Eating healthy is usually at the top of my resolution list. Ditch the Doritos, toss the Twinkies and fill the fridge with fruit.

The key to limiting fat and calories is healthy cooking. But as a girl raised in a Cajun kitchen where fats are the main ingredients, learning to cook without butter is practically impossible.

Last year, our son gave us an Instant Pot for Christmas. I oohed and aahed and said I couldn’t wait to use it.

In reality, I could wait to use that appliance because having a mini nuclear reactor in my kitchen was scary.

I’d heard that an Instant Pot is an updated pressure cooker. My mom had one, and I remember her locking the lid and telling us to move back.

Taking the top off, she said, would cause the food to explode all over the room.

Visions of beef stew dripping from the ceiling was a recurring nightmare.

That was then, this is now, I told myself as I read the Instant Pot directions. Technology has probably made pressure cooking a lot safer.

Maybe. Maybe not.

The “do nots” far outweighed the “dos.” No deep frying, no noodles or spaghetti and, in big letters, do not open the lid before the timer goes off.

There’s 16 keys on the front pad, the instruction booklet requires an engineering degree to decipher and big red “danger” warnings were on almost every single page.

So the mini nuclear reactor went back in the box.

Our Aggie son and his wife went for another healthy gift this year – an air fryer.

Great, I thought. Another appliance to hide whenever they’re coming over.

But wait a minute.

Our son wants us to eat healthier, and he’s given us a great tool. How hard can it be to use an air fryer?

I decided to be open minded and at least give it a try.

At least there were fewer buttons on the front than there are on the Instant Pot, and the owner’s manual wasn’t 100 pages long.

Best of all, there were dozens of air fryer videos on YouTube that looked easy – especially the ones cooking hot dogs and fries – so I decided to overcome my anxiety and cook some chicken I’d purchased.

I have a fear of undercooking poultry so our baked chicken is always tough and rubbery.

All the YouTubers I watched said poultry is juicy in the Instant Pot and I only had to cook the meat for 10-12 minutes. That’s a lot less than 45 minutes, so maybe this air fryer was a good thing.

I seasoned the chicken, rubbed some oil on top and pushed the tray into the air fryer.

The control panel lit up, dinged and made me feel as if I’d started the space shuttle.

For 10 minutes, the air fryer hummed along, and when the timer went off, I thought I’d pull out succulent, juicy chicken.

Wrong.

I pulled out chicken that was still raw. So I flipped the meat over, set the timer for 10 minutes and pushed the tray back in.

I seriously underestimated the power of the air fryer to cook in nanoseconds.

Ten minutes later, the chicken breasts were done all right. They were the same texture as if I’d overbaked them in the oven.

The next night, I tried fish in the air fryer. Despite following the directions to the letter, I could pick up the fish and eat it with my hands like it was a beef jerky.

I’ve learned my lesson. No more sacrificing chicken. No more cooking fish in the air fryer so it resembles the bottom of my tennis shoe.

From now on, I’m going to use the Instant Pot for its primary directive – cooking rice – and the air fryer for its primary mission – hot dogs and french fries.

And put healthy eating on the calendar for January 2022.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

A friend posed a house-cleaning question on Facebook – how often should one clean baseboards.

Most people posted once a month.

Some dusted every time they mopped the floor.

I posted that the baseboards were clean when we moved in eight years ago. Nothing much has changed since then so I figure leave well enough alone.

Maybe people are staying home due to covid or they’ve got spring cleaning fever, but I’m seeing a high number of posts asking for help in cleaning out closets and general housekeeping.

Some writers have easy advice. Others go full commando on dirt.

One video showed how to remove the toilet seat so you could take a toothbrush and scrub underneath the hinges.

If someone is looking underneath the hinges on your toilet to check for residual soap scum, that person has a lot more lacking in their life than you can fix with shiny porcelain.

Another hack was to take the oven door off so you could get your head in there to get the oven really clean.

This hack fails on so many levels.

An oven door probably weighs 50 pounds, so who wants to remove that oversized hunk of metal to clean something no one will ever see?

Besides, when you take the door off, the chances of dropping it on the floor and cracking the tile or ripping a hole in the vinyl becomes a reality. Then you have to somehow reattach the door.

I see a broken toe in this scenario.

Baking soda and vinegar are popular cleaning champs. They’re good for unclogging a sink, getting the skunk smell off your pet and removing soap scum.

Supposedly, a paste of these two will dissolve all the baked-on muck on a cookie sheet and, a few hours later, you have a cookie sheet that looks brand new.

Sorry, but the baked-on grease on my baking sheets is decades old and there’s no way a foaming baking-soda volcano is taking off those layers.

Kitchen condiments are often mentioned as cleaning wonders from using mayonnaise to repair scratches in your furniture to using ketchup to shine a stainless steel hook.

These hackers don’t mention that your clean household items will probably turn sticky and rancid and attract ants. But your hooks will be shiny.

One hacker believes those in search of clean floors should put double-sided tape on the bottom of slippers to dust the floor while you walk around.

The amount of dog hair on my floors would clog that tape up in less than 10 steps.

Organizing closets is a big seller on the hack channels. Let me offer the disorganized some hope – no one is going to go into your closet and grade you for how organized your shirts, shoes and pants are.

If they do criticize, it’s your fault for letting them into your closet.

The only time you need to clean out that closet is if you’re totally bored, can’t find your favorite jeans or there’s a cricket in the back of the closet and you can’t fall asleep until you find that singing insect.

To ease your mind, remember – no one is going to give you a medal if the ceiling fan blades are dust-free.

No one is going to type up a positive review if the inside of your pantry is organized and no one is going to post a glowing atta-boy on social media if you roll up the T-shirts in your drawer instead of shoving them in a drawer.

However, if you feel you must jump on the housecleaning bandwagon, buy a can of WD-40.

That spray will get rings off swollen fingers, remove gum from a child’s hair and will keep spiders away if you spray some on the window sill.

I think it’s a waste of time to mop a floor you’re just going to walk on 15 minutes later, but banishing spiders makes perfect sense.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Our dog is terrified of loud noises. Whenever there’s a thunderstorm, she whimpers, trembles and has to be held until the booming stops.

Fireworks are especially tough. We get ready for the New Year’s Eve and Fourth of July meltdowns by taking Channell for her nightly walk before dark.

On New Year’s night while on her nightly walk, she growled when an especially loud firework went off. Once inside, she slept right through two hours’ worth of “Auld Lang Syne” noises.

We’d been wondering if our 13-year-old buddy was having trouble with her hearing, and her ignoring the fireworks was worrisome.

In the past, if we said the word “squirrel,” she raced to the back door and jumped up and down until we opened the door.

These days, we say the word “squirrel” and she doesn’t budge from her comfortable spot on the carpet.

I’d be more worried if she didn’t show signs of hearing what she wants to hear.

The rattle of the dog food bag.

Food accidentally hitting the kitchen floor.

The grandkids unwrapping a piece of candy.

Because I grew up in a family with seven kids, I conditioned myself to hear what I wanted to hear:  the ice-cream truck and hidden messages in The Beatles songs when played backwards.

In a three-bedroom house with nine people, one had to learn to listen for important sounds and to tune out the worthless noises like my sister banging on our bedroom door, demanding to be let in.

Being a mom fine-tuned my hearing. When the boys were babies, I woke up if I heard them turn over in their crib.

If they cried, I bolted out of bed and was picking them up in seconds.

As they got older, I learned to ignore most noises, including the refrigerator being raided at 2 a.m., the beeping Mario theme from the Nintendo system and full body-slam wrestling matches.

They ignored my yelling “cut it out.” They turned deaf ears to my final warning:  “I’m not taking anybody to the emergency room today, so if you get hurt, deal with it.”

The boys could find hidden money in my purse but they couldn’t find the commode when they were nauseated. I was an Olympic sprinter when I heard “I have to throw up.”

There were sounds I could hear in a deep sleep:  The sound of the window slowly being raised at midnight, a door being opened just enough to let a teenager squeeze through without setting off the house alarm and someone taking money out of my wallet.

Our sons never remember hearing me say “clean up your room.” They thought I said “live in a pigsty – it’s okay with me.”

They never heard the phrase “bring back the change.” Everything either cost the exact amount of money I gave them or I owed them $5 more.

I can’t blame them; they were simply being kids. In reality, they get their selective hearing honestly from their grandmother, my mother.

At the age of 88, we’re always watching for signs she’s slowing down. One day, I told her about needing to go to the grocery store. Later in the conversation, she asked me if I was going to the store.

“Mom, I already told you that. Do we need to have you checked?” I asked.

There was a short silence and then her answer.

“Denise, I’m not senile. I’m just not that interested in everything you have to say, so I don’t always pay attention,” she said.

That’s selective hearing at its best.

It seems Channell has picked up a few tips from the grand master.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Finally 2020 is coming to an end.

It’s about time.

In the past, 2020 had a different meaning. The number equals perfect vision, and many of us started 2020 with that mindset – we’d have a clear vision of the year ahead.

Maybe if we’d seen what was ahead, we’d have begged Father Time to run backwards.

None of us foresaw the darkness that enveloped the earth and the isolation and sadness that touched every person.

Not even Stephen King’s constant readers or hard-core conspiracy theorists could have imagined a virus shutting down the world.

Although the pandemic played out on a global stage, the coronavirus dealt unbelievable sadness to families.

Too many loved ones passed away before their time, and we watched with disbelief as stores, bars, restaurants and our favorite shopping spots closed their doors.

Everyone struggled, but we learned a few things along the way.

For instance, ordering groceries online isn’t that difficult.

Sitting in your car while someone else does the shopping might make us feel like royalty but that convenience is nice at the end of a long work day.

We can cook. Not as fancy as a four-star chef, and we gained personal satisfaction in serving the family a hot meal and sitting down together to enjoy the spread.

We’re an angry society. From hostile politics that are dividing families to instant anger when we see people not wearing masks to open hostility and brutality because of the color of one’s skin, we saw way too much rage boil over.

I don’t think a vaccine can cure intolerance.

There are things I won’t ever take for granted again – dashing into the grocery store for a few quick items without worrying about grabbing my face mask and hand sanitizer.

Having the neighbors over for a Friday night visit.

Smiling at a stranger in the store and having them smile back. Heck, I miss seeing smiles period.

I can’t wait to enjoy family gatherings where we can hug our elderly and play hide-and-seek with the young ones.

I miss trying on clothes in the dressing room.

Wearing lipstick.

The ability to discuss and debate politics without fracturing entire families.

Freedom to plan a vacation that’s further away than our back yard.

I did gain something from the pandemic:  I won’t take life for granted.

I’ve learned how precious people are, especially after the alarming and unbelievable number of people who passed away.

Too many friends have lost a father, mother, sibling or cousin to Covid-19, and we couldn’t even have visitations and funerals to honor our deceased.

On the national front, celebrities passed away in alarming numbers – Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg, Alex Trebek, Kobe Bryant and Sean Connery left positive marks on the world, but none as eloquently and bravely as Chadwick Boseman.

The “Black Panther” star passed away at the age of 43 after battling colon cancer for four years.

While undergoing cancer treatment, Boseman made seven movies, including “Marshall” and the Avengers films. He did so without complaining or letting cancer keep him from doing what he loved.

That’s the lesson I’m going to take from 2020 – don’t allow the unexpected and unplanned stop me from remembering how fragile and wonderful life is.

I need to remember to celebrate and savor every experience that comes along, to tell people how precious they are and to not let a moment pass without remembering that human interaction –hugs, kisses, handshakes, smiles and exchanged pleasantries – are the lifeblood of any society.

Let’s take a hopeful, cheerful, tolerant and determined spirit into 2021 and leave the sadness and hopelessness behind.

After all, hindsight, they say is 2020.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

The Christmas season is coming to a close.

For some, it’s time to reflect on the unbelievably insane year we had.

For others, it’s time to wonder how they’re going to pay for those AirPods and Nintendo Switch games Santa brought.

For those who still listen to the radio, it’s time to return to the free airwaves because the non-stop, 24-hour-a-day Christmas-song marathon is over.

I love Christmas carols, but if I hear Burl Ives sing “Have a Holly, Jolly Christmas” or Gene Autrey’s “Here Comes Santa Claus” one more time, I think I’ll scream.

But on a gloomy winter day, Josh Groban’s “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” came on the radio, and I found myself standing at the kitchen counter with tears streaming down my face.

There are so many people who are staying put for Christmas this year because of the fear of spreading the coronavirus. Many lost their lives this year due to Covid, and those loved ones won’t be coming home for Christmas.

The Christmas shine is a little harder to find.

We’re not taking holidays for granted – no groaning when thinking we’ll have to sit through Aunt Meg’s retelling of her childhood – because most of us would give anything to hear those stories in person.

Our traditions are being abruptly halted but Christmas songs keep us connected. We all learned the fun lyrics to “Rudolph” in first grade, anxious to shout out “like a lightbulb” at the appropriate time.

“Frosty the Snowman” is still one of my favorites, and my sister Diane is the only person I know who remembers all the lyrics to all of the verses.

Some songs are out of date but we keep singing them even though we don’t have a clue what the lyrics mean because it’s tradition.

Nobody decks the halls with boughs of holly any more, except for fake garland, and we’re not striking a harp. We’re fine tuning our Spotify list.

Also, Christmas might’ve come upon the midnight clear – which we seldom see due to light pollution – but I have no idea what “cloven sky” or “Babel sounds” refers to.

We Texans have no idea what it means to dash through the snow in a sleigh. We know how to crawl through I-10 traffic in our air-conditioned cars in December, but it’s not a fun ride.

I’m not hearing sleigh bells in the snow, but I am hearing people clicking their car key fobs in the crowded mall parking lot looking for their vehicles.

We’re also not writing Christmas cards – we’re sending customized video greetings or emails.

Santa is still coming in his sleigh with Rudolph leading the way, but the ole elf might have to use some of those Amazon Prime trucks to help him get everything where it’s supposed to be on time. Those drivers have flashlights and an up-to-date GPS system.

Most of us might dream of a white Christmas with snow, but I’d bet most of us are mainly dreaming of Christmases like the ones we used to know where we’re gathered with family and friends without fear of spreading the coronavirus.

We’re dreaming of coming and going without masks, hand sanitizers or fear. We’re dreaming of a Christmas that’s merry and bright and where we’re able to spontaneously hug friends and family.

“The Little Drummer Boy” reminds us that a present, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant, is still an incredible gift, especially when given from the heart.

On this Covid Christmas, one wish, best sung by the incredible Nat King Cole, remains true – “although it’s been said many times many ways, Merry Christmas to you.”

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Every December, the debate bounces around in my head – artificial tree or real tree.

Those who have an artificial tree love the low-maintenance pluses. I’ve always enjoyed having a real Christmas tree – either cut down at a tree farm or purchased from a local nursery.

I grew up with having real Christmas trees except one year. My mom wanted to follow a trend in the 1960s and bought a silver artificial Christmas tree.

We didn’t speak to her for a week.

But with so many singing the praises of their artificial tree, I decided to take a hard look at the advantages and disadvantages of putting up a real Christmas tree.

Pine needles are sharp and they clog up the vacuum cleaner. The pesky needles that escape the vacuum worm their way into the carpet so they can puncture the bottom of your bare foot, even in July.

We walk past the tree and handfuls of needles fall, giving up needles like it’s a drunk Cajun throwing beads in a Mardi Gras parade.

Real trees don’t grow evenly, despite being trimmed during the year. We always get the tree home and discover huge bare spots. Usually we can put the hole next to the wall. Other times, we let the shortest grandchild hang as many ornaments as they want in that spot.

Sometimes the branches are heavy enough to support our bigger ornaments and sometimes the ornaments slide right off because the branches are weak. Some years, I’ve had to put the bigger ornaments back in the storage box.

Real trees are a nightmare for those with allergies. Artificial trees cure this problem, but they also don’t have that fresh tree smell. Of course, if you get your tree at the hardware store like we do, the tree was cut back in July and the smell is long gone.

Real trees are never the right size. They’re either too tall or too short. If you find one that seems to be the right size, the price is astronomical and you find yourself standing in the parking lot muttering you’d only spend that amount once if you had an artificial tree.

Artificial trees are convenient. When you’re ready to put up the Christmas tree, you climb the attic ladder, get the box down and you’re ready to decorate.

Real trees require a trip to the tree lot, rain or shine.

Then you have to tie the tree to the top of the car and hope it doesn’t fall off. Ours did one year when my husband was out of town, and I thought I could tie it on by myself.

Luckily a Good Samaritan stopped and tied the tree back on the roof of our van after the tree went sailing.

After Christmas, there’s the problem of what to do with the tree. Artificial trees go right back in the box. That task takes less than 30 minutes.

Those with real trees feel bad about leaving the tree by the curb for the trash collector. Some neighborhoods and local nurseries have recycling programs, but you have to cut the tree up and tie the branches in bundles.

See note about sharp needles on real Christmas trees.

In the end, artificial trees are convenient, neater and more economical.

Real trees shed all over the place, they’re uneven, dry out in a matter of hours and shed worse than the family dog.

They’re messy, always a surprise and require running one more errand during a busy holiday season.

The evidence is clear.

I’m sticking with the real tree.

 

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

The only time I’ve ever ridden a horse was about 20 years ago. We were headed to Scout camp in Colorado and had a free afternoon before activities started.

I thought it would be a good idea to go on Rocky Mountain National Park’s guided horseback ride.

I told the cowboy I wanted the oldest, slowest horse he had because I was scared of getting on the back of a 2,000-pound animal.

He assured me the horse I was riding was just what I wanted. She was until the end of the ride and spotted the stable. All of a sudden, my horse started galloping, and I hung on for my life.

That incident replayed in my brain as I was driving to Dallas early Saturday morning to be a spectator at a Buck Brannaman horse training clinic.

Even though I don’t know a thing about horses, I know a little about horse trainer Buck Brannaman.

Buck was a child roping star whose mother passed away when he was young. He and his brother were left with an abusive father who beat them on a regular basis.

A coach saw whelps on Buck’s back, and the boys were removed from the home. They went to live with foster parents Forrest and Betsy Shirley who embraced the brothers and gave them and 17 other boys a safe and loving home.

From the Shirleys and other legendary horse trainers, Buck learned how to teach horses in a gentle yet firm way, and over the past 20 years of holding clinics, his devotees grew.

He was inspiration for the novel “The Horse Whisperer” and a major contributor to the movie starring Robert Redford.

In 2011, director Cindy Meehl filmed a documentary about Buck that won Best Documentary at the Sundance Festival.

My sister-in-law recommended the film, and sitting in the movie theater, I realized what Buck was saying about horses could be applied to teaching, and his advice served me well over my career.

Over the years, I’ve been watching Buck’s schedule to see if I could ever attend one of his clinics as a spectator. Most were out West or overseas, but when I saw one was within driving distance, I marked it on my calendar.

Although this city girl felt a little foolish going to a horse clinic, I wanted to see and hear the genuine Horse Whisperer in person.

I got to the arena during the lunch break and happened to see Buck near his truck. I hadn’t waited almost 10 years to let the opportunity to speak to him pass me by, so I walked up to him, heart pounding, and thanked him.

I told him that his documentary positively influenced the way I handled teaching. He taught me when a student is having a bad day or is labeled as troublesome, there’s a reason why and it’s not fair to hold that reason against the child.

Every student can be successful if the teacher finds out the students’ strengths, encourages good behavior and discourages unproductive behavior.

He smiled when I told him of my long-time admiration, and I walked away knowing that five-hour drive was worth it. He was gracious, unassuming and nice, as genuine as he was on the DVD I’ve watched at least a dozen times.

That afternoon, I saw first-hand what simple yet effective teaching is all about. Buck started the session on horseback in the middle of the arena, surrounded by people of all ages on their horses.

Three songs played over the loudspeaker as Buck demonstrated what he wanted the riders to do – use soft hands, lead the horse, stay calm and, most importantly, enjoy the ride.

Buck says he doesn’t help people with horse problems. He helps horses with people problems.

This quiet cowboy makes everyone believe they can be more than they thought they could be if they trust their horse and the good people who come into our lives, whether they’re a friend, foster parent, teacher or horse whisperer.

Thank you, Buck. Thank you for making me want to be a better person and showing me the way to reach that goal.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

In the winter, the house gets darker earlier. To make our living room a little brighter, I turned on the table lamp, but nothing happened. The lamp was plugged in, so, in my best Sherlock Holmes manner, deduced the lightbulb was dead.

In the past, a burned-out light bulb was no big deal. All I’d do is go to the store, pick up a yellow and blue pack of GE bulbs and be on my way.

Not anymore.

Lightbulb manufacturers decided to ramp up their selections to the same level as measuring isotopes in plutonium.

Oh how I miss that old basic box.

One-hundred watt bulbs were for areas where we needed heavy-duty light. Sixty-watt bulbs were the standard for reading lamps, and bulbs for the refrigerator were in a special box marked “appliances” for those of us who had trouble figuring out what bulb to buy for the fridge.

They also offered colored lightbulbs for Christmas and a yellow lightbulb that supposedly repelled mosquitoes.

My parents installed one of those lightbulbs on the patio, but all that ever did was make our back yard look like a school bus was parked back there.

Consumers now have to know what size lightbulb base they need — 12mm, 14mm, 26mm or 39mm and that doesn’t include European sizes.

No longer can you waltz into the hardware store and pick up a box of lightbulbs.

Buyers also need to know if they want a compact fluorescent lightbulb or one with a filament, the number of lumens they want and the temperature scale.

If that sounds like space-age jargon, you’d be correct, but that’s just the tip of the iceberg. There are incandescent, halogen, and LED lightbulbs.

Recently I decided to pick up some extra bulbs for the lights over the bathroom sink. I knew to take the old lightbulb with me for comparison, but I might as well have been holding a metal bottle opener.

I stood in front of the display and was overwhelmed. I kept comparing the old bulb to the boxes on the shelf, and nothing seemed to match.

I finally asked an associate to help me.

“Hmmm,” he said, looking at the old lightbulb like it was from the Stone Age. “What temperature do you want?”

“I thought these things came in watts,” I said.

“These days, brightness is measured in lumens and can run from 80 lumens to 3,000,” he said. “The temperature is measured in Kelvins and runs from classic warm white to cool daylight.”

He saw the confused look on my face.

“I just want a lightbulb that looks like this one,” I said holding up the old bulb.

“They don’t make those anymore,” he said.

I grabbed a box that looked like it would work.

“What about these?” I asked.

He looked at the instructions on the CFL – compact fluorescent light – and frowned.

“You have to handle these carefully as they contain mercury,” he said, an apology in his voice. “Also you have to recycle them.”

He looked at me, his customer, standing there with a burned-out, ancient lightbulb in her hand and a vacant look on her face.

“You could always buy a smart lightbulb,” he said with hope in his voice. “They connect to an app and you can change the color of the bulb with the touch of a button.”

Thirty minutes later, I walked out of the hardware store with a new lamp, lightbulb included.

There’s a ton of jokes about how many engineers, Aggies or psychiatrists it takes to change a lightbulb. All I’d like is a lightbulb that, when it needs replacing, doesn’t require a master’s degree in engineering.

By the way, it takes five Aggies to replace a light bulb – one to screw in the lightbulb and four to rotate the ladder.

 

This Aggie Mom’s email is dhadams1955@yahoo.com.

If there’s one thing we’re all thankful for this year, it’s that 2020 is almost over. That end can’t come fast enough as this has got to be one of the worst 12 months on record.

All of us have years that try our limits, whether it’s financial hardships, the death of loved ones or plans that didn’t go the way we wanted.

But 2020 was not only the sour apple pie of bad years, it had a bunch of rotten cherries on top.

I read a suggestion that instead of giving thanks, we should list what we’re grateful for this year. Many people keep a gratitude journal or they post what they’re thankful for, and that practice keeps them in a consistent thankful and serene state of mind.

There are quite a few things I’m grateful for this year – we had some Covid cases in our family, but none were serious. There were financial setbacks, and those remain tough, but we’re getting through those.

Our family is still strong, our mom is maintaining her independence and sense of humor and there’s a roof over our heads.

I’m always grateful for health, friends, family and faith. But because this is 2020, here are some of the little things I’m not only thankful for but also grateful for.

The ice maker in our refrigerator. I didn’t realize how much I relied on sticking a glass underneath the in-the-door dispenser and instantly enjoying a glass of ice water and crushed ice. That is until the ice maker broke.

I remember filling those old silver ice-cube trays with water – and the frustration when someone uses the last few cubes but doesn’t refill the tray.

Going to the movies. I took for granted that any day of the week, we could take in the latest Hollywood blockbuster at the local cinema, snack on a bucket of hot, buttered popcorn and enter a magical world 30 feet high.

I took for granted the thousands of artists and technicians who worked behind the scenes to create alien worlds and people so we could go beyond our wild imaginations, whether that’s behind the walls of Hogwarts Academy or on the bridge of a star cruiser in a galaxy far, far away.

The library and the printed word. The libraries here have been closed during the pandemic, and I am beyond sad. I took for granted leisure time walking between the shelves at the library, pulling out books that looked interesting and taking home the ones I wanted to spend hours reading.

Sure book stores are still open, but it’s not the same experience as in the library. Browsing in a store doesn’t come close to the quiet of the library building, the smell of those old books and the knowledge that if I don’t like the book, I can return it without having lost any money.

I miss taking my grandchildren to the library for Story Time and seeing the amazed looks on their faces as the librarian enchants them with a story. I’ve been checking books out online and having the librarian bring them to my car, but that’s not the same experience.

And since this is a time for giving thanks, the next time you have non-contact delivery of a library book, consider leaving a bag of chips for the librarian who’s getting your books, checking them out for you and then walking out to your vehicle – no matter the weather – so you can continue to enjoy the printed word.

People. Sure they can be rude. Sure they can be obnoxious. And, yes, they can be overwhelming. But people are the ones who give the best hugs. They’re the ones who, when they smile, light up your life.

They’re the ones who hold your hand when you’re scared, chat with you while you’re waiting in line and remind you that we come in all shapes and sizes and our individuality is what makes us who we are.

And when they’re no longer with us, the missing seems like a bottomless pit. And that’s when we have to remember to celebrate the here and now, not the what we lost, even in the midst of a changed reality.

I’m grateful that 2020 made me remember what’s really important in life. Perhaps 2020 wasn’t as bad a year as I thought.

Happy Thanksgiving!

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

 

 

Turning on the news these days is like opening a bag filled with meat that’s been sitting in a forgotten ice chest for three days.

Awful.

To describe the surge in coronavirus cases, reporters use phrases like “skyrocketing and unprecedented reported cases” and that officials are “extraordinarily distressed” and “in crisis.”

In Texas, coronavirus cases are up over 11,000 and Fort Bend County reported an increase of 54 cases. There are hospital beds, but there won’t be for long, states worried news anchors.

College students in California are being told to stay put for the holidays, and rumors are circulating of a shutdown tougher than the one we had in March.

Elementary students are falling behind in school, teens feel isolated and alone when they’ve chosen virtual learning over face-to-face class time and college football stadiums are the loneliest million-dollar places in town.

Beloved personalities like Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg and Congressman John Lewis passed away.

On the entertainment front, “Jeopardy’s” Alex Trebek, “Black Panther’s” Chadwick Boseman and musicians Doug Supernaw and Eddie Van Halen passed away as did NBA superstar Kobe Bryant and former Miss America Phyllis George.

We had a full moon and Friday the 13^th on the same day, and not one but two hurricanes caused significant damage along the Gulf Coast.

Hurricane Iota is slamming – yes, that’s the word the weather people use – through Central America, and we’re running out of names for hurricanes for the first time ever.

But my youngest granddaughter has not let the bad news get her down. At the age of 7-1/2, Katherine is an optimistic and happy child. She looks for the good in people and in every situation that comes her way.

Rainy day? She’s in the middle of the yard, covered in mud from head to foot and perfectly happy.

On cold days, she loves drinking hot chocolate with about 50 marshmallows in the cup. While others see a rocky road, she sees opportunity for painting those rocks and turning them into works of art.

We had to go to the grocery store while she was visiting this past weekend. I have a selection of masks in my car featuring flowers, animals and super heroes. She chose one with bright yellow flowers.

As she pushed the basket down the aisle, she enthusiastically greeted every person who came her way.

Her smile and happy attitude came through the mask as her voice carried genuine happiness. Most people wished her a great day as well, and one young woman was particularly taken with Katherine’s cheeriness.

“Well good morning to you too,” she said as she stopped and looked at Katherine. “You sure are in a good mood.”

Katherine didn’t miss a beat.

“I am because it’s a great day and I hope you have a great day too,” she said bouncing up and down. The woman laughed out loud and told Katherine her day was definitely better because she was lucky enough to have met her.

I learned a lot from my granddaughter that day. Happiness is ours every single day if we allow ourselves to find the joy.

If we allow ourselves to wallow in the sad, that’s where we’ll stay.

We can spread that happiness by still wishing other people a good day and refusing to isolate ourselves any more than we already are.

We need each other. We need to look for the good because the wonderful is out there. Sometimes all we need is a young child to remind us that happiness starts in our hearts and to not let a mask or gloom and doom steal our joy.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.