According to the calendar in my kitchen, a new year starts in two days. Like many Americans, I’m tempted to create a New Year’s Resolutions list and fill it with at least a dozen lofty ambitions to make the new year creative and productive.

Not this year.

That sheet of paper makes me feel guilty, overworked and a slave to a grandiose list. Granted, they’re promises that are good for me — lose weight, keep a cleaner desk, exercise more and generally improve my life.

But because I lose the list by Valentine’s Day, have gained weight by April Fool’s Day, piled a mountain of papers on my desk by July 4, hidden my tennis shoes under a mound of dirty clothes by Halloween and gained even more weight by Thanksgiving, I realized my list serves no useful purpose.

So instead of resolutions, I decided to spend my energy in a different direction — reflection, not empty promises.

Family. I’ve got a great family, both at work and personally. There are a few crazies in both places, but that’s what makes life so special. Who wants a world where we all fit into that same cookie-cutter mold? The crazies remind us to take a look inside and see if we’re the nutty ones, not the other way around.

Electronics. Although I don’t understand how they work, nor can I figure out how to save a phone number in my cell phone, electronics are pretty fascinating, especially the Internet. I’d love to learn how to navigate and explore the online world and I’m thrilled so much knowledge is available with the click of a mouse button.

Escape. Although I try and stay productive, there are times I simply want to escape for an hour or two. Reading inane posts on Facebook and simply wandering around the Internet are interesting ways to pretend I have amnesia about the pile of work on my desk.

Reading. I’m not sure who introduced me to books, but whoever did, thank you. All my life, I’ve surrounded myself with everything from fiction to non-fiction, and now I’m entering the world of electronic reading. The written word has comforted me, kept me company and illuminated my life.

Klutziness. Not just an occasional trip or bumping my elbow against a corner. I’m talking trip-over-my-own-two-feet clumsy, the kind where people quietly move fragile objects away from me. But because I’m clumsy, I appreciate seeing grace in action — my granddaughter perfecting her ballerina moves, a leaf slowly falling from a tree and a heron taking flight over the lake.

My car. I’ve driven cars where the brakes failed, wouldn’t start on cold mornings and barely passed the state inspection test, but my car represents freedom. That sedan in the driveway allows me to explore back roads with my camera, visit family and friends and have a safe place to sing at the top of my lungs.

Forgiveness. I’m lucky I’m surrounded by wonderfully kind people who forgive my thoughtlessness, listen to my “did I ever tell you” stories over and over again and pretend to have amnesia when I do something really stupid, which is every single day.

Reflection. When I look back instead of forward, I realize I’ve got a lot to be thankful for and that, not a list of lofty resolutions I’ll never fulfill, is what fuels my optimism for the coming year.

Here’s hoping your 2011 is a year of appreciation for the mundane minutes, not just the memorable ones.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

To put myself in a holly, jolly holiday spirit, I attended a live Christmas concert. The singing was fabulous, and the choir sang all my favorites from yesteryear and today.

Many years ago, the only way to hear holiday songs was to go to church or a live concert. Then came home record players, and we could hear Johnny Mathis or Perry Como singing any time we wanted. A few years later, eight-tracks, cassette tapes and CD’s allowed us to have our own playlists in our vehicles.

Now we can type “Christmas music” into our computer’s search engine, save them as MP3’s and listen to Christmas music in July if we want.

No matter the month, the holiday classics remain my favorites, especially one of the most beautiful voices ever recorded, Nat King Cole, singing “The Christmas Song.” Karen Carpenter’s “Merry Christmas, Darling” makes me tear up every time I hear it, just as Josh Groban’s soothing voice gives me chills on “O Holy Night.”

Like it or not, rock, country music and rap stars are notorious for changing the melody on Christmas songs. Kurtis Blow’s classic Christmas rap is quite catchy, Eartha Kitt purrs on “Santa, Baby” and Christmas just isn’t complete without hearing Elvis whoo-hooing “Blue Christmas.”

Hearing all these holiday songs, and the way artists put their own spin on these timeless tunes, motivated me to massage some of the words to “The Twelve Days of Christmas.” So to all you tired and frazzled moms out there, here’s a parody for us:

On the first day of Christmas, my mommy duties called to me: A to-do list as long as my arm.

On the second day of Christmas, my granddaughter asked of me: Two impossible-to-find Little Tykes toys.

On the third day of Christmas, the crowded mall frustrated me: Three open cashiers and no change in the register.

On the fourth day of Christmas, the Post Office offered me: Long lines for the four packages I had to mail.

On the fifth day of Christmas, the newspaper promised me: Five early-bird, 80 percent-off coupons.

On the sixth day of Christmas, my tired feet whined to me: Only six parking spaces left in the entire mall parking lot.

On the seventh day of Christmas, my trash can called to me: Seven, oops no eight, ornaments broken while decorating the tree.

On the eighth day of Christmas, I slapped myself in the head: Eight inches of Scotch tape left on the dispenser at 11 p.m.

On the ninth day of Christmas, my mail carrier glared at me: Nine catalogs stuffed in my mailbox.

On the 10th day of Christmas, my answering machine blared at me: Ten telephone messages from holiday telemarketers.

On the 11th day of Christmas, my pantry reminded me: Eleven half-filled bottles of sprinkles on the top shelf.

On the 12th Day of Christmas, my exhausted inner voice sighed to me: Twelve minutes to actually sit and enjoy the decorated tree, 11 people in front of me in the grocery store, 10 burnt-out Christmas lights, nine missing gift receipts, eight more boxes to wrap, seven children fighting, six pounds of fudge, five stockings to stuff, four light plugs in one extension cord, three a.m. and a bike to assemble, two exhausted parents and a mommy looking forward to December 26.

Come on, Nat, throw some chestnuts on that fire for me. Christmas is here, the Savior is born and, despite all the hustle and bustle of the season, my blessings overflow.

Merry Christmas.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I am such an Andy and Barney fan! I always think of my sisters, Diane and Donna, when I watch an episode. And whenever I’m giving out rules, I think of Barney’s two rules here at “the rock!”

When we were young mothers, my sisters and I often discussed discipline. We debated the pros and cons of spanking, time out and other methods of teaching our children right from wrong.
One of us usually ended the long discussion with two words that perfectly summed up what we were trying to accomplish: “Nip it.”

That phrase comes from our favorite television program, “The Andy Griffith Show.” My sisters and I are huge fans of the show, so much that we have DVD’s of all the seasons and coffee mugs from Weaver’s Department Store, the online site where fans of the show can order merchandise.

This year marks the 50th anniversary of TAGS. The show debuted in 1960 and ran for eight seasons, winning six Emmys along the way. It currently accounts for more than half of the viewers on Hulu, an on-line film and TV show site, and reruns on TV-Land are some of its most popular programming.

For those who’ve never seen the program, Andy Taylor is the likeable sheriff serving his small community in Mayberry, North Carolina. He’s also a widow and the father of red-headed Opie. Faithful Aunt Bee takes care of Opie, just as she did Andy when he was a young boy.

Andy’s aided in his official duties by his deputy, the inept Barney Fife, who’s also his cousin and best friend. Other townspeople include Floyd the barber, Gomer and Goober, two not-so-bright cousins who work at Wally’s Filling Station and many others.

Although the characters on TAGS are the ones we hold dear, it’s the stories on the show that continue to resonate with strong messages about life, families and what’s important in life.

I especially love the black-and-white era of the show, and those early episodes could be used for parenting and life classes.

One of the best episodes about life is “Opie and the Bully.” When Andy discovers Opie is asking all the adults in his life for a nickel for milk, Andy realizes something’s not right.

Barney finds out a bully is taking Opie’s money on the way to school, and the deputy wants to straighten things out for Opie, much as our “helicopter parents” do today. But Andy holds his ground and finds a way for Opie to take care of the bully himself.

Lesson learned: Parents, we sometimes have to step back and let our children handle their own lives, no matter how tough it may be to watch them cross that turbulent stream.

In Season 3, Opie keeps talking about Mr. McBeevee, a man he met in the woods who walks in the trees. Because Opie has a wild imagination, nobody believes he sees a man with a silver hat that jingles.

Andy finally has to make a choice to either believe Opie or not. Andy decides he doesn’t believe in Mr. McBeevee, but he does believe in his son.

Lesson learned: Sometimes, we have to take a leap in faith and believe, even when it doesn’t seem possible to accept the unseen and unproven.

That lesson is especially important during this holiday season. Common sense tells us there’s no such thing as a jolly old elf that lives in the North Pole, but we can believe in the spirit of Christmas, especially when we see the generosity of people as they collect food for the hungry, donate gifts, toys and clothing for those in need and open their hearts to people who need a bit of extra love and compassion during the holidays.

And for those times when we feel our spirits sinking and start thinking the world is filled only with grinches and meanies, remember the wise words of Deputy Barney Fife — Nip it. Just nip it in the bud.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

When I was 19, I bought my first grown-up camera. I remember driving around, snapping pictures of flowers and buildings. My blurry Pentax photos far outweighed the ones in focus, but each photo reminded me of something I enjoyed seeing at the time.

Many years later, I still enjoy taking pictures, and digital photography makes the hobby a lot more affordable. Looking at some of my favorite pictures years later always brings a smile to my face, even if they’re not the best quality.

After days of gray, cold weather, I’d had enough of staying cooped up, so my husband and I headed out to Brazos Bend State Park. I had my camera in hand, and my husband laced up his hiking shoes.

I’ve visited the park many times over the years, the scariest as a Cub Scout leader leading 10 boys on a hike and coming across a hefty 10-foot alligator sunning himself on the trail.

Our first stop was 40-Acre Lake, and there were quite a few visitors enjoying the day. Children were laughing and romping on the playground, and their parents were sitting at nearby picnic tables, talking and watching the kids play.

We headed out on the trail and found peace and quiet. There’s the natural sounds of ducks quacking and tree frogs croaking, but those are reassuring sounds and, I realized, quite a change from the city noise I’ve almost grown immune to hearing.

We walked out on the pier, and I marveled at how huge the Texas sky seemed overhead and how alive the lake seemed, teeming with plants, butterflies, birds and dragonflies.

As far as the eye could see, an almost neon-green carpet of duck weed floated on the top of the water, creating gentle circles around the mottled lily pads, a Monet painting unfolding right in front of our eyes.

Returning to the trail, we strolled quietly, pausing to watch a snowy white egret standing in the blue-black waters and chuckling as we passed noisy ducks rambling around in the reeds. We rounded another corner, and a huge alligator was slumbering on the path.

We took a wide berth around that fellow, tiptoeing past a few summer daisies hanging on to the last bits of warm weather. Half way around the lake, we sat underneath a shade tree for a long time, quietly taking in the view.

There’s a serenity and calm about the outdoors, and Brazos Bend is an outstanding place to re-energize your soul and connect with nature, something easily overlooked in a society where we’re constantly bombarded with noise.

On the way out, we spotted a sign for the park’s “A Simple Christmas” celebration this coming Saturday. Park Ranger Sharon Hanzik said the event starts at noon Saturday and park guests can escape the rush and roar of city life and relax.

There’ll be hay rides, Dutch oven cooking demonstrations and people dressed as early Texas pioneers, spinning a Texas tall tale or two. Take a turn at roasting some marshmallows over an open fire and making gooey s’mores.

Youngsters will enjoy spreading peanut butter on pine cones and sprinkling them with bird seed to create back-yard bird feeders.

Then from 5 p.m. to 7 p.m., the Brazos River Pickers will entertain the guests, and these guitarists and strummers are fabulous. Admission to the park is $5 a person ages 13 and older, and children ages 12 and younger are admitted for free. Seniors can receive a discount.

Browsing through my photos that night, I felt relaxed and refreshed, and the pictures reminded me that sometimes simple is better than complicated. At least on an overcast Sunday afternoon taking a quiet and uncomplicated stroll around the lake.

This article, and some photos, were previously published in The Fort Bend Herald. To see more photos, visit my Facebook page.

(Thanks to those of you who read this blog. You inspire me to keep writing, especially on the days when I can only stare at the computer screen, thump my head on the keyboard and wonder why oh why I am so in love with words.)

Thanksgiving’s the day of the year when we’re asked to specifically count our blessings. In elementary school, we penciled our thanks on construction-paper turkey feathers, glued them to a construction-paper turkey body and displayed them on the bulletin board.
As teenagers, we were thankful we only had to endure our parents a few more years before we could get out and really start living.

As young adults, we were thankful we weren’t stuck-in-the-mud adults but then the reality of paying rent and taxes hit us square in the wallet.

As middle age arrived, we were thankful for Lipitor and IRA’s and painfully aware of all the new creaks and groans our knees were sending out.

As we basked in the golden years, we often became stereotypes of the “why don’t the kids call” senior citizen, and we still worried about paying the rent and taxes.

We’re supposed to be thankful today, but let’s face it, there are times when it’s hard to muster up gratitude. Few of us have job security; and when we hear about friends and neighbors getting laid off with little warning, we wonder if we’re going to be next.

Sniffles and coughs cause us to worry if our health care plan will see us through a serious illness. When we hear about expensive hospital stays, we realize we’re a bout with high blood pressure away from being one of those people others use as nightmare health-care examples.

Put those thoughts into park for a bit.

It’s easy to take the negative path because it’s the path of least resistance. Thinking positively when life is bleak is tough to do. But even for those of us experiencing tough times, there are snippets of hope in those dreary clouds.

Our freedoms. Those who come from countries where they’re not free to express their opinions understand what Americans take for granted. If we want to denounce the government and start our own political party, we’re free to do so.

The arts. Even if we can’t draw a straight line or carry a tune, paintings and music add depth and meaning to life. Think of all the times you’ve admired a gorgeous picture or painting or those days when you can’t stop humming your favorite song.

Instead of feeling guilty because you’re not overly joyful, let’s not let the day end without being thankful for just one blessing. Besides the true blessings of our families, friends and faith, here’s a list to get you started:

Blue Bell ice cream, escalators, Billie Holiday’s recording of “God Bless the Child,” Community Coffee, carousels, somebody letting us merge into traffic, the universal remote control, Claritin, free cell phone minutes, Frank Sinatra’s recording of “It Was a Very Good Year,” cotton candy, microwave ovens, barbecue sandwiches and hot showers.

Chocolate in any way shape or form, blackberries right off the vine, bluebonnets in the spring, air conditioning, a doctor who listens, finding a perfect sea shell on the shore, home-made tamales, police officers, the railroad overpass on Highway 36, ball-point pens and costume jewelry.

Adult children who remember to call, cheap reading glasses, songbirds, front porches, baseball, firefighters, cheeseburgers, reading a bedtime story to a toddler, the classic movie “It’s a Wonderful Life,” Andy McKee playing the acoustic guitar and pecan pie.

Spotting a streaking comet on a clear, cold night, memories of our grandparents, cornbread right out of the oven, boiled crawfish, walking through crisp, autumn leaves, a child’s laugh, drying someone’s tears and realizing life isn’t perfect but, most of the time, it’s pretty good.

I think I’ll pop in my DVD of “It’s a Wonderful Life, see if there’s any more pecan pie in the fridge, sit back and give thanks for the simple things. That’s the way to end any day, especially Thanksgiving.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

My friend slid in next to me at the meeting, and it was obvious she was steamed.

“My daughter just told me she has a science project due tomorrow,” she whispered. “She’s known about this for two weeks. She’s toast.”

The dreaded science project. Those words strike fear into the hearts of all parents, especially those of us who aren’t as crafty as others. I remember when my sons studied the five senses in elementary school, and their homework assignment was to create a model of the eye.

I thought my first child was quite creative, using a cereal bowl to draw the eyeball and colored pencils to label the cornea, retina and nerves.

The following week, the teacher had their work on display. I was mortified to see the works of art the other “children” had accomplished. No doubt mom and dad stepped in and helped create these three-dimensional models of the human eye.

We moms who actually followed the rules and let our children create the project, huddled together and decided from that moment on, we’d get a bit more involved so our child’s project didn’t look like something created by Jethro on “The Beverly Hillbillies.”

With my second child, when the human eyeball project came up, I was ready. I conducted scientific research — talked to moms on the playground — and discovered a jar of Dippity Doo hair gel works like a charm to suspend Cheerios, Froot Loops and strands of cooked spaghetti to resemble a three-dimensional eyeball.

We did quite well that year until a mom strolled in with a plaster cast of half an eyeball with all the parts actually molded into the piece, painted and marked with colored pins.

Over the years, I learned to take these over achievers in stride, and many times I had to reassure my child that, yes, having a volcano made out of mis-matched Play-Doh and adorned with paper umbrellas was really okay.

After my last child left elementary school, I thought my days of creating science projects were over.

I was wrong.

High school offered them a chance to join the Science Olympiad. I read the requirements for the Science Olympiad, and I bribed my sons to join any club other than the Science Olympiad. There was no way I was even going to attempt to recreate the Amazon jungle in a shoe box.

Once they’d all graduated from school, I breathed a sigh of relief — no more homework projects.

Until two weeks ago.

Like many volunteers at my church, I teach a class. This year, the staff decided teachers would take turns organizing the opening ceremony.

The first week, Becky gave each youngster a note card that resembled an autumn leaf and asked each student to print a special blessing on the paper. I wasn’t worried at that point, thinking she’d glue the leaves to a poster board and display the poster in the foyer.

The next week, she walked in with a three-dimensional, tri-fold poster card. She’d created a tree trunk, using brown wrapping paper she’d twisted to resemble the trunk and the branches. Then she glued those leaf note cards to the tree, creating a stunning three-dimensional piece of work.

I stood there, looking at the equivalent of the Sistine Chapel of science projects, and my heart dropped. I was scheduled to handle the opening ceremony the next week.

Some people, I thought, are at the top of the school project food chain. Others, like me, are the plankton at the bottom.

But as I remember from the Science Olympiad brochure, even we lowly pieces of plankton occupy a special place on the science board.

Now what did I do with that jar of Dippity Doo?

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

A city can be characterized by bricks, buildings and roads. A community, on the other hand, is a reflection of the people who live there, those who create a sense of family.
Fort Bend County lost one of its most beloved pillars of the community with the passing of Orin Covell. Orin’s list of accomplishments are enviable — numerous booster clubs, MUD boards and civic boards.

At his wake, the line to greet Orin’s family stretched outside the funeral home and down the driveway. Many of us waited over an hour in line to hug Becky, and everyone from mayors to judges to business executives to college buddies came to pay their respects at both the wake and the funeral.

I remember Orin as the smiling guy in the starched white shirt and impeccable silver hair who’d start to tell me a story and, 30 minutes later, get to the end. But what a marvelous ride Orin took us on when he told his stories.

Mike Hafer, who knew Orin for many years, said Orin was the kind of guy people enjoyed being around. Orin was a fabulous sounding board, never in a hurry, and always had time to listen and then give an honest answer.

Mike said he overheard someone saying that Orin had to have lived two lives because no one could’ve given all that he did so well to both his professional and private life. But he did. Whenever we visited, he always talked about his family and we usually swapped grandbaby stories.

His sister, Ann, said she and Orin regularly went to lunch because family was so important to him. And that family included the community.

Orin was a second generation fireman, but he wasn’t one to ignore the phone call when it came in. For over 30 years, Orin responded to the calls to help somebody in trouble.

Many times I saw Orin out at a fire, sweating and working alongside all the fire fighters on the scene, day or night.

He wasn’t a paid firefighter — he was a volunteer, and Orin embodied the word “volunteer.” The day before he passed away, Orin spent the afternoon helping the Red Cross set up a bicycle event. And he did so with a smile and no regrets about giving of his weekend to a community cause.

At Orin’s funeral, the Rev. Howard Drabek delivered the eulogy, and he said Orin was all about foundations. He was one of the original members of the Lamar Educational Awards Foundation, an organization that helps teachers fund enrichment projects in the classroom.

Many people knew Orin as a guardian of Fort Bend County’s long and rich history, and he safeguarded that history through his work with the George Foundation and the Fort Bend County Museum Association.

Whenever I’d go out to the George Ranch as a reporter, I’d usually find Orin out and about the grounds. His office reflected his love of his family and of Texas, but it was on the open prairie where I heard the best stories about the Georges and the early days of the county.

Whether it was helping people in the insurance business or assisting teachers , students, Boy Scouts and teens inside and outside the classroom, Orin knew any successful community’s foundation always starts with the volunteer.

For those sitting on the sideline, wondering how to make a positive difference in the world, look no further than the example left by Orin Covell.

Give freely of yourself and of your time, and, in return, you will be part of that solid foundation upon which families, churches, schools, communities and futures are built.

Thank you, Orin, for making so many dreams come true for so many.

You’ll be deeply missed, good friend.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

My mom is famous for her chicken and sausage gumbo. Her Cajun stew is thick and dark and filled with flavor. My gumbo is a pale imitation.

I asked my mom how she manages to turn out a huge pot of dark, scrumptious gumbo every holiday. She smiled, reached into the back of the refrigerator and took out a plain glass jar.

“This is the secret,” she said, setting the jar on the counter.

Kary’s Roux, made in Ville Platte, the heart of Cajun Country, is a dark, thick pre-made roux that removes all the sweating and stirring over a hot stove. Cooks only have to add water, onions, chicken and sausage and thick, rich gumbo is ready to eat in 30 minutes.

“You cheat,” I said to my mother. She denied the accusation.

“It’s not cheating,” she said, putting the jar in the back of the refrigerator. “It’s just a little bit of extra help.”

“What next,” I said. “Are you going to tell me your spaghetti’s not home-made?”

She put a cup of hot water in the microwave.

“Ragu,” she said, pushing the buttons on the front panel.

“And your jambalaya?” I asked.

“Oak Grove,” she said. “Comes in a package. Just $2 and you’ve got enough jambalaya to feed an army.”

My mouth fell open in surprise.

“Don’t tell me you don’t use a little bit of help in your recipes,” she said stirring coffee crystals, a packet of artificial sweetener and powdered coffee creamer into her mug. She smiled and asked me a simple question.

“Tell me how you’re going to cook your Thanksgiving meal without a little bit of help.”

I started to deny using any crutches, but then I stopped.

The cornbread dressing I stuff my turkey with comes right out of a Pepperidge Farm plastic bag. Forget baking cornbread the night before and sautéing onions and celery at 5:30 a.m. All I add to the package is water and butter.

Guess I’ll have to concede that point.

“And tell me how you make those Thanksgiving mashed potatoes,” she said, taking a sip of coffee.

Okay, I’ll admit I use instant potatoes, but that’s just because I don’t have time to peel all those potatoes, boil them, mash them and spend 20 minutes beating out all the lumps.

It’s so much easier to open a packet, add some milk and butter and, voila, I’ve got enough mashed potatoes to plaster a ceiling.

“And the vegetables,” she said nicely.

Well, I had to admit I slit open a bag of frozen green beans and cook them in the microwave. I do, however, steam fresh broccoli each and every year.

“And did you grow said broccoli in your back yard?” she said, stirring her coffee.

She had me there.

“Now let’s move on to your rolls,” she said. “Make those with yeast and flour, do you?”

I had to admit I haven’t the first clue how anyone makes fresh bread. I always buy the three-for-a-dollar packages of cheap rolls that only require me to throw them in the oven for six minutes.

“And the desserts,” she said. “Roll out those pie crusts all by yourself?”

Sighing, I had to admit — I use frozen pie crusts for the pecan pies and canned apple filling for the apple pies.

“Tell you what,” she said, patting my arm. “There’s an extra jar of that roux in the pantry. Go ahead and slip it into your purse when you’re ready to leave.”

The next time I have family over and they rave about my gumbo, I’m going to tell them my mom passed down an old family recipe.

And make sure I hide that jar of Kary’s Roux safely behind the packet of instant gravy, canned cranberry sauce and jars of diced apples.

This article originally appeared in The Fort Bend Herald.

Check-out lines often seem like they stretch out into eternity. I read once — in a magazine while waiting in the check-out line — that marketers spend a great deal of time deciding what to put on the shelves of the check-out lanes.

Those last-minute decisions shoppers make put a lot of money in the store’s pockets, and that’s why managers are constantly researching impulse buying.

Candy’s a huge impulse-buy item because by the time we get to the checker, our blood sugar is low and we’re often frustrated. Plus a candy bar isn’t a big-ticket purchase, so marketers feel most people will give in to temptation. If they don’t, their children will and, either way, they get your money.

But knowledge is power, I told myself as I waited in a long check-out line Saturday afternoon. I’d headed into town to shop for my son’s birthday, and I’d found some casual clothes for him in a discount fashion store.

This store lined their check-out lane with shelves, and as soon as I headed into the long abyss, the first few items tried their siren song on me.

Stacks of holiday towels and wash cloths began singing. I ignored them until I remembered my daughter-in-law loves holiday decorations.

Well, the towels were only $2.99, so I tossed a set into my basket, thinking I’d tuck them into her Christmas stocking. But there was no way the rest of that junk was going to entice me, so I moved along, feeling confident.

Wait. There’s a card reader for my camera. I’d been looking for a card reader for a while, and here was one for only $7.99. It could break, I thought, so I tossed another one in the basket.

Okay, that was an unexpected purchase, but it was something I needed. But wait, here’s some headphones. The volume on my computer is often low, and using headphones seems to solve the problem. But I can’t find the set I normally use.

I threw a package in my basket, telling myself it was only $4.99 and, after all, I really could use those headphones.

Then I came to a stop in front of the discount books shelf. I began to sweat. I’m a sucker for books, especially children’s books. I spied Shel Silverstein’s “Where the Sidewalk Ends,” and knew I had to have that book for my granddaughter.

And the holiday cookbook for my sister.

And the book of jokes for my son.

And the poetry book for my mom.

Then it was my turn to check out. I placed my items on the counter, thinking I might put some of those impulse purchases back.

But just then, the little voice inside my head whispered one more time — look at those holiday socks right next to the cash register.

Sure enough, there were some darling holiday socks my granddaughter would just love. I had to stop the cashier from totaling up my bill so she could add three more impulse-buy items to the ticket.

Some days the shopper wins, and some days the marketers win. This is one of those days where I lost the battle.

But, as I loaded six bags of clothes and other impulse purchases into the trunk of my car, there’s always tomorrow at the grocery store.

Let’s just hope I can make it past the Snickers and Twinkies with more success than I did the pumpkin towels and Frosty the Snowman socks.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I was walking down the grocery store aisle, looking for something quick for dinner, when I spotted the sign for frozen pizza.
Having something hot for dinner sounded pretty good, especially if I didn’t have to go to any more trouble than ripping open a cardboard box and sliding a pizza pan into the oven for 18 minutes.

As easy as that sounded, I found myself wishing I was as resourceful as my grandmother. She always made pizza from scratch, including the dough. She’d let me open the Fleischmann’s yellow yeast packet and pour the warm water over it.

She’d add flour and work those ingredients together, gradually sprinkling more flour over the ball to keep the dough from sticking to her fingers.

We’d sit and talk while she kneaded the dough, and it was amazing to watch that ball of gooey dough turn into a beautiful golden globe.

When the dough was smooth, she’d sprinkle flour on a wooden cutting board and, using an old wooden rolling pin, roll out the dough and then use an upside-down small bowl to cut out small circles.

She’d ladle tomato sauce on top of each circle, sprinkle fresh cheese on top and then pop the pies into her gas oven. Our mouths would water as the smell of freshly baking bread and cheese filled the kitchen.

Times change, though, and we went from those home-made pizzas to a brand that became synonymous with my childhood — Chef Boy Ardee. Whenever we saw my mom pull out that tall red box, we knew fresh pizza was on the way.

We had some old Appian Way pizza pans that, over the years, became slightly warped from spending so much time in the oven. That didn’t matter because we loved making our own pizzas.

With a Chef Boy Ardee pizza mix, we could all have what we wanted on a pizza, from pepperoni to extra cheese to hamburger meat to sausage. Many a night we spent watching “Dark Shadows” or “The Smothers Brothers” while waiting for those pizzas to finish baking.

When we were young 20 somethings, price and time mattered, and we discovered Winn Dixie’s frozen dinner aisle, specifically the section with the Totino’s pizzas.

They were cheap, filling and easy. No one cared about trans fats back then. At 10 for a buck, Totino’s fit the bill.

Then marriage and children came along, and it was back to the Chef. My sons loved kneading the dough and then spreading the crust to the edges of the pan. And then smearing the flour on their shirts, their hair and the wall.

Those were great until we discovered people would actually bring pizzas to our front door if we picked up the phone, placed an order and then gave them money when the doorbell rang. When Domino’s came along, our long association with Chef Boy Ardee came to a sad end.

Now that my boys are on their own, I often find myself strolling the frozen food aisle, looking for something quick for dinner. We’ve come a long way from those cardboard Totino’s days. Modern pizzas offer a variety of toppings from artichokes to roasted garlic to Kalamata olives.

Weight Watchers and Lean Cuisine offer low-fat, nutritious pizza choices. There’s also gluten-free and vegetarian pizzas.

Some taste wonderful and others are like eating cardboard. And while it’s a lot easier to pop a frozen pizza in the microwave, nothing beats the smell and taste of a pizza made with fresh bread dough, home-made tomato sauce and freshly grated cheese.

That’s what I call a pizza pie.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.