Our parish priest is being assigned to a new parish, and we’re really going to miss him. Here’s a letter I sent to the bishop, thanking Father Howard for his service.

Your Eminence:As a life-long Catholic, I’ve been blessed to know dozens of priests. But Howard Drabek, our departing pastor at Sacred Heart in Richmond, is a true blessing.

I know Father Howard both as a parishioner and as a reporter. For years, I was the Religion editor at our local newspaper, and Father Howard was one of eight rotating column writers for the Religion Page. His “Pastor’s Point” columns are extremely popular in the community because he writes with humor and intelligence, gently calling the lost to seek solace in God.

Whenever I’d report on a benefit for the fire or police department, Father Howard was there, good-naturedly serving chicken or barbecue, helping set up and then taking down equipment. In the middle of the night, he would ride with the officers, listening to their worries and saluting them in public on a regular basis.

He also is one of the few men of the cloth who can successfully bridge the gap between faiths. In our area, where non-denominational groups actively solicit our young people, Father Howard keeps our teens and young adults committed to their Catholic roots. In years past, some Catholics had drifted away from the church, but they came back in droves, thanks to Father Howard. Many non-Catholics have asked me about becoming a Catholic because they heard of Father Howard and the dynamic parish he’s building here. Many in our parish are disheartened to see Father Howard transferred, just as his years of work bringing others into the Catholic faith begins to take root on a tree that is starting to bear fruit

At Sacred Heart, his sermons reach all levels of Catholics, from the ones lingering in the back foyer to the faithful on the front row. Under his pastoral leadership, we’ve seen our parish grow to include a renovated chapel and new office buildings. We’ve added outreach programs for adults, teens and parents. Our Mothers Day Out program is a huge success in the community. Sacred Heart’s religious education program has grown exponentially, both for youngsters and adults. As a 20-plus year religious education teacher, I have personally witnessed the positive effect his leadership and personal devotion to God has had on the young.

His humor, insatiable appetite for knowledge, especially about science, and keen insight into the human psyche is evident in the way he lives his personal life and his pastoral life. I remember when he regularly celebrated Mass at the Spanish church in our area. His willingness to laugh at himself, and falter with the language in public, allowed him to build another bridge in the community. As a native of Fort Bend County, he serves as a peaceful liaison between all the parishes, not an easy task, Your Eminence.

Seeing the Drabeks at Mass, including his parents, sister, brother, nieces and extended family, is a living reminder of the importance of family in the Catholic Church. As a writer, I find myself watching people in church, and they are actively involved in the Mass (even the back-row sitters) because they know Father Howard is the “real deal.”

I selfishly wish Father Howard could remain with us at Sacred Heart, and I envy the people in League City. They are receiving a sincere leader, an honorable man of God and one of the most respected and beloved people in Fort Bend County. Father Howard is a true gift from God, and I wanted to thank you for allowing him to shepherd us over the past decade.

We often take our clergy, doctors, teachers and neighbors for granted. But sometimes, it’s good to step out and say “thank you.” Father Howard, we’ll miss you.

It’s 6 a.m. I’m reluctantly slipping on an old T-shirt, lacing up my battered sneakers and searching for my sunglasses, preparing for my daily walk. One of the downsides of getting older is that exercise becomes necessary.

When we were young, the words “high blood pressure” were only used in context with our parents — “You’re gonna give me high blood pressure with that room of yours!”

Now in mid-life, those words drag along quite a bit of baggage — lose weight, watch your salt and, the most dreaded word of all, exercise.

Over the years, I’ve tried to find ways to make exercising more enjoyable. I tried aerobics. Klutzy people should never try intricate dance moves in a skin-tight leotard. Tried swimming. People who can’t swim in a straight line should never try swimming laps at the Y.

Walking, a feat I mastered at the age of 2, seemed my ticket to good health. Early on, I bought a portable CD player that strapped onto my waist. Of course, the belt is made for a young, fit person, not someone whose waist measurement is akin to a yardstick. So I ended up carrying the CD player.

“Swing your arms” was advice I read in a magazine article, so I swung my arms. Which resulted in my ripping the headphone cord out of the CD player. On the last high swing, I sent the CD player sailing, and that was the end of music distracting me from sweating.

I bought a portable radio that clamped to my arm. The plastic band was meant for someone whose arm diameter was the size of a small branch. What about we tree trunks, I thought as I yanked and pulled on that Velcro band.

Finally, the radio in place and earphones on, I set out for a walk, and was disappointed with all the static on that little device. I switched from a country station to talk radio to rock and roll, and all were tough to hear.

As the sweat poured down my arm, the band became loose, the radio slipped off and I stepped on it, smashing it into a dozen pieces.

So I decided to walk without music, telling myself I could enjoy the quiet of the morning. Instead I choked on the exhaust fumes from the dozens of cars whizzing past me and the sounds of every type of music imaginable blaring from said cars.

But, I told myself, I wasn’t out there for the entertainment. I was out pounding the pavement getting healthier. I believed that lofty notion until sweat dripped into my eyes when, mixed with left-over mascara, caused my eyes to sting like crazy.

The blister on the back of my left heel was starting to scream and sweat was dripping down my back and chest.

As I stood there, rubbing my eyes with the bottom of my grimy T-shirt, I wondered why exercise has to be so hard.

Why can’t exercise be combined with something fun, like eating? If there was a way to pair exercise with a banana split, topped with nuts and mounds of whipped cream, or a thick steak accompanied by a fully loaded baked potato, I’d be all over that.

The practical, pesky voice inside my head came through loud and clear: “Those are two of the main reasons you’re out here. Besides, exercise makes you feel good.”

I muttered back — “The only time I feel good exercising is when it’s over.”

The end results of walking, biking or running are better health and longer life. Now if we could get to that healthy end accompanied by chocolate cake and a scoop of ice cream, then life would be grand.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

She asked Roderick if he wanted one of her world-famous burgers for a late dinner. With her silky hair cascading seductively over her shoulder, Nora began cooking, the twinkling lights of Paris visible outside the window. In less than five minutes, Nora slid a perfectly cooked hamburger — with caviar in the middle — in front of the muscular, tanned Connor. “Dinner’s served,” she purred.

I lowered the mystery book I was reading, glanced down and saw the ketchup stain on the front of my polyester shirt.

Adjusting my inexpensive reading glasses, I wondered if there would come a day when authors wrote about the adventures of the everyday woman — those who battle grocery lines instead of international spies — and not about fantasy women.

Leaning back into our worn corduroy recliner, I began to daydream…

“The alarm clock beeped incessantly as Nora rolled over in bed, the hole in the knee of her faded flannel pajamas ripping as she made a mental list of her duties for the day, both at home and at work.

The smell of burnt toast pushed her out of bed, and she walked into the kitchen, where her son was dressed and ready for school.

‘I got up early and made my own breakfast,’ said Nora’s 8-year-old son, a huge smile on his jelly-smeared face.

A stick of margarine was on the floor, and jelly was all over the counter. Nora ripped a few sheets of cheap paper towels from the holder and complimented her son’s cooking skills as she wiped his face clean.

‘Mom, I can’t find my homework,’ came her daughter’s cry from upstairs.

‘Look under the couch — I saw your papers there last night when I was looking for the TV remote control,’ yelled Nora, kissing her son goodbye as he left to wait for the school bus.

A few minutes after he left, Nora noticed he’d left his lunch box on the table. Her attempt to catch the bus was thwarted by her daughter, who stood in the doorway, hands on her hips, reminding Nora she’d promised her an early ride to school.

Nora ran toward her bedroom, stopping long enough to retrieve her daughter’s homework. Then she pulled on a pair of oversize sweat pants and snatched the car keys from her cluttered nightstand.

Within seconds, Nora was behind the wheel of their battered minivan. Twenty minutes later, she’d safely deposited both her daughter and the lunch box in the right places.

On her way home, Nora stopped for gas and spied a young woman behind the wheel of a red Mercedes-Benz convertible. Her long hair was impeccably groomed, her nails professionally manicured and her beige Armani suit fit like a glove.

Closing her eyes, Nora escaped into her familiar dream world, where there were no crow’s feet, extra chins or gray hair. For a moment, she was the heroine in her own novel — curvaceous, bubbly and on her way to the next exciting case in Paris.

The clicking of the gas pump jolted Nora back into reality. For beautiful women, men worship at their feet. But most women know if a man’s at her feet, he’s probably looking for the remote control.

Nora might not solve international banking crises, nor would she ever taste caviar. But she knew how to stretch a dollar, find the best deals on back-to-school clothes and put a smile on her family’s faces.”

Examining the hole in the toe of my socks, I realized that in any real woman’s world, those are pretty decent story lines.

Even in Paris.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

For the past dozen years, I’ve written a weekly column for our local newspaper, The Fort Bend Herald. I have to thank my family for being supportive of the hours I spend in front of the computer, my fabulous editor at the Fort Bend Herald, Bob Haenel, for being the wind behind my back and the generous Hartman family for allowing me to work with them.

For someone who agonizes every single week about what she writes, having my words published for people to read is quite terrifying. Writing, like drawing and painting, is a reflection of the angels and demons inside our heads. It’s difficult to tell someone face to face about our fears and insecurities, but it’s easier, somehow, to put those not-always-rosy thoughts down on paper or a computer screen.

I read other people’s blogs, particularly my brother, Jeff’s, and marvel at how articulate they are and how they deftly use words and pictures to illuminate life. What I write won’t win prizes, but it’s the world as I see it. If you have insecurities, can laugh at your own foibles and stumble through life instead of gliding, then you’ve got a klutzy soul mate in me.

Come along for the ride. It might not always be picture perfect, and there will be bumps along the way, but it’ll be a truthful voyage. I’m glad for the company.

I pulled into the driveway about 7:30 p.m., tired, hungry and cranky. I wearily walked to the front door and, trying to balance my purse on one shoulder and a bag of groceries in my left hand, blindly groped around in my purse for my keys.

Frustrated because the sun was getting lower in the western sky and angry rain clouds were moving in, I dropped my purse, found the keys and got the lock opened. I dragged myself into the kitchen and dumped everything onto the center island.

Heaving a sigh of relief I’d made it inside, I went back to the front door, pointed my keys at the driveway and locked my car from inside the house using my key fob.

My stomach was growling as I hadn’t had dinner yet, but because I was home alone, I locked the front door before heading back into the kitchen.

Passing through the living room, I glanced out the windows to the patio and noticed workers had been to our house and finished some work in the back yard.

I kicked off my shoes and picked up my new cell phone to call my husband who was out of town. I stepped onto the patio and closed the back door behind me to keep dust from blowing inside the kitchen.

Immediately, I realized I’d made a mistake.

My heart sank as I jiggled the door knob. In my quest to make sure I was safe, I’d effectively locked myself out of my house and my car. Because we’re in a new place, we hadn’t gotten around to having spare keys made.

At our previous house, our neighbor had an extra set of keys to our house and, more than once, Dwight and Neta saved me. But we hadn’t met anyone here yet. My husband had the only other key, and he was a hundred miles away.

Feeling tears welling up, I suddenly remembered a magazine article that stated when something goes wrong, stop and think for five minutes before taking any action. Usually the brain calms down and workable solutions surface.

So I stopped, sat down on a lawn chair and let my mind ponder possible solutions. Breaking a window was out because none of the windows were near a door knob. Besides, I’d have to have new glass installed, and that seemed more hassle than solution.

Then I remembered the garage had a door that led into the house through the laundry room. If I could open the garage, that inside door might be unlocked.

I first had to find the spare key hidden somewhere on the chassis of my car. I laid down on the driveway and gave the underside of my car a search worthy of any New York City police officer.

No luck.

At that point, I realized I had to call in the cavalry. I called a friend and asked her to find a locksmith. Pat sent me a text message with possible phone numbers, and I made a mental note to treat her to dinner.

In less than 20 minutes, Bill the Locksmith was at the house and I breathed a sigh of relief. Ten minutes later, I was inside the house just as the sun was setting.

I learned some valuable lessons that day. First, always put my keys in my pocket, not on the kitchen counter. Second, hide a key outside for the days I forget to put the keys in my pocket.

And third, avoid at all costs telling my husband why Bill the Locksmith is on my cell phone’s speed dial list.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

My son and I were coming home one afternoon, and we saw an elderly man loading an ice chest in the parking lot. He was wearing blue and red plaid pants, a bright yellow shirt and his rather wide posterior was at the same level as his shoulders as he placed sodas in the chest.

“At what point do you lose your dignity,” said my son. “At what point do you stop caring what other people think? Look at that guy – he’s bending over from the waist and he doesn’t care what he looks like or how he looks.”

Ah, the impertinence of youth. At the age of 21, my son cannot understand how a person, say his mother, could walk out to the curb in the morning wearing a ratty bathrobe and mismatched socks. Nor can he understand how a person, say his mother again, could walk into the grocery store in broad daylight wearing shorts splotched with dried paint, no make up and water sandals.

The answer to his question is we lose our dignity because children take it away from us. We parents have had our dignity ripped out from underneath us by our darling, adorable and unpredictable children.

Many a morning I dressed the boys for church in their best clothes, only to find them undressing themselves during Mass. Afterwards, when other children were quietly eating their doughnut, my children were running around with sweat pouring down their faces, their shoes untied, their shirt tails hanging out and a red moustache from drinking five glasses of punch.

There are moments when that dignity emerges – our child makes a good grade on a test or hits a home run. But there are the other highlights of parenthood – the day your child burps the loudest in a quiet room and when they are the mischievous child in the school play who refuses to recite his or her line, steps on the feet of the child standing to them at the awards day ceremony and brags they won the contest for making the most obnoxious noise with their armpit and their hand.

Our dignity wasn’t lost – it was taken away by our children. At what point it happens is hard to say. Perhaps I lost it the day my youngest boy decided to ram the shopping cart in the end display at the grocery store and send dozens of boxes of cereal flying. Or maybe it was the afternoon one of them decided to undress completely in a department store.

I could’ve lost my dignity the time I lost track of my son and ran through the aisles of a store screaming his name at the top of my lungs. Or maybe it was when a stomach virus hit and they thought my lap was the best place to be sick.

Or maybe it was the day they decided to give each other haircuts right before a family event. My dignity could’ve vanished the day one of my sons sneezed into my hair as we were walking out the door to a party.

My dignity could’ve vanished that afternoon at the beach when my four-year-old decided to play Godzilla with the sand castle a young girl spent hours building on the beach, and her mother looked at me with a horrified expression as her daughter cried and cried.

I might’ve misplaced my dignity the day my son exclaimed to my parents he knew some new words and promptly let loose with a string of obscenities I still find difficult to repeat.

And just when I thought I’d managed to hang on to a sliver of dignity, I discover I’m wrong. I was at the stop light the other day, and I heard loud music blaring from the car on my left.

With a disgusted look, I rolled up the window and saw my teen-age son swaying to some rock and roll tune. When he honked and waved, I barely turned my head and briefly nodded, not wanting the mortified people around me to know that was my son disturbing the peace.

When we got out of the car, I told my son we parents don’t lose our dignity – we’re robbed of it. He shook his head, stopped and smiled.

“Hey, see that cup over there?” he said, pointing to a fast-food cup on the ground. “Wanna see me hit it with a spit ball?”

Like I said, we parents don’t lose our dignity – it’s taken from us by our children.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Our son was coming over after work, and I caught up with him on his cell while he was driving over.

“What’s for dinner?” he asked.

“Steak,” I replied, happy I’d splurged and picked up some sirloins on sale. There was silence on the other end.

“How are you going to cook that steak?” he asked. I told him either pan fried or on the griddle.

“Got anything else?” he replied.

I was quite indignant. After all, steak is no bargain these days, and I thought he’d be impressed I was putting on the Ritz for him.

“No offense, Mom, but the way you cook steak is awful, and I mean awful with a capital A,” he said.

Ouch. I knew I wasn’t an outstanding cook, but awful. That one cut to the core, but I had to agree.

My descent down the culinary path to mediocrity began with a mysterious barbecue pit and a cowardly dog…

A few years ago, I noticed our pet dog, Sparky, sitting in front of the gas grill on our patio. Not known for his patience, Sparky was quietly looking up at the barbecue grill.

“What’s going on, boy?” I said, glancing at the pit. I didn’t see anything, so I thought I’d open the lid and look inside.

My son roars with laughter at this point, saying I was like one of those actors in a “B” horror movie and the audience is screaming “Don’t open that door! Don’t open that door!”

I opened the door. Only in my case, it was the lid to the pit.

And what a surprise I got. Not some lunatic with a knife. Nope. I came face to whiskers with a rat.

I slammed the lid shut, jumped back 10 feet and then screamed like my hair was on fire. The dog started barking and, at that exact moment, my cell phone rang. It was my husband.

“What’s all that screaming and barking?” he said. I told him what happened, and he said he was on his way home. He asked if there was anything I needed.

“A gun and a heavy-duty garbage bag,” I screamed between gulps of air.

Every time I tell the story, the rat gets bigger, it goes from cowering to snarling and poison is dripping from its ferocious fangs.

By the time my husband got home, the rat had escaped — probably as terrified as we were — and the pit was disposed of the next morning. Ever since then, I’ve refused to have an outdoor barbecue pit.

Every once in a while, though, I stroll through the aisles at the big box stores and invariably find myself in the barbecue pit areas. Instead of looking at knobs and opening lids, I bend down and look underneath the cooking area.

I’m checking the size of the hole to see if anything with whiskers can crawl or squeeze through it. Most of the sales people think I’m a bit kooky until I tell my story. Then they shudder and point me to the indoor gas stove department.

I do miss the flavor of dinner straight off the pit and the convenience of throwing chicken on the grill while puttering in the garden or enjoying the evening breeze.

So it appears I’ll be searching for a barbecue pit with a thick mesh wire firmly welded over the hole and, in addition to pot holders and barbecue tools, arm myself with a shield, whip and pistol to hold every time I open the grill.

And maybe I can go from a cooking grade of “A” for awful to “A” for awesome.

Originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

After days of torrential rains, the skies finally cleared up and blue skies were peeking through the gray clouds. I decided to lace up my sneakers, crank up the iPod and take a walk around our new neighborhood.

As I turned the first corner, I took a deep breath and immediately started sneezing. One thing the rains brought was a great deal of moisture which meant the ragweed was blooming.

Still, despite the sniffles, the warm air felt good against my cheeks, and I wasn’t the only one enjoying the day. Dozens of people were in their yards, planting flowers and pulling out all the dead plants from the winter.

Seeing all that activity reminded me that our new front yard resembled a graveyard for terminal boxwoods, and I made a mental note to start watching for shrub sales at the local nurseries.

I also noticed people were washing their vehicles, and my responsible voice said it was time to put some suds on my car. I can’t remember the last time I washed my trusty Altima, and the car’s true color is but a faint memory, hidden underneath a fine layer of dust, dirt and grime.

Still, the day was turning into a gorgeous one, and I refused to let the chore list dominate my thoughts.

Coming around the homestretch, I noticed a puddle of water on the sidewalk ahead of me. I smiled, remembering a scene one rainy afternoon many years ago. The boys and I were on our way back from their elementary school when we saw two youngsters walking home.

The taller child was a girl in my son’s class, and her younger brother was walking alongside her. Like a dutiful older sister, Ashley was holding Christopher’s hand, the two trudging down the sidewalk, their heads bowed as the rain gently fell.

As they approached a puddle, Ashley stepped to the side, tip-toeing carefully through the damp grass. Her brother, on the other hand, jumped up and down through that puddle with total abandonment.

The huge smile on Christopher’s face was clearly visible to all of us, and we chuckled about him all the way home. Most people would’ve sensibly gone around that puddle, but watching Christopher splash and smile his way through the puddle was reminder that sometimes, it’s good to let loose and have some fun.

As I approached a water puddle on the sidewalk, I thought about Christopher, so I stepped into the puddle, making up my mind to get a high splash with that first step.

Instead of splish splashing, however, my foot slipped on the hidden muck on the bottom, and I landed right on my behind, smack in the middle of the water puddle.

As I sat there, the back of my shirt covered with splattered mud and my entire rump sopping wet, I thought about Christopher.

I could either get angry or accept that if I’m going to go straight through life’s puddles, sometimes I’m going to get wet. Sometimes I’ll step through them with no problem, but all choices have consequences.

But if I can have a little hop, skip and a dance while maneuvering through life, and risk getting soaked, then it’s worth taking a chance. Whatever the outcome, it’s up to me how I react once I take that first step.

Walking home, my back covered with mud and water, I thought if anyone asked what happened, I’d simply say I decided to make a splash in life instead of taking the safe route.

Christopher would be proud.

Originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

One of the first things I do in the morning is stumble into the kitchen and turn on the coffee maker. Soon the aroma of freshly brewing coffee fills the air, and my brain starts to wake up.

Nothing’s better than that first sip of coffee, so hot it practically burns the tongue, filled with the robust flavor only dark-roasted coffee can deliver. I’ve tried starting the day with hot tea or a cold cola, but a hot cup of coffee wins hands down.

My grandmother used to make coffee with a stove-top percolator. Modern automatic coffee makers can brew an entire pot in under five minutes, but using an old-fashioned percolator requires time and patience.

Her battered, white porcelain coffee pot stayed on top of the stove for years. First, she’d fill the pot with water, spoon dark brown grounds into a metal basket inside the pot and then turn the gas burner on high. Once the water began to boil, she’d lower the heat and wait.

I loved pulling a chair up to the stove and watching the water squirt up through the glass top, gradually turning darker brown as the aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the air.

The coffee was finished when the water had turned a dark brown, and that deep, rich color is best acquired by using the brand by which all southern coffees are judged — Community.

Community Coffee has a long history in Louisiana. According to their Website, the company is the largest family-owned retail coffee brand in the United States and goes back 80 years. I don’t know a coffee lover in Louisiana who doesn’t keep a hefty supply of dark-roast Community Coffee in an air-tight canister in their pantry.

Sure there are other Southern brands — Luzianne Coffee in the yellow bag and the rich chicory-laced coffees from Cafe Du Monde in New Orleans — but Community Coffee is the king.

Over the years, others have tried to assert they offer the best coffee. I remember commercials featuring Juan Valdez and his donkey up in the “mountains of Columbia,” bringing the best coffee beans down from exotic coffee fields.

Then Seattle jumped into the act. Washington-based companies like Starbucks actively market to caffeine-addicts all over the world, claiming they have the best coffees.

Websites promise to ship the best coffees from Bali, Brazil and Ethiopia straight to your door. The plain, simple coffee bean has gone from the 50-cent-a-cup working man’s drink to a $3.99 cup served in fancy carafes. That once plain cup of Joe is now enhanced with almonds, hazelnuts, liquors and creamers.

The old corner coffee shops with faded Formica counter tops, doughnuts under a glass dome and bar stools with well-worn plastic seats have been replaced with sofa-filled coffee shops offering free Internet access and over-priced pastries and omelets.

In case coffee lovers can’t get to a fancy coffee house, the Internet offers hundreds of articles on how to make the perfect cup of coffee. Only use ice-cold water and grind your own beans in an expensive grinder.

Forget that battered percolator. Top-of-the-line, fancy coffee makers must be used to brew the best cup around. And no more of that plain Half-and-Half creamer. Now fancy lactose-free International creamers fill the dairy case.

While a fancy cup of coffee might seem appealing from time to time, nothing beats a simple cup of rich Community Coffee. Throw in a sunrise and the quiet of the morning, and, as we Cajuns like to say, cherie, that’s some livin.’

My goddaughter graduated from high school this month. I wrote her a letter in my weekly column, published by The Fort Bend Herald. Here it is:

The big day has finally arrived, your graduation from high school. As the adults in your life arrive at the ceremony, they’ll look at you, pinch your cheek and say “Where did the time go?”

The time went into making you what you are today, my dear niece — a bright, intelligent young woman with a compassionate heart and a beautiful soul.

As you celebrate this milestone, you’ll be receiving lots of advice.

And you’ll probably shrug off that advice, just as we all did at your age. We all believed we knew everything at the age of 18, but as your godmother, here’s a few morsels of advice that might come in handy.

First, stop and give thanks every day. There will be times when you’ll feel nothing is going your way. But always look for the silver linings in those gray clouds.

Throw a load of clothes in the washer and dryer every other day. Tossing them in a pile in the corner seems easy, but when you’re lugging dirty clothes to the washateria, you’ll be happy if you wash molehills instead of mountains.

Make a new friend every week. While the friends you know now are treasures, life is filled with interesting people who’ll give you a glimpse into worlds unknown. Remember, though, to carefully choose which friends to keep and which acquaintances to avoid.

Keep your word. Whether it’s doing your fair share in a study group or paying back the dollar you borrowed from your roommate, you’ll be judged by your willingness to honor your commitments.

Be thrifty. Granted, as a young adult in this world, you’re forced to count your pennies, but make it a life-long habit to watch your money and spend it wisely. Unless, of course, you’re at the local ice cream shop. Then go for the banana split. Life, as they say, is short.

Watch children play. Children on a playground remind us to take turns, hang upside down and, when you’re on the swings, to reach for the sky.

Work hard. Yes, that’s a trite saying from the adults in your life, but it’s true. On the flip side, when your work is finished, find a way to relax and have fun. You’ll need to recharge your batteries and you can’t do that if your nose is always buried in a textbook.

Laugh out loud at least twice a day. If you look for the humor in life, you’ll find those chuckles.

Show up. Whether it’s attending class, going to work or hanging out with friends, if you say you’ll be some place, be there, especially when you don’t feel like it. The old saying that showing up is half the battle is true.

Travel. See this fabulously huge world, my dear niece. Cross the horizon from time to time and see how others live, work, laugh and eat.

Make memories. Whether it’s spending quiet time with friends or walking the unfamiliar streets of a big city, experience enough of life so that in the barren moments, you can close your eyes and remember the beauty you discovered because you were an active participant in life, not a nonchalant passenger.

Forgive, both the people in your life and yourself. You’re going to make mistakes, but use those blunders as learning experiences. People will let you down from time to time. Forgive them and don’t let anger run your life.

Life is a splendid ride.

Enjoy every minute.