Looking at the newspaper last week, I saw the list of new television shows the networks are planning to cancel. Viewership is down, so shows launched over the past few months that aren’t performing as well as trashy reality shows will probably get the axe.

Although there are tons of reasons why a show gets canned, the primary culprit is bad writing. So when a terrific story comes along, it’s gold – think Huck Finn, Tom Sawyer, Atticus Finch, Sherlock Holmes and Peter Pan.

A great story can make up for bad acting, poor lighting and cheesy sets. Readers and audiences will stay up late, book or Kindle in hand, tune in week after week and hang on every word when the story’s an intriguing one.

It’s easy, though, for good storytelling to fall by the wayside as we look for ways to trim corners and speed up life. We want the abridged edition, and many are only willing to sit still for highlights at the top of the hour or a few lines that scroll across the top of our computer or television screen.

Good stories take their time, and good storytellers understand the fine line between drawing out a story to have more time in the limelight and letting the story gently unfold.

Great stories lay a foundation and build on it word by word. Great storytellers understand magic happens through those words, and their job is to dispense those words with emotion, great gestures and the enchanting whisper.

They never forget that the story line comes before the way they pronounce their words or the timbre of their voice.

The truth is great stories allow us to see ourselves in the tale, and they inspire us to be a little bit nicer, a little bit braver or a little more aware of what’s around us. They capture our imagination from the first few words, hold us in their spell and then leave us hungry for more at the end.

My grandmother was a terrific storyteller. Her voice would rise and fall as she talked about her pampered childhood in Lebanon, her and my grandfather’s tumultuous path to America and their lean days during the Depression.

The basic story was fascinating – growing up on a silk farm and how, as young newlyweds, she and my grandfather had to prove my grandfather’s innocence when someone accused him of being a bigamist. Turned out a girl who’d liked my grandfather found out he’d married, so she decided to try and ruin his honeymoon.

She embellished the story every time, fine tuning it as writers do today on a computer or a laptop. I’d sit next to her on the couch at night, waiting impatiently for the tale to begin. She never disappointed, and I’d make her tell me those stories again and again.

I thought about her the other night when my granddaughter picked up a spiral notebook and a pencil and began scribbling on a page. After a few minutes, she said she’d written a story and wanted to read it to me.

She began with “once upon a time” and “read” me the story she’d written. Her voice was filled with pauses, whispers and sound effects, and I could tell she was enjoying the telling of the story as much as having a captive audience.

After a few minutes, she paused, smiled and said “the end.” I clapped, realizing she has a true gift for both writing and telling a story, just like her ancestors before her.

And, in the end, that’s what keeps all of us connected from generation to generation – our story.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

As much as I hate to admit it, there are times when I do something dumb and then have to slap my forehead and say “duh.”

Holding my keys in my hand while looking for them constitutes as dumb. Going to the grocery store to get eggs, coming home with $65 worth of groceries and no eggs is another one, as is pouring a cup of coffee and realizing I forgot to put grounds in the basket.

But when the electricity goes off in our garage and I can’t find the reset button that’s right in front of my face, well that ratchets stupidity up to a whole new level for me.

Not being able to accomplish relatively simple tasks goes back to my childhood. I remember the first time the chain came off my bicycle. An hour later, covered with black grease, I still couldn’t fix my bike.

My brother came along and slipped the chain back on in less than two minutes.

As a teenager, I had an Impressionist wall in my bedroom because I stood on a folding chair to paint the moulding around the top of the room. Instead of having a blue border, I had a white wall decorated with a huge splat of cornflower blue paint.

I also backed our car into the house one afternoon. Oh, I can say I was distracted by my baby brother or I was a young driver and couldn’t judge distances, but the hard, cold truth is that I backed our Ford sedan into our house – that wasn’t moving – and cracked the sheetrock from the ceiling to the floor.

Then there was the evening I put Dawn liquid detergent in the dishwasher after running out of powdered cleaner. I never bothered to read the dishwasher directions, but when mountains of suds came spewing out the sides of the Kenmore, I learned my lesson.

So when I came home from work this week and the garage door didn’t open, I thought the power was off in the house. I went inside and realized only the garage was without power.

Growing up in an older house, I knew to check the breakers, but none seemed to be tripped. At this point in time, I did what any intuitive person would do – I called an expert. That expert just happens to be my husband who was taking a needed break out in the country.

He asked me to look around the garage for an outlet similar to the one in our bathroom that trips from time to time. I didn’t see one but I told him one of the breakers had to be tripped.

I described the electrical panels to him and checked all of the switches to see if any had tripped. Knowing I must be missing something, I took pictures of the panels and emailed them to him so he could see what I was seeing.

Nothing looked tripped, but my husband decided to come home in case something deeper was wrong.

Frustrated at not being able to figure out the problem, I stomped around the house for a bit and then decided to go back to the garage one more time and look around.

That’s when I saw the electrical outlet with the ground fault interrupter.

It was right below the electrical panel.

With one press of the trip button, the power was back on. That move took less than three seconds, the same amount of time it took me to slap my forehead.

Am I feeling like the dumbest person on the planet?

Oh yeah.
 
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

In the morning, my clock radio clicks on at 6 a.m. A half hour later, I’m walking out the door, headed to work.

Along the way, I pass dozens of cars, all heading someplace other than home. Almost 12 hours later, we’re all back in our vehicles, dueling on the roadway for a better position in the fast lane.

On the weekend, it’s tackle the mountain of laundry, change the sheets on the bed, clean the bathrooms and then fight our way through the grocery store, a list in one hand, coupons in the other.

In between, we’re juggling bills, sorting mismatched socks and hoping the squealing washing machine makes it through one more payday.

Driving through the rain on my way home, my mood soured as trucks sprayed water all over my windshield. But then the rain slacked up and a pale rainbow appeared over the horizon.

I almost missed that heavenly sight, too absorbed in thinking about what to cook for dinner and the list of chores waiting for me.

Suddenly I realized I was wasting a great deal of time whining about what I had to do and the lack of time to do anything I wanted to do. So the next morning, when the “I-have-to-do-this” thoughts hit me, I turned off the car radio and rolled the windows down.

The sweet smell of spring was too fragrant to ignore and the sound of the wind outside was a much prettier melody than anything I’d hear from the speakers in my car.

While putting new sheets on the bed a few days later, I made myself stop calling what I was doing a chore.

Instead, I thought about my grandmother’s back yard and how we’d run in between the sheets as they dried on the clothes line. We’d wrap the sheets around our shoulders, and the smell of sheets crisp and dry from a laundry line is forever etched in my memory.

With that thought in my head, I sat down in the rocker we have in the corner, a chair we’ve had for years, but one I seldom sit in any more. I leaned back and looked out the window, remembering I used to sit in that chair and rock the boys when they were babies.

As they were going to sleep, I’d hold them up close to my cheek, their breathing so quick, their scent so sweet. Many evenings, I’d rock them long past when they were asleep, savoring those moments.

But then they were toddlers, too busy for mom’s lap and a mom too busy picking up after them. Then they were wild boys who morphed into teens and then they were gone. The chair stayed in the corner year after year, slowly becoming a collection point for blankets and tossed-off clothes.

But today, I sat down and rocked.

And thought leisurely thoughts.

And, bit by bit, relaxed.

Responsibilities were far away and memories came flooding back of unhurried moments in my life – afternoons on the beach watching the boys running in and out of the surf, Sundays in the back yard listening to my dad spin tall tales while he barbecued chicken and relaxing in the kitchen alongside my mom, her peeling an apple in one, long unbroken strand while we seemed to talk about nothing in particular but said everything important.

Those unhurried moments, the ones we rush through, are the ones that last much longer than a clean bathroom or a pile of matched socks.

I just have to remember to roll down the windows and let the wind blow where she will.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

One summer while on vacation, I saw an advertisement that a restored B-52 bomber plane from World War II would be on display at the local airport. I always wondered about these historic planes, so I was thrilled to have the opportunity to actually climb inside an aircraft used in battle over 50 years ago.

The interior was cramped, and the floor opened up on either side of a narrow walkway to let bombs drop. I could only imagine terrified young men standing there, gripping machine guns, while pilots dive bombed over cities and the countryside.

My appreciation grew by leaps and bounds through interviews I’ve had with veterans over the years. I didn’t think it would be possible for my admiration for those men and women to grow.

Until I read “Unbroken” by Laura Hillenbrand.

“Unbroken” chronicles the life of Louis Zamperini. A rebellious young scamp, Zamperini was on his way to the 1936 Berlin Olympics, fit and talented enough to break the four-minute mile, when World War II erupted.

Zamperini joined the Air Corps and soon found himself right in the middle of the fighting. In May, 1943, he and a crew took off on a troublesome B-24 plane. Over the Pacific Ocean, the plane failed and smashed into the waters.

Thus began Zamperini’s first ordeal – floating aimlessly on the ocean for 47 days, fighting off vicious sharks and starvation. When he and two of his comrades were picked up by the enemy, he weighed 67 pounds.

But that wasn’t the worst. Zamperini was taken to a Japanese prisoner of war camp where he was beaten, starved and tortured for almost two years. He suffered through dysentery, malnutrition and seeing his friends and comrades brutally murdered and tortured.

The worst, though, was Mutsuhiro Watanabe “The Bird,” a savage, brutal Japanese guard who seemed to take pleasure in torturing all the prisoners but none more so than Zamperini.

“The Bird” not only beat the former Olympian but delighted in making Zamperini’s life as miserable as possible, both physically and mentally.

But Zamperini did not let “The Bird” break him, refusing to bow, even when The Bird repeatedly smashed him in the head with a metal belt buckle. Zamperini refused to give up when he was transferred to another POW camp and found out The Bird had transferred as well.

But the hate Zamperini had for that guard kept him going; and he vowed if he ever got out of the camp, he’d kill him with his bare hands. When the Allies freed the prisoners, Zamperini – disease-ridden, weak and malnourished – was elated but never forgot the evil Japanese guard.

For years, constant thoughts of killing The Bird drove him to drink and almost lose his wife and family. It wasn’t until 1949 when he reluctantly attended a Billy Graham revival that Zamperini was able to finally let go of that burning hatred.

Zamperini subsequently opened the nonprofit Victory Boys Camp, a place that helped lost boys. At night, he’d sit around a campfire, telling the boys about the war and how he finally achieved inner peace. He also traveled the world, speaking about his experiences and receiving awards and honors.

In his 60’s Zamperini was still giving speeches. In his 70’s, he was still running. When he was in his 80’s, he was skateboarding. And when he was in his 90’s, he was skiing down mountains – always with a smile on his face.

One of the greatest moments of Zamperini’s life came in 1998 when he was asked to carry the Olympic torch through the streets of Nagano, Japan, the site of that hellish POW camp. His journey had evolved from despair into tranquility.

Zamperini’s words to Hillenbrand and ultimately her readers reflect what I’ve heard in the quiet voices of veterans I’ve had the privilege of interviewing.

They survived because they chose to bend, not break.
 
This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

When I was in high school, most of us trying to avoid gym class took typing. I remember walking into Ms. Thomas’ room and seeing gray manual Royal typewriters on every desk.

Over the course of my junior year, I learned how to type, pressing down hard on those round keys and trying not to get purple carbon paper all over my clothes.

I was pretty quick on that typewriter and was soon up to about 85 words a minute, mostly because if you typed that fast, you’d get an A in the class.

When I went to college, my parents gave me a small portable typewriter so I could type research papers, handy even though the thin metal bars with the letters on the end were always getting tangled.

Luckily, electric typewriters, IBM Selectrics to be exact, hit the market. The Selectric featured a round metal typeball that made changing the font possible, and we no longer had to press down on the keys like we were pounding nails in a board.

My college typing teacher said if we could type 100 words a minute, we could get out of class three weeks early. That was a carrot impossible to resist, so I practiced until I was zipping along fast enough to watch television for an extra hour every day instead of sitting in typing class.

And then came computers. They could move entire paragraphs around, automatically fix spelling mistakes and print out a beautiful, error-free paper. Those old manual and electric typewriters quickly became dinosaurs on the top shelves of our closets.

Just when we thought life couldn’t get any easier, along came text messaging. After years of zipping along on keyboards, I should be a fast texter.

Wrong. I’m the slowest texter around. A text message from me is usually less than five words because I just can’t get the hang of texting.

I’ve got a lot of excuses. I blame the slick surface of my iPhone as there aren’t buttons to press, unlike a typewriter or keyboard. I also blame prescriptive text for “going to store” somehow getting translated into “Great to Steal.”

Maybe it’s because I’m still trying to figure out how to text with my thumbs that I fumble around for a simple five-word reply to a text. I’m one of those archaic one-finger texters, and it takes me forever to answer a text message question.

I don’t understand why people who have a lot to say don’t just call me on my cell. Talking is a lot easier than texting, but texting is more private than talking on a cell phone in a crowded room.

That’s true but when I’m a slow-as-molasses texter, I seldom get my point across before the conversation’s over. Another problem with texting is it’s difficult to explain a mix up.

One night, I got a text from my niece. I replied to her, I thought, and then went through 10 minutes of back-and-forth texting with someone on her mass text messaging distribution list until the ditzy woman finally figured out who I was and apo

logized.

Hanging up the phone is a lot faster than texting an explanation; and once you’ve hung up the phone, that pesky conversation is over unlike texting that can go on forever.

As time goes on, however, I am getting faster at texting although my inner grammarian voice still cringes at the abbreviations. But at least when someone asks if I’m exercising, I can say yes – my fingers and thumbs.
 
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

(Many thanks to wonderful friends Bob and Denise for inviting me and driving up to Austin! I had a BLAST!)

When the call came from the stage to join the conga line, my friend immediately jumped up and headed to the front of the theater. Hanging back, I watched as she waved her hands over her head, a radiant smile on her face as she danced her way around the front of the theater.

Onstage was an internationally known band, Pink Martini, and until a week ago, I had no idea who they were. By the end of the night, I became a devoted fan.

The leaders of Pink Martini are Thomas Lauderdale and China Forbes who were college friends. Late at night, they’d collaborate, Lauderdale on the piano with Forbes singing torch songs.

The two were fluent in a variety of languages and musical styles, and they began writing songs. Once they started performing, they were immediately embraced by audiences, beginning in Portland and then growing to a loyal fan base around the world.

Their music ranges from Brazilian sambas to sassy French songs. Forbes easily maneuvers her rich, silky voice through 1920s torch songs as evenly as Japanese love songs, and the extremely talented musicians in Pink Martini move right along with her.

Forget pre-taped music and outrageously dressed performers. Pink Martini’s

musicians were all wearing coats and ties, and coordinating the entire affair was Lauderdale, his love of the music causing him to literally bounce off the piano bench with every note.

And that’s exactly what he did while playing to a full house in the beautiful studio where the show “Austin City Limits” is filmed.

Now in its 35th year, ACL is the longest-running music series in American television history. They began in 1974 with PBS, and singers from Willie Nelson to The Allman Brothers Band to George Strait have graced the stage over the years.

What sets Austin City Limits apart from other shows is the attitude of the audience. These are folks who come to hear great music without any smoke or mirrors, and they weren’t disappointed the night Pink Martini performed.

As a special treat, the great-grandchildren of Maria and Georg Von Trapp appeared on stage, and the musical genes run quite deep in that family. It was amazing to watch these young adults sing in front of 2,000 people, harmonizing like professionals.

More amazing was the way the members of Pink Martini welcomed a new generation to the stage. But even with the aura of being descendants of the von Trapps, the real stars of the night were the members of Pink Martini, especially lead singer China Forbes.

She can sing in 15 different languages, and she crooned love songs in Peruvian, French, Portuguese and Chinese.

Although I couldn’t understand a word she was singing, the meaning was unmistakable – allow this music to seep into your soul. Lose yourself in the notes and slowly fade into a place where the outside world is thousands of miles away.

At the end of the performance, Forbes asked everybody to make a conga line, and half the patrons were immediately out of their seats and dancing around the theater.

I watched my friend, her hands up over her head, sashaying up and down the aisles, and then I noticed she was leading the way.

Her smile was as bright as the lights in the catwalk, and I realized something while watching her. Music has the ability to transform our world and make us believe that even if a boy named Eugene forgets to call, happiness remains right around the corner.

It’s within your grasp. All you have to do is get out of the chair and dance.
 
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Sitting in the back of the room, I watched in amazement as 30 energetic toddlers jumped up and down, clapped their hands and twirled around. It was Toddler Time, and the room was hopping.

This lively gathering was thanks to the Fort Bend County Libraries. At all of their branches, they offer a variety of programs for youngsters, from Toddler Time for ages 1-3, Story Time for ages 3-6, after-school programs for children in grades 1-5 and programs for pre-teens and teens.

When my boys were young, we participated in a variety of library programs, but I didn’t visit the toddler programs until my granddaughter came along. Last summer, we visited the George Memorial Library for Story Time, and my granddaughter had a blast.

We met in the large meeting room, and a friendly librarian read and acted out half a dozen books for the children, put on an interactive puppet show and sang songs.

At the end, she gave all the children an arts and craft project to complete, and instantly everybody was on the floor coloring, gluing and showing off their masterpieces.

The children readily shared their supplies, listened as moms softly read stories aloud and skipped and danced around the room, singing the songs the librarian had taught them.

As a bonus, I met other moms, as well as a few grandparents, looking for something fun yet educational during the hot summer months.

So it was a pleasant surprise when my granddaughter and I stepped into the Bob Lutts Library in Fulshear during Spring Break, arriving just as Toddler Time was starting.

The conference room was filled with laughter and youngsters crawling around, jumping up and down and some clinging to mom for dear life.

But when the librarian began to sing, all eyes were glued on her and then everybody who knew the song joined in. At the end, there was spontaneous applause and then quiet as the librarian read a book aloud.

Just when the toddlers’ attention was beginning to wane, she brought out a circus-like tent as wide as the room.

Everybody grabbed a section of the outer edge, and we began waving the tent up and down. Most of the children, my granddaughter included, crawled underneath the tent and squealed with delight as we slowly fanned that colorful material up and down over the children, all of us singing and laughing.

We’re told the children of today need television, expensive gadgets, computers, tutors and hand-held games in order to stay ahead of the ever-widening learning curve.

But in less than an hour, when allowed to interact with each other in a hands-on, lively environment, a room full of toddlers, as well as the adults with them, learned together.

Many thanks to the Fort Bend County Libraries for staffing and introducing these programs to our young learners. Because of their willingness to sing silly songs and lead discussion groups with our adolescents and teens, we remind our future leaders that the library is not only fun, it’s a safe and engaging place to connect, either through face-to-face discussions or in the pages of a book.

And because the Fort Bend County Libraries provide programs for adults wishing to learn how to crochet, knit, file their taxes or care for a loved one struggling with Alzheimer’s, we’re reminded that learning never stops.

So visit the library today. And take a youngster along. You’ll be amazed how rewarding life can be while watching a child make an invisible itsy-bitsy spider crawl up an imaginary water spout.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

For the past two days, I’ve been avoiding a giant silver remote control courtesy of our new cable television provider. I’ve complained about remote controls in the past, but this one takes the cake.

First of all, there’s 54 buttons on this one remote control, some accessing functions I didn’t even know existed for a television. I’ll bet this device is more complicated than controls on the Apollo 13 mission.

We’ve come a long way from the original remote control – the kids. My dad would plop down on the couch and tell one of us to turn on the television. We had to stand there, wait for the set to warm up and then turn the knob until we found a show he wanted to watch.

Easy enough with only three channels. But then we had to adjust the antenna on top of the TV to get the best reception.

If the picture was still snowy, we dreaded the next command – get the foil. My dad believed aluminum foil was the second best conductor for television waves.

The best conductor was an 8-year-old bored child who could’ve cared less about “Gunsmoke” but was required to stand there until my dad got tired of the fidgeting and complaining.

Then mechanical remote controls came along. The first ones had four buttons – on and off, volume, channel up and channel down. One had to practically sit right in front of the television and aim the remote straight at the screen in order for the gadget to work.

That’s when the second best conductor came into play – while my dad stayed on the couch, we got to stand in front of the television and change the channel. And then adjust the antenna and get the foil.

Over the years, remote controls have evolved. Viewers can change the channel from another room, program the television to record the entire “Gunsmoke” series, watch shows they’ve missed in the past two weeks and order and download the latest movies.

In order to carry out this magic, we need more gadgets. We have a rather simple TV setup, but ours requires four – yes four – remote controls.

There’s a small oval unit that only runs the DVD player. Then there’s another remote for a BluRay player which I never use because I can’t remember which one of the four remotes goes with that particular device. Then there’s two long, black ones with commands I still can’t figure out.

But I was determined to master the remote control bureaucracy, so I sat down on the couch, all five remote controls next to me, and started with the new boy on the block – the imposing silver one.

I pressed the “all on” button and a row of lights flashed across the top. Pretty, but no “Gunsmoke.” I pressed another big button that looked promising. Nada. So one by one, I started pressing big buttons on the other remotes and, voila, the TV came on.

Two hours later, I somehow managed to not only change channels but I figured out how to turn the volume up and down – all five remotes will do this, by the way – and record “Gunsmoke.”

I know there are universal remote controls that combine all the devices, but I’m afraid I’d either need a magnifying glass to figure out the purpose of each button or the device would have to be the size of my pillow.

Until then, I’m on the lookout for an 8-year-old kid who knows where I keep the aluminum foil.
 
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

You’ll get over it.

Words people say after something tragic, bad or sorrowful happens in life. The phrase is intended to comfort, but it has the opposite effect.

How, specifically, does one get over the death of a spouse? A child? A parent?

How does one get over the feelings of unbelievable sadness and sorrow that permeate every aspect of a person’s life when tragedy happens?

Recently, one of my son’s good friends unexpectedly passed away. It’s the first time he’s had to deal with the death of a close friend; and as the words of comfort came out of my mouth, I knew they could do nothing to ease his pain.

The same week, my mom’s older brother passed away. Mom said he’d lived a good life, but that didn’t lessen her pain. When she called to tell me he’d died, I found myself starting to say the same words I’d said to my son, but stopped.

Instead, we talked about Uncle Ray, swapping stories, realizing he would always be alive in our memories. But no matter how much time passes, that sorrow remains an underlying part of life.

A dear friend told me once that sorrow never goes away. Those feelings change and people learn to meld sorrow into their daily life.

When people see her smiling face, watch her chatting in the grocery store or working at her desk, they think she’s finally gotten over the loss of her son.

But that’s only from people who’ve never had someone they love leave this life.

Memories of spending time with them are right underneath the surface and can be triggered at unexpected moments, especially through songs. Music is supposed to be one of the most comforting sounds around, but it’s also a major memory trigger for me.

Whenever I hear Cajun music, I think about my dad. While he was still alive, my dad would always shout out a “ay-eee” at the right moments in a Zydeco song, much to my embarrassment and his delight.

My mom and I were listening to songs on the Internet one evening, and her and my dad’s song came up in the playlist. She was a little misty-eyed, remembering that was their song, and I was sorry she was sad but glad I knew a little more about her as a young woman.

Photographs are wonderful mementos, but they can also trigger a torrent of tears. While going through a box of photos recently, I came across a picture of my grandparents.

They were standing behind the counter in the five-and-dime store they owned, and their faces could’ve been that of any shopkeeper in America – my grandfather wearing a worn cardigan sweater, and my grandmother with her glasses hanging on a silver chain.

The photo reminded me of trips to their store, helping dust the merchandise, to which my grandfather rewarded me with a small bag, telling me to fill it with candy for being such a big helper.

My grandmother’s face reminded me of the last time I saw her, ill and frail in a hospital bed, unwilling to face life any longer, the years of grieving for her son who died at a young age something she refused to accept.

She grieved all of her life for him, never learning to blend his memories in with her daily life. And that’s the difference in getting over the devastation and weaving sorrows into the joys that come our way.

Together, those ups and downs become the patchwork quilt of our life.

For we never get over a loss.

We simply learn to keep going.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

My grandfather was a predictable man. He watched “Gunsmoke” every Saturday night, went to bed at the same time and always made sure he washed out the same plate, cup and saucer after dinner to use the next day.

I thought about my grandfather as I was rummaging around in our cutlery drawer, looking for one particular, mismatched fork. Finally, I spotted it in the bottom of the dishwasher, and I carefully retrieved it, happy I could finally sit down to dinner.

That’s when I sighed and realized an unmistakable fact – somewhere along the way, I’d left behind carefree and crossed over into predictability.

It’s easy to pooh-pooh that thought, especially when I tell myself I’m still hip and cool. Then again, using the words “hip” and “cool” is an automatic giveaway I’m over the hill.

I tried to rationalize my way out of admitting I’d become a stick in the mud. Using that one particular fork for every meal was a preference, nothing more.

Then I thought about the coffee cups.

We must have two dozen mismatched coffee cups in the kitchen cabinet. I can’t in good conscience throw them away, and my sisters have an unbreakable mantra about cups that keeps them in my cabinet – one must drink out of a cup or mug that bears an inspirational or special meaning. Hence the reason I use my “Barney Fife Nip It In The Bud” coffee mug day after day.

And I’m a bit persnickety about one bath towel. I usually buy a new towel when there’s a sale, and a worn one goes out to the garage… except for this blue towel.

It’s my favorite, even more than plush new ones because that old towel is incredibly soft. I wash it and put it right back on top of the stack in the cabinet. Why get rid of something that’s perfectly useful, I tell myself.

Truth be told, the curmudgeon signs are everywhere. I switch the channel with a big “harrumph” whenever a “Saved By The Bell” rerun appears, and I complain about people who drive too fast on neighborhood streets.

I’ve used the same wallet for the past 15 years because it’s finally soft and I know what’s in all the little hidden pockets, and I’ll use a purse until the straps break.

Next to my computer monitor is a beat-up address book, some with addresses erased five or six times. But I know to look for my cousin’s address under her maiden name, even though she’s been married 20 years.

I park on the same row whenever I go to the grocery store, even if the lot is empty, because that’s the only way I can find my car. More than once, I’ve wandered the parking lot, watching my ice cream melt, while searching for my vehicle.

I sit and stew at the stop light if the car next to me is vibrating from loud music, and I value soft flannel pajamas over silky ones.

I believe a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, washed down with a glass of cold milk, is fine eatin’, and there’s no better dessert on the planet than a plain Oreo cookie.

I simply appreciate the value of something weathered yet useful, something that might not be trendy or perfect but is useful.

Although I’d never consider myself a wild child, I am predictable, and I’ve come to accept that fact about myself.

Persnickety? Maybe.

Practical? Yep.

My grandfather would think that was just dandy.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.