they knew all the hiding places for my extra cash.

  But I still felt I had the upper hand. I knew more about pop culture, cooking and the best way to remove grease from a new shirt.

  Over time, though, my Aggie boy had slowly coaxed those secrets out of me, and he was probably on par with me in the kitchen, if he hadn’t surpassed me.

  In gentlemanly fashion, he didn’t lord his superiority over me. If asked, he’d clean up the hard drive on my computer, rearrange my electronic photos into a more searchable system and send me links to birthday gifts for everybody in the family.

  As I look back, all the signs were there that he’d surpassed me on the information highway. It was inevitable. He’s more of a Mustang and Camaro type of guy and I’m still puttering along in the Edsel.

  Still, there’s a few things I know he hasn’t figured out yet – how to hem a pair of pants, how to shoot the moon in a card game of Hearts and the best way to carve a Thanksgiving turkey.

  For the time being, I think I’ll just keep those secrets to myself. A mom, even one who’s in the slow lane, has to have a few aces up her sleeve.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

  Not to sound like a 1950s suburbanite, but when it comes to my automobile, I haven’t a clue what really makes that vehicle run. I depend on the car to tell me if something’s wrong.

  It’s a sweet deal as dashboard lights come on whenever the tire pressure is low or I need gas. A bell chimes if I forget to turn off the lights or leave the keys in the ignition.

  Best of all, my husband keeps up with major maintenance issues, so I’m on autopilot most of the time.

  Recently, though, my car was due for an oil change, and I told my husband I’d take the car in because, I was thinking, how hard can it be to get the oil changed.

  Certainly easier than replacing the windshield wiper blades.

  When the rains started up earlier this year, the streaks on my windshield were a red flare that the wiper blades had dry rotted during the long drought. I was in front of the auto parts store, so I pulled in, thinking I’d run right in, get some replacements and be ready for the threatening thunderstorm.

  Forget about a less-than 10 minute errand for something as seemingly straight-forward as windshield wiper blade refills. The clerk had at least six questions about my car before we even got to the wiper issue.

  And, of course, his first question was one I didn’t know the answer to – what length blades did I need.   

  “They’re different sizes?” I said, puzzlement written all over my face, and I told him I’d text my husband to get the size of the wipers. The clerk looked at me, sighed, and then said he’d not only find the right wiper blades but he’d also put them on the car for me.

  Sweet.

  Which is why I felt empowered to take my car in for an oil change. My husband used to keep a case or two of motor oil in our garage for the numerous oil changes three teen-age drivers require.

  But with advances in engines and more computer-driven parts, a stop at one of the local quick oil-change business seemed the most economical path.

  I pulled into the bay, handed my keys over to the mechanic and sat down in the lobby to leaf through a “Motor Trend” magazine.

  A few minutes later, he returned and asked if I wanted petroleum-based oil or synthetic oil. My first thought was “there’s a difference in oil that comes out of the ground and goes into the car?” and my second one was “why does something that should be so easy require a master’s degree in engineering.”

  I didn’t have a clue what kind of oil to use, so I texted my husband. While I was waiting for a reply, the nice man behind the counter tried to explain the pros and cons of synthetic and petroleum-based  oil.

  I nodded and tried to sound like I was keeping up, but he lost me about the time the issues of oil weight and temperature under pressure came up.

  Then there were questions about the oil filter and how many miles I wanted to wait until my next oil change. I texted my husband again with those questions, and we finally agreed on a plan of action.

  Thirty minutes later, I left with fresh oil in the car, a new oil filter and a sticker on my windshield reminding me to take care of my car’s needs on a regular basis.

  My husband said whenever my car needs the tires rotated – because he only has so many text messages on his cell phone plan – he’ll be happy to take care of that maintenance item for me.

  Sweet.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

  When I was expecting my first child, I was convinced the baby was a girl. I was so convinced, in fact, I spent weeks making a pink blanket and tucked a pink coming-home outfit for the baby in my suitcase.

  I was shocked when the doctor announced “it’s a boy,” and I referred to the baby as a girl for about two weeks after we came home from the hospital.

  Knowing the sex of the baby 30 years ago was impossible. We guessed, of course, and I performed all the folklore remedies around. I held a needle over my tummy, watching which way it spun, and dangled my wedding ring to see if it swung back and forth or circled over the unborn baby.

  Both wives-tale procedures indicated a boy, but I said I’d wait until modern science came up with a sure-fire way to discover the sex of the baby before I’d believe predicting the sex was possible.

  We came close with my second child. I had an ultrasound early in the pregnancy as we weren’t sure when the baby was going to be born.

  I can still picture that black screen with a white form moving around, but comparing that picture to what’s out there today is like playing the early “pong” game versus today’s realistic “Call of Duty.”

  And what’s out there now is 4D Ultrasound technology.

  My son and daughter-in-law invited the grandmothers to go with them to see the ultrasound for their baby who’s due in December. I was expecting the old grainy black-and-white image.

  Instead, a 4D ultrasound allowed us to see facial features, a leg and a tiny fist curled up underneath a developing chin.

  We also found out grandchild number three is a girl, and it’s a mixed blessing because the wondering if it’s a boy or a girl is eliminated. Science has removed the waiting game.

  Today, it’s possible to know within minutes whether or not a woman is pregnant. As a baby boomer, most of us grew up listening to our moms and aunts talk about waiting for the rabbit to die.

  I didn’t have a clue what they were talking about, but I knew it had something to do with all the maternity and baby clothes my aunts were dropping off at our house.

  Over coffee, they’d toss around boy and girl names and it seemed everything in the nursery was either light green or a pale yellow. Once the baby got here, aunts came around with the right gender clothes, but not until the baby got here.

  Back then, there were two ways to feed a newborn – breast feeding or glass baby bottles my mom put in a big pot and boiled for 10 minutes. Today’s bottles are plastic, scientifically angled and come with an assortment of accessories.

  Baby shoes were easy years ago – kids went barefoot until they were big enough for the big white shoes with the hard tan soles. Today’s infants are wearing couture Mary Janes retailing for $31 a pair or Skechers black boots selling for $55 online, both for kids who can’t even walk yet.

  Even though technology allows us to know what sex the baby is going to be almost before the baby itself knows what path it’s heading down, I miss the old days of playing the guessing game and waiting for the doctor to say “it’s a girl” or “it’s a boy.”

  But now that I know, instead of stocking up on pale green Onesies™, it’s time to start buying some pink Mary Janes and frilly bows for Miss Katherine Elizabeth Adams.

  Baby girl, we can’t wait to meet you.

 This column originally appeared in The Fort Bend Herald.

  It’s the sounds that echo in my mind – water splashing in fountains, horns blaring from irate taxi drivers and horses’ hooves clopping along cobbled brick roads.

  Images play through my mind as though they’re on a revolving carousel – towering 15th century pillars standing next to modern office buildings. Walking into a neighborhood church and seeing life-sized statues on Egyptian marble floors and protected by solid gold ceilings.

  These are the memories I have of Rome, a once-in-a-lifetime trip my husband and I took last week. He was there for business, but I got to tag along and see the sights.

  Luckily, I joined up with two women, Kim and Karen, whose husbands were also on the trip, and we walked miles throughout Rome accompanied by Karen’s 6-year-old son, Will, who never once complained. Bribes of chocolate gelato and visits to Italian toy stores helped keep him in good humor.

  The guide books describe Rome as the eternal city, fitting as it was settled in 753 B.C. and has survived through invaders, floods, famine, bad times and good times.

  Wandering through ruins that were built hundreds of years before Christ was born seemed unreal, especially when examining the artistry and workmanship created without modern tools.

  We followed our tour books through the city and made sure we stopped at all the major tourist stops – the Pantheon, the Coliseum, the Trevi Fountain. We read descriptions at all the churches, looked at gorgeously painted ceilings until our necks ached and savored Italian pastas and freshly baked bread every evening.

  We walked miles and miles, it seemed, and priests, nuns, school children, tourists, natives, beggars and business people surrounded us. Buses and taxis roared through the streets, filled with people on their way to the Coliseum, the Pantheon and the many piazzas and fountains around the city.

  Although the well-known sights were astounding, Rome is filled with surprises around every corner, and those are the ones that stand out for me. There was the kind, elderly priest in a magnificent church who reminded Will to give his mother a kiss and tell her he loved her.

  There was the delicately baked eggplant-and-cheese dinner my husband and I dined on in a family-owned restaurant off the beaten path.

  Walking through numerous basilicas and churches, some historic and some off the beaten path, we were rewarded around every corner with huge tapestries, marble sculptures and Renaissance paintings. Although they were all beautiful, the crown jewel was the Vatican.

  As a Catholic, standing on the cobblestones in St. Peter’s Square was a dream come true. Even more incredible were the treasures inside the Vatican.

  We heeded good advice from my sister-in-law and purchased online tickets. Thanks to those passes, it only took us a couple of hours to wind our way past hundreds of gorgeous museum artifacts until we found ourselves at the heart of the Vatican, the Sistine Chapel.

  Standing underneath the stunning paintings of Michelangelo, we were surrounded by languages from around the world – Russian, French, English, Portuguese, Italian. All were speaking in hushed tones, their faces reflecting an appreciation for the masterpieces surrounding us.

  We didn’t need a common language to understand that talent and craftsmanship crosses all boundaries. The beauty of the art found in Roma, as they call her, speaks to all those who come to this historic and unique city.

  For those able to make the pilgrimage to Rome, this regal and grand signora will reward visitors with thousands of memories and sounds of a long-ago past to last a lifetime.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

  My brother, Joey, loves dogs. Growing up, he was the only one in our family who regularly brought home stray, bedraggled dogs. All my siblings have dogs, and my sister-in-law is an advocate for animal welfare.  

  I never felt the need to have a dog because, quite honestly, I’m a little afraid of them. Maybe I was spooked when I was young, but I’m always a bit skittish when a dog comes around, especially a big dog.

  As my boys grew up and asked for a dog, I talked them into having other pets – guinea pigs, hamsters and goldfish. We managed to avoid dogs until our neighbor’s dog had puppies.

  Our youngest boy fell in love with the puppies, and one look at our his tear-streaked face convinced us he had to have a dog of his own.

  We found a “Heinz 57” puppy, and Chris was instantly that puppy’s faithful owner. All through grade school, Sparky slept right next to Chris, keeping watch over him.

  In high school, Sparky waited by the back door for Chris to come home and seldom left his side once he arrived.

  When Chris went off to college, Sparky’s care fell to my husband, and he grew quite fond of that aging dog. I had to admit Sparky earned my admiration for taking such good care of my boy for so many years.  

  And when Sparky passed away, we cried for days.

  So when another dog came our way, I reluctantly let Channell into the house but I wasn’t going to get close to this dog because she was a pet. I wasn’t going to let her take advantage of the fact that she was a rescue dog.

  No lounging on the couch.

  No sleeping on the beds.

  No filching food off the kitchen table.

  Sure I patted her on the head and kept her food and water bowl filled, but I looked at Channell as my husband’s pet, not mine. She seemed to sense my unease, and she’s always kept a respectful distance.

  But all that changed this weekend.

  My granddaughter wanted to go swimming, so she and I changed into our swimsuits, grabbed some towels and headed to the back yard. Channell bounded out in front of us, raced to a spot behind the pool and began barking.

  This wasn’t a friendly bark – she was sounding the alarm. She was circling and jumping around something in the grass, barking frantically the entire time. I got a little closer and noticed it was a big, coiled-up snake.

  I quickly picked up my granddaughter, took her inside and called Channell back into the house. She didn’t want to leave her post, but when she saw my granddaughter, she came inside and stood next to her.

  When they were both safely indoors, I went back outside with my camera so we could identify what kind of snake was in the yard. But he was gone, scared off by the maniacal barking of our dog.  

  Never again will I gripe about Channell being a pain or a responsibility. That morning, she was our protector, and she saved us from possible harm.

  I went back inside, looked at Channell and she looked back at me with her trusting brown eyes. I scratched behind her ears, leaned down and hugged her neck.

  She wagged her tail, licked my hand and then plopped down by the back door, once again guarding us against any and all enemies.

  Channell has earned her keep for the long haul. And any time she wants it, a spot at the end of the bed.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.