The year 2018 is coming to a close, and it’s hard to believe we’re racing toward the mythical 2020. We still have to get through 2019, so it’s time to write the annual resolutions list.

You know what I’m talking about — the unrealistic list we all make in January and toss in the wastebasket by the time Valentine’s Day rolls around.

This year could be different if I alter my mindset as to what to improve, what to change and, most importantly, understand the difference between the two.

Instead of the same old, same old list, I’m going to take a different direction in 2019. In no particular order, here’s the list:

Stop nagging. I can hear my family fist pumping the air with this one. I admit I’m a nag. I offer the same advice a dozen different ways, rationalizing I’m being helpful.

That thinking is wrong.

My sons are adults and fully capable of running their lives without my comments and observations. Family members and friends don’t need my opinion about what they’re doing and, frankly, I’m probably wrong anyway.

Listen and talk less.

I’m guilty of adding my own personal narrative or anecdote when someone’s telling me about a problem or a situation in their life. I think if I tell them what happened to me, my story will help them.

That thinking is wrong.

If someone’s talking about their family, their problem or asking a question, I need to keep the conversation on them. That means truly listening to what they’re saying instead of thinking about what I’m going to say.

I will heed that old saying – God gave us two ears and one mouth for a reason.

I think my husband will stand on the kitchen table and applaud this resolution.

Pay attention.

We laugh about the time our 3-year-old granddaughter told my husband to pay attention. In my case, it’s no laughing matter.

I often don’t pay attention to what people are telling me – not because I don’t care but because I’m not paying 100 percent attention. The older I get, the more I’m realizing I need to concentrate on the task at hand, not the dozen other things running around in my head.

This year, I’d like to slow down and make note of the things I have to remember in my phone instead of a piece of paper I’ll lose because I’m not paying attention to where I left the note.

Let go.

My uncle died when he was young from kidney failure. Marshall’s death was a tragedy, and my mom’s family was rocked to the core, especially my grandmother.

For the rest of her life, she wore only black or navy blue and there was always a sad anger about her.

Whenever someone passed away, she looked in the book she had of the people who’d sent flowers to Marshall’s funeral. If they hadn’t sent flowers to her son’s funeral, she did not send flowers to their family.

She checked that book for 40 years.

I don’t want to be a bitter person, but I can feel the seed growing in my heart. So it’s time to let go of the anger and resentment I’ve been carrying around. The people I resent have no idea I feel this way, and the only person I’m hurting is myself.

Besides, my friends and family are tired of hearing me complain.

I’m tired of hearing myself complain.

Instead, I’ll fill my mind with good thoughts and give out compliments instead of complaints.

This thinking is right.

I might not be able to live up to these ideals all year long, but I’m going to try. And that’s what the new year is all about – trying to live a better life.

Happy New Year!

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

 

 

 

 

The 5-year-old boy walked up the steps, his bowtie straight, his white shirt tucked in.

He took a few steps onto the stage, turned to the audience and, with his right hand in front of his waist and his left hand behind his back, he bowed courtly to the audience.

His smiling piano teacher, Rhonda Klutts, handed him his music, and he sat down to play.

His feet dangled above the ground, but his tiny fingers correctly tapped out “Jingle Bells.” At the end of the song, everyone let out their breath and polite, yet enthusiastic, applause filled the church.

And so it went at the first recital for Miss Rhonda’s Christian Piano Studio.

It was also the first piano recital I’ve ever attended.

I wasn’t sure what to expect at a recital for students who’d only been studying for a couple of months. “Chopsticks” with two fingers maybe, but not both-hands-on-the-keys renditions of “Up on the House” and “Away in a Manger.”

None of the students were over the age of 12, and every one was a little scared. But with their piano teacher’s hands on their shoulders, they took a deep breath and jumped in.

Some played softly, some more confidently, but they all finished. A few times, Rhonda came up and put her hands over theirs on the keys to get them redirected, and the audience was patient until the pianist was ready to begin playing again.

I can’t imagine the fear a child has when they sit down at a piano bench, knowing everyone can hear every mistake they make. I credit their teacher with giving them the courage to keep going.

There’s a bit of bias here – I’ve known Rhonda for over 20 years, the last 10 as a co-worker. I met her when she was directing a school choir at a somber funeral, and I’ve grown to be her friend as well as an admirer.

She’s always wanted her own Christian piano school, and after retiring from 30-plus years as a music teacher, she made that dream come true.

So few of us have the opportunity to see our dreams turn into reality. Rhonda didn’t make the decision easily because she adored her career as a music and choir teacher.

But she felt the time was right, and she and her husband, Joe, moved to a home that could accommodate an in-home studio and a new direction.

She transitioned into a second career as a small business owner doing something she loves – teaching young ones how to read music, learn the scales and then make the notes on a page transform into music one can hear.

At this time of the year, we think about finding the perfect gift, and I can think of no greater gift than to instill in children a passion for the arts, whether that’s playing a musical instrument, learning how to direct a play or write a special story for others to read.

Combine that with finding the courage to play for family and friends to hear is truly an accomplishment.

To anyone who teaches children a special skill, please know that your gift is a life-long one, and the child, and the world, will be a much better place for having the arts continue to flourish.

May your holidays be joyful ones, and in the words of the old song, “May all your Christmases be bright.”

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

The grandchildren were visiting, and we decided to bake some cupcakes on a rainy, cold afternoon.

The smell of a cake or pie baking always perks me up, and I figured the same would be true for the young uns.

I pulled two cupcake tins out of the cabinet, and noticed how discolored they’d become.

Those cupcake tins, practically brown from 40 years of baked-on grease, have served their purpose well. They’ve allowed us to bake hundreds of cupcakes and corn-bread muffins.

One year, I melted all the bits and pieces of crayons in the boys’ room in the tins and made discs of color for coloring book fun.

The baking sheets are in the same worn shape. Some are warped but they still provide a great baking surface for chocolate chip cookies and Thanksgiving rolls.

Tonight, I found myself re-looking at a lot of things in the kitchen and in the house. Stacked on the shelves were the now-faded Pyrex mixing bowls I’ve had since the late 1970s.

I’ve seen the exact bowls in antique stores, but I’ve never thought of not using the bowls that have come in pretty handy all these years.

My favorite memory of the green Pyrex bowl is coming into the kitchen one morning and finding my 3-year-old with the bowl between his legs, his hands stained red as he scooped up red Jell-O by the handfuls and slurped them down.

There’s the plastic spatulas in the drawer, and every single one is burned in the middle from where I put them down on a burner or the side of the frying pan.

Years of being in the dishwasher has bleached them out, but as long as they’re useful, I’m still going to flip burgers and pancakes with them.

Our dishwasher’s done a number on a few more of our more seasoned kitchen utensils. There’s no more red writing on the side of the Pyrex measuring cups. We just guess – yeah, that looks like a half a cup – and dump the water in the green Pyrex bowl.

Looking around, there’s a lot of Pyrex in our kitchen from the gold and avocado small casserole dishes to the white cookware with blue flowers on the side. I’ve broken a few of the lids, but there’s replacements online, so I’ll keep using them, just as I have for the last 20 years.

All our drinking glasses are etched. Sometimes it’s hard to tell what’s in the glass, but the cheapskate in me can’t throw away those glasses when they’re still usable.

They’ve been doing their job for about 25 years and, until I accidentally break them, they’ll keep showing up on the breakfast and dinner table.

There’s some Corell dishes still in every-day use here. Sure they have an outdated pattern on them, but who cares. They hold sandwiches and mashed potatoes quite nicely, so they’ll stay in use until we literally wear the strawberry pattern off the plate.

All true Louisiana cooks have at least one Magnalite pot in their cabinet. I’ve got a big one I use for gumbo, a smaller one for jambalaya and a pot for simmering gravies. I got those pots in 1975, and even though they’re a little pitted and no longer shiny, no way they’ve outlived their usefulness.

I’d like to believe that, like their owner, the dings, scratches and worn spots add character and in no way detract from their usefulness.

That’s how I am – a little worn around the edges but still quite capable of doing my job – making cupcakes, gumbo and, best of all, memories.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.