When we’re young, people ask us what we want to be when we grow up and the answer’s often a model, a magician or president. These are whimsical careers, so as the years pass, we find professions to fit the persona we’ve grown into.

  As a child, I wanted to be a cowgirl. My bike was my trusty steed, and we circled the block – or the ranch as I liked to think – hundreds of times, always on the lookout for varmints. When I grew up, I realized I was scared of horses, so being a cowgirl was definitely not a vocation for me.

  When I was a teenager, I wanted to be an airline stewardess. I wanted to visit exotic places, and I thought a career with an airline would allow me to see the world with someone else footing the bill.

  As I took a responsible job as a secretary, I watched that dream of jetting away to Cairo, New York City and Paris dissipate like the long-ago dream of a little girl wanting to be a cowgirl.

  Motherhood came along and, over the years, I gladly accepted three blue bundles even though I was filled with terror, knowing I was responsible for those little lives. As time went on, I gradually felt more comfortable changing diapers, dispensing advice and protecting my boys from the cruelties of the world.

  We wanted to let them experience the fun of travel, so we’d occasionally fly to a colder climate during spring break. Out of the corner of my eye, I’d watch the flight attendants, wondering what faraway places they’d been to and where they were headed.

  A chance came along to work at a newspaper, and although I loved reading novels like “One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest” and “Don Quixote” and had dabbled in a little bit of writing, I never thought I could be a writer because the responsibility is solemn.

  With a few well-placed words and phrases, a writer can squeeze hearts, open eyes or move mountains. Whenever I write a column, I say a quiet prayer that my words are helpful, not harmful. Even though I’ve been occupying this space for over 10 years, I still gnash my teeth and agonize over what’s printed in this slot.

  More than just shouting into the wind, I fervently pray that if I’m writing a humorous column, someone will read the words in the midst of sorrow and a smile will sneak into their hearts.

  If a young mother is feeling overwhelmed, I hope reminiscences of my sweatshirts decorated with spit-up and linoleum floors that didn’t see a broom for weeks hits home.

  More than that, though, I want to keep stoked a perpetual fire in my heart to remember the real job of a journalist:  to report the truth. Those of us who write must always remember that words are the most powerful weapon in the world.

  I’m reminded of that fact when I hear “America The Beautiful” and “Danny Boy” and the tears well in my eyes over those simple yet stirring lyrics. As I watch television shows like HBO’s “Newsroom” and reruns of “The Wonder Years,” I know there are talented and unsung wordsmiths out there igniting our brains and our hearts.

  To this day, when I watch women riding horses, I marvel at their grace and agility. When I’m on an airplane and watch flight attendants going about their tasks, I’m grateful they can gracefully handle emergencies at 30,000 feet in the air.

  I’ll never be a cowgirl or a flight attendant. I’ll never walk a runway in a $3,000 designer dress nor will I preside over the United Nations. But in my mind and from my keyboard, I can climb on a mythical white steed and, like Don Quixote, fight the windmills.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald, Fort Bend County’s daily newspaper.

  On Monday, we’ll celebrate Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Day. As time goes by, King’s persona is often that of a man standing in front of a microphone giving his famous  “I have a dream” speech.

  But King was much more than a sound bite or a paragraph in a history book. Like many Americans, he was born poor. Growing up, he thought he was getting a good education, but when he got to college, King realized he was far behind the other white students. He studied, caught up and graduated from Boston University.

  His fight for civil rights began in 1954, and by 1955 he was one of the leaders in the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People. But King decided to follow a non-violent path for racial equality, and he was rewarded with having his home bombed, being arrested over 20 times and assaulted at least four times.

  At the age of 35, King was the youngest man to receive the Nobel Peace Prize, and he turned the $54,000 in prize money over to the furtherance of the civil rights movement. In 1968, he was senselessly assassinated, and the world lost a peaceful visionary.

  Over the years, I forgot most of what I knew about Dr. King. I mentally put him in a narrow category as a civil rights leader and felt sad when stories surfaced of his supposed extramarital affairs.

  But one day, I decided to read some of his writings to see for myself what King had to say and pulled up one of his most famous writings, “Letter from a Birmingham Jail.”  I read every word, and was absolutely fascinated.

  King wrote the letter in 1963 while sweltering in a hot jail cell in Birmingham, Ala. The letter was written in the margins of newspapers and on the backs of legal papers and quietly smuggled out.

  The letter was not only an incredibly insightful reflection on the country, King’s words became the philosophical foundation of the Civil Rights movement.

  King wrote he was in jail because injustice was there and he couldn’t sit idly by and watch what was happening. “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere,” he stated, and whatever “affects one of us affects us all.”

  King describes the anguish Negros endured when they saw their mothers and fathers lynched. He wailed about the 20 million Negros living in poverty in an affluent society and how he had to explain to his 6-year-old daughter that she couldn’t go to a public amusement park because she was the wrong color.

  I was so moved by “Letter from a Birmingham Jail,” I read the entire “I Have a Dream” speech. It’s easy to come away with only the last few lines but that’s unfortunate because one misses some of the best civil rights thoughts ever put down on paper.

  “Now is the time to lift our nation from the quicksand of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood,” King states. He warns of drinking from the cup of bitterness and hate and urges people to rise to newer heights and not hate people for the color of their skin.

  His hope is deeply rooted in the American dream that all men are created equal and that, one day, the sons of former slaves and the sons of former slave owners will be able to sit down together.

  As many of us relax on a national holiday, let us remember the words of Dr. King. If we can take a nation that’s still divided 40 years later and bring her together, there will be a “beautiful symphony of brotherhood.”

  And from that vantage, all people can sing together “let freedom ring.”
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald newspaper.

 

 

 

  I’m in search of the perfect tree. The criteria is simple – the first few branches ought to be close to the ground and the bark should be fairly smooth. The branches should gently expand to allow an adventurous 5-year-old to wedge her feet into the crevices so she can proceed upward.

  In short order, I’m looking for a suitable climbing tree.

  When I was young, there was a small grove of small trees between our house and my grandparents’ house. My friends and I loved playing there because the trees offered a shady retreat as well as a great place to hide from the world.

  For hours, we’d wage war with our plastic army soldiers, dig holes and then line the holes with tin foil to make lakes. When we tired of playing in the dirt, we’d find a tree to climb and go as high as we could.

  I don’t know what kind of trees grew in that stand, but there were enough branches in each tree to let us shimmy our way up at least 15 feet above the ground. We made more than our fair share of climbing mistakes, but, as time went by, we learned a few things.

  The first rule of successfully climbing a tree is making sure there are enough crevices and branches to use as foot and hand holds. The second is understanding that when you find a level, sturdy branch, it’s time to stop, sit and dangle your feet in the open air.

  Once settled, I’d daydream about adventures I wanted to take and far-off lands I’d one day visit. Up there, on top of the world, I was a princess or what I wasn’t most of the time, brave. Eventually we outgrew climbing trees, but memories of hours spent up in a tree always made me smile.

  When I became a mother, my sons loved nothing better than climbing trees, and they were much braver than their mother. They weren’t satisfied until they climbed as high as they could, and nothing thrilled them better than swinging on a rope anchored firmly to a sturdy branch.

  So it was with great satisfaction I heard my granddaughter declare she was looking for a tree to climb. And like all former tree climbers, I began my search for the perfect tree for her to climb.

  That quest was harder than I thought it would be.

  First, the trees in newer neighborhoods are nothing more than saplings, and I didn’t find any that could support the weight of a small child. Older trees in established neighborhoods have had all the lower branches trimmed away, and those with real promise were safeguarded behind formidable fences.

  I found myself constantly evaluating every tree I saw. They were either too tall, the trunks were too thick to climb up or the branches were too spindly. Finally I found a tree for her to climb, but, unfortunately, there was a huge mound of ants at the base of the tree, and neither one of us wanted to risk the bites.

  My granddaughter was disappointed, but her parents came to the rescue. Early one Saturday morning, they headed to Brazos Bend State Park where there are hundreds of majestic trees with low-to-the-ground branches.

  Within minutes, my son, his daughter and his young son were up in the branches while mom, eight months pregnant, remained on the ground, cheering her family on to greater heights.

  When I heard my phone beep with a picture of them snuggled in the branches of a tree, I smiled, the tears forming in my eyes because, thanks to their parents, my grandchildren discovered a wonderful secret.  

  They knew what it felt like to touch the sky.
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

For many of us, part of starting a new year is making a list of personal resolutions to improve or add something to our lives. One of my favorites that doesn’t include throwing away all the cookies in the pantry is redecorating.

  Unlike exercising or being nice to grouchy people, spiffing up our living space takes more than willpower – it takes money.

  Magazines and websites feature thousands of ideas to update and “evoke the essence of the aesthetic,” but some are quite deceptive in how much they’ll set you back. One of the most mentioned do-it-yourself spruce ups is replacing the pillows on the couch.

  The  last time I shopped, one new throw pillow from the local craft shop was $19.95. That’s right – almost twenty dollars for some sequins, pom poms and stuffing. By the time I finished updating the five pillows on my couch, that simple spiff-it-up tip would set me back over $100.

  That’s why I’m always a sucker for magazine articles about people who update their houses with recycled items. These articles promise readers pie-in-the-sky results if they can “reclaim elements” they’re already using.

  “Shabby chic” is the name decorators gave to a trend that’s nothing more than taking old stuff, making it look even older and then claiming you meant to put that chipped and dinged up coffee table front and center.

  The frosting on that old cupcake, though, is finding ingenious ways to incorporate natural items like branches, pine cones and rocks into your decorating palette.

  One article advocated using geodes for a natural look on an entry table. I love geodes as nothing’s prettier than blue and purple geode crystals, but I priced geodes at a rock shop – they’re $250 for one the size of a softball.

  I decorated our mantle with branches from a yaupon tree one year, but when the bugs decided to vacate the bark and take up residency in our living room and the red from the berries permanently stained the paint, I went back to artificial greenery.  

  One theory is universal – a bold splash of color is what every room needs. Orange pillows on the couch are perfect, one article stated, but there’s no way my Aggie boys would ever allow me to have anything orange in the living room.

  Another decorator used sand to cover the top of an entry table to give a house a nautical feel. With two grandchildren under the age of 6, that sand would be everywhere except on the top of that table.

  To top it off, the decorator stood two canoe paddles against the wall to add to the nautical feel. Our grandchildren would think we’d put two battering rams in the house – not a great idea for anyone with imaginative children.

  Outfitting a home office generates over half the decorating articles. The start of a new year is when many of us try and get organized in the spot where we pay our bills or the kids do their homework.

  I thought I’d try and update my office area as well, perhaps finding something a bit fancier for my pens, pencils and scissors than old, chipped coffee mugs.

  But then I priced home office knick-knacks — $12.95 was more than I wanted to spend for one cup holder, and I wasn’t willing to fork over $10 for a special container to hold paper clips when a lopsided clay bowl my son made at Boy Scout camp works just dandy.

  Sitting back in my office chair that’s about 10 years old, I realized I really am a down-home, green decorator. My decor won’t make the shiny pages of “Better Homes and Gardens” magazine, but it suits my re-purposed aesthetic just fine.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

  The end of 2012 is right around the corner, and many of us are jotting down New Year’s resolutions. There’s the promise to get in better shape, eat healthier and remain calm in rush-hour traffic.

Everybody,  it seems, has advice for those of us wishing to turn over a new leaf for 2013, and most of the suggestions are valid. Who can argue with deciding to forgive our enemies or vowing to keep the house neater.

But sometimes bad advice is shrouded in good intentions. Over the years, I think I’ve received more bad advice than good.

The first piece of bad advice I got was from Ms. Thomas, my high school typing teacher. A no-nonsense woman, Ms. Thomas spent most of her time correcting our posture and lifting our elbows.

Her advice to me was to be a secretary because I could type fast. With that one piece of advice, I decided to follow a two-year curriculum at a small college and become a secretary.

It never occurred to me to question that advice, and although I enjoyed being a secretary, I secretly yearned for a four-year college degree. It took 25 years, but I finally earned that diploma.  

Then there was the advice I got as a first-time mother. Nick was a colicky baby, and I always rocked him to sleep. A friend told me I was spoiling him and I should let him cry in his bed so he’d learn to go to sleep by himself.

Later that day, I put him in his crib and let him cry for about three minutes. When I went in to check on the baby, his little face was covered with spit-up. I cleaned him up, promising I’d never let any of my babies cry themselves to sleep.

In fact, the list of bad parenting advice, especially about discipline, is as long as my driveway. One of my boys loved to bite. I don’t know why he used this form of revenge, but biting was his favorite way to aggravate his brother.

All the parenting books said to never bite a child back.

All my friends said to use time out.

Old-timers said to bite him back.

One day, I was standing at the sink, and my little angel came up behind me and bit me on the back of my leg hard enough to leave a bruise. I turned around and bit him on the arm. He was astonished, and it was the last time he bit anybody.

After that, I vowed to only consider child-rearing advice from people over the age of 65, and that philosophy has served me well.

Relationship advice bombards us from all directions. When I was young, friends told me to never learn how to put gas in my car or fix anything around the house because that was a husband’s job.

If I’d followed that advice, I wouldn’t have known how to fix a broken toilet when my husband was out of town.  

Truth be told, there are advantages to listening to bad advice because those gems of well-intentioned but misguided words of wisdom have provided me with important life lessons over the years.

I learned nothing takes the place of a thirst for knowledge; and once we stop learning, we stop growing.  

I know how to trouble shoot an unhappy toilet and how to maneuver my way through our breaker box.

 I learned to cherish time rocking my babies to sleep and, even though I regret a lot of things I did as a parent, letting them cry themselves to sleep wasn’t one of them.

In 2013, I’ll vow to eat healthier and keep my road rage under control. After that, I’ll toss the advice books on my bookshelf.

And always rock my grandchildren to sleep.
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

  When my boys were young, they’d often ask questions for which I had to scramble for an answer. For instance, how a car works. When my 4-year-old son asked the question, I thought about telling him something up that would give him a general idea about internal combustion, but I changed my mind.

  “Magic,” I told him, and he was satisfied.

  During a scary thunderstorm, my sons asked what caused thunder.

  “It’s the angels bowling,” I said. They looked dubious.

  “Well that’s what my mom said,” I told them, and they were satisfied.  

  As parents, we try to answer all the questions our children ask us; and even though we try to be as truthful as possible, sometimes we have to make up explanations.

  But there are times when the only truthful answer is “I don’t know.” Such is the answer I give when asked why someone would open fire on a classroom and kill 20 innocent children and six innocent adults.

  There are numerous possibilities – he had mental issues, he came from a broken home, he was depressed or there were readily available assault weapons in the house. There are questions as to why he chose Sandy Hook Elementary, what set him off and why he murdered innocent babies instead of just taking himself out.  

  I keep thinking someone knew this piece of human garbage was unhinged. Somebody was aware things were not right with him, and they did little to stop him.

  Perhaps they were afraid they’d be considered biased or prejudiced against people with mental issues. Maybe they didn’t want to get involved in something a family is supposed to take care of behind closed doors. Maybe his family was completely exhausted and overwhelmed with the responsibilities of caring for someone so relentless and sick.

  Right now, we’re grieving for the loss of these 6- and 7-year-old babies who were sitting at their desks one minute and then being shot at close range the next. We sob and thank God for the adults who died trying to save the children.

  Still, our children ask us why bad things happen, and we can’t come up with a reason that makes any sense. I can’t begin to explain why 15-year-old Malala Yousafzai was shot by Taliban gunmen while riding her school bus.  

  Malala was an outspoken proponent of rights for girls, and she was opposed to the oppressive tactics of the Taliban. This young Pakistanian was shot in the face earlier this year in front of her friends and other young children while on her way to school.

  There are no suitable explanations as to why a lunatic opened fire in a crowded movie theater in Aurora, Colo. this summer. During a midnight screening of “The Dark Knight,” 12 innocent people were killed and 20 were wounded as the movie played on the screen.

  We’re still trying to understand why, in 1999, two evil teenagers decided to shoot their classmates in Columbine, Colo., an unbelievable act of terror that continues to reverberate throughout the land.

  These heinous acts shattered our belief that we live in a world where children and the weak are safe from men with machine guns and assault rifles, fueled by hatred and lunacy.

  So when our children ask us to explain why bad things happen in this world, I hope we can honestly say we don’t know but we’re working to make sure they never happen again.

  And then keep our word.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 With this latest snap of cold weather, the standard holiday songs are making a little more sense. We identify with Frosty the Snowman when we’re wrapping our pipes against a freeze, turning the knob on the mini-van air conditioner to the red zone and hauling heavy jackets out of the closet. 

  Frankly, I’d rather visualize cold holiday moments instead of experiencing them, and because we live in southeast Texas, we can watch other people dig themselves out of the snow while we’re running air conditioners year round.

  A Southern Christmas is different.   

  We don’t roast chestnuts over an open fire. When confronted with a roaring campfire, Southerners are scrounging around for hot dogs and Shiner beer. If Jack Frost tried to nip at a Texan’s nose, ole Jack might find himself with a nose as red as Rudolph’s.

Still some people wish for snow, sleigh rides and throwing snowballs. They think they’re missing something by not experiencing frigid temperatures and four feet of snow outside.

  But let’s consider the positives of a snow-less Christmas. First there’s the mild temperatures. We picked out our Christmas tree while wearing shorts and sandals.

 While holiday shopping, I wasn’t bundled up in a scarf and a bulky overcoat. I was strolling along from shop to shop wearing sunglasses and short sleeves.

  No snow and sleet to slosh through.

  No blowing snow in my face. 

  Just an easy saunter under a bright blue sky.

  Like me, our granddaughter loves a Southern winter. The temperature was still around 80 degrees this past Sunday, and she wanted to splash around with the water hose.

  Why not, I thought, and I let her dance around the back yard in her pink bathing suit.

I can hear my cold-weather loving friends whispering my granddaughter could’ve had just as much fun in the snow; but we spent one minute hanging up a wet bathing suit to dry versus spending 30 minutes thawing out snow boots, socks, a scarf, a heavy jacket, long johns and mittens.

  I know of what I speak. I grew up in Olean, N.Y., about 60 miles from Buffalo, one of the coldest places in the country. We lived five blocks from the elementary school, and we literally walked through hills of snow on our way to school.

  Getting ready required an extra 10 minutes just to snap up snow boots and layer on a woolen vest, sweater, scarf, a hat and gloves and then 10 minutes extra at school taking all those layers off and hanging them up where they’d dry out by the time the 3 p.m. bell rang.

  But no matter the perks of a warm, Southern Christmas, we still love holiday songs that revolve around snow and cold weather. I wish songwriters would come up with songs that reflect a Southern Christmas. Instead of “Winter Wonderland” lyrics, what about:

  “Cowbells ring, are you listenin’

  On the gulf, waves are glistening

  A beautiful sight

  We’re happy tonight

  Sitting on the beach in Whiskey Bay.”

  Or what about changing the words in “Frosty the Snowman:

  “Ole Mike the Tiger

  Loved the purple and the gold

  Dashing all around Deaf Stadium

  Growling make ole Bama fold.   

  There are many more perks to a Southern Christmas. We never have to worry about strapping snow chains on tires nor do we have to spend time protecting the truck’s undersides from salt damage after snow ploughs clear the roadways.

  We don’t spend money on a winter wardrobe and a summer wardrobe – I own one long-sleeved shirt and there’s not a sweater in my closet. I never have to rotate my clothes because I know even when the temperatures are in the 30’s, warm days are right around the corner.

  In fact, the weather forecasters are predicting the weekend weather should have high’s in the mid 70’s.

  Halleluiah, y’all.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

  

  The jig is almost up. Our 5-year-old granddaughter discovered some unwrapped toys in her parents’ closet, gifts a jolly ole elf was going to leave on Christmas morning.

  Young Kylie inherited her reporter genes from both her mom’s side of the family and her dad’s side, and those “seek-and-find” antennae were on full alert when she just “happened” to stumble on the gifts hidden in the back of the closet.

  I can’t say I’m surprised. When I was a young girl, snooping and looking for Christmas gifts was my prime mission. The best source of information were conversations my mom and aunts had when they thought we weren’t listening.

  One year I overheard the words “Barbie Dream House” and hoped they were helping out Santa Claus because that dream house was at the top of my list. On Christmas morning, a fully assembled cardboard Barbie Dream House, complete with a Barbie and a Ken, was waiting for me.

  After that, I figured my moms and aunts had a secret line to the North Pole because we always seemed to get exactly what we wanted for Christmas. That charade went on for years but I gradually unraveled the myth of Santa Claus.

  When I was in the fourth grade, I opened a closet in our laundry room, and I saw a white helicopter on one of the top shelves. I didn’t think much about the toy, figuring I’d find it wrapped up underneath the tree for my brother.

  But when I woke up on Christmas morning and saw the helicopter with a tag on it that said “From Santa,” I knew right then and there that my friends were right – Santa really was my mom and dad.

  Contrary to what psychologists say, I wasn’t traumatized by this realization. Instead, I was miffed at myself for not figuring it out sooner. After that, the only true mystery was figuring out what was in the wrapped boxes my mom put under the tree in the days before Christmas.  

  I shook, rattled and probed every box under the tree almost the minute she put them under there. I was a master spy at slowly but accurately removing Scotch tape from gifts and peering underneath the wrapping paper to see what was inside.

  And, just as stealthily, I’d re-tape the paper and act extremely surprised when we opened the gifts. Every once in a while, I’d tell myself I shouldn’t sneak a peek so I’d genuinely be surprised.

  Just as quickly, I’d talk myself out of that rationalization and go to work removing the tape from the rest of the gifts. My mom didn’t figure out I was a major snoop until years later when I caught her doing the exact same thing to a mystery gift my dad had left under the tree for her.

   The true generosity of Santa Claus wasn’t clear to me until I had children of my own. At night, as I’d tuck my boys into bed, they’d ask if Santa would really get them what they wanted. And on Christmas morning, when they saw that special gift with their name on it, the man at the North Pole got all the recognition, not mom and dad.

  Somehow, though, I didn’t want the credit for those gifts. Seeing the light in my sons’ eyes as they thought about how good they’d been that year and that someone with a hearty laugh and twinkling eyes was rewarding them was the best Christmas gift of all.

  This year, what my daughter-in-law and I will do is switch out toys as my granddaughter hasn’t yet discovered where I’m hiding her Christmas gifts. Hopefully, the secret identity of the jolly man in the red velvet suit will stay secret.

  At least for one more year.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

  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.