Finally 2020 is coming to an end.

It’s about time.

In the past, 2020 had a different meaning. The number equals perfect vision, and many of us started 2020 with that mindset – we’d have a clear vision of the year ahead.

Maybe if we’d seen what was ahead, we’d have begged Father Time to run backwards.

None of us foresaw the darkness that enveloped the earth and the isolation and sadness that touched every person.

Not even Stephen King’s constant readers or hard-core conspiracy theorists could have imagined a virus shutting down the world.

Although the pandemic played out on a global stage, the coronavirus dealt unbelievable sadness to families.

Too many loved ones passed away before their time, and we watched with disbelief as stores, bars, restaurants and our favorite shopping spots closed their doors.

Everyone struggled, but we learned a few things along the way.

For instance, ordering groceries online isn’t that difficult.

Sitting in your car while someone else does the shopping might make us feel like royalty but that convenience is nice at the end of a long work day.

We can cook. Not as fancy as a four-star chef, and we gained personal satisfaction in serving the family a hot meal and sitting down together to enjoy the spread.

We’re an angry society. From hostile politics that are dividing families to instant anger when we see people not wearing masks to open hostility and brutality because of the color of one’s skin, we saw way too much rage boil over.

I don’t think a vaccine can cure intolerance.

There are things I won’t ever take for granted again – dashing into the grocery store for a few quick items without worrying about grabbing my face mask and hand sanitizer.

Having the neighbors over for a Friday night visit.

Smiling at a stranger in the store and having them smile back. Heck, I miss seeing smiles period.

I can’t wait to enjoy family gatherings where we can hug our elderly and play hide-and-seek with the young ones.

I miss trying on clothes in the dressing room.

Wearing lipstick.

The ability to discuss and debate politics without fracturing entire families.

Freedom to plan a vacation that’s further away than our back yard.

I did gain something from the pandemic:  I won’t take life for granted.

I’ve learned how precious people are, especially after the alarming and unbelievable number of people who passed away.

Too many friends have lost a father, mother, sibling or cousin to Covid-19, and we couldn’t even have visitations and funerals to honor our deceased.

On the national front, celebrities passed away in alarming numbers – Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg, Alex Trebek, Kobe Bryant and Sean Connery left positive marks on the world, but none as eloquently and bravely as Chadwick Boseman.

The “Black Panther” star passed away at the age of 43 after battling colon cancer for four years.

While undergoing cancer treatment, Boseman made seven movies, including “Marshall” and the Avengers films. He did so without complaining or letting cancer keep him from doing what he loved.

That’s the lesson I’m going to take from 2020 – don’t allow the unexpected and unplanned stop me from remembering how fragile and wonderful life is.

I need to remember to celebrate and savor every experience that comes along, to tell people how precious they are and to not let a moment pass without remembering that human interaction –hugs, kisses, handshakes, smiles and exchanged pleasantries – are the lifeblood of any society.

Let’s take a hopeful, cheerful, tolerant and determined spirit into 2021 and leave the sadness and hopelessness behind.

After all, hindsight, they say is 2020.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

The Christmas season is coming to a close.

For some, it’s time to reflect on the unbelievably insane year we had.

For others, it’s time to wonder how they’re going to pay for those AirPods and Nintendo Switch games Santa brought.

For those who still listen to the radio, it’s time to return to the free airwaves because the non-stop, 24-hour-a-day Christmas-song marathon is over.

I love Christmas carols, but if I hear Burl Ives sing “Have a Holly, Jolly Christmas” or Gene Autrey’s “Here Comes Santa Claus” one more time, I think I’ll scream.

But on a gloomy winter day, Josh Groban’s “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” came on the radio, and I found myself standing at the kitchen counter with tears streaming down my face.

There are so many people who are staying put for Christmas this year because of the fear of spreading the coronavirus. Many lost their lives this year due to Covid, and those loved ones won’t be coming home for Christmas.

The Christmas shine is a little harder to find.

We’re not taking holidays for granted – no groaning when thinking we’ll have to sit through Aunt Meg’s retelling of her childhood – because most of us would give anything to hear those stories in person.

Our traditions are being abruptly halted but Christmas songs keep us connected. We all learned the fun lyrics to “Rudolph” in first grade, anxious to shout out “like a lightbulb” at the appropriate time.

“Frosty the Snowman” is still one of my favorites, and my sister Diane is the only person I know who remembers all the lyrics to all of the verses.

Some songs are out of date but we keep singing them even though we don’t have a clue what the lyrics mean because it’s tradition.

Nobody decks the halls with boughs of holly any more, except for fake garland, and we’re not striking a harp. We’re fine tuning our Spotify list.

Also, Christmas might’ve come upon the midnight clear – which we seldom see due to light pollution – but I have no idea what “cloven sky” or “Babel sounds” refers to.

We Texans have no idea what it means to dash through the snow in a sleigh. We know how to crawl through I-10 traffic in our air-conditioned cars in December, but it’s not a fun ride.

I’m not hearing sleigh bells in the snow, but I am hearing people clicking their car key fobs in the crowded mall parking lot looking for their vehicles.

We’re also not writing Christmas cards – we’re sending customized video greetings or emails.

Santa is still coming in his sleigh with Rudolph leading the way, but the ole elf might have to use some of those Amazon Prime trucks to help him get everything where it’s supposed to be on time. Those drivers have flashlights and an up-to-date GPS system.

Most of us might dream of a white Christmas with snow, but I’d bet most of us are mainly dreaming of Christmases like the ones we used to know where we’re gathered with family and friends without fear of spreading the coronavirus.

We’re dreaming of coming and going without masks, hand sanitizers or fear. We’re dreaming of a Christmas that’s merry and bright and where we’re able to spontaneously hug friends and family.

“The Little Drummer Boy” reminds us that a present, no matter how small or seemingly insignificant, is still an incredible gift, especially when given from the heart.

On this Covid Christmas, one wish, best sung by the incredible Nat King Cole, remains true – “although it’s been said many times many ways, Merry Christmas to you.”

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Every December, the debate bounces around in my head – artificial tree or real tree.

Those who have an artificial tree love the low-maintenance pluses. I’ve always enjoyed having a real Christmas tree – either cut down at a tree farm or purchased from a local nursery.

I grew up with having real Christmas trees except one year. My mom wanted to follow a trend in the 1960s and bought a silver artificial Christmas tree.

We didn’t speak to her for a week.

But with so many singing the praises of their artificial tree, I decided to take a hard look at the advantages and disadvantages of putting up a real Christmas tree.

Pine needles are sharp and they clog up the vacuum cleaner. The pesky needles that escape the vacuum worm their way into the carpet so they can puncture the bottom of your bare foot, even in July.

We walk past the tree and handfuls of needles fall, giving up needles like it’s a drunk Cajun throwing beads in a Mardi Gras parade.

Real trees don’t grow evenly, despite being trimmed during the year. We always get the tree home and discover huge bare spots. Usually we can put the hole next to the wall. Other times, we let the shortest grandchild hang as many ornaments as they want in that spot.

Sometimes the branches are heavy enough to support our bigger ornaments and sometimes the ornaments slide right off because the branches are weak. Some years, I’ve had to put the bigger ornaments back in the storage box.

Real trees are a nightmare for those with allergies. Artificial trees cure this problem, but they also don’t have that fresh tree smell. Of course, if you get your tree at the hardware store like we do, the tree was cut back in July and the smell is long gone.

Real trees are never the right size. They’re either too tall or too short. If you find one that seems to be the right size, the price is astronomical and you find yourself standing in the parking lot muttering you’d only spend that amount once if you had an artificial tree.

Artificial trees are convenient. When you’re ready to put up the Christmas tree, you climb the attic ladder, get the box down and you’re ready to decorate.

Real trees require a trip to the tree lot, rain or shine.

Then you have to tie the tree to the top of the car and hope it doesn’t fall off. Ours did one year when my husband was out of town, and I thought I could tie it on by myself.

Luckily a Good Samaritan stopped and tied the tree back on the roof of our van after the tree went sailing.

After Christmas, there’s the problem of what to do with the tree. Artificial trees go right back in the box. That task takes less than 30 minutes.

Those with real trees feel bad about leaving the tree by the curb for the trash collector. Some neighborhoods and local nurseries have recycling programs, but you have to cut the tree up and tie the branches in bundles.

See note about sharp needles on real Christmas trees.

In the end, artificial trees are convenient, neater and more economical.

Real trees shed all over the place, they’re uneven, dry out in a matter of hours and shed worse than the family dog.

They’re messy, always a surprise and require running one more errand during a busy holiday season.

The evidence is clear.

I’m sticking with the real tree.

 

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

The only time I’ve ever ridden a horse was about 20 years ago. We were headed to Scout camp in Colorado and had a free afternoon before activities started.

I thought it would be a good idea to go on Rocky Mountain National Park’s guided horseback ride.

I told the cowboy I wanted the oldest, slowest horse he had because I was scared of getting on the back of a 2,000-pound animal.

He assured me the horse I was riding was just what I wanted. She was until the end of the ride and spotted the stable. All of a sudden, my horse started galloping, and I hung on for my life.

That incident replayed in my brain as I was driving to Dallas early Saturday morning to be a spectator at a Buck Brannaman horse training clinic.

Even though I don’t know a thing about horses, I know a little about horse trainer Buck Brannaman.

Buck was a child roping star whose mother passed away when he was young. He and his brother were left with an abusive father who beat them on a regular basis.

A coach saw whelps on Buck’s back, and the boys were removed from the home. They went to live with foster parents Forrest and Betsy Shirley who embraced the brothers and gave them and 17 other boys a safe and loving home.

From the Shirleys and other legendary horse trainers, Buck learned how to teach horses in a gentle yet firm way, and over the past 20 years of holding clinics, his devotees grew.

He was inspiration for the novel “The Horse Whisperer” and a major contributor to the movie starring Robert Redford.

In 2011, director Cindy Meehl filmed a documentary about Buck that won Best Documentary at the Sundance Festival.

My sister-in-law recommended the film, and sitting in the movie theater, I realized what Buck was saying about horses could be applied to teaching, and his advice served me well over my career.

Over the years, I’ve been watching Buck’s schedule to see if I could ever attend one of his clinics as a spectator. Most were out West or overseas, but when I saw one was within driving distance, I marked it on my calendar.

Although this city girl felt a little foolish going to a horse clinic, I wanted to see and hear the genuine Horse Whisperer in person.

I got to the arena during the lunch break and happened to see Buck near his truck. I hadn’t waited almost 10 years to let the opportunity to speak to him pass me by, so I walked up to him, heart pounding, and thanked him.

I told him that his documentary positively influenced the way I handled teaching. He taught me when a student is having a bad day or is labeled as troublesome, there’s a reason why and it’s not fair to hold that reason against the child.

Every student can be successful if the teacher finds out the students’ strengths, encourages good behavior and discourages unproductive behavior.

He smiled when I told him of my long-time admiration, and I walked away knowing that five-hour drive was worth it. He was gracious, unassuming and nice, as genuine as he was on the DVD I’ve watched at least a dozen times.

That afternoon, I saw first-hand what simple yet effective teaching is all about. Buck started the session on horseback in the middle of the arena, surrounded by people of all ages on their horses.

Three songs played over the loudspeaker as Buck demonstrated what he wanted the riders to do – use soft hands, lead the horse, stay calm and, most importantly, enjoy the ride.

Buck says he doesn’t help people with horse problems. He helps horses with people problems.

This quiet cowboy makes everyone believe they can be more than they thought they could be if they trust their horse and the good people who come into our lives, whether they’re a friend, foster parent, teacher or horse whisperer.

Thank you, Buck. Thank you for making me want to be a better person and showing me the way to reach that goal.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

In the winter, the house gets darker earlier. To make our living room a little brighter, I turned on the table lamp, but nothing happened. The lamp was plugged in, so, in my best Sherlock Holmes manner, deduced the lightbulb was dead.

In the past, a burned-out light bulb was no big deal. All I’d do is go to the store, pick up a yellow and blue pack of GE bulbs and be on my way.

Not anymore.

Lightbulb manufacturers decided to ramp up their selections to the same level as measuring isotopes in plutonium.

Oh how I miss that old basic box.

One-hundred watt bulbs were for areas where we needed heavy-duty light. Sixty-watt bulbs were the standard for reading lamps, and bulbs for the refrigerator were in a special box marked “appliances” for those of us who had trouble figuring out what bulb to buy for the fridge.

They also offered colored lightbulbs for Christmas and a yellow lightbulb that supposedly repelled mosquitoes.

My parents installed one of those lightbulbs on the patio, but all that ever did was make our back yard look like a school bus was parked back there.

Consumers now have to know what size lightbulb base they need — 12mm, 14mm, 26mm or 39mm and that doesn’t include European sizes.

No longer can you waltz into the hardware store and pick up a box of lightbulbs.

Buyers also need to know if they want a compact fluorescent lightbulb or one with a filament, the number of lumens they want and the temperature scale.

If that sounds like space-age jargon, you’d be correct, but that’s just the tip of the iceberg. There are incandescent, halogen, and LED lightbulbs.

Recently I decided to pick up some extra bulbs for the lights over the bathroom sink. I knew to take the old lightbulb with me for comparison, but I might as well have been holding a metal bottle opener.

I stood in front of the display and was overwhelmed. I kept comparing the old bulb to the boxes on the shelf, and nothing seemed to match.

I finally asked an associate to help me.

“Hmmm,” he said, looking at the old lightbulb like it was from the Stone Age. “What temperature do you want?”

“I thought these things came in watts,” I said.

“These days, brightness is measured in lumens and can run from 80 lumens to 3,000,” he said. “The temperature is measured in Kelvins and runs from classic warm white to cool daylight.”

He saw the confused look on my face.

“I just want a lightbulb that looks like this one,” I said holding up the old bulb.

“They don’t make those anymore,” he said.

I grabbed a box that looked like it would work.

“What about these?” I asked.

He looked at the instructions on the CFL – compact fluorescent light – and frowned.

“You have to handle these carefully as they contain mercury,” he said, an apology in his voice. “Also you have to recycle them.”

He looked at me, his customer, standing there with a burned-out, ancient lightbulb in her hand and a vacant look on her face.

“You could always buy a smart lightbulb,” he said with hope in his voice. “They connect to an app and you can change the color of the bulb with the touch of a button.”

Thirty minutes later, I walked out of the hardware store with a new lamp, lightbulb included.

There’s a ton of jokes about how many engineers, Aggies or psychiatrists it takes to change a lightbulb. All I’d like is a lightbulb that, when it needs replacing, doesn’t require a master’s degree in engineering.

By the way, it takes five Aggies to replace a light bulb – one to screw in the lightbulb and four to rotate the ladder.

 

This Aggie Mom’s email is dhadams1955@yahoo.com.