We’re ready to close out 2016, and many Southerners can’t wait to wave bye-bye to 2016. There were historic floods that damaged thousands of homes in Texas and Louisiana. Many people still haven’t returned to their houses, and there’s no way to ever replace what we lost back in May.

            There were weddings and funerals, break-ups and engagements and a relentless stream of doom and gloom from around the world. We have a new president, love him or hate him, and there’s no telling what will roll out of the White House in 2017.

            Before we sweep the past under the rug, let’s look back at some of the memorable moments from our past.

Let’s start with the baby boomers. We grew up in a time where having school-wide drills to prepare for a nuclear attack were part of the day, just like fire drills.

            I remember the nuns teaching us to scramble underneath our desks and cover our heads if we heard the sirens go off. Fat good that would’ve done us in case the Russians – a constant worry – started launching warheads.

            But we had more important things to think about – how incredible our Huarache sandals felt and if Ken was ever going to marry Barbie. We loved our Etch-a-Sketch until we got bored with two knobs and straight lines and decided to bust the case open to see what was inside.

            We’re still drawing except now we use an electronic tablet, wondering, just as we did when we were kids, how the magic happens.

            There was Silly Putty we used to copy the Sunday comic just so we could stretch Lil Abner’s face to see how he’d look. Now we just take a picture with our cell phone, use a free app to manipulate the picture and then send it around the world.  We had metal roller skates with a key we always misplaced, and our bicycles all had banana seats and cool streamers on the high handle bars. Today our bicycles are in our bedrooms, don’t go anywhere yet make a great place to hang our dirty clothes.

            We hit our adult years disco dancing to “Saturday Night Fever,” and trying to sing like Olivia Newton John. We’re not dancing as much as we’re zoomba-ing or power walking in the mall because falling on concrete could mean a broken hip.

            But we still try and sing like Olivia.

            We left behind “Mystery Date” and found out real-life dating was just as surprising and confusing. “Night Gallery” introduced a new generation to the genius of Rod Serling, and most of us refused to admit we were secretly in love with Mr. Spock on “Star Trek.”

            The generations that know the bombing of Pearl Harbor and the assassination of President John F. Kennedy were its defining moments understand that defining moments are made when good people rise up and do the right thing.

            We must have hope for 2017 for to lose hope means our children and grandchildren are robbed of the potential for greatness in a country that’s built on hopes, dreams, blood, sweat and a never-quit mentality. Let’s take those traits into this new year and, for good measure, take along a bit of tradition from the past.

            I believe reruns of “Night Gallery” and “Star Trek” are available for free on YouTube and I’ve seen an Etch-a-Sketch on the toy shelves. The soundtrack to “Saturday Night Fever” is a great accompaniment to power walking or a little bit of dancing in the living room.

            Now where’d I put those go-go-boots?

            Happy New Year!

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

             

           

            A friend posted a picture of a vintage aluminum Christmas tree on his Facebook page. The photo of that metal tree made me remember the only year we got mad at my mom.

            Growing up, we always had a real Christmas tree because that was the only option. But the year aluminum trees debuted, my mom decided to “go modern” and update Christmas.

            One Sunday before Christmas, my dad took us to church and mom stayed home. When we got back, she surprised us with an aluminum Christmas tree, complete with blue ornaments, just like she’d seen in a magazine.  

She had a big smile on her face, and I know she was shocked with the response she got from her seven children – instant rejection.

            We hated that tree, and it was the last time Mom changed a holiday tradition without checking with the troops first.

            As I look at the gifts wrapped and snuggled under our real Christmas tree, I traced back the traditions my family has for the holidays.

            I remember running into my grandparents’ house on Christmas Eve, the smells of chicken and rice and Lebanese food filling the air. Their front living room was the center of the universe, especially for the grandchildren.

            Our relatives spoiled us, and there were gifts for everybody under that tree, so much that they spilled out of the room.

            Mass always came first on Christmas Day, and I know we fidgeted more than usual, believing Father Joe had a devious plan to keep children in the pews for as long as possible instead of home playing with our new toys.

            With a sneaky pinch to our sides, our parents reminded us Jesus was the reason for the season. We’d agree, but we really wanted to believe that Jesus would’ve preferred being home, in his pajamas, playing with a new G.I. Joe.

Food plays a dominant role in our holidays – there’s ham for Easter, gumbo for Christmas Eve and black-eyed peas for New Year’s Day.

            We also made sugar cookies for Christmas, and all the cousins would gather around my parents’ kitchen counter for decorating. Out would come the vanilla frosting, food coloring and bottles filled with red and green sugar, colored dots and chocolate sprinkles.

            We’d decorate all afternoon, laughing and sharing stories about life and sampling the cookies while we decorated. In the end, very few made it intact from the cooling racks to the serving trays.

            The most memorable gifts weren’t the expensive ones. There was a year my dad got a Pocket Fisherman, and all the Christmas morning festivities came to an abrupt halt when he realized what he’d gotten. For 20 minutes, he stood at one end of the living room, practicing casting over mounds of wrapping paper and our heads.

            Then there was the year my grown brothers got dart guns, and we had to wait until they finished chasing each other all over the house, pretending they were security guards on Star Trek, to continue Christmas.

            I’m hoping to create some lasting memories for my grandchildren that will link them to their heritage. When they get here on Christmas Eve, the smells of gumbo and freshly baked sugar cookies will await them, and there’s already a hefty pile of wrapped gifts under our real tree.

            But the real gifts, the ones that last, are the memories we’ll make this year, memories to add to the ones we’ve lived over the years.

            No matter where you celebrate, I wish you and your family happy holidays and hope you create happy memories this year with the people you love.

            Merry Christmas!

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I walked around the Christmas tree lot, hoping to find the perfect tree. I stopped in front of one but decided it was too short. The adjacent one was too tall and looked like it had been cut back in July. On the next row, the trees were too expensive. After an hour, I finally decided I wouldn’t find the perfect tree, so we chose one with a bald spot, knowing we’d put that side against the wall.

When we got home, I realized the tree had the right amount of open space for some of the bigger ornaments. The grandchildren were excited to help us decorate, and as I unpacked the ornaments, I couldn’t help but tell the story behind each one. There was the year the boys and I made salt dough ornaments, and there was Santa painted brown and red accompanied by a purple reindeer and a blue Christmas tree. In the same box were the ornaments my sons made in school, including the required macaroni star and Popsicle stick manger.

The last thing to put on the tree was the angel topper, one we’ve had since our sons were young. In a house filled with boys, I wanted something feminine and pretty on top of the tree. I couldn’t find one that looked frilly enough, so I decided to make our angel myself. I spent two weeks looking for just the right ceramic head and then sewing and gluing lace, satin and tulle together for a frilly gown.

Now looking at the angel with a critical eye, I noticed the arms are too long and the tulle could’ve been a lot thicker to make the dress really stand out. But that angel’s been our tree topper for over two decades, and, flaws and all, she’s on top of the tree.

The grandchildren and I stepped back after the last of the ornaments were hung on the branches, and I took a critical look at the tree. There were small white lights on the top third of the tree and multi-colored lights on the bottom two thirds of the tree. The light hanger – me – got distracted when the dog started running around the open boxes and tripping over light strands all over the floor.  Most of the ornaments were hung on the bottom branches because that’s as high as a 2-year old, 4-year-old, 5-year-old and 9-year-old can reach. The angel was a wee bit crooked and the silver icicles were hung in bunches.

With my hands on my hips, I told the young ‘uns they’d done a great job.

Not perfect, I thought, but absolutely beautiful.

I’m always waiting for something to be perfect – the perfect time to start that exercise program, or the perfect time to start eating healthy. I regularly second guess myself as I struggle with trying to write the perfect column or create the perfect wreath arrangement. And then it rains and I rationalize that the time wasn’t perfect to start that walking program. There’s that fabulous dessert the waiter waved in front of my face, and I tell myself it’s not the perfect time to start that diet.

There’s no such thing as a perfect column, and every arrangement I’ve ever made could always use an expert’s touch to make it look gorgeous.

The only thing that’s perfect in my life is the fact that it’s not perfect.

It’s the flaws that make life interesting – the crow’s feet around my eyes come from years of laughing, the writing on the bedroom wall is my grandson creating a masterpiece, and the hole in the side of our Christmas tree is the perfect spot to hang the Louisiana ornament my mother gave us years ago that always reminds me of home.

Sometimes, we find perfect in an imperfect world.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

            This is the time of the year when thoughts turn to Christmas. We’re surrounded by decorations everywhere we turn. Hershey’s Kisses are red and green, the frozen cookie dough features Christmas trees designs in the center and egg nog’s taken the place of skim milk in the dairy case.

            I sing along with Christmas carols on the radio, wondering if this generation has any clue why they’re listening to somebody who starred as “Big Daddy” in “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof” sing “Have a Holly Jolly Christmas.” 

            I wonder what Southern children picture in their minds when they hear holiday songs about sleigh bells dashing through the snow. Most have never seen snow, they haven’t a clue what a sleigh is and the only bells they hear are at school when the school day ends.

            Adults are also at a loss when it comes to envisioning what Christmas songs promise. Most of us have never roasted chestnuts over an open fire, we’re not entirely sure what figgy pudding is and we gave up trying to figure out what “The Twelve Days of Christmas” is all about.

            The roads are clogged with angry drivers on their way to the malls where they’ll start checking off items on their Christmas lists. Most of those weary shoppers are already wondering how they’re going to pay off that credit card bill when it comes rolling in on the 15^th of January.

            That reality check starts to weigh heavily when we’re waiting in a long line, our coupons flashing on our cell phones, and we think we must be crazy to be out with all these crazy people shopping for a gift our crazy loved one will probably take back anyway.

            It’s easy to get lost in the commercialism of the holidays, especially with Black Friday sales, Moonlight Madness and everything seemingly 20 percent off. And, if we’re not careful, the Grinch can take over, and our holiday spirit can dash right out the window along with those 12 reindeer.

            But a good friend, Julia Worley, told me something that convinced me it’s not too late to keep belief in our hearts.

            She was at Rosenberg’s Christmas celebration and a young child came up to her after sitting on Santa’s lap. The child looked at her, eyes big and wide, and said “Santa’s real.”

            Julia said that one remark made her realize that little child is right.

I see Santa when volunteers stand up for children as court-appointed advocates. I see Santa’s face whenever I look at people assisting the elderly or comforting a forlorn teenager. I know I saw Santa this summer in the hearts of people who helped flood victims in Louisiana and Texas.

            Santa was riding along with the Cajun Navy in and around Baton Rouge and Lafayette. Here in Fort Bend County, he was in his jon boat, rescuing people, dogs and cats and then going back to help people see the damage the waters had caused.

The spirit of “good will toward men” was evident in the people who opened their closets and wallets and donated thousands of dollars, clothes, shoes and toys to the flood relief centers.

            The jolly elf was living in the hearts of the volunteers who staffed relief centers, making sure displaced people received food, vouchers and clothing to replace what they’d lost in an unprecedented flood.

            Many of those people are still trying to recover, and Santa’s elves are hard at work, hammering, putting up sheet rock and laying tile in rebuilt kitchens and bathrooms.

            Yes, dear child, Santa is real.

            If you know where to look, you’ll see him every day.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

            As I washed out an empty Cool Whip container so I could keep the left-over Thanksgiving gravy, a conversation I had with my dad ran through my head:

            “You’re cheap,” he said, watching me tear an old towel into cloths I could use for cleaning purposes.

            “I’m not cheap,” I countered. “I’m frugal.”

            “Cheap.”

            “Frugal.”

            I have to admit that I often wonder where’s the line between cheap and frugal and if I’ve crossed it. First, I seldom pay full price for anything. There’s always a sale, especially at the stores I frequent.

            Is there anybody who pays full price at Hobby Lobby for anything? Between everything being on sale at some time in a two-week period and the 40-percent-off coupon you can get on your phone or in the newspaper, I’d be crazy to pay full price.

            Even though there’s only two of us in the house, I still clip coupons. Most of the time, I forget them in the car, but I can’t bring myself to recycle the Sunday paper without looking through the coupon inserts.

            There’s nothing wrong with bargain shopping. My sons could recognize the word “sale” long before they could read, and they understood early what the word “clearance” meant at Target.

            There’s also the matter of clothes. I refuse to pay more than $20 for any item of clothing, except shoes because a gal has to have her heels. Besides, I’ll either dribble coffee or spaghetti sauce down the front of my white shirt so why would I buy expensive ones.

            I can count the number of times I’ve gotten a manicure on one self-manicured hand and I use a home perm kit to give my hair that extra bounce instead of paying $75 in a hair salon.

            We’ve never had a housekeeper or a lawn service, we eat leftovers until they’re all gone and chicken is a staple in our house, not steak.

            I found a great, easy recipe for pizza, so we’ve stopped ordering take-out. We go to the movies before 6 p.m. so we can get the matinee price and I always ask for the senior discount, even though I’m not quite ready for Social Security. One never knows where that age limit starts and I want to take advantage of it if I can.

            We had a minivan years ago with 140,000 miles on it and we decided it was time to buy a new car. I had a trip to Baton Rouge planned, and I wanted to put the mileage on the old van instead of a new vehicle. Despite my husband’s warnings, I drove the van to Louisiana.

            On the way back, my son and I had to stop every 50 miles because the engine was overheating. My son loved it because we waited for the engine to cool down at truck stops, and I think he ordered a chicken-fried steak at every single one.

            I finally pulled over in Beaumont and my husband came and got us. All because I didn’t want to put 600 miles on a new vehicle.

            So when my dad accused me of being cheap, I had to admit he wasn’t far off from the truth. But this was a case of the pot calling the kettle black. I once caught my dad cutting out cardboard inserts for his shoes because he didn’t want to buy a new pair.

            “Dad, that’s the definition of cheap,” I remember telling him.

            “No, that’s being smart because I like these shoes,” he countered.

            “Cheap,” I said.

            “Frugal,” he said.

            Either way, both of us were happy we had a few extra coins jingling in our pocket at the end of the week. So perhaps there is something to this cheap, I mean frugal, way of living.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.