For many, ironing is an old skill, like churning butter or darning socks.

None of my sons, nieces or nephews own an iron or ironing board.

Why should they? Most of the clothes these days are permanent press or are supposed to look like we slept in them.

I usually don’t buy anything that needs ironing. If I can’t toss it in the dryer and hang it up wrinkle free, I don’t buy it.

Around the holidays, I needed two white pillowcases. I picked a package up at a home goods store, not looking closely at what kind of fabric the pillowcases were made from.

After I washed them, it was immediately obvious those pillowcases were 100 percent cotton. They came out of the dryer as wrinkled as raisins and would require ironing.

Maybe not, a little voice whispered. Who’d notice if the pillowcases were wrinkled? I could pass them off as vintage or “country chic.”

I held them up. It was obvious they were wrinkled, not something out of a fashion magazine.

I’d have to drag out the ironing board and the iron if I was going to put those on the guest bed. As I set up the ironing board, the loud squeaking sound brought me back to my childhood.

When I was a young girl, I often watched my grandmother Albedia ironing. She filled a glass Pepsi bottle with water and a watering attachment screwed on.

She’d sprinkle water over whatever she was ironing, add a bit of starch, and she transformed those wrinkled blobs into stiff-as-a-board shirts.

My mom would let me iron my dad’s linen handkerchiefs. Those were pretty easy, so we moved on to pillowcases. Once permanent press cases came on the market and my dad discovered Kleenex, we no longer had to iron.

Years later, my other grandmother offered to teach me how to iron more intricate items. She said I’d need to know how to iron if I was going to learn how to sew.

Since my mom had already showed me the basics, my grandmother started with shirts.  First the collar, she said, then the yoke, the sleeves and finally the body of the shirt.

As with most things I learned as a teenager, there were bumps along the road. One side of the sleeve would look smooth, but when I turned it over, there were wrinkles up and down the fabric.

She showed me the automatic water sprayer on the iron – what an improvement over that Pepsi bottle – and the wrinkles came right out.

When she taught me how to sew, I had to press open every seam. I didn’t understand why until I tried skipping that step. When the seam was puckered, I knew why she had me iron as I went.

A good lesson, she said. Take care of things as they happen because if you don’t, they show up anyway.

These days, I iron my husband’s flannel shirts. He takes care of clogged toilets, so I don’t mind ironing those shirts.

What I find is there’s a rhythm to ironing and satisfaction is watching the wrinkles disappear. Best of all, the end result is worth the effort.

Most of the chores we do require thought. I’ve yet to program the television’s remote control without paying strict attention. Ironing, on the other hand, allows my mind to wander.

Maybe the older generation was on to something. Perhaps the mindless chores give us time to think. I’ll never go so far as to churn my own butter, but ironing does give me time to ponder.

And that, like ironing, is an almost lost art.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Something that should be enjoyable is a massage. I always imagined being in a warm room with dimmed lights and soft music playing in the background. A masseuse gently works the cricks and aches out of my joints.

So far, this has not been my experience. The room is softly lit and there’s usually some incense burning. But then the masseuse gets to work, pushing on muscles and joints. Having a linebacker pound on my back wasn’t what I envisioned last week.

“That’s a little hard,” I finally said. She apologized and started back softer, but in less than 15 seconds, she was putting her full weight into my shoulder blade.

She said I had a lot of kinks to work out and, as we all know, getting rid of those knots required a bit of work.

In other words, “suck it up, buttercup.”

That’s exactly the sentiment I have for quite a few beauty treatments I’ve undergone. First on the list of “no pain, no gain” is getting rid of unwanted hair.

One of the traits I inherited from my mom’s side of the family is healthy hair. That hair, unfortunately, also likes to grow on my upper lip and chin.

In order to not look like my hairy Uncle Mitch, I go to a hair salon to have these areas waxed.

Waxing is not for the faint of heart although you might believe it’s going to be painless.

You lie down on a soft table and instrumental music is playing in the background. A nice technician comes in and asks where you’d like the hair removed.

“My entire face,” is the answer I want to say, but I just generally point to my upper lip. The very nice lady clucks her tongue and rolls up her sleeves.

Then she tells me to close my eyes, and I can hear her assembling all the ingredients. Before I know it, she’s got a wooden tongue depressor and is applying warm wax above and below my eyebrows.

Then she takes a piece of cotton material, puts it over the hot wax and rubs back and forth.

That feels nice, but then comes the pain train.

In one quick movement, she rips the fabric off my face, taking with it the unwanted hair. At this point, my eyes water and I wish I could learn to accept my hairy heritage instead of having a wax treatment.

Then she moves on to the most painful of all, the upper lip. I’ve had a wisdom tooth removed with only a shot of Novocain. That is nothing compared to having my upper lip ripped smooth.

After that, waxing my chin is a walk in the park.

This is all for unwanted hair. The hair you do want to keep requires almost constant maintenance. Some women spend every Saturday in the beautician’s chair, having their hair processed, straightened, colored and conditioned.

The treatments have a strong chemical smell and you get to sit there with your head covered in goop for about an hour. Sometimes your scalp burns, but what really burns is how much just having your hair done costs. One cut, color and style can easily run $100.

Sure, you can try it yourself, but you might end up like my mom did – with lilac hair and a trim as even as a 50-year-old sidewalk.

We’re told the look isn’t complete without make-up. One bottle of foundation can cost anywhere from $15 to $45 and eye shadow is about the same price. Lipstick that lasts more than five minutes can run up to $37 for just one tube.

Then you have to take it all off at night with special cleansers and apply expensive cream to keep the wrinkles away.

These routines and prices aren’t for me. I’m more of a drugstore make-up gal. I only wear mascara if I’m going to a place where there are grownups. Mostly, I keep my fingers crossed my mom’s genes will take care of the crow’s feet and laugh lines.

So far, so good.

For all of you who love massages, all-day hair appointments and the latest make-up trends, indulge and enjoy. For those who are more like me, wear those Earth shoes with pride.

Mostly, embrace you, in all your wonderful, less-than-perfect and, in some cases, hairy glory.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Rumination:  The process of continuously thinking about the same thoughts, which tend to be sad or dark. – Healthline.org

 

I’d had a bad day. More than that, I’d had a bad run of days. After the last stupid thing I did happened, I sat down and went over what was bothering me so much.

The answer was practically everything.

That’s because I was ruminating.

I wrote it – I’m a ruminator. I’m that person who keeps thinking about the same mistakes I’ve made over and over again. It’s not a fun place to be because any little thing that goes wrong suddenly becomes a bonfire.

The latest log on the fire was published in my column last week. I boasted I’d helped my grandson with his math homework of lowest common denominator.

I wrote in the column, no I bragged in the column, how I explained that 3/6 is actually 1/3. Thanks to a sharp reader, Janice, that statement is incorrect. When I got that email, my heart sank and I could feel myself wearing a dunce cap.

And so the boulder of self-doubt and self-recrimination started rolling down the hill.

Sometimes, that boulder only weighs 10 pounds. On those days, it’s fairly easy to sidestep the menacing boulder.

But when that rock is the size of an elephant with no signs of stopping – a huge error in print for thousands to see – those are the days I pull the blanket over my head, close my eyes and prepare for the impact.

After the humiliation stopped being so crippling, I looked for articles for ways to get past the “you suck” feeling.

Here’s a few tips I found online.

Call a friend or family member. Let’s face it – we’ve done that and our friends and family members are sick of hearing us whine.

We’re sick of hearing ourselves whine. And because we’re beating ourselves up anyway, we feel guilty if we don’t ask what’s going on in their life because otherwise we’re a drain on someone else’s happiness.

Doing chores is suggested. That works for about a minute, because while you’re doing the mindless task of loading the dishwasher or vacuuming, the “you suck” thoughts come bouncing back into your head.

Watching a movie can be therapeutic but as soon as the end credits roll and you turn off the TV or computer, those sneaky thoughts come racing right back.

It’s as if the whispers were lurking in the background, sharpening their claws, waiting. And here you thought you’d been distracted.

I’ve tried reading a book, but three pages in, I can’t remember what I read. I remember what I was upset about. Then the self-inflicted insults come hurling right back.

Getting out and doing something physical can work unless, like me, you’re out of shape. Then I start beating myself up for those extra pounds and the days I sat in front of the computer instead of walking or riding a bike.

Not only was I beating myself up for the dumb things I’d said or done, now I felt bad about how I looked.

I followed one piece of advice –take action by writing down the steps you need to take to feel better.

I did that last week. Then I misplaced the book I wrote those steps in. I cringe every time I think of someone finding that yellow notebook and wondering what kind of helpless whiner wrote that to-do list.

Meditation was the least helpful remedy on the list. At this point in my life, if I relax in one spot for more than two minutes, I fall fast asleep.

That “focus on nothing but breathing” doesn’t work when those negative thoughts are running a marathon in your head.

The only ways I’ve found to stop ruminating are apologizing and giving myself and the other person time. Sooner rather than later, I’ll do something dumb again and I’ll have to start the process all over again.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

One of my best qualities is my refusal to give up.

It’s also one of my worst.

This decision to seldom cry “uncle” is fueled by knowledge I’m surrounded by things that refuse to give up.

The microwave is first on my list. When I put leftovers in that metal box, the microwave will beep for hours until I take that day-old meatloaf out.

How do I know? I heated up a cup of water to see how long until the microwave would give up. After an hour, I gave up, not the microwave.

We had a refrigerator that would beep if we left the door open too long. I hated that feature because I come from a long line of fridge gazers.

As kids, we’d open the door and look around to find something to snack on.

That gazing aggravated my father. He’d see feet underneath an open refrigerator door and someone’s right arm draped over the top of the door. Then he’d hit the roof.

“Visualize what’s in there, open the door, grab it and then shut the door,” he’d yell at least twice a day. Our answer was, for kids, pretty accurate.

“If I knew what was in there, I wouldn’t have to stand here looking around,” we’d reply in our defense.

There’s a few other things that refuse to give up.  Gum in the carpet is stubborn. Removal requires patience, ice and a lot of elbow grease. Carpet fibers hang on to gum like its gold.

I tried using peanut butter to remove the gum, just like I did when my youngest son got gum stuck in his hair.

Let’s just say that attempt was a total mess, especially as our dog was practically shoving me out of the way to get at the peanut butter.

Smoke detectors, when the battery needs changing, fall in the category of things that refuse to give up. So do screaming 2-year-old toddlers and any talking toy they own.

If you’ve ever been awakened in the middle of the night by a creepy clown voice asking if you want to have fun, you’ll understand what I’m talking about.

The batteries in our flashlights last about an hour. The batteries in our granddaughter’s annoying cash register toy have been going strong for five years.

Being placed on hold is usually a quick hang up for me. But if I don’t have anything else to do, I’ll stay on hold to see how long companies will keep an actual customer on hold. So far, the record is 42 minutes and I still didn’t get a satisfactory answer.

There are times I do throw in the towel. I give up quickly in the grocery store line or in traffic. If another line looks like it’s moving faster, I’ll switch in a second.

I also give up before trying in the following circumstances:  running, jumping, hiking, long-distance spitting – my sons believed this was an actual contest – calculus, putting air in my bike tires and anything electrical. These are all better left to professionals.

However, I surprised myself when I didn’t give up in an area I usually don’t even attempt to conquer – math.

I was helping my grandson with his homework. He was struggling with one of the math pages and asked me to check his work. I had my eldest granddaughter look up the definition for “lowest common denominator.”

All his answers were wrong. We went over the correct definition a few times, and he said he’d erase and start over.

“Don’t give up,” I heard myself telling him. Once he understood the concept that 3/6 is actually 1/3, he finished the paper in no time. (** This is incorrect. I’ll be danged if I can find the right answer!)

For once, I was glad I didn’t give up on math. Now if I can get the dog to quit licking that spot in the carpet, all will be right with the world.

 

     This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

“The toilet sounds funny,” I told my husband.

I didn’t say the toiler was overflowing or not filling with water. My specific description was “it sounds funny.”

For someone like me who’s mechanically challenged, sounds are the first indicator that something’s wrong. There was a problem with the valves in my last vehicle. The only way I could describe what was happening with the car was simple.

“The car sounds funny.”

It’s taken 30 years, but my engineer spouse has come to accept “funny” as meaning out of whack, needs looking at, starting to break.

There’s plenty of ways my hearing has helped me diagnose a problem. One of the latest has been my knees. They pop and creak more than they used to, so I know there’s an issue with them.

Come to find out – fluid on the knee.

One day, I heard a beeping sound. It wasn’t loud, but it was rhythmic. Every minute, I’d hear it, but the sound was faint. I couldn’t tell where that beeping was coming from, but the result was clear – something’s not right around here.

I went to the back bedroom, starting my sleuthing mission at the farthest end of the house. But after standing there for two minutes, I didn’t hear anything. I moved on to each room, the sound getting a little louder as I kept moving.

When I was in the kitchen, I heard the beeping loud and clear. I checked the microwave – all clear. The oven – all clear there. Then I heard that beep loud and clear – the dishwasher.

It seems I’d opened the door before the cycle was finished, and the dishwasher was letting me know I’d upset the cycle.

Once again, my ears diagnosed a problem.

My ears aren’t always accurate.

I have a hard time hearing my cell phone ring, and I’ve tried a variety of different tunes. They sounded fun, but there was a huge problem with those sounds. I’d hear the unfamiliar ring tone and think somebody else’s cell phone was ringing.

So I leave mine on the “circles” ringtone at full volume because that’s what came with the first cell phone I bought. Like a dog that hears the dinner bell, when I hear that tone, I know it’s my phone.

There are times when I have selective hearing.

Growing up in a house with seven children, I could tune out anything. Television blaring along with arguments were the typical soundtracks in our home. I could concentrate on my homework or a phone conversation with no problem.

To this day, when I’m home alone, I turn on the television or the radio just to have background noise. A totally quiet house or environment is unsettling.

As a mother of young children, when there was silence in the house, that meant trouble. On the flip side, I could hear the baby whimper in the middle of the night but never heard them sneaking in and out when they were teenagers.

In my defense, I naively trusted them. It’s only been in the last few years they admitted to a few middle-of-the-night adventures.

I also have selective interpretation with the little voice in my head.

“Don’t eat that piece of cake” translates to “That little ole slice won’t hurt you.”

“You need to fill up the gas tank” translates to “It’s too cold outside. Wait until the next time you’re in town to get gas.”

“You haven’t vacuumed in three weeks” translates to “My allergies are so much happier when I don’t stir up the dust.”

My husband only asked one question when I told him about the toilet – “Is it something I need to look at right now or can it wait?”

I considered the sound, how long it lasted and the tone. Then I gave him my expert opinion.

“It can wait.”

We professional listeners know the difference.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

I went to a restaurant with my grandson, and there was a small round piece of fruit in the salad. Using my fork, I picked it up, held it out and asked him if he wanted it.

“Don’t you like kiwi?” he asked.

“So that’s what you call that,” I told him, turning the green piece of fruit around.

I’ve never eaten a kiwi. I’ve seen it plenty of times, but I never wanted to admit I didn’t know what it looked like or that I’ve never eaten one.

It’s not the only fruit I’ve shied away from.

I’ve never eaten papaya until my son’s girlfriend cut one up in the kitchen the other day. I never would’ve guessed such a pretty color fruit was encased in an ugly outer shell and filled with about a thousand black seeds.

The truth is, I’ve never been an adventurous eater. People are surprised by that admission because my dad was a Cajun.

People from Louisiana are known to eat almost anything – alligator, turtle, and, the most disgusting, fried frog’s leg.

“It’s delicious,” people will say, holding up something that looks like fried chicken.

“Then you can have it,” I’ll say as I recoil in horror, the same as I do when someone waves a raw oyster in front of my face. I’m sure they’re delicious, just as I’m sure a glob of snot is delicious.

There’s a few other things on my list.

I’ve never eaten a beet, turnip or parsnip. I’ve heard they’re all delicious, but I’ll stick with potatoes, green peas and corn.

The only reason I’ve tasted snail is because a chef at a Cajun restaurant shoved one in my mouth when I was opening it to say “No thanks.”

They can call those slimy things escargot all day long, but a snail is a snail is a snail.

I also don’t like buttermilk. That one, I tasted and thought I was going to spew it all over the kitchen table. The only reason I didn’t was because I caught the look on my mother’s face, the look moms give that says “don’t you dare.”

I think I’m justified in this regard. I read a recipe that said if you don’t have buttermilk, add vinegar to regular milk and watch it curdle.

And you want me to drink that?

No thanks.

I love a good steak, but there’s no way I’m eating cow tongue or any of the intestines, often called “tripe.” See my comment above about snails and escargot.

The same “no way ever” holds true for chicken gizzards and the kidneys from any barn yard animal.

I’ve also never eaten collard greens or kale and they’re not on my “Things to do in 2023” list. The same goes for Spam and Vienna sausages.

And even though I’m a Cajun, I’m not going to try sushi. I remember baiting the net to catch crabs and crawfish when I was a young girl.

Knowing sushi is raw fish makes me think we should be getting a prize at the end, like a crawfish boil.

The same goes for anchovies – tiny fish with the heads still attached – and bell peppers. I pick those off if I see them, but they always leave a nasty after taste.

Just so you don’t come away from this column thinking I’m a food snob, there are some candies I don’t like.

Easter Peeps in all colors and candy corn are at the top of the list. Right underneath those are black licorice, dark chocolate and circus peanuts.

All disgusting.

Some people might say I’m a picky or fussy eater. I’ll rename and classify my eating habits with another name that sounds more cultured, just as the snail and escargot people do – I’m choosy.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

On the last day of the year, I make a list of resolutions. Some years, they’ve been lofty goals. Other years, my resolutions are simple, easy-to-accomplish promises.

This year, I didn’t do either one.

I considered plenty of promises – exercise, lose weight, be kind to others, vacuum more than once a month. Those resolutions have been on my list for years. Obviously, those won’t be accomplishments in 2023 either.

One year, I tried using positive affirmations instead of resolutions.

First on that list was “eat healthy.” According to some wellness plans, eating a balanced diet is considered healthy. I managed to balance the salad on my plate with a slab of meatloaf and a mountain of mashed potatoes.

I doubt that’s what those doctors had in mind.

There’s the self-serving resolutions we all make. Clean out closets, alphabetize our favorite recipes. These don’t work for me because those kinds of resolutions fall under one category – work.

Of all the fake promises I make to myself, camouflaging cleaning out the closet as a goal is like taking everything out of the closet in one room and storing that clutter in another closet. In other words – work.

Maybe the trick is to continue doing what I do but do them a little bit better. Cooking comes to mind.

Defrosting a six-month-old dinner and serving it canned corn isn’t exactly gourmet dining.

There’s exercising. Maybe instead of telling myself walking up one flight of stairs is a strenuous workout, I could actually put on some music and dance for 15 minutes. Then again, that sounds like fun, so maybe it wouldn’t necessarily count as a resolution.

I considered organizing my office, but I did that a few months ago. When I went to look for a leg massager my son gave me, I couldn’t find it. When that massager was sitting under my desk gathering dust, I knew exactly where it was.

Same goes for the extra tape I bought months ago. When the boxes were sitting on top of a stack of folders on the bottom shelf of my closet, I knew exactly where they were. I organized that closet – last year’s resolution – and now the boxes have disappeared.

I’d like to make a resolution to be less sensitive. If I text or call someone and don’t hear back from them in a couple of days, I figure they’re angry with me or “ghosting” me.

They’re probably busy, have other things to do than listen to my inane and pointless ramblings or they really are ghosting me because their New Year’s resolution is to get rid of people in their contact list who are a drain, not a positive.

Ouch, that one hurt.

There’s always an urge to get rid of all the junk food in the house, but my thrifty self just can’t see throwing out perfectly good Hostess Twinkies and Oreo cookies to stifle my snacking.

Truth is, I’ll just go out and buy more.

I thought about making a resolution to stop sifting through dumb YouTube videos. Those entertaining videos offer a benefit to me.

When I can’t sleep, watching 30 minutes of power washing videos makes me sleepy. Organizing videos tire me out, and the guy restoring paintings inch by inch is a sure-fire insomnia cure.

Now I have the answer. No resolutions this year except keep rationalizing away all the reasons why I don’t have resolutions.

That’s a goal I can accomplish.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

My first mistake was being in a hurry.

I wanted to pick up a Christmas tree so my son’s girlfriend could decorate it. Ingrid’s from a different country, and decorating a Christmas tree would be a new experience for her.

I’ve learned to check the bottom trunk of the tree first. If it’s too thick, it won’t fit in the stand. If the bottom of the tree is crooked or too wide, the tree won’t stand straight in the stand.

I saw a tree that seemed tall enough, the trunk was straight at the bottom, and it was half price.

Sold.

I got the tree home and my husband said he’d get it in the stand while I went to the grocery store.

When I got home, he was immediately apologetic. He’d moved the furniture around and the tree was in the stand by the window, right where we always put it.

“I did everything to make that tree look straight, but there’s only so much I can do with what you got,” he said.

“The trunk was straight, I looked,” I said putting down the groceries.

“That’s about all that’s straight on that trunk,” he said.

He told me to stand right in front of the tree, and it did look straight. But when I walked to the side, it was quite obvious – that trunk took a definite turn to one side. I walked to the other side – that was even worse.

If I hadn’t been in such a hurry, I would’ve noticed that flaw in the tree. Now we were stuck. My husband tried to reassure me – once we got the lights, tinsel and ornaments on, the crooked part would be covered up.

My hurrying to get a tree was for nothing as Ingrid and Nick had to leave early, so I asked the grandkids to help decorate. They were more than willing to help. As they looked at the tree, I apologized for it being crooked.

But they looked at the tree in a different light.

“It’s an Alice-in-Wonderland tree,” our eldest granddaughter said with a laugh. “Full of twists and turns.”

I’d posted the undecorated tree on my Facebook account, and friends had some pretty funny remarks about it – the tree was a conversation piece, the tree was distinguished and had character.

But my friend and artist Theresa Vincent nailed the right perspective. She said whenever she paints, she thinks of the objects as having personality.

“Their imperfections make them more interesting and relatable, just like people. The tree could be reaching out to hug someone who needs it.”

Theresa’s words made me see the tree in a whole different light. It was one of the few trees on the lot because most people saw its flaw and kept walking. But this overlooked tree had found a home with us.

As the grandchildren hung fake icicles and keepsake ornaments on the branches, we forgot about the imperfections. Instead, we enjoyed transforming a plain pine tree into a sparkling walk down memory lane.

I’ll admit, once decorated, the front of the tree looked good. Of course, if I walked around to the sides, the fact that the tree was crooked was pretty obvious.

But nobody else had a tree like ours. I’d bet nobody else had as many laughs about their tree as we did.

The tree sparked a few philosophical talks about accepting ourselves for who we are and concentrating on positives instead of negatives.

Christmas is a time for making memories. We’ll all remember the laughter we had as we decorated our Alice-in-Wonderland tree.

I’ll also remember Theresa’s last bit of advice – this tree was bent, not broken.

With all its imperfections, it was the perfect Christmas tree.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Thirty years ago on Dec. 30, we moved to Pecan Grove. We were surprised by all the homes that were decorated. We told our 3-year-old son the lights were there to welcome us to the neighborhood.

The folks in Pecan Grove are still welcoming people to their neck of the woods.

If you haven’t driven through Pecan Grove in the last couple of weeks, load up the car with blankets and be prepared for an even more incredible show this year.

I’m not sure if it’s the aftermath from the isolation of Covid, but people are embracing life and celebrating even more this year. This is quite obvious in Pecan Grove.

You’ll find a light extravaganza on almost every street. If the children are hoping to catch a glimpse of Santa, they’ll not only find his likeness in people’s yards, they just might see Santa himself waving at them from a front yard.

We watched children’s faces peering out from car windows, their eyes reflecting the lights, wonder written on their faces. Some streets have carolers while others gently play Christmas music for visitors to enjoy.

That Christmas spirit is infectious. Visitors weren’t honking their horns at each other – they were polite, patient and understanding as cars drove slowly down the streets, marveling at the incredible display in this neighborhood.

The people who live in Pecan Grove understand they’re a tourist destination in December, and they handle the traffic congestion and noise with a generous heart. Not only do the people in Pecan Grove provide free entertainment for us, what they do behind the scenes is even more amazing.

For the past few Christmas seasons, neighbors in Pecan Grove have been helping people in need. Someone will post to a Pecan Grove Facebook page about a family needing food, clothes, furniture, toys, and a committee gathers the right people to help out.

Often times someone writes they’ve been out of work, having trouble paying the electric bill or they can’t afford gifts for their children.

Santa’s elves get to work and the wish list is completed. This generosity is not surprising as the people in Pecan Grove give back anonymously in ways we don’t think about.

Nobody else pays their electric bill. Nobody else scours the internet and stores for that just-right front-yard decoration.

Nobody else spends hours stringing lights from trees, replacing burnt-out bulbs or making sure the wooden cut-outs are placed in just the right spot.

Nowhere else will you find a yard completely decorated to reflect a family’s love for the LSU Tigers, Texas A&M or the University of Texas. You’ll have to look far to find a house whose lights are choreographed to flash and change with music on a particular radio channel.

You’ll also be hard pressed to find a cul-de-sac with a dozen trees decorated from top to bottom with a different theme on each tree. Love the Astros and the Dallas Cowboys? Those trees are there.

Take a drive through the neighborhood but be respectful of the people who live there. Don’t come past 10 p.m., stay in your vehicle and don’t stop in the middle of the road.

The Grinch and Scrooge learned the true meaning of Christmas. I’d say the folks in Pecan Grove figured that truth out a long time ago.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

The chalkboard sign in the hallway set the stage – “Baker High Pepsters 1973 Reunion This Weekend!” Trudi Baltz was my best friend in high school, and we were officers in the Pepsters. My teenage years are incomplete without her.

Trudi was one of the smartest people in our class and could sing and play the piano at a professional level. But she was always humble about her accomplishments, hence the reason she was so loved.

After graduation, we went to separate colleges and our lives took different turns. I married my high school sweetheart and she married John Stafford, one of our friends from high school.

Their married life of 45 years has taken them to different cities – Pittsburgh, Fort Worth and, one of Trudi’s favorites, New Orleans. She earned her doctorate and has taught and mentored hundreds about how to be incredible nurses.

Their beautiful home in the Hill Country is filled with mementos of their travels and interests as well as photos of their beautiful daughter, Hillary, and her family. Their grandson, Ford, is the light of their lives and rightly so.

Trudi believes a sense of humor is the best sidekick to have in life. She owned up to having potted plants in her kitchen stove instead of burners. She’s been kicked out of more bars than even she can count. She laughs about these adventures and makes no apologies.

Five years ago, Trudi was diagnosed with a grave illness, myasthenia gravis, an auto-immune disease that causes breathing difficulties, muscle weakness and difficulty talking.

At the time of her diagnosis, Trudi was holding down a position as a well-respected hospital administer, training for half marathons and throwing beads from Mardi Gras floats each spring.

All that came to a halt. She doesn’t drive anymore, and there are days when it’s hard for her to walk unassisted, eat or talk. It would be easy for Trudi to feel sorry for herself.

But that’s not Trudi.

Not by a long shot, because she is the definition of finding joy in every moment of every day.

Instead of being angry and bitter at life for the hand she was dealt, Trudi made a decision to search for happiness, and she always finds it. Some days, that can’t be easy.

She undergoes plasma transfusions, a long, tough afternoon, a couple of times a month. But she makes that grueling process fun because she dresses up in a different, outrageous costume every time.

Sometimes it’s her majorette boots, other times big wigs and clothes from the 80s. Pom-poms are a must.

There’s a collection of blinged-out headbands in her closet, and she wears one every single day.

Although she can bring the party, it’s the quiet, genuine moments where Trudi’s true nature shines.

She knows the wait staff in the restaurants she and John frequent, and not just their names. Trudi knows about their families, and she has them over to her house for tea and conversation.

In every place we visited, she found someone to talk to, asking about their day and she’s never in a hurry or asking to be nosy. Trudi’s genuinely interested in other people.

She sees the beauty everywhere and doesn’t rush through life. Friendships are to be savored and treasured. Pretty afternoons are opportunities to enjoy walking Sevvi, their dog, napping under a shady tree or crocheting gifts for friends.

I owe her more than I could ever repay. She pulled me out of the suburbs when I first came to Houston and introduced me to the Theater Under the Stars and the antique shops in The Heights.

When I was having a particularly rough patch, she called and told me she was putting the phone on the floor. Then she proceeded to yell Pep Squad cheers from high school, telling me when she was kicking her legs and what hand motions she was doing.

That’s the definition of a true, life-long friend.

I’ll bet there’s a hundred people in Horseshoe Bay who know if Trudi is in their life, they’re one lucky person.

Thank God, I’m one of those.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.