(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.

A city can be characterized by bricks, buildings and roads. A community, on the other hand, is a reflection of the people who live there, those who create a sense of family.
Fort Bend County lost one of its most beloved pillars of the community with the passing of Orin Covell. Orin’s list of accomplishments are enviable — numerous booster clubs, MUD boards and civic boards.

At his wake, the line to greet Orin’s family stretched outside the funeral home and down the driveway. Many of us waited over an hour in line to hug Becky, and everyone from mayors to judges to business executives to college buddies came to pay their respects at both the wake and the funeral.

I remember Orin as the smiling guy in the starched white shirt and impeccable silver hair who’d start to tell me a story and, 30 minutes later, get to the end. But what a marvelous ride Orin took us on when he told his stories.

Mike Hafer, who knew Orin for many years, said Orin was the kind of guy people enjoyed being around. Orin was a fabulous sounding board, never in a hurry, and always had time to listen and then give an honest answer.

Mike said he overheard someone saying that Orin had to have lived two lives because no one could’ve given all that he did so well to both his professional and private life. But he did. Whenever we visited, he always talked about his family and we usually swapped grandbaby stories.

His sister, Ann, said she and Orin regularly went to lunch because family was so important to him. And that family included the community.

Orin was a second generation fireman, but he wasn’t one to ignore the phone call when it came in. For over 30 years, Orin responded to the calls to help somebody in trouble.

Many times I saw Orin out at a fire, sweating and working alongside all the fire fighters on the scene, day or night.

He wasn’t a paid firefighter — he was a volunteer, and Orin embodied the word “volunteer.” The day before he passed away, Orin spent the afternoon helping the Red Cross set up a bicycle event. And he did so with a smile and no regrets about giving of his weekend to a community cause.

At Orin’s funeral, the Rev. Howard Drabek delivered the eulogy, and he said Orin was all about foundations. He was one of the original members of the Lamar Educational Awards Foundation, an organization that helps teachers fund enrichment projects in the classroom.

Many people knew Orin as a guardian of Fort Bend County’s long and rich history, and he safeguarded that history through his work with the George Foundation and the Fort Bend County Museum Association.

Whenever I’d go out to the George Ranch as a reporter, I’d usually find Orin out and about the grounds. His office reflected his love of his family and of Texas, but it was on the open prairie where I heard the best stories about the Georges and the early days of the county.

Whether it was helping people in the insurance business or assisting teachers , students, Boy Scouts and teens inside and outside the classroom, Orin knew any successful community’s foundation always starts with the volunteer.

For those sitting on the sideline, wondering how to make a positive difference in the world, look no further than the example left by Orin Covell.

Give freely of yourself and of your time, and, in return, you will be part of that solid foundation upon which families, churches, schools, communities and futures are built.

Thank you, Orin, for making so many dreams come true for so many.

You’ll be deeply missed, good friend.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

My mom is famous for her chicken and sausage gumbo. Her Cajun stew is thick and dark and filled with flavor. My gumbo is a pale imitation.

I asked my mom how she manages to turn out a huge pot of dark, scrumptious gumbo every holiday. She smiled, reached into the back of the refrigerator and took out a plain glass jar.

“This is the secret,” she said, setting the jar on the counter.

Kary’s Roux, made in Ville Platte, the heart of Cajun Country, is a dark, thick pre-made roux that removes all the sweating and stirring over a hot stove. Cooks only have to add water, onions, chicken and sausage and thick, rich gumbo is ready to eat in 30 minutes.

“You cheat,” I said to my mother. She denied the accusation.

“It’s not cheating,” she said, putting the jar in the back of the refrigerator. “It’s just a little bit of extra help.”

“What next,” I said. “Are you going to tell me your spaghetti’s not home-made?”

She put a cup of hot water in the microwave.

“Ragu,” she said, pushing the buttons on the front panel.

“And your jambalaya?” I asked.

“Oak Grove,” she said. “Comes in a package. Just $2 and you’ve got enough jambalaya to feed an army.”

My mouth fell open in surprise.

“Don’t tell me you don’t use a little bit of help in your recipes,” she said stirring coffee crystals, a packet of artificial sweetener and powdered coffee creamer into her mug. She smiled and asked me a simple question.

“Tell me how you’re going to cook your Thanksgiving meal without a little bit of help.”

I started to deny using any crutches, but then I stopped.

The cornbread dressing I stuff my turkey with comes right out of a Pepperidge Farm plastic bag. Forget baking cornbread the night before and sautéing onions and celery at 5:30 a.m. All I add to the package is water and butter.

Guess I’ll have to concede that point.

“And tell me how you make those Thanksgiving mashed potatoes,” she said, taking a sip of coffee.

Okay, I’ll admit I use instant potatoes, but that’s just because I don’t have time to peel all those potatoes, boil them, mash them and spend 20 minutes beating out all the lumps.

It’s so much easier to open a packet, add some milk and butter and, voila, I’ve got enough mashed potatoes to plaster a ceiling.

“And the vegetables,” she said nicely.

Well, I had to admit I slit open a bag of frozen green beans and cook them in the microwave. I do, however, steam fresh broccoli each and every year.

“And did you grow said broccoli in your back yard?” she said, stirring her coffee.

She had me there.

“Now let’s move on to your rolls,” she said. “Make those with yeast and flour, do you?”

I had to admit I haven’t the first clue how anyone makes fresh bread. I always buy the three-for-a-dollar packages of cheap rolls that only require me to throw them in the oven for six minutes.

“And the desserts,” she said. “Roll out those pie crusts all by yourself?”

Sighing, I had to admit — I use frozen pie crusts for the pecan pies and canned apple filling for the apple pies.

“Tell you what,” she said, patting my arm. “There’s an extra jar of that roux in the pantry. Go ahead and slip it into your purse when you’re ready to leave.”

The next time I have family over and they rave about my gumbo, I’m going to tell them my mom passed down an old family recipe.

And make sure I hide that jar of Kary’s Roux safely behind the packet of instant gravy, canned cranberry sauce and jars of diced apples.

This article originally appeared in The Fort Bend Herald.