This year, it seems the Christmas holidays are being celebrated in grand fashion.

Homes that never put up decorations have their yards lit up from the curb to the front door.

Stores and malls have always trotted out beautiful Christmas displays, but they’ve stepped up their game. Tinsel, garland and ribbons are on every available wall and corridor.

Entire neighborhoods have gotten into the act. You’ll seldom find a subdivision entrance that doesn’t have a giant wreath or oversized garland hanging from the sign.

The radio has long played Christmas songs 24 hours a day in December. This year, one station started in the middle of November, and I’ve tuned in every day.

While I love those Christmas songs, there are some that make no sense to Southerners or those under the age of 50.

“Sleigh bells ring…” is an odd one for us. I wasn’t exactly sure what a sleigh was until I saw one in a child’s Christmas book.

“Dashing through the snow” is a mystery for most Southerners. A ride through the hay fields on a John Deere tractor is much more familiar.

“Winter Wonderland” means something entirely different to Southerners than it does to those who live in the North.

Their winter wonderland is probably snow-covered streets, children walking in boots and coats, throwing snowballs at each other along the way.

Our winter wonderland is walking around in our flip flops and shorts because our wonderland is 72 degrees.

We’re not building snowmen in the meadow and calling him Farmer John. If you are in a meadow, there’s usually cows. There’s one smelly thing you could use to build a snowman. I won’t go into detail.

We do hear silver bells ringing, but it’s the people in Santa hats outside stores collecting for the Salvation Army. The only other bells we hear are the chimes on our phones letting us know we have a text message.

“Deck the Halls” has some of the most obscure lyrics of all the holiday tunes. I haven’t a clue what “troll the ancient Yuletide carol means,” and the Yuletide treasure isn’t winning $10 on a scratch-off lottery ticket.

Nat King Cole sings one of the best holiday songs of all time, but none of us have ever seen or will see “chestnuts roasting on an open fire.”

That’s because a non-native fungus wiped out almost all of the American chestnut trees by 1950.

“Do You Hear What I Hear” means something different in the city these days. The sounds I hear are people’s car alarms binging so people can find where they parked.

I’m hearing lawn mowers and leaf blowers because the grass grows year round in the South. Our winter days often top out at 80 degrees and our lawns keep growing because the grass thinks it’s already spring.

Bing Crosby might be dreaming of a “White Christmas” but I’m dreaming of a green Christmas because snow in the South is a nightmare.

We don’t know how to drive in the snow, and our cars aren’t equipped with snow tires. We go into a panicked hibernation when we think there’s a possibility of frost and freezing.

I will agree with one song – “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year.” That is, of course, if you overlook the massive traffic jams around shopping areas, the frustration associated with finding the right gift for everybody on your list and the high price of almost everything.

Despite the headaches, long lines in the stores and not understanding the lyrics to Christmas songs, this is still a joyous season.

I hope you enjoy your Christmas and, in the words of Tiny Tim, “God bless us, every one.”

 

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.     

It’s the holidays, and people are attending parties and socializing. For parents with young children, going out means someone has to watch the little ones.

Some are lucky enough to live close by a relative who’s happy to watch the kiddos. Usually there’s a give-and-take arrangement – you watch mine this time, I’ll watch yours the next.

Others have an older sibling who can watch the younger ones. That was the case in our house. I was the oldest, and many times I babysat my brothers and sisters.

I like to think I was a benevolent, kind babysitter who let them watch hours of television and do whatever they wanted. The truth is I was probably a ruthless dictator.

They’d have been better off with a drill sergeant.

Many weekends, I babysit for other families for the sum of 50 cents an hour. It didn’t matter how many kids I babysat, the price was always the same.

Most of the parents I sat for came home at a reasonable hour which was great because all the television stations went off the air at midnight. There wasn’t any cable, streaming services, VCRs or DVD players.

There was no Sirius radio or an FM station on the air. The only radio signal was from an AM station. After the sun went down, their signal got weaker, so it was hard to find something to do after the kiddos were sleeping.

After hearing “The Star Spangled Banner,” while the American flag waved on the screen, it was tough to stay awake.

After going to school all day, those parents who stayed out until two in the morning usually found me sleeping on the couch.

My husband and I didn’t have family near us after we moved to Texas and we had to pay babysitters. We usually used the older sister or brother of one of our son’s friends. That worked for a while until the word got around that our boys were a bit harder to control.

Luckily, we found Vanessa. She was a calm, mature, wonderful teenager who handled the boys better than I did. We paid Vanessa double her asking price because we knew she was worth every penny.

When Vanessa went off to college, I hired the oldest son of one of our friends. He was on the football team, and the boys enjoyed throwing the football in the back yard and shooting hoops with him.

Best of all, he was three feet taller than they were and outweighed them by 100 pounds. The boys were a bit intimidated. We were relieved.

These days, the qualifications for a babysitter are a lot higher. Parents want babysitters to be Red Cross certified. They want the sitter to know CPR and how to handle any type of emergency.

Some of the other requirements include helping with homework and knowing how to engage the children in fun learning activities. Knowing a second language is a bonus.

The price has gone up – good babysitters can now command anywhere from $10 to $30 an hour.

That sure makes staying home, watching a streaming service and popping your own popcorn in the microwave a lot more appealing for parents.

Put the kiddos to bed, sit back in the recliner in your pajamas and enjoy the evening for a lot less money than you’d pay a teenager or owe your sister-in-law an evening of watching your kids and hers.

Babysitting taught me a lot.

Kids can be holy terrors.

Kids can be sweet, as long as they’re open to bribes.

And when I got to be a parent, I’d tip the babysitter at least twice what he or she asked for.

They would earn it.

I know I did.

 

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

One night this week, my grandson and I were rushing out of the store.

We were on our way to his orchestra concert, and we had a bit of last-minute shopping to do.

The slim bit of time after school and before the concert was our only opening.

I knew he was hungry because I picked him up straight from wrestling practice. He said he wasn’t hungry, but I’ve yet to meet a teenage boy who’s not hungry 24 hours a day.

While I was checking out, I told him to go over to the pizza counter near the check-out lane. He could pick up a small, already baked pizza while I paid for our items. A lady was in front of him, and she got the last two pizzas.

He looked disappointed.

“It’ll be about 20 minutes,” my grandson said. We didn’t have that much time, so we left. I hoped there would be snacks for sale at the concert that could hold him over until he got home.

As we were walking to our car, the lady who’d been in front of my grandson in the pizza line hurried up to us.

“I want you to have these pizzas,” she said, trying to hand a plastic bag to me.

“Oh, I couldn’t take those – they’re yours,” I said, pulling back a bit.

She leaned closer and thrust the bag forward.

“God was telling me to pass on some kindness this evening,” she said with a gentle smile. “I don’t need this pizza but I think your grandson could use it. Please take it.”

Speechless, I took the bag, but quickly regained my voice.

“This is so kind of you,” I said, reaching into my purse. “Please let me pay you for them.”

She backed away.

“I couldn’t take money because this is a God thing,” she said. “Taking any money would be wrong. We’re called to pass on goodness in this world. I’m just answering that call.”

And with that, she turned and sprinted away.

My grandson and I just stood there, looking at each other, not believing what had just happened. When we got in the car, my grandson dove into the pizza. The lady was right – he’d been hungry.

We couldn’t stop talking about this random act of kindness given by a stranger. She didn’t know us, we were a different race, and she asked for nothing in return.

Cynics might have thought something was wrong with the food, but that thought never crossed our mind. All we thought about was how generous this nice lady was to two strangers.

Her kindness made us realize we should perform small kindnesses more often. She made our day more than she could possibly know, because we needed more than two individual pan pizzas that night.

We needed to know that there are people out there who care.

We needed to know there are people who notice when someone else is in need.

We needed to remember there are people who make the decision to think of someone else before themselves.

We needed to remember there are people who will give what they have so others won’t go hungry.

And, most of all, we needed to remember there are people who can restore our faith in humanity by a simple act of kindness.

Thank you, kind and generous stranger, for restoring our faith in people. That’s the best Christmas gift we could hope to receive.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald

“It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas” is the song the late Bing Crosby recorded in 1951. That was over 70 years ago, and every year, Christmas starts looking like the holiday earlier and earlier.

The houses on my street already have their lights up, and I’m feeling the pressure to start decorating. But first things first, and that’s to find the perfect Christmas tree.

I know an artificial tree would make this decision a whole lot easier. All we’d have to do is haul the box down from the attic, set up the tree and be finished in a couple of hours.

Instead, I insist on a real tree every year. I know that tree was cut back in August and it’s already on its way to becoming a stick. But I love the adventure associated with a real tree.

First, it’s where to get the tree. We went to Christmas tree farms when our boys were young. We’d ride around the pasture in a wagon, singing carols, and then get out and find a tree.

This, of course, was after numerous arguments between the boys about which tree they wanted to cut down.

One tree would be too short. We found out the hard way that a short tree that looked perfect in the field would look like a shrub once we got it inside.

Then there’s the tall and thin tree – that looks good on a runway model, but I like a tree that’s got a bit of roundness in the middle.

Besides, when you’re short like me, if the tree is too tall, it’s impossible to put the angel on the top without a ladder. Whenever we’ve gotten a tall tree, the lights stop three fourths of the way up because that’s as far as I can reach.

If the tree’s too wide, there’s no place to put it and still be able to walk past the tree without bumping into furniture. But a wide tree offers lots of nooks and crannies to hang the bigger ornaments we have.

We’ve yet to find a tree that didn’t have a bad side. Usually there’s a big hole on one side which isn’t a problem. That side goes against the wall.

Some real trees lean to one side which isn’t evident until it goes in the tree stand. Others have thick trunks that don’t fit in the stand without taking a hatchet and whittling the trunk down.

Then there’s the decorating decisions. First, how many strands of lights can I fit on the tree? In my opinion, there’s never too many lights, so I put as many lights on as are in the storage box.

Should they twinkle or give off a steady light. Big bulbs or little bulbs. These are questions we tree decorators have to consider.

Then there’s the question of tinsel and garland. We grew up with a gold garland draped on the branches.

I tried to find garland like my mom had for our tree, but either it was too thick or too thin.

So I stopped putting garland on the tree and opted for icicles. For years, those were impossible to find. Now mail-order stores offer icicle packs – tinsel icicles for those searching for glittery silver strands – for under $5.

I think our tree needs at least $15 worth of tinsel.

In the end, the perfect tree is the one we decorate as a family and holds our collection of mis-matched and chipped ornaments, each one a special memory.

Something tells me that no matter where we buy that half-dead tree and no matter how many pounds of tinsel we drape on the branches, our tree will be the perfect one.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

It’s Thanksgiving 2023, the time to give thanks for all our blessings. Those are a lot like our plate at Thanksgiving – either smothered with gravy or slim pickings because we can’t cook, are away from home or can’t muster up the holiday season.

It’s easy to lose sight of some of the small things we’re thankful for, the small gifts that make life a little easier.

For example…

Instant movies. No longer do we have to wait for Thanksgiving to watch “The Wizard of Oz.” It’s there with the click of a button on TBS Friday night or in the middle of July from any streaming service.

These premium channels have gotten so good, we can watch a black-and-white movie from the 40’s and the latest blockbuster on the same day without ever leaving our living room.

Salad in a bag. I used to buy lettuce, tomatoes and cucumbers in bulk. It was cheaper and the only way those vegetables came.

I’d forget those healthy choices were in the refrigerator. So the lettuce wilted, the tomatoes were squishy and the cucumbers turned gross before I could use them.

Now I can have a variety of yummy add ons to a salad just by buying a bag of salad fixings. Want a Caesar salad? Buy the bag. What about salad with fruits. Same answer. No more wilted lettuce. No more soggy tomatoes.

Microwave popcorn. Those of us who grew up in the 50’s and 60’s remember making popcorn on top of the stove with a nifty product called “Jiffy POP.”

You’d shake a covered metal pie plate filled with unpopped kernels over a stove burner until the foil on top magically lifted, the sounds of popping corn filling the air.

Most of the time, we burnt the popcorn because it was hard to tell when most of the kernels were popped, despite the big ball on top of the pie plate.

Now, pop a brown bag in the microwave, hit the popcorn button and, three minutes later, the corn is all popped, salted and ready to eat.

Mini drinks. I can’t count the number of half-full cans of Coke, Pepsi or Dr. Pepper I’ve poured down the sink because a full can was too much. Now they make mini cans of carbonated beverages that are the right size. They even make mini bottles of cappuccino. Caffeine lovers are thrilled.

I’m thankful for the following items, but with reservations.

        Cell phones. Yes, they’re convenient. Yes, they’re smart. But if you call a number by mistake, there’s no trying to hang up quickly so the person on the other end didn’t know you called.

You can no longer call someone just to see if they’re home. They know you called. And if you’re one of those people who used to call somebody at least a dozen times because you were worried or obsessive, the jig’s up. They know you were checking on them.

Fast-Food Hamburgers. Yes, they’re convenient. Yes, they’re inexpensive. But nothing beats the smell of a hamburger cooking in the kitchen.

Add some onions and you’re all set. If the burger’s done right, it’s okay when the juice runs down your arm. In fact, that means the burger’s perfect.

Old fashioned isn’t always bad.

I’m happy my mom taught me how to cook Thanksgiving dinner. I’m grateful our house will smell like my childhood home with turkey, dressing, home-made mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes and pecan pie.

Growing up, I took for granted my mom would have a great Thanksgiving meal for us. Now I know how important it was that she took the time to make sure one meal became a big memory.

Maybe stepping back in time isn’t always bad.

Happy Thanksgiving to you and your family!

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Christmas is weeks away, but people on social media are already posting pictures of their homes decked out for the winter holidays.

It’s impossible to go into a store and not see Christmas and Hanukkah holiday decorations. Red-and-green sale signs are on top of every display, and Christmas songs are playing in the elevator.

Craft stores cleared out Halloween pumpkins weeks before the end of October. Thanksgiving gets two weeks and then retailers go straight from orange and brown to red and green.

I used to be one of those people who muttered and complained – “Can’t they wait to push Christmas until we’ve at least eaten turkey and dressing?” “What’s the rush? They’ll get our holiday dollars soon enough.” “Give it a rest – I’m still wearing shorts.”

But my attitude has changed.

Now, I’m thrilled that we’re already celebrating Christmas and Hanukkah. Sappy songs, twinkling lights, and tinsel – count me in.

I look forward to driving at night, just so I can see people’s homes decorated with lights, metal reindeer and waving Santas.

I can’t wait to drive through Pecan Grove to see all the homes decorated, especially the time-honored favorites. I’m like a child, anxious to see what new yard displays will appear this year.

There’s a reason why I changed my attitude from “wait your turn” to “bring it on.”

We need happiness.

The sooner, the better.

Many people are still reeling from the effects of a world-wide pandemic. Families lost a loved one to Covid, and that pain is as raw as it was when they were denied seeing their sick relatives in the hospital.

Children struggle to catch up in schools, the job market is on a roller coaster, and people are afraid of things closing down again. Whenever I see a story about Covid coming back and hear whispers of a shutdown, I want to scream at the computer.

There’s a war in the Middle East that’s violent and relentless. The photos of the dead and wounded are haunting.

The possibility of a government shutdown looms over our heads. I still remember the backlog caused the last time – passports and immigration papers were delayed for months.

The bad news is overwhelming, so much so, that I turn off the news, reruns of “The Andy Griffith Show” a better alternative.

But all is not doom and gloom.

One of the Houston radio stations started playing holiday music, and I’m tuning in, laughing and singing “Frosty the Snowman” along with Jimmy Durante.

I still get choked up when Josh Groban sings “I’ll be Home for Christmas,” and there’s no better holiday song than Nat King Cole’s “Christmas Song.” Just try to stay dry eyed during that ballad from the 60s.

The depressing news, the hatred in the world and the cynicism all around is enough to make me question whether or not there’s any good left.

But then I see a child looking at the Christmas displays in the store, wonder in their eyes, and know there’s still hope and magic. If a child can believe, so can I.

We’ll enjoy turkey and dressing on Thanksgiving and we’ll thank the Lord for all the gifts and blessings we’ve received. Families can still enjoy the autumn holiday with a Christmas tree in the living room.

Celebrate now. Don’t wait. Go ahead and put your Christmas decorations up, plug in the tree, light the candles and enjoy the love that surrounds you.

I know I will.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Brain studies believe the left side is responsible for logic and order.

The right side is more aligned with creativity and intuition.

Together, the left and right side of the brain allow us to function at top levels.

The late humorist Jeanne Robertson referred to her husband as Left Brain, and I can relate 100 percent. Like the Robertson’s, my husband’s a left-brained person and I’m a right-brained human.

For a couple of months, my bike has been making sounds, like something’s rubbing on the tire. My right-brained solution was to ignore the sound by playing music on my phone while riding.

I asked my left-brained husband if he knew where I could take the bike to have it looked over. He said he did or I could let him look at the bike first. I got off and handed him the handlebars.

He rolled the bike back and forth, made his hand into a fist and hit the brakes a couple of times.

“Try that,” he said. I walked the bike a few feet and, wonder of wonders, the sound was gone.

He then went into a technical explanation of how the brakes work… my right-sided brain tuned out and marveled at how beautiful the sky looked and how many leaves were falling now that the weather’s cooled off.

Despite my trouble in thinking logically, I keep telling myself I can do complicated mechanical things. For instance, disabling the “maintenance required” prompt in my car.

YouTube fix-it videos are some of the most popular clips on that platform. So I typed in the problem and a couple of videos popped up.

I chose the one I understood the best. I got in the car with my phone and paper because my right brain needs step-by-step written directions – on flowered paper, of course.

Watching the video, I followed the instructions – I pressed the start button twice. The lights came on, just like in the video. I followed the next step, but the prompt didn’t come up like it did in the video.

I turned the car off and restarted the video. After the third time of being unsuccessful, I decided I could live with having the “maintenance required” screen on permanently.

After all, my right-brain rationalized, that screen’s small and I’ve ignored bigger things than that in the past.

Failure was still aggravating. I came inside, slamming the door behind me and throwing my keys on the counter.

“That stupid prompt about maintenance won’t go away,” I said. “I’m done.”

He sighed.

“Maybe you can let your spouse try and turn it off,” he said calmly.

Two minutes later, he came back inside and said the problem was fixed.

We right-brained people have to accept the reality of what we can and can’t do. I’m always going to struggle with getting flashlight batteries in the right way, even though there are plus and minus signs on the inside.

I’m never going to remember how to reset the clock in my car when it’s daylight savings time.

I’ve yet to figure out how to use the convection setting on our microwave, and I gave away our Instant Pot because I couldn’t figure out how to use it.

However, we right-brained people have a few tricks up our sleeve.

We can take scraps of material and create everything from quilts to pillows.

A can of spray paint is an opportunity to transform junk into treasures.

We see the world in vivid reds, blues and greens with adventure around every corner. Our imaginations transport us to beautiful, imaginary worlds every single day.

I’m moved to tears by beautiful music, a painting, no matter the age or talent of the artist, and the sound of a baby’s laugh.

So I can’t fix my computer, the brakes on my bike or reset the clock in my car.

My right brain knows to appreciate and thank my left-brained person who can do all those things.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

I fell yesterday.

I was leaving a store and tripped over the rug by the door. No physical injuries except a bruised hand and knee. My pride, however, was crushed because, years ago, I never would’ve tripped.

Older people on commercials are young and energetic. They’re wearing a sweater around their shoulders, their silver hair beautifully combed. They’re slim and athletic as they ride their bike, mountains in the background.

Let’s get real.

I ride a bike but I’m wearing a helmet, and I’ll never win the Tour de France. Maybe the Tour de Geezers.

Getting older has been humbling. I can remember so many insensitive phrases that came out of my mouth when I was young.

“I’ll never dye my hair.”

“I’ll never turn the music down.”

“I wish this old goat would drive faster.”

“No way I’ll ever go to bed before midnight.”

My natural hair color now is battleship gray, so it gets dyed every six weeks.

I value the hearing I have left so I turn the music down. Occasionally I’ll turn the music up, but the reason is simple – I can’t hear it.  I’m not ready for hearing aids, but I do tend to turn radios up louder than I did 10 years ago.

On the freeway, I’m the old goat driving slower – my reflexes aren’t what they were when I was 18 years old. However, I’m not in a huge hurry anymore. I understand the store will still be open when I get there. No appointment is worth a speeding ticket.

When I was younger, the weekends were for staying up until 2 a.m. and hitting the IHOP for breakfast. I stayed up until one in the morning not too long ago. I was a zombie for a week.

There are some advantages to being older. We head to a restaurant early to beat the crowd. It’s five o’clock, but we’re in and out before the crowd shows up. Plus, dozens of restaurants offer a menu with smaller portions for seniors.

After the age of 55, there are all kinds of ways for seniors to save a few bucks. Retailers from Big Lots to Kohl’s to Walgreen’s offer discounts on specific days of the week to those of us old enough to remember when The Beatles first hit the music scene. Since we’re not punching a time clock, we can head to a retail shop on a Wednesday and take advantage of the mid-week discounts.

For $10, I’m the proud owner of an America the Beautiful Senior Pass that gives me free entrance to all national parks for the rest of my life.

Of course, I’ll have to do something about these bum knees so I’m able to enjoy walking the trails.

There are things we seniors no longer spend money on. We don’t have to go to the movie theater to see the newest release. Sooner or later, that movie will show up on free television.

We don’t worry about the latest fashion – sensible shoes beat out stiletto heels, flannel shirts are much warmer in the winter than silk, and I don’t own anything that has to go to the dry cleaners.

In our golden years – which are sometimes like fool’s gold – we fall. We need hearing aids, bifocals, and orthopedic shoes. Little by little, it seems we’re falling apart.

Looking back, though, there were shining moments.

We watched the first human walk on the moon.

We were the first ones to see Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader light up the screen.

Most of us bear a scar on our arm from the polio vaccine and no longer lived in fear of this disease.

We heard John F. Kennedy and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. change the world.

You know, being a geezer ain’t all bad.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Standing in the grocery store line, I looked at a magazine cover. Another celebrity’s fast weight loss was the lead story. Ozempic-thin is the new label to throw at someone who loses a lot of weight rapidly.

Luckily, I don’t have to worry about being on the cover of a magazine for quick weight loss. I’ve been trying to lose the same 25 pounds since I was in my twenties.

Okay, 30 pounds.

Losing weight isn’t easy.

Diet experts tell you to throw away all the forbidden food in your pantry. I don’t see how innocent Little Debbie can be taboo, but she’s on the “Most Wanted List.”

She’s right up there with cute treats as Ding Dongs and Twinkies. How could they ever hurt you?

But in the trash they’re supposed to go. That’s throwing away good money, my mind tells me even though I know I shouldn’t have bought them in the first place.

My rational mind also says those empty-calorie treats aren’t healthy choices, but my checking account wins the argument.

Then there’s shame. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and wonder who’s staring back.

Surely that’s not me.

Surely I don’t have two chins instead of one. Let’s not even mention what I see in the rear view mirror.

I feel awful, ugly and not worthy of anything. Except maybe that Little Debbie cake in the pantry because Little Debbie’s innocent and sweet.

Shame and guilt aren’t the best motivators. Just ask any Catholic that goes to confession time after time with the same sins they confessed 30 years ago.

Instead, I try motivation. Be your best self! Be healthy! Be strong! After all these years, I’m starting to think my best self is the one that wears oversized T-shirts and baggy sweat pants.

Can’t argue with maintaining a healthy weight – everyone knows those extra pounds cause trouble for the joints, back and everything else that goes wrong with your body.

Losing weight by myself is pretty hard. That’s why I’ve joined Weight Watchers at least a dozen times.

The first time I joined was when I was 25 years old. My dad called and said he’d signed me, my mom and himself up for Weight Watchers.

“You were fat before and you’re fatter now,” he said.

Ouch.

But it worked. Together we all lost weight and he kept it off. Mine returned home, much like Lassie did, with my first pregnancy. Then those pounds brought their friends with my second pregnancy and those pounds invited all their relatives to join the party on my hips.

I still go to Weight Watchers. The pounds leave, they return, and then we start the process all over again. They give out pins and awards for milestone weight losses – five pounds, ten, twenty, fifty. I keep wondering if they’re going to give out pins for those who’ve joined and rejoined Weight Watchers. If so, I’d have enough pins to fill a jewelry box.

I tried seeing a hypnotist – all that did was convince me that hypnosis might work on television, but not in real life. Plus my checking account was $100 lower.

I’ve been on the Sugar Busters and South Beach diets, Jenny Craig, Dr. Atkins and Carbohydrates Addicts plans. I donated all those books to the Friends of the Library.

I gave up real sugar for Sweet’n’Low, Coca Cola for Tab and chocolate for apples. For those of us with a real addiction to sugar, these substitutes don’t cut the mustard – which, by the way, has zero calories.

I suppose Little Debbie and I will have to finally come to a truce. She can live in my memories but not in my pantry.

I hope she understands.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Recently, I had a conversation with a working journalist. He pointed out I technically wasn’t a journalist any more – I’d left the daily newspaper business to start a career as a teacher.

I was speechless because, career-wise, I thought of myself as a journalist and a teacher.

I read news stories with a critical eye – did the journalist report the story in an unbiased way? I subconsciously look at the lead – was it interesting, balanced, eye-catching? I see incredible people around me and think they’d make a great feature story.

If you love what you do, that career becomes part of your life. One of the professions that stays forever is education. When teachers retire or leave the field, the educator mindset remains.

Many retired teachers, or even those who’ve left the profession, step in to teach if the opportunity presents itself. The enthusiasm and love of teaching is reignited.

Engineers are always going to be engineers. They have specific ways of doing things that are ingrained in their DNA. My husband’s an engineer, and he solves problems logically and efficiently.

Parenting is one of those careers you never leave. Even when your kids are adults, the urge to mommy is strong.

If one of my sons says he feels sick, the first thing I do is put my hand on his forehead to see if he has fever.

I’ve learned to let their wives take the lead, but it’s difficult to resist the urge to tell them to lie down on the couch and I’ll be right in with chicken-noodle soup.

My brother is a web developer. But he’s a gifted artist who has the ability to draw or sketch anything. We all love it when Jeff shares his doodles from staff meetings.

Mine are usually squares, lines or circles. His are portraits or poses of hands or faces showing different emotions and stages of life. He can’t stop being a talented artist – it’s part of who he is.

Musicians are the same. The people I know who taught music, played an instrument or sang on the stage will always dissect a musical piece.

They’ll either play the score in their heads, sing the songs or break down the artist’s method of creating beautiful sounds.

Just because they’re no longer strumming an electric guitar in somebody’s garage or in the high school choir doesn’t mean they stop being musicians.

Retired geologists will always search for interesting rocks, and theater directors will read a play or novel and wonder how they can block and stage the action.

If we love what we do, the career becomes part of us, second nature.          Realistically, writing a column for a newspaper doesn’t mean I’m a journalist. It means I’m a writer.

But in my heart, there’s a lot of chambers – journalist, writer, mom, photographer, seamstress, grandmother, sister, cousin, wife, daughter, grandmother, neighbor, traveler, secretary, concession stand worker, babysitter, chauffeur, friend.

If we’re lucky, what we do in life becomes part of who we are.

Working as a secretary taught me to embrace new technology.

Being a mom taught me love is unconditional. Patience is not.

Being a columnist taught me to look for lessons in little events, in people and in what’s around me.

A career as a teacher taught me we learn in different ways and at different speeds. If a child is reluctant to learn, look beyond the obvious. I learned to do that as a journalist.

I’m glad that trait is part of my soul.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.