For shoppers, snagging a close parking spot in a five-acre lot is almost as thrilling as finding a 75-percent-off sale. Although there’s always a place to park, sometimes it’s difficult to find one’s vehicle when faced with a never-ending sea of silver and beige hoods.

I always make a note of the aisle and section where I park because those huge lots can be overwhelming. I used to write down the location on a piece of paper, but I usually lost the paper. Once I wrote my location on the parking ticket, but I left the ticket in my car.

When I headed into Houston for the Gem and Jewelry Show at Reliant Arena last weekend, looking for some bargains, the last thing I worried about was parking.

There’s hundreds of parking spots in the complex, but I park in the North Kirby Lot for two reasons: I know how to get there, and I know how to get back on the freeway from there.

Unfortunately, a gun show and a cheerleader events were going on at the same time, so the parking lots were pretty full. But the lure of a bargain motivated me to fight the crowds.

Slowly but surely, I maneuvered my way to the North Kirby Lot and found a space.

I looked around and noted I was parked on Row 4.

I wrote the number 4 on the back of my hand with a pen.

As I was walking away, I looked back over my shoulder, making sure I was parked on Row 4.

A few hours later, I left the jewelry show, confident I’d walk right up to my car. As I neared Row 4, I did what anyone with a key bob does — I pressed the lock button to hear the horn honk so I could locate my car.

Silence. I looked at the light pole again. Yes, I was near Row 4. But then I looked beyond that pole and saw another pole in the distance. It also had a sign with the number 4. I looked in the other direction — 4 on that pole as well.

As far as the eye could see, there were 4’s on all the light poles. Then it hit me. I was in Parking Lot 4, not row 4.

There were at least 50 cars in every row and at least 20 rows in front of and behind me. Then I remembered something my son said when I was complaining about finding my car in those mammoth parking lots.

“You know, Mom, there’s an app for your cell phone that can mark your parking spot, and it’ll lead you right to your car, like a GPS device,” he’d said.

I brushed off his suggestion, telling him I had a pen and my hand, and those two items were much more reliable than an app.

Wandering around the parking lot, I found myself wishing I’d taken his advice. As I tried retracing my steps, I noticed I was surrounded by dozens of confused people who were also meandering up and down the rows with their key bob over their head, pressing the lock button with their thumb, listening for a familiar honk or beep.

And then, 30 long minutes later, a familiar toot answered my call. I pressed the bob again and my long-lost vehicle answered.

I quickly walked in that direction and, sure enough, there was my Altima, right next to the Number 4 pole, right where I’d left it.

Later that evening, I called my son and asked him how to download the “Take Me To My Car” app.

“Be glad to send you the site,” he said. “It comes with the ‘I Told You So’ app as well.”

It’s not too often sons have the right to gloat. So I’ll say it this once — Stephen, you were right.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I was at the park with my granddaughter recently, and she decided to head toward a tall slide, quickly putting some distance between us.
“Don’t climb up the ladder until I get there,” I called after her.

“Why?” asked the 3-year-old over her shoulder.

“Because you could get hurt,” I said.

Later, as I was pushing her on the swings, she pleaded for me to push her higher. I told her she was already going high enough.

“But I want to go higher,” she said.

“You could get hurt — this is high enough,” I told her.

It wasn’t until the fifth time I cautioned her about not attempting something a little bit daring that I realized how many negatives had come out of my mouth in just one afternoon.

Don’t get near that ant pile. Don’t jump in that water puddle. Don’t climb so high.

My granddaughter had approached the park with enthusiasm and excitement. I’d slowly but surely squeezed a good bit of that glee out of our afternoon. .

Somewhere along the way, I’ve gone from believing life is a wonderful adventure to becoming a human caution light — all yellows and reds.

So many times, we approach a situation paying attention to only the warning signs flashing in front of us.

Don’t ask for time off because you’ll just have to make it up later.

Don’t travel because it’s too expensive.

Don’t sleep in on Saturday morning because you have work to do.

Brian Stokes Mitchell is one of my favorite singers. He’s a popular Broadway performer, but last year, he came to Houston for a one-night-only show.

I talked myself out of going for a variety of reasons — the tickets were too expensive, I didn’t have anyone to go with and his show was on a work night.

What I should’ve thought about was how wonderful it would’ve been to hear Mitchell sing “The Impossible Dream” and “The Wheels of a Dream” in person.

Instead, I sat home, safe and comfortable in my living room, and I missed the performance, all because something could’ve gone wrong.

This week, some friends invited me to come with them for a quick dinner and some chit chat. I declined, knowing I needed to go home, finish some paperwork and throw in a load of clothes.

The whole time I was washing dishes and matching up socks, I wistfully thought about my friends and how I wished I’d gone with them.

Sitting on the couch, surrounded by a stack of folded towels, I vowed to find a way to turn my negative, cautionary statements into positive, life-affirming ones and to lean over the edge in life instead of hanging back in the shadows.

So the next time my friends say they’re going out for a quick bite after work, I’m going to join them because laundry can wait. Friendships shouldn’t.

If one of my favorite singers comes to town, I’m going to the show, even if it means losing a few hours of sleep.

The next time my granddaughter asks to go higher on the swings, I’ll push her as high as she can go and pretend we’re reaching for rainbows.

And when that 3-year-old comes down the tall playground slide, I’ll be sitting and sliding right behind her, both of us grinning from ear to ear, caution thrown to the wind.

Because life should be illuminated by green lights, not yellow and red ones.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Christina Taylor Green was 9 years old. Bright-eyed, optimistic and eager to learn about politics, she was simply on an outing to hear a local Tucson politician talk to her constituents.

On a pretty April day in 2007, Henry Lee was studying computer engineering at Virginia Tech University, still celebrating his newly attained American citizenship papers. He loved photography, movies and hanging out with his friends.

Lauren Townsend was captain of the girls’ varsity volleyball team and a candidate for valedictorian of the graduating class of Columbine High School. She was in the library with her friends, perhaps talking about where she’d attend college that fall.

Alan Beaven was preparing for a case in San Francisco and, after that, was planning a trip to India to do volunteer work. The young lawyer kissed his wife before he left on Flight 93 on Sept. 11, 2001.

These young people will never see their dreams materialize because they were all victims of murderous, evil madmen who killed innocents for reasons rational people can never understand, nor hope to.

Evil isn’t a new emotion. This raw, powerfully bitter emotion dates back to the days of Cain and Abel. Through the years, cold-blooded killers in positions of power have taken thousands of innocent lives — Stalin, Hitler, Idi Amin.

Even in my lifetime, there have been more senseless killings than I care to count. I remember vividly when our school principal opened the door to my second grade classroom in 1963 and, tears running down her face, told us all to get down on our knees and pray.

Our president, John F. Kennedy, had just been shot and killed.

Looking at the wall, it didn’t seem possible that the smiling, handsome young man in that black-and-white photo could be dead. Nor did it seem possible that five years later, we’d hear that the peaceable Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. had also been killed by an assassin’s bullet.

And, that same year, another murderer would open fire on the JFK’s young brother, Bobby, and senselessly end a life that promoted civil rights and an end to poverty.

These world leaders, and many whose lives were taken much too early in Columbine, Virginia Tech, Auschwitz, Uganda and thousands of cities and villages around the world, had dreams of building a brighter future.

They were filled with optimism and a dogged determination to make the world a better place. But those dreams were cut short, and there’s no good reason why.

In the aftermath of such tragedies, newspapers and the Internet are filled with thousands of words describing the psychological profiles of these murderers.

Pundits try to explain their motives — they were teased, they were outsiders, they were mentally unbalanced or they were angry at how their lives had turned out.

Instead of accepting personal responsibility for where they were in life or working to change the attitudes of those around them, these butchers used cowardly violence on innocent people. They took lives, shattered families and did their best to create an atmosphere of fear from coast to coast.

But if we let these murderers rob our country of hopes and aspirations that these young people and these young leaders believed in, then we’ve truly lost.

By concentrating too much on trying to figure out evil madmen, we run the risk of overlooking the heart and soul of what good people stand for.

Integrity. Attitude. Perseverance. Hope.

Martin, Bobby and Jack demanded that people incorporate those four words into their daily lives. In the deliberate acts of violence our country has experienced in the past few years, bystanders have stood up, used their bodies as shields and intervened as much as possible to stop the violence.

Few of us will have the split-second decision in that situation, but we can strive to be brave and accepting every day of our lives through our words and actions that tell the world we’ll never stop hoping for peace.

Christina, Henry, Alan and Lauren would be proud.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Have to thank my Mom for introducing me to these old movies — “Madame X,” “Imitation of Life” and, this, the all-time favorite Hebert girl chick flick, “An Affair to Remember.” Thanks, Mom…

One of my favorite movies is “An Affair to Remember” with Gary Grant and Deborah Kerr. A true “chick flick,” the film is about Terri and Nickie who meet on a trans-Atlantic voyage, fall in love, and agree to meet six months later at the top of the Empire State Building to see if they really want to be with each other.
On the way to their meeting, Terry is hit by a taxi cab and paralyzed. She doesn’t want to go to Nickie until she can walk to him. However, Nickie thinks she stood him up and is heartbroken. He waits on the observation deck for hours and leaves bitter and disappointed.

He doesn’t find out what happened to Terry until the end of the movie and, of course, they live happily ever after.

But this magical and romantic movie never could’ve happened in today’s instant-access technological age. With the invention of cell phones and the Internet, the old movies we’ve come to love would never fly.

In “An Affair to Remember,” Nickie would’ve texted Terry or, if that didn’t work, Nickie could’ve checked Terry’s MySpace status for posts and updates.

Another one of my favorite chick flicks is “Sleepless in Seattle,” and Annie did use the Internet to track Sam down. However, instead of using a private investigator to find Sam, Annie could’ve jumped onto Facebook and found out his birthday, residence and much more by friending him.

Forget meeting at the top of the Empire State Building. Both couples could’ve created a private online chat room and typed back and forth without ever crossing the continent.

In fact, all the old love movies could be trimmed in half by having the characters join an online dating service, thus completely removing chance and the magic from the movies.

Sappy love movies aren’t the only films where modern technology would change the entire plot. In “Star Wars,” viewers could’ve saved so much time if Luke would’ve gotten an instant message from R2D2, instructing him to download Princess Leia’s movie and then sending him a text that Darth Vader was his father.

In “Close Encounters of the Third Kind,” modern technology was at the forefront as the U.S. government tried communicating with the extraterrestrials. With the Internet, all those people with the same dream about the Devil’s Tower could’ve set up Websites and YouTube videos and known they weren’t alone.

Yes, modern technology would’ve gotten us to the point a lot faster. But for those of us who love the “boy-meets-girl, boy-loses-girl, boy-gets-girl” format, nothing beats chance mishaps, letters that cross in the mail and long courtships that cause us to drag out the Kleenex and wallow in a sappy love story.

Some of our best personal experiences revolve around chance and coincidence, and those old-fashioned stories allow us to remember the enchantment of letting a story unfold with the fates directing the outcome.

And just about the time we picture a suave Cary Grant standing in our living room, asking us to dance or Sean Connery requesting our help on a secret 007 mission, the cell phone vibrates.

It’s the kids, asking if we can ferry their forgotten homework to school for them. Or it’s a sales call, offering us a great deal on a mattress or a reminder text from the dentist about that root canal scheduled for Tuesday.

Perhaps these old sentimental stories are best just the way they are. Sure, today we could sail right through all of life’s twists and turns with a practical GPS device and a pocket-sized 4G cell phone, but we’d lose the one ingredient crucial to any good story.

Magic.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

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.