Since 1997, I’ve occupied this space every Thursday and that includes 17 Thanksgiving holidays. I’ve written sentimental columns about giving thanks for families, friends and good health, and these blessings remain at the top of my gratitude list.

The columns I’ve enjoyed writing the most were the ones where I’ve given thanks for the little things in life. And because I’m eternally grateful for the every-day things we often overlook, here we go again.

I’m going to start with my car because I’m a true Texan who’d be lost without a vehicle. With temperatures in the 90s nine months out of the year, I’m grateful for my car’s hard-working air conditioner.

And for the other three months, I’m grateful for power windows so I can enjoy the cooler temperatures as I wait at the never-ending red light at Highway 36 and Highway 90A.

Occasionally I’m thankful for the teenager that blasts horrific rap music out of their tricked-out car. Those wretched lyrics are a reminder that I was lucky to grow up with true poets as song writers. Billy Joel, Carole King and John Lennon wrote lyrics that still makes baby boomers smile and cry.

I’m grateful I wore giant bell-bottoms, puke-green neon-colored shirts and earth shoes with cut-out tires for soles. When my sons accused me of not understanding what it means to try and fit in with the latest, crazy fashion craze, I could reassure them in all honesty, “Oh yes I can.”

I’m thankful I like to sing. I’m no opera star nor would I ever win a karaoke contest, but singing at the top of my lungs to a favorite song is a definite soul enhancer.

Occasionally I believe I’m right on the money until I turn the radio down and actually listen to myself sing.

Ouch.

But the experience makes me feel like Barbra Streisand on the bridge of that boat in “Funny Girl” even though I’m a middle-aged woman in the front seat of a four-door sedan.

I’m fortunate I knew the love of three of my four grandparents and very lucky I came to know my parents through the eyes of a child and the understanding of an adult. To know them from both perspectives is an irreplaceable gift.

I’m thankful I’m nosy. When I was young, I’d sneak into the kitchen after Sunday dinner and eavesdrop on my aunts’ gossip session. I had no idea exactly what all those words meant, but I understood enough to know it was taboo.

Decades later, I’m still nosy but now this newspaper pays me to snoop.

Taking the less-traveled road. The quickest way home in the afternoons is on the freeway to another busy street to a highway. Lately, I’ve veered onto a side route that takes a bit longer but carries me down winding roads past open now-dormant cotton fields.

Twice I’ve been rewarded with gorgeous sunsets, and I was lucky enough to have my camera nearby to capture those views for all time.

I pulled over on the side of the road and marveled at nature’s canvas. Then silently, I gave thanks for the divine hand that swirled the clouds and retreating sunlight and created those brilliant reds, oranges and yellows for tired travelers looking to refill their spirits.

So this Thanksgiving, as always, I’ll say thank you for that which we often take for granted but thank the Lord for each night:  our friends, our family, our health and the little things in life, like a sunset at the end of the day.

There is beauty in each and every one of those.

Happy Thanksgiving!

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

While shopping in the grocery store, I heard a Beatles song playing in the background. There weren’t any vocals, but the melody from “Let It Be” was instantly recognizable.

Who could’ve ever dreamed the revolutionary songs from our youth would be used as elevator music? Those songs motivated us to change the world and make life better for everyone around us.

After dinner, still thinking about those songs, I clicked onto YouTube and started searching for meaningful songs from the past.

Even though Frank Sinatra was before my time, he’s my mom’s favorite crooner from her teenage years, so I clicked on “When I Was Seventeen.” By the end, I knew this was a song I could understand at any age but only appreciate at this stage in my life.

One that caught my interest was a 1964 song “A Change is Gonna Come” by Sam Cooke. This song addressing social problems was a brave one in the days when people of color were lynched.

Cooke risked his popularity with a song that had the potential to inflame a segregated country. Fifty years later, the lyrics are as brave as they were back in the sixties.

That led me to Aretha Franklin’s “Respect.” I found myself rocking in my chair and tapping my feet on the floor. The Queen of Soul can still rock the joint almost 50 years later and, she’s right. We all need a little respect.

From there, I listened to “Fortunate Son” by Credence Clearwater Revival. Those drums and the strong solo guitar at the beginning are as thunderous as they were back in 1969. Fortunate sons are still sidestepping responsibility and those without connections are still paying the price.

Eventually I moved on to the 1970s and the choices were pretty slim. After all, this was the “bubble-gum” and heavy rock era, two sounds I dislike. 

So for the next 30 minutes, I listened to pitch perfect songs from The Temptations and musical poetry, courtesy of Billy Joel, and had my hope renewed. My imagination, as it did for The Temptations, still runs away with me, and the Piano Man can bring tears to my eyes with his song of lost love “And So It Goes.”

Surely the 1980s had a few songs that would cause me to duel it out with the Muzak windmills.  After skipping past Milli Vanilli and Simple Minds, I found Michael Jackson. His call-to-action song “Man in the Mirror” more than made up for some of the paper-thin acts from the 80s.

About the time I was ready to call it a night, I came across “Poetry Man” by the incredible Phoebe Snow. She had a gentle voice that snuck into your heart, and the words to that song are still beautiful.

And that brought me to the one timeless anthem for all young girls – “Seventeen” by Janis Ian. I remember hearing that song on the radio in high school and pulling the car over to the side of the road.
Like her, I was always the last one chosen for basketball and the awkward one who watched the beauty queens get everything.

Muzak can homogenize these songs all they want to anesthetize people in elevators and grocery stores, but if we remember that some of our song writers are our generation’s most gifted poets, then maybe all’s not lost.

In the words of the late and superbly talented John Lennon, there are places and people I remember, and these songs about love, growing older and seeing the beauty in our souls connect them all.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I stopped at a local stationery supply store, picked up what I needed and went to the check-out counter. I waited for a few minutes and then started searching for someone to run the register.

There were three employees behind the copy desk on the other side of the store, so I asked if somebody could open the check-out line. One said I had to come over to the copy center. So I went back, picked up all my items and walked to the other side of the store.

I was a little miffed. I was in a hurry and that’s why I went into the office supply store instead of a big box store. I mentioned to the teenager checking me out that perhaps they should put a sign at the check-out register for customers to walk over to the copy center.

The look she gave me could have withered steel.

As she was shoving my purchases into a bag, an elderly gentleman slowly shuffled up to the counter. He carried an old-fashioned briefcase with scuffed edges, and it took effort for him to lift the case up to the counter.

He pulled out a worn three-ring binder filled with papers and said he wanted to get a new binder. The girl checking me out totally ignored him, but another clerk told him to go to Aisle 5.

“Where?” he asked, obviously not able to hear her clearly.

She yelled “Aisle 5” at him and pointed across the store.

I leaned over and told the gentleman that as soon as I finished, I’d help him find Aisle 5.

The clerk checking me out rolled her eyes. The other clerk looked at me, and I mouthed the words “You should help this man. That’s your job.”

To her credit, she immediately told the man she’d walk with him and help him find the binder.

My clerk barked she was ready for me to pay.

Many of us buy our gifts and supplies online, so we seldom deal with a real human. It’s easy to get ticked off when encountering rude store clerks, but perhaps today’s workers aren’t trained in customer service.

So here’s a few guidelines: 

Smile. Even if you’re making minimum wage, you’re getting a paycheck to help customers. The reason that store is in business is because people come in and buy items. Your sour attitude means they won’t be back.

Know your establishment. If a customer comes in wanting 40-watt bulbs, you need to know where they are and if they’re in stock. Customers don’t expect you to know how to re-wire a house, but they do expect you to know your products.  

The customer is always right. That’s a tough one because more often than not, the customer is wrong. They misread the price, they misunderstood the sales flyer or they can’t get the coupon to come up on their phone. Agree with them, find the right answer, smile and reassure them mix ups happen all the time.

Don’t insult the customer. If someone takes the time to spend their dollars locally, don’t make them feel stupid. They won’t come back.

Customer service is more than learning how to run the computer. It’s more than using a headset or knowing the difference between a tablet and a laptop.

Customer service is when someone happily leaves the store where you work and then comes back another day because the employees made them feel important.

Perhaps solving the dilemma of poor customer service is simply a matter of teaching employees that customer satisfaction starts with them.
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

My siblings and I are a mixture of Lebanese and Cajun heritage. The cultures are on opposite ends of the world, but it’s uncanny the traits the two share. I don’t know what side my likes and dislikes come from, but they intersect more times than not.

Take hair. The hair on my head falls out in handfuls, clogging up the shower drain at least once a week. Using tweezers to remove hair from my upper lip, chin and on my eyebrows is like using a nail clipper to cut the lawn.

Both cultures share a love of food, which is a mixed blessing. My relatives taught me that food cures everything, both good and bad.

Feeling down? Drown your sorrows in Pepsi and some hummus. Having a bad day? Then it’s a full-course meal of rice and gravy with a side order of corn bread slathered in butter. Because nothing says “I love you” more effectively in both the Lebanese and Cajun cultures than a big helping of fattening food.

Or two helpings.

Or three.

The ability to swear. I know all the major profanities from both languages. Thank you, Uncle Vinny, for teaching me how to swear in Arabic.

Thank you, Grandma Hebert, for teaching me to swear in French. Throw in hand motions from both cultures, and there’s no doubt what I’m trying to say.

Nicknames. My Lebanese grandmother also had nicknames for her grandchildren. Because I was the oldest and bossiest grandchild, I was “The General,” and my take-charge sister was “Nikita,” after Khrushchev.

My Cajun grandmother had a boyfriend that wasn’t too bright. She called him “Eh La Ba,” which means “you over there.” He never knew what the term really meant.

How to treat elders. Our Aunt Domina was a borderline hoarder and showed up at the oddest times at my grandmother’s house. We still respected and accepted her.

It was the same with the odd relatives on my dad’s side. We overlooked their idiosyncrasies and chalked it up to being eccentric like all good Southerners.

How to eat odd foods. None of our Lebanese cousins think it’s odd to eat raw meat (kibbee) or to add pine cone nuts to ground meat and then bake it.

Likewise, none of our Cajun cousins thing we’re crazy when we order blood sausage (boudin) or slurp raw oysters. And from both cultures, everything tastes better when it’s either wrapped in bread or the remnants of what’s on the plate is sopped up with bread.

The value of money. From my Lebanese relatives, I learned how to pinch pennies. I remember watching my Lebanese grandmother wash aluminum foil so she could reuse it.  

From my Cajun relatives, I learned “laissez le bon temps rouler” – let the good times roll. I’ve learned to combine the two for a more satisfying way to handle life.  

The cultures crossed when it came to weddings. Both cultures invite every cousin and friend to the wedding, and they all come.  

And the booze. Lebanese weddings were swimming in wine as were all the Cajun weddings I ever attended.

Both cultures love dancing – the Lebanese people dance the “dubkee” at weddings and the Cajuns dance with anybody who’s in the room.  

I’m betting there are other cultures that mirror mine – there’s always that crazy aunt that dances like she’s on Bourbon Street, the uncle that performs magic tricks and the grandmother who pinches your cheeks and asks when you’re going to finally settle down, get married and have babies.

Oceans and continents may separate us but when it comes to food and having fun, I think most cultures would agree – live it up like your hairy Aunt Domina.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Tomorrow is Halloween and it’s one of my favorite days of the year. When I was young, the reason was simple – I loved candy, especially free candy, and Halloween was the one day of the year we could eat as much candy as possible before going to bed.

I have faint childhood memories of princess costumes and dressing up as a hobo. Only one childhood Halloween stands out vividly for me – it was the year a kid jumped out from behind a tree and tried to steal my candy.

My brother was with me, and we were both shocked when this kid attacked me, but I held on tight to my pillow case filled with Tootsie Rolls and chocolate bars.

I’d worked hard for that loot, and there was no way some hooligan was going to take it away from me. The attack lasted less than 30 seconds, but my brother and I still remember every detail exactly the same over 50 years later.

But that memory pales in comparison to the real reason Halloween is so memorable for me. My youngest son, Chris, was born on Oct. 31, 1987.

At the time, though, I wasn’t so sure having a third baby so close to the second one wasn’t God’s trick.

I found out I was expecting our third child while I was still nursing our second one. I couldn’t figure out why I was pregnant, but my mother, who’s a devout Catholic, believed there was a reason.

“Wait and you’ll see why this baby at this time,” she said.

I didn’t believe her, thinking I’d be wearing maternity clothes for the rest of my life.

Right before I went into labor, my grandfather was admitted to the hospital, and my mom flew back home to be with her family.

Henry Eade lived a good life, and he ran successful businesses. His most lucrative was the Standard Five and Dime Store that carried yarn, household goods, wallpaper and tools. The biggest calling card for me was the candy counter.

The Standard Store’s candy counter was a child’s paradise. The shelves were packed with boxes of black and red licorice strips, candy bars, suckers, candy necklaces, bubble gum and baseball trading cards. There were lollipops, Ice Cubes, Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, Nestle’s Crunch bars and candy that’s no longer made.

My grandfather always gave us a paper bag when we came to the store and told us to fill it up. Perhaps that’s why I have such a sweet tooth as my candy memories are tied up with my grandfather’s generosity.

Henry ran that store until Oct. 30, 1987 when he passed away. His funeral was held at the same time I was in the hospital having my youngest son.

I talked to my mom right after Chris was safely in the nursery. She was still at the funeral home, and she reminded me of our conversation eight months earlier.

“You wondered why you were pregnant,” she said. “The answer is God doesn’t take away without giving us something in return.”

I believe a special angel watches over my son, and we joke that Henry’s doing double duty keeping up with Chris who’s an active father, husband and welder. 

Chris, I believe, is somehow comforted, knowing this man he never met has his back.

And even though Halloween is a mixed blessing for me, I’ve always been a little sorry Chris has to share his day with the biggest candy heist of the year.

Instead of complaining, though, he takes his children trick-or-treating on his birthday, passing up cake and ice cream for holding his children’s hands as they walk up and down the streets in their neighborhood.

I know there’s somebody else walking along with that family as they go from door to door.

I believe Henry’s watching his great-great grandchildren’s trick-or-treat bags fill up with candy laces and bubble gum, the same goodies he gave his grandchildren so many years ago.

Happy birthday, Chris. You’re the best treat I’ve ever gotten on Halloween.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.