A few years ago, my son and I attended a James Taylor concert, one of our favorite artists. At the end, when Taylor sang “Sweet Baby James” as a soft lullaby, I cried like a baby as did most of the people my age in the audience.

Partly, Taylor moved me with the lyrics that took me back to long-ago, almost-forgotten days, but mostly it was the melancholy way he phrased the song that stirred my soul.

Those types of singers and artists don’t come along very often. Let’s face it, few of us feel moved to tears when hearing “Superbad” or “Sexy and I Know It.”

Over the years, artists have recorded and rerecorded a handful of standards, and each has his or her own version of what they believe sounds good.

I can’t count the number of renditions of “The Star Spangled Banner” I’ve listened to – some atrocious, some barely recognizable as the national anthem and some pretty good – or the number of ways I’ve heard the Beatles’ “Blackbird” mangled.

So when a friend suggested I listen to Eva Cassidy in connection with “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” I clicked on the link with a bit of trepidation.

After all, Judy Garland owns this song, and no one comes close to singing the “Wizard of Oz’s” signature song like Garland.

Until I heard Eva Cassidy.

The clip was filmed at The Blues Alley in 1996. Cassidy accompanies herself on the guitar, and her strumming is as masterful as her singing. Incredibly, the performance is live, and she soars through every note flawlessly.

But more than her masterful technical ability, Cassidy makes the listener feel the ache of wanting to be in a happier place, a place where troubles melt like lemon drops.

We believe what she’s singing because her voice is genuine. No digital remastering in the studio. No electronic auto-tuning so we won’t notice when she’s off key.

Hooked, I found other videos of her singing, and each one is beautifully stunning. An hour later, I was back listening to “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” again, but this time, sadder.

For Cassidy passed away in 1996 at the age of 33 from bone cancer. She was on her way to signing a record contract when she started having hip pain. By the time doctors discovered the reason for the pain, it was too late, and this beautiful songbird was taken far too soon.

During her brief singing career, she recorded enough songs for a few albums, and her selections reveal an artist who refused to be categorized.

She liked singing them all, she said, and she could make us mourn for “Danny Boy” and believe that, one day, we’ll get across the mountains in our lives with “Bridge Over Troubled Water” and “The Water is Wide.”

Millions of people know her music which is incredible as Cassidy died before finding fame. People comment on her YouTube videos every day, happy they’ve found this incredible singer, sad she’s no longer with us.

Through the beauty of the Internet, we’re able to hear her clear, pure voice, the emotions she felt from every musical genre coming across as clearly as if we were sitting in that smoky club on a Friday night.

Eva Cassidy was a down-to-earth musical magician who can still remind us that music is more than notes on a page – it’s the secret passage to our souls.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The 4-year-old boy on the balance beam was not happy. From my vantage point in the visitor’s watching area, I could see him standing on a balance beam that was only about six inches above the floor mat. His head was in his hands and one thing was obvious – he wasn’t budging.

Standing next to him was the instructor, gently patting him on the back and urging him to keep going.

He refused.

For the next few minutes, other youngsters pranced around him, tumbling and spinning, but this little boy stayed right where he was.

Strangely enough, he wasn’t getting off the beam. He was simply rooted to the spot and refused to do anything but stand there and cry.

I thought a parent might go down and rescue him, but no adult came to his aid. Then I thought the instructor would pick him up and take him to his parents. But she didn’t.

And then I realized an important fact.

If this little boy was allowed to quit right in the middle of attempting to walk across a balance beam six inches off the ground, the next time something difficult came his way, chances were good he’d duck away from that challenge as well.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a dark-haired boy of about 5, and he was having a grand time. He’d jump up after somersaults, a huge smile on his face, and run back to the end of the line, anxious to repeat the tumbling moves.

His excitement was contagious to the other children around him, and soon they were all doing their forward rolls with ease and coming up smiling.

Except the little boy on the balance beam who was still standing right where he was.

Occasionally he’d start to slide a foot to one side, but then he’d panic, stop, and pull his foot back again. The instructor would lean down and whisper something to him, he’d shake his head no, and then she’d straighten up and patiently go back to patting him on the back.

Unexpectedly, the little boy looked up at the instructor, no longer crying, and nodded to her – he was ready to try.

She leaned down and pointed at a spot a few inches from his left foot. He hesitated, but then, he slowly slid his foot to the spot. Immediately the instructor raised her hands in triumph. And then something amazing happened – he smiled.

She pointed a few inches past his foot again, and, this time, he moved both his left and his right foot. It took him a while, but he eventually made his way to the end of the balance beam. When he stepped off, he was holding his head up, the tears were gone and a satisfied look was on his face.

There will always be people in this world who move through life with gusto. And there are others who are often afraid to move from an uncomfortable spot.

They can either stay stuck in fear or they can wait until they feel comfortable enough to move forward.

And even though that youngster only moved a few feet, the obstacle he conquered was probably the toughest one in the room because the biggest fear he faced was inside his head.

That little boy taught me an invaluable lesson – even when you’re scared, if you wait until you’re ready, you can face your fears and slowly but surely move forward in life.

Inch by inch.

Step by step.

Until, no matter the distance, you complete your journey.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I decided to take advantage of a rainy evening and clean out my shoes. Piled on the floor of my closet were rows of shoes, but there comes a time in every shoeaholic’s life when it’s time to make sense of the pile.

I come from a long line of shoe lovers. As a young girl, I remember playing dress up in my Aunt Bev’s closet with my cousin, both of us clomping around in our aunt’s high heels.

My Grandma Marguerite was a fiend for shoes. Three weeks before she passed away, my aunt told me they went shoe shopping, and Grandma bought some $75 shoes.

My aunt told her the shoes were too expensive, but my grandmother just shrugged, a twinkle in her eye. Later that week, they went to the doctor’s office. A young, handsome physician walked through the door, looked down at my grandmother’s feet and said “Nice shoes.”

Grandma looked at my aunt and said “Worth every penny.”

My mother always had fashionable shoes in her closet, and for a long time, all three of her daughters wore her same size. Many a morning, we made a mad dash to Mom’s room, rummaged around in her shoe closet and snatched whatever we could find.

Now I had my own shoe stash, but, eventually, space runs out. Thus began the culling of the shoes.

Grabbing two plastic bags, I began going through the stack. I picked up some faded blue suede shoes – yes, just like Elvis described – and a smile crossed my face. Those were the shoes I bought when I was 18, a broke college freshman.

I bought those shoes with some unexpected money my grandfather sent me, and they are a constant reminder that others might need some help at unexpected times. So those went back on the shelf.

Then there were four pairs of white dressy sandals. None of them were ever comfortable to wear, and I always ended up taking them off an hour after I put them on. Any girl worth her salt can put up with uncomfortable shoes for at least two hours.

I put them back.

Then there were a pair of gold shoes. For someone practical like me, having a pair of gold shoes is odd, but I have them because of my Aunt Kathy. She told me every woman should own a pair of gold shoes because they dress up an outfit and go with everything.

I put those back.

And then I came across my sandals. In Texas, having shoes that can survive 90-degree weather is a must, especially for somebody like me who loves to slip shoes on and off.

I put them all back.

Then I came to the dressy shoes. I reluctantly put a pair of three-inch black heeled shoes in the give-away bag, but a few minutes later, I got them out.

Who knows – I could go to a fancy event and I’d need those tall shoes. In fact, I probably needed all the shoes in my closet, so I folded up the empty give-away bag and closed the closet door.

My granddaughter just might like to play dress up one of these days, and I’d feel terrible if there weren’t high heels for her to clomp around in.

Sighing, I realized we shoeaholics are never cured. We simply live for the day we’ll find a pair of comfortable shoes on sale that happen to have some style.

And if they’re gold, then that’s truly a treasure.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

While browsing through the bookstore, I spotted a book, “Animals Make us Human,” but the author’s name is what caused me to pick it up – Temple Grandin.

Dr. Grandin is an animal scientist who revolutionized the cattle processing industry as well as other methods of handling livestock. More importantly, she’s a vocal advocate for people with autism.

She knows what she’s talking about – Grandin is autistic and has become a voice of reason and hope for people like her and for parents with autistic children.

Her road wasn’t easy. As a young child, Grandin didn’t speak and had trouble interacting socially. Doctors told her mother she needed to be institutionalized, but her mother refused to believe her 4-year-old daughter couldn’t learn.

She was right. Grandin proved incredibly intelligent and became fascinated with cows while visiting her aunt’s ranch.

The teenage Grandin eventually devised a chute system that calmed cattle on their way to the slaughterhouse. This system continues to save the meat industry millions of dollars.

Grandin is successful because she approaches life scientifically and logically. Her books and magazine articles provide incredible insight into the world of autistic children.

Her writings and talks educate the world about the different ways people with autism, Asperger’s or attention deficit disorder function every single day.

As I watched the HBO movie about Grandin, I thought about some of the kids I knew back in high school — the “juvenile delinquents” whom the system pigeonholed as troublemakers. There were those who had trouble paying attention in school. They were labeled daydreamers and put into a societal cubicle they could never escape.

But those troublemakers and daydreamers had quite a bit to offer the rest of us, but we overlooked and misunderstood what they were capable of providing because we labeled them, much as Grandin was labeled as a youngster.

I’m as guilty as the next person in judging someone based on a first impression, but through Grandin, I’ve come to understand that the child throwing a tantrum in a grocery store might not be a spoiled brat. That child could have deeper emotional problems, and the parents are doing the best they can.

The adult who has trouble making eye contact or is uncomfortable in a party situation might have undiagnosed social disorders. They’re not someone to avoid but very often they’re someone who needs to be approached in a different way because they see the world through an unusual lens.

Some, like Grandin, are scientists who see the world in bold numbers and sequences. Others, the writers and poets, view the world as phrases and words. Dancers see the world as form and grace, and they ensure we never forget there’s beauty in simple movements.

But when we refuse to accept where people are in their development, refuse to look beyond different behavior or a quirk that doesn’t quite meet our definition of “normal,” then we miss out on so much these individuals can teach us.

Not everyone can dance or paint or build humane cattle chutes, but we all have something unique to offer the world, even if it’s a smile to someone struggling or a comforting word to a parent wondering why their child won’t give them a hug at night.

Temple Grandin is a reminder to see the world through others’ eyes and to remember we’re all doing the best we can.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

As 2011 comes to a close and 2012 prepares to roll in, I find myself tapping my pencil against a notepad, hoping to come up with some resolutions for the next 12 months.

Over the years, I’ve changed my philosophy about making New Year’s resolutions. When I was younger, the list was all about improvement –clean out my dresser and organize my closet.

Then I went through a phase where resolutions were all about personal growth – lose weight, be nicer to people and try to not lose my temper while in traffic.

There were a few years where I refused to make resolutions, believing they were limiting and often unattainable although they were made with good intentions.

But not having any resolutions for a new year left me with nothing to shoot for, and drifting through life without any goals felt a bit lazy.

So I began thinking about what resolutions are supposed to accomplish. If I look up the definition of the word “resolution,” it means a firm decision to do something.

At the end of December, I’m quite dogmatic about the resolutions I’ve committed to a piece of paper. Come the end of January, I’m wavering. By the time the ides of March rolls around, I’ve totally forgotten what I wrote down and am back to my old ways.

They were good intentions at the time they were made, but as my Grandma Marguerite used to say, the road to perdition is paved with good intentions.

As I wrote down resolutions, crossed them off, and tried to think of what I wanted to accomplish this year, I thought about a year where I made only one resolution, and I kept it all year long.

The resolution was to do something fun once a month. That might seem odd, but in a world where we work 12 hours a day and spend the weekends running errands and the washing machine, having fun is a luxury I often put on the back burner.

I remembered the qualifications for accomplishing the resolution. The outing didn’t have to be extravagant or expensive, but it had to move me out of my comfort zone.

One month, I had lunch at a Lebanese restaurant in Houston, one I’d read about but never had time to explore. The food was delicious, and I savored every bite that Saturday afternoon.

Another month I visited the antique shops in downtown Rosenberg. I found myself going down memory lane as I saw plates and serving trays from my grandmother’s kitchen and lost myself in an old red and white checked copy of Better Homes and Garden’s cookbook, similar to the one my mom used when I was growing up.

I went to a theatre production one Sunday night, finding my way through downtown Houston adding to the adventure. Another month I visited a friend, and we had lunch at an out-of-the-way cafe.

One month, the money I would’ve spent on my resolution went to a charity and another month the money went to a family member so they could have some fun.

Knowing someone was stepping outside their comfort zone fulfilled the resolution for me and, at the same time, made me feel a little less selfish.

So this year, I’m going back in time and making a resolution to do something different once a month. It’s not a resolution that’s going to change the world, but it’s often in the small details where we find the most clarity.

Happy New Year!

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

In most families, there are movies that stay at the top of the watch list, especially around the holidays. My sister and her husband don’t consider it a true Christmas unless they’ve watched “A Christmas Vacation” while decorating the tree.

When I was younger, my family always watched “The Wizard of Oz” at Thanksgiving, knowing the movie was the first harbinger of the Christmas season.

In December, I look for “A Christmas Carol,” a 1950’s black-and-white movie starring Alastair Sim as the crotchety Ebenezer Scrooge. It’s one of my favorites and always introduces the yuletide season. For the Hebert family, nothing beats the musicals, especially “Fiddler on the Roof.” My dad was profoundly affected by the film, and my mom said he choked up every time one of Tevye’s daughters left home.

Every song in “Fiddler on the Roof” is etched into my memory because my mom played the soundtrack constantly. We know all the dialogue, and we sing along with every song, from “If I Were a Rich Man” to “Matchmaker, Matchmaker.”

Tevye, the father of three daughters, is my favorite character in the movie because he evolves and changes as he experiences prejudice, his daughters’ wishing to make their own decisions and then having to leave his hometown.

What connects Tevye to the universe is tradition. As life evolves, Tevye keeps some traditions while leaving others behind. I think about Tevye every Christmas as we maintain the traditions I grew up with and add new ones as our family changes and evolves.

For over 35 years, everyone in the Hebert family met at my parents’ home on Christmas Eve. My mom always made a huge pot of gumbo, enough for over 50 people, and everyone brought their own special dish to add to the banquet.

My brother, and then his children with him, serenaded us with guitars and Christmas songs as everyone waited to open gifts, the children first and then the adults. Laughter filled the air, and every Christmas has its own special memory — the year my we all made the gifts for each other and the ritual of taking the huge family portrait.

The first Christmas Eve after my father passed away was difficult. It was his tradition to read the Bible passage of the birth of Christ, and we knew we’d miss him even more at that moment. But my brother quietly took over dad’s duties, keeping what we did in spirit but adjusting to the changing times.

As we brothers and sisters became grandparents, we adjusted again, and many of us were no longer able to all travel to my mom’s for Christmas Eve. As heartbreaking as it was to miss the family gathering, my mother had some sage advice for those of us who couldn’t make it. She said traditions are what bind us, but making new ones is what keeps the family connected from generation to generation.

So this Christmas Eve, I’ll be making a pot of chicken gumbo but adding a few Texas dishes to the menu.

We’ll still read the passage from the Bible and I hope my son will serenade us with his guitar.

My wish is that other families can also honor the past, celebrate the present and create for the future so that, despite what obstacles and triumphs come our way, all our Christmases may be bright.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The bed in our back room is covered with plastic bags, the result of my hitting the holiday sales over the past few weeks. I’ve got a mountain of gifts to wrap, but I’m armed and ready.

Like most thrifty shoppers, I’ve got at least five rolls of holiday wrapping paper in the back of my closet. I can’t resist the after-Christmas 75 percent off rolls of paper; and by the time the 90 percent rolls come around, the paper’s almost free.

Of course, there’s only about three feet of paper on the rolls and the printing is sometimes off center. Santa might be wearing a Hawaiian shirt and the reindeer often look like beavers, but at 90 percent off, who’s complaining?

Over the years, I’ve camouflaged gifts in a variety of wrapping papers. One year, I used the comics pages from the Sunday paper. I saved those comics for over three months, but I still ran out at midnight and resorted to using remnants of rolls from the past three Christmases.

Then there was the year I decided to wrap everything in brown paper. I got the idea from my sister-in-law, Janet, who wrapped her gifts in brown paper and had her children decorate the outside with free-hand drawings.

What I didn’t know is that brown wrapping paper is heavy and practically requires duct tape to seal the edges shut. And while her children drew pretty candy canes and snowmen on the front, my boys went all out with Ninja Turtle battles and blood-drenched superheroes.

And then there’s the matter of the labels. I’ve used old computer labels, index cards cut in half and I’ve even written right on the wrapping paper. My boys believe masking tape is the perfect to/from label – cheap, easy to write on and the vanilla color stands out against the red and green.

But no matter how the gift is wrapped and tagged, the best part of wrapping gifts is making bows. I have three coat hangers in my closet, each one holding four or five different spools of curling ribbon.

It’s easy to cut the exact length I need and I can use a variety of colors for a one-of-a-kind bow. I spend quite a bit of time making sure the bows match the wrapping paper, and then I use the edge of the scissors to curl the ribbon into long tendrils.

I settled on curling ribbon after the year I decided to use raffia to decorate the boxes. Martha Stewart promised that raffia-wrapped gifts would be the hit of the evening. So I wrapped every single box with strands of red raffia and tied big raffia bows to the fronts.

They looked fabulous underneath the tree. The only problem was nobody could pull the raffia apart, and we ended up using scissors to cut every single bow and raffia ribbon from every single present. The boys made me promise I’d never try to copy any more gift wrapping ideas from Martha.

Instead of chasing after trendy gift wrapping ideas, I should probably follow the example of my son, Stephen. He’s found the perfect wrapping paper for birthdays and Christmas – aluminum foil.

Not only are his gifts instantly recognizable, our Aggie claims the receiver can then use the foil in the kitchen or to clean off the barbecue grill.

Foil – the perfect gift wrap – recyclable, original and cheap. Now that’s what I call creative gift wrapping.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

There are two ways to test a smoke detector. One is to stand on a chair and press the “test” button.

The other is to fill your kitchen with smoke and see if the alarm goes off.

One guess as to which option I chose.

The story starts out innocently enough. I had a left-over ham bone in the fridge and decided to make some soup. My husband was away for a couple of days, so getting caught up with a make-ahead meal seemed like a good idea.

I dropped the bone in a pot, filled it with chicken broth, threw in a handful of frozen mixed vegetables, and put the fire on medium high.

Soon the aroma of ham and pea soup was filling the air, so I decided to check my email on the computer in the back room. And then I jumped on Facebook to see what was happening.

Someone posted a song by Frank Sinatra, and I found myself listening to some of his other tunes as well as some other holiday favorites.

I was quite relaxed.

Until I smelled something burning.

I jumped up, ran to the kitchen and saw smoke. The liquid had boiled out of the pot, and all that was left was a charred ham bone and a pot spewing out thick smoke.

Immediately, I turned off the fire and then spent the next half hour turning on fans and opening windows. I counted myself extremely lucky there hadn’t been a fire and no damage had been caused.

Thirty minutes later, the smoke was gone from the house, but the burnt smell remained. And here’s where I came to a fork in the road.

It’s one thing to do something incredibly stupid when I’m alone. That act of stupidity jumps to a whole new level when I have to tell someone else – my husband who would never leave something cooking on the stove unattended – what I did.

Guess which option I chose.

I had 24 hours.

I stopped at the store the next day, bought two cans of Febreeze and sprayed every single room in the house.

Next I opened all the windows and turned on all the fans. I had to sit in the living room with a jacket and a blanket, but after three hours, the smell seemed to be gone.

I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking I’d covered up the fiasco. Until I went to set the house alarm. While opening the windows, I’d accidentally broken one of the alarm seals.

Still trying to escape admitting my stupidity, I sent my husband an email, nonchalantly mentioning I might have broken one of the alarm seals while airing out the house. I conveniently left out why I was airing out the house, but I rationalized that was a minor detail.

The next day, my husband returned, fixed the alarm and didn’t say anything about any smoke smell. I thought I’d gotten away with it and then the guilt hit.

Sighing, I told him the real reason I was airing out the house. He said he’d smelled the smoke right away and was just waiting for me to give him the whole story.

I’ve learned my lesson – never walk away from anything cooking on the stove and every month, test all our smoke alarms the easy way – press the button on the front.

And, just in case things do go wrong, belly up to the bar early on. Eventually, those chickens, or in this case a ham bone, come home to roost.
 
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

It’s the first day of December, and many of us are finally finishing off the last of the Thanksgiving leftovers and turning our thoughts, and wallets, toward Christmas.

On the radio, crooners Perry Como and Nat King Cole gush over snow-covered sidewalks and shoppers bundling up in coats, scarves and boots.

For way too long, northern states have crafted what Christmas is supposed to look like, totally ignoring the South that, frankly, has it pretty good during the winter months.

First there’s the weather. Here in the South, when it snows every 10 years or so, it’s a delightful treat, not a mountain to battle our way through every morning.

Santa might visit other parts of the world in a sleigh, but he’d probably find it a lot safer using water skis to land on a snow-free Southern roof.

And that woolen suit? Forget it. A southern Santa would be better off trading those scratchy duds in for cotton khakis and a “Gulf Shores” T-shirt.

Then there’s those time-honored traditions mentioned in song and verse. Most Southerners have no idea what it means to roast chestnuts on an open fire or sip flaming rum punch.

We do, however, understand the satisfaction of gathering pecans in our back yards and making a home-made pie from the bounty while sipping on a glass of Luzianne iced tea.

Jack Frost doesn’t nip at our noses. It’ll be a cold day in July when any Southerner with an ounce of gumption allows an elf to bite at his or her nose.

Here in the southern states, we’re more likely to run the air conditioner than the heater during the winter, and many of us have no idea what it means to have coal delivered to the cellar or how to make angels in the snow.

We don’t understand wearing three layers of clothing, a coat, scarf and snow boots just to go outside nor would we ever believe getting up an hour early to shovel snow off the sidewalks is acceptable.

We scratch our heads at people who think 20 degrees below zero is tolerable and think it’s odd for people to put chains on their tires – chains are meant to tote logs, not drive on.

But when it comes to the winter holidays, there are a lot of things Southerners intuitively get.

We understand boxing gloves, not snow mittens, Dickey overalls instead of snow bibs and splashing through bayous and marshes in a four-wheeler, not a horse-drawn carriage.

When we go out to cut down a Christmas tree, we ride on the back of a flat-bed tractor, not a sleigh, and we’re okay with that mode of transportation.

We appreciate the thrill of receiving roller skates or a bike on Christmas morning and then going outside and playing to our heart’s content – in shorts.

Southerners don’t dash through the snow nor do we stop for a visit with Frosty the snowman.

Instead, there’s plenty of fresh mud on the flaps of our Ford F-150 trucks and we’ve got Mike the Tiger, the Georgia bulldogs and Bevo instead of a fickle snowman that’ll melt at the first warm snap.

Just like our Northern brothers and sisters, we understand the true meaning of the holidays – family, fellowship and faith. In these parts, we simply celebrate the holidays Southern style.

And, honey, that’s just fine with me.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

At various stages in our life, Thanksgiving has a different place in our hearts.

When we’re young, the aromas we smell in the kitchen become part of our childhood – the turkey in the oven, sweet potatoes covered with marshmallows or enchiladas smothered in gravy.

On this one day, no one fusses at us when we snitch a bite of turkey off the platter or dip our rolls in the gravy.

As teens, we pretend to resent the time with family, believing other folks must be better behaved, their mealtimes are quieter and somewhat more civilized than our families.

But secretly, we’re happy for the familiarity of our crazy aunts and uncles, our grandfathers and fathers who pass on the tradition of carving the turkey and our grandmothers and aunts who make sure everything on our plate is smothered with gravy.

As young adults, we often miss Thanksgiving dinner with our families as we travel the world, head off to college or eat with a boyfriend or girlfriend’s family.

But while we’re sitting at a different table with unknown rituals, many of us secretly wish we were back home for at least one helping of Aunt Sarah’s cornbread dressing.

When we become parents, we’re the ones stuffing and baking the turkey. We usually cook the same favorites our mothers and grandmothers prepared, but we add our own touch to the dinner and thus create new memories for our children.

And before we carve the turkey and serve the green bean casserole, many of us will bow our heads and thank our creator for our many blessings and bounties.

As I think about all my blessings, the one that comes to mind this year is for the people who aid and help my family along life’s sometimes bumpy highway.

My nephew, Blair, gives patient advice about medications and willingly shares his pharmaceutical degree with my boys and their families whenever they’re unsure about meds for their family. Thank you.

To my sister-in-law, Annie, who answers our questions about our pets, day or night, and always has the best interests of the human and the pet in her answer, thank you.

My siblings, nieces, nephews, cousins and in-laws have always always opened their homes, hearts and occasionally fishing boats to me and my family. Thank you. Your generosity has provided dozens of happy memories for my sons and me, and I thank you for those treasured memories and the ones yet to come.

I’m thankful for my mom. She makes everyone in her life feel special, and she’s always there for our family, day or night. Sometimes with a sandwich, sometimes with pears, but my mom treats every grandchild and person in our family as if they’re her favorite.

For the people who’ve stepped into my family’s path at crucial moments and helped them make wise choices, thank you. And even to those who were not so nice – you showed them how not to live.

Those thanks extend to the people who’ve helped me in my life. Their advice or being there when I needed a shoulder to cry on was crucial. Not a day goes by that I don’t thank the people who were encouraging voices in the darkness.

So this Thanksgiving, I’m giving thanks for people, the ones who help us figure out where we’re going, how we’re going to get there and, most importantly, how we’re going to stay there.

They are life’s bounty, the treasure we’re most thankful to have.
 
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.