At various stages in our life, Thanksgiving has a different place in our hearts.

When we’re young, the aromas we smell in the kitchen become part of our childhood – the turkey in the oven, sweet potatoes covered with marshmallows or enchiladas smothered in gravy.

On this one day, no one fusses at us when we snitch a bite of turkey off the platter or dip our rolls in the gravy.

As teens, we pretend to resent the time with family, believing other folks must be better behaved, their mealtimes are quieter and somewhat more civilized than our families.

But secretly, we’re happy for the familiarity of our crazy aunts and uncles, our grandfathers and fathers who pass on the tradition of carving the turkey and our grandmothers and aunts who make sure everything on our plate is smothered with gravy.

As young adults, we often miss Thanksgiving dinner with our families as we travel the world, head off to college or eat with a boyfriend or girlfriend’s family.

But while we’re sitting at a different table with unknown rituals, many of us secretly wish we were back home for at least one helping of Aunt Sarah’s cornbread dressing.

When we become parents, we’re the ones stuffing and baking the turkey. We usually cook the same favorites our mothers and grandmothers prepared, but we add our own touch to the dinner and thus create new memories for our children.

And before we carve the turkey and serve the green bean casserole, many of us will bow our heads and thank our creator for our many blessings and bounties.

As I think about all my blessings, the one that comes to mind this year is for the people who aid and help my family along life’s sometimes bumpy highway.

My nephew, Blair, gives patient advice about medications and willingly shares his pharmaceutical degree with my boys and their families whenever they’re unsure about meds for their family. Thank you.

To my sister-in-law, Annie, who answers our questions about our pets, day or night, and always has the best interests of the human and the pet in her answer, thank you.

My siblings, nieces, nephews, cousins and in-laws have always always opened their homes, hearts and occasionally fishing boats to me and my family. Thank you. Your generosity has provided dozens of happy memories for my sons and me, and I thank you for those treasured memories and the ones yet to come.

I’m thankful for my mom. She makes everyone in her life feel special, and she’s always there for our family, day or night. Sometimes with a sandwich, sometimes with pears, but my mom treats every grandchild and person in our family as if they’re her favorite.

For the people who’ve stepped into my family’s path at crucial moments and helped them make wise choices, thank you. And even to those who were not so nice – you showed them how not to live.

Those thanks extend to the people who’ve helped me in my life. Their advice or being there when I needed a shoulder to cry on was crucial. Not a day goes by that I don’t thank the people who were encouraging voices in the darkness.

So this Thanksgiving, I’m giving thanks for people, the ones who help us figure out where we’re going, how we’re going to get there and, most importantly, how we’re going to stay there.

They are life’s bounty, the treasure we’re most thankful to have.
 
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

It was a tossed-off comment from a friend, a casual remark, but the words were unbelievably harsh.

“My father thinks I’m a failure,” he said.

This young man is anything but a failure. He’s artistic and witty, but no matter what I or anyone else says, the words of his father pierced his heart, a wound that will never mend.

Most of us compliment our children after a triumphant sporting event, a school play where they’re the star or when they bring home an ace report card.

What about the times when our child isn’t the star of the football team or the lead in the school musical?

Worse, what happens as we watch our friends’ children torpedoing up the ladder of success while our children seem to sit on the same rung day after day.

Often that frustration is a reminder of how we were as youngsters, and we feel the hurt all over again but with much more anguish when our children are involved.

But instead of being the wind beneath their wings, we’re sometimes gale-force winds, destroying our relationship with our children and blowing away their confidence.

Looking back, there were times when I said the right thing at the right time to my boys. They’d be angry or confused, and our subsequent conversations seemed to help.

I believed I was an involved parent – I read them bedtime stories, tucked them in at night and was on the front row for all their events, from kindergarten plays to sports to graduations.

I thought I was providing a good example by some of the things I did and, shamefully, an example of what not to do.

One evening, after the boys were grown and living on their own, I found myself on our back porch, listening to the quiet, watching the sun go down. I thought about all the good times we’d had together and, then reluctantly, all the tough times.

The arguments. The disagreements. The times I didn’t listen. The times they didn’t listen. And I longed to pull my boys back in time, hold them close and tell them I was sorry for my mistakes and shortcomings.

So I called one of my sons and apologized for all the missed opportunities and missteps I’d made as his mother. His answer surprised me.

“I don’t remember anything you did wrong,” he said softly. “And I think I turned out okay. So don’t worry about it anymore, Mom. I’m just fine.”

And with that short conversation, I realized that even when the sins of omission are great, even on the days when we feel we haven’t an ounce of patience left, our children forgive us and accept us for the flawed human beings we are.

Thank God.

Thinking about that conversation with my son, I told this broken-hearted young man the best way to prove his father wrong was to continue growing into a strong man, one capable of loving his children without reservation or judgment.

He’d come to understand that, over the long parenting road, sometimes he’ll be right and sometimes he’ll be wrong.

We all are.

I won’t win any parenting prizes, nor will my boys send me mushy Mother’s Day cards. But I can watch them as they continue to grow into wonderful men, capable of great love and genuine forgiveness.

And, in the grand scheme of life, that’s a whole lot better than a gold-plated mother-of-the-year trophy.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The young man sitting next to me was resting his hand on top of two small books. He was waiting for a book appraiser to tell him how much they could be worth.

He was one of dozens of people visiting the Houston Museum of Printing recently for a book fair, some there to purchase or sell rare books. Others, like him, to have books appraised.

“I picked this one up in New Orleans,” he said, showing me a book with a worn leather cover. “I liked the way the author described all the old-fashioned remedies for ailments.”

He then showed me his second book, a look of pride on his face as he disclosed he’d bought the slim book at a garage sale for 50 cents.

“But no matter what the appraiser says they’re worth, I wouldn’t part with them,” he said, breaking into a smile. “I just love books.”

And that seemed to be the spirit of everyone visiting the museum for the annual book fair. My friend, Pat, invited me to go with her to the museum, and I readily accepted her invitation.

I’ve always wanted to tour the museum as my family’s past is intertwined with newspapers and printing presses. I know my family’s history, but I’ve always wanted to know more about the printing industry that shaped my grandfather and my father.

At the museum, we were treated to the entire history of printing, from using rocks to make prints to sepia-colored etchings to rooms filled with antique books for all ages and interests.

One of the first exhibits we toured featured an old Linotype machine. I knew what it was without looking at the metal plate on the front because my dad ran a Linotype machine for the family newspaper when he was a young man.

From his stories, I knew the printer had to load small letters into a slot backwards, and just laying out a newspaper required hours of behind-the-scenes work.

For the next few hours, Pat and I wandered around the museum, marveling at copies of front pages documenting important days in history – the day President Kennedy was shot and the day the Titanic struck an iceberg.

We were peering through the window of the old-fashioned print shop when a friendly girl came up behind us. She was going on break, but she said she’d be happy to give us a tour first. She unlocked the room and then patiently explained how the machines worked and how much effort was required to print one poster.

She was quite excited about the process and said she began volunteering after taking a paper making class at the museum. Seeing how much time and effort went into these antique presses made me appreciate a printed book even more.

As Pat and I rounded a corner, we ran into the young man we’d been chatting with in the appraisal line. He said the expert told him one book was worth $50 and the other $75.

“Not a bad investment for a garage sale and a souvenir,” he said, a smile spreading over his face.

I asked him if he’d reconsidered selling them, and he said the answer was still no. Books, he said, would only grow more profitable as printed books lose the race against electronic editions. Besides, he confided, he simply loved his books.

Book lovers know exactly how he feels. There’s something about holding a book in one’s hands – feeling the weight of the paper as we turn the pages and running our hands over the covers – that transports readers to a far away time and place.

I know electronic readers are portable and save paper, but I can’t take one to the beach with me nor can I spend hours in a cozy store, my neck crooked to one side as I read titles and authors, getting ink on my fingers and marveling at the beautiful dust jackets that protect old covers.

The Museum of Printing History reminds us to cherish and treasure written words for they are the most powerful tools in the world. They can enlighten and empower, entertain and educate and move us to action, laughter or tears.

And that adventure begins with four enticing words – “once upon a time.”

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. The Museum of Printing History is located at 1324 West Clay Street in Houston.

After one of the driest summers in recent memory, recent showers were a welcome relief. The rainbows appeared, the grass perked up and the flowers bloomed again.

Yes, beauty was everywhere until, of course, millions of flood mosquito eggs hatched. In a matter of hours, we were literally swamped with squadrons of blood-sucking bugs.

Not even a heavy dose of Off kept them away, and maybe that’s because they’re skeeters from Texas. And everything in the Lone Star State, from bugs to the state capitol, carries that unique Texas stamp.

We’re big. We don’t quit. We’re ferocious.

Growing up in New York state, six months of snow kept mosquitoes and bugs at bay. After we moved to Louisiana, however, my knowledge of the insect world grew exponentially because we were surrounded with bugs year round.

From the cicadas in the trees to the stinging caterpillars – which should be used in trench warfare – to stink bugs, southern states have more than their fair share of creepy crawlers.

I shouldn’t mind the bugs as they’re all part of Mother Nature’s plan. But my rational mind is overruled by my irrational mind when I spot something skulking across the floor.

Like the cockroach.

These insects date back thousands of years. They adapt to any environment, they’re indestructible and absolutely gross. Walking outside after dark and seeing one crawling across the sidewalk sends me running for the front door.

Once you know these 2-inch long monsters can glide from the top of a tree, or a door frame, and sail down on top of your head, those prehistoric bugs become a living nightmare.

Texas is also home to the practically indestructible fire ant. Nothing, and I mean nothing, seems to be able to get rid of those ferocious ankle biters.

They can survive for days at sub-zero freezing temperatures and a prolonged drought. No amount of ant killer, Tide detergent or, in desperate measures, gasoline and a match, can destroy them. The grass might be struggling to survive and the shrubs are withered and brown, but the fire ants are alive and well.

Like their cousin the cockroach, fire ants survive floods, hurricanes and twisters. Maybe it’s because they’re sneaky. They hide down in the ground and, when they hear a person arriving, they’re out of that hole like after-Thanksgiving Day Wal-Mart shoppers.

Right behind the ruthless fire ants are the Crazy Raspberry Ants. Although they’re small, they’re not hard to spot – they scurry around like they’re on crack. They’re an invasive insect that’s recently made its debut here in the Houston area, and there’s nothing on the market to get rid of them.

Great. One more bug that’ll be here long after humans, like Elvis, leave the building.

The crazy ant’s cousin is the pesky but fairly harmless sugar ant. Once those ants are in the house, they’re harder to get rid of than telemarketers on a Friday night. Nothing’s worse than opening a cereal box and finding those little critters crawling all over the Capt’n Crunch.

But there’s more to fear in the creepy crawly Texas world than just ants and bugs. One of the creatures that thrives in the South and terrifies me is the newt. They’re those small, embryonic salamanders that are absolutely disgusting because you can see right through them.

They don’t bite and they’re pretty harmless, but they scare the daylights out of me. I’ve actually paid a neighbor’s son to get them out of my house. He looked at me like I was crazy, but those newts definitely belong in the bushes, not my kitchen window sill.

Cool weather has finally arrived, and the first cold snap wiped out the flood mosquitoes. Thankfully, we’ll have a couple of months of mosquito-free weather until spring arrives.

The flowers will bloom, the grass will grow and the mosquitoes and fire ants will return, bringing their distant cousin, the Love Bug, with them.

I can hardly wait.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.