Every year, my mom and I would settle in on the couch and watch the Oscars. We’d ooh and aah over the exquisite gowns the movie stars were wearing.

Some of the outfits were way over the top, like the year Cher wore a huge headdress. Elizabeth Taylor showed off her diamonds and her shoulders, and Audrey Hepburn always wore classy and tasteful gowns.

Usually, we’d seen all the movies nominated for awards, so we always had a film or star we were rooting for to take home the gold statue.

In the past few years as streaming services dominate the process, more than likely, I haven’t seen the nominated movies. From this year’s list, it looks like the most I’ve missed is misery and anguish.

That’s not what I look for in a movie. Yes, I know movies that shine the light on discrimination and true suffering are worthwhile and need to be made and seen. Movies also reflect what’s going on in society.

But when doom and gloom are mostly all that’s offered, and the news is nothing but bad to worse, having movies that uplift is even more important.

Back in the 50s, movie stars were America’s royalty. We knew little of their personal lives other than what their publicists wanted us to know. Feel-good movies like “Cheaper by the Dozen” and “Father of the Bride” made us smile and laugh.

We had stars like the swashbuckling Erroll Flynn and the gorgeous Grace Kelly. They lit up the screen with class and beauty. The movie “Imitation of Life” was one of the first films to introduce me to looking at life through the eyes of people of color.

The 1960s reflected turbulent times. Popular movies were “Easy Rider” and “Midnight Cowboy.” The stars were grungy guys, not good-looking stars like Gregory Peck, Sidney Poitier and Rock Hudson.

“To Kill a Mockingbird” opened the door to talks about how we look at people from different classes. The movie showed viewers that discrimination crosses both color and cultural barriers.

The 60s also gave us a break with fun musicals like “Mary Poppins” and “My Fair Lady.”

But then there’s “Psycho,” a movie that still scares the life out of me. The music alone is terrifying.

The 1970s weren’t much better. “Apocalypse Now” and “The Deer Hunter” reminded us of the futility of the war in Vietnam and its effects on the soldiers who served. “Deliverance” remains the only movie I’ve ever walked out of because of a few scenes that sickened me.

“All the President’s Men” was a reminder of the corruption in Washington, D.C., but “Rocky” reminded us that one person can overcome the odds and come out a champion, even if he or she doesn’t win the fight.

I guess we got tired of the dreadfulness in films, and in the 80s, hope and laughs returned to the cinemas. We still quote lines from the slapstick film “Airplane.” The beautifully acted and costumed “Moonstruck” remains one of my all-time favorite movies almost 40 years later.

“The Breakfast Club” allowed adults to see teens as young people trying to figure out life. “Field of Dreams” still makes me cry and is a movie most fathers and sons should watch together some time in their life.

Then we took a turn back to grim reality in the 1990’s. “Schindler’s List,” like “Saving Private Ryan,” is a film I could only watch once. The horrors people inflicted on others because of their culture and religion is still sickening.

The movie “Philadelphia” reminded us that it wasn’t just people of a different religion we feared. It was people whose lifestyle was different than ours.

The 2000s started off a bit more hopeful with “The Pursuit of Happyness” and “Slumdog Millionaire.” Both were stories of underdogs who beat the system to find they could achieve their dreams.

In the last 20 years, we’ve had some great fantasy films. Marvel gave us “Iron Man,” “The Hulk” and “The Avengers” to name a few, and “Spiderman” was a fun story that remains popular.

“Wicked” reminds us of the power of friendship between women and “Hidden Figures” reminded us that greatness comes from all genders and races.

Next year, even though I’ll probably miss most of the nominated films, I’ll still tune in to the Oscars. I want to see the gowns, the pageantry and the glitz and the glamor that American royalty, Hollywood, has to offer.

 

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

It’s 3:30 a.m.

My knee – well, what’s left of it – is throbbing.

The house is dark and I’m lying here wondering how I got myself into this situation.

Genetics is both a curse and a blessing. I don’t look my age, thanks to my mom’s genes. I also got her bad knees which, at this moment, are the curse.

A few years ago, I noticed pain down the front of my leg whenever I’d pick up something heavy. That slight pain increased so I finally made a medical appointment.

The orthopedic doctor diagnosed arthritis, one of the most common ailments for women over the age of 50. I got a cortisone shot in both knees and instantly felt relief.

I could finally walk without limping, and believed I was cured.

Or so I thought.

For almost two years, the injections were a Band-Aid over an underlying problem of bone-on-bone on both knees plus the arthritis.

When the shots stopped working, I knew it was time to do what my mom and my sister both had done – total knee replacement.

I remember watching my mom walk down the hall at the rehabilitation center, cheered on by all of us as she took those first steps. She told the physical therapist she would do whatever it took to get out of there, and she did.

A few years later, my sister had both of her knees replaced at the same time. I thought she was brave. Now I know she was battlefield, front-of-the-light-brigade brave. She urged me to get the surgery, and when all other options were gone, I went for it.

The surgeon, Dr. Brady Rogers, was reassuring and professional. His friendly demeanor went right along with his honest conversations with me. I chose a time after the winter holidays and family birthdays, and in I went.

I tried not to think about the fact that Dr. Rogers would slice open my knee, take part of the knee out, shave away the arthritis and then put in a titanium knee that will forever stop me at airport security.

The pain the first and second day was mild. The meds from the hospital were still working their magic, and I stupidly thought the rest of the recovery was going to be that easy.

I did the exercises, rode the stationary bike, walked, and even unloaded the dishwasher and ran a load of clothes. I took the least amount of painkillers, patting myself on the back for having a high threshold of pain.

When the meds wore off, life was a lot different.

It hurt, and the pain was real.

I tried to be brave but had a meltdown on the third day. My husband fixed the machine that caused the problem, and I thought I was done with the worst part.

I was wrong again.

I didn’t want to take the higher potency pain killers, but when it’s the middle of the night and you’re all alone in the dark, that bottle looked like a life saver.

I admitted I needed the stronger meds, and I took them.

A couple of days ago, my sons and their families came to visit. Seeing their loving faces and watching our grandchildren play and laugh was all the medicine I needed. That night, I turned a corner on the pain and saw improvement from that moment on.

What’s really made the recuperation easier is the love and support of family and friends. Meals, flowers and best wishes have been flooding in.

The people I love and who love me might not realize how important their support is, but their love has made recovery faster and easier to bear.

Maybe it’s a trite saying, but having family and friends are not only important but also lifesavers, especially when times are tough.

I don’t know what I’ve done – or if the universe is simply extending kindness — to deserve this much mercy and love, but I’m not going to question these blessings. I simply know I am one lucky and extremely grateful gal.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

“Go past this light…”

“In 200 feet…

“Turn left at the next intersection…”

This is the voice of both my savior and my nightmare.

Most of the time, the GPS – Global Positioning System – is my driving companion. Because the system is almost always on, I’ve started talking to the GPS like it’s a person.

We don’t always agree.

“I know you want me to go that way, but there’s road construction that way,” I told the GPS one afternoon. “So, we’re going to go this way.”

The GPS will pout, resign itself to going a different direction and give me updated instructions.

Sometimes the GPS is a little slow in telling me which lane to get into to make a quick turn.

That’s when I get frustrated.

“You could’ve told me earlier I was going to have to turn left,” I’ll yell as I make a Batman-style turn.

The GPS doesn’t care I had to dodge three cars to carry out the move.

I did what it said.

The electronic voice is pacified.

Sometimes the GPS is my road trip guardian angel.

“There’s traffic ahead. I’m rerouting you.”

“This route is the fastest.”

“Road construction ahead. Would you like to reroute?”

Those suggestions are gifts from the traffic gods, ones I’m always happy to accept.

There are times we disagree and both of us get a little testy.

Recently, I’d been following the GPS directions to a Houston hospital. Take 59 north, get off at Main Street, turn right and then follow the GPS directions through the medical center maze to find the building.

Usually, I follow the GPS directions turn for turn, but this day, I wanted to pick up barbecue sandwiches on Kirby Drive. I exited Highway 59, and that’s when the conversation became a little heated.

The GPS wanted me back on the route it had chosen. I didn’t want to get back in bumper-to-bumper traffic and I had barbecue to pick up.

“Take the feeder road toward I-69,” the GPS insisted.

The GPS calls Highway 59 I-69, but for those of us who’ve driven in Houston for years, 59 will always be 59.

I paid no attention to the GPS voice because I knew I was going to stop for those sandwiches. When I turned right onto Kirby, the GPS was unhappy.

“Take the feeder toward I-69.”

I talked back.

“I don’t want to stay on the feeder,” I said with a touch of annoyance. “I’m going to the barbecue place.”

When I turned into the parking lot, the GPS was really annoyed.

“Return to the feeder road toward I-69.”

I was fed up.

“Forget it,” I said to the dashboard. “I’m getting barbecue right now.”

I turned the car off and hurried into the restaurant. When I returned, you’d think the GPS would be happy as the smell of brisket and barbecue sauce filled the air. But no, the single-minded GPS system demanded that I go back to the feeder road.

I decided the ride down Bissonnet was a lot prettier, so I turned onto that street, leaving 59 in my rearview mirror.

“Make a U-turn.”

I ignored the voice.

“Make a U-turn.”

At every single stop sign and light for the next mile, the GPS wanted me to make a U-turn and get back on the freeway. The trip became a battle of wits – the GPS voice versus the human who had the keys to the vehicle.

Finally, the GPS gave up and got with my program. When we got to the hospital 15 minutes earlier than the original trip the GPS planned, I smiled.

“See there smarty pants,” I yelled at the dashboard. “Sometimes we humans know better than technology.”

I wasn’t so smug on the way home when I went the way I wanted instead of what the GPS suggested and ran smack dab into a huge traffic jam.

I could almost hear the gloating “I told you so” coming from the dashboard.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.   

I listened to a radio show on the way home, and the host was talking about spending the day with someone famous. People called in with Jesus being one of the top names.

Also mentioned were people from history, like Abraham Lincoln, sports personalities or influential politicians. All are top choices, but there are events in life I’d love to experience again.

The first time I saw the Grand Tetons in the early morning light.

Watching a golden sunset over the boulders of the Pacific Coast.

Floating in the waters of the Gulf of Mexico without a care in the world.

As pleasant as those events sound, spending time with people is what’s most intriguing. There are people in my family who are no longer here that I’d love to get to know better.

One of the top people on that list would be my grandfather, Henry Eade. He was a wonderful storyteller, and I’d love to hear more stories about his days growing up in Lebanon. His father left his family and came to America for a better life.

I’d treasure learning how my grandfather and his mother made enough to feed a family and keep a roof over their heads.

I’d love to hear him talk about how he got started in business and about all the opportunities he took and the ones he missed. Henry Eade was a spiritual man, and I’d love to hear his quiet explanations about destiny and following one’s dreams.

I’d love to spend the day with my dad. I used to think if I ever talked to him again, I’d ask him pointed questions about his struggles, and ultimate success, over alcohol abuse.

But that’s not how I’d waste my time with him.

I’d want to spend the day talking about the little things in his life.

I probably heard his daredevil stories at least a dozen times, but what I wouldn’t give to hear the story of his looking for buried treasure one more time. What I wouldn’t give to hear his voice, a voice that grows dimmer in my memory with each passing day.

My dad was a master joke teller, and I’d love to hear some of his top jokes. Then I’d ask him for advice about how to be a better grandparent. For all the faults he had as a parent, he was an incredible grandfather.

I’d love to learn how he endeared himself to each one of his grandchildren, leaving them with sweet memories.

But more than spending the day with someone who’s passed away, if I had the choice and the power, there’s a special request I’d make.

I wish I could go back and experience a day with my sons when they were young, before they were grown men with families of their own.

For one day, I’d love to be a mommy again.

I’d like to spend a day with each one of my sons beginning with when they were born. I’d spend time rocking and holding them. I wouldn’t worry about folding clothes or cleaning the house.

I’d cuddle and snuggle them until they’d fall asleep in my arms, lose myself in that sweet baby smell and hold their tiny little hands.

Then I’d spend time with them as toddlers. We’d play with toys, have tickle fests and eat ice cream cones and splash in water puddles.

We’d take slow walks, stopping to look at everything along the way – spiders, ants, the cracks in the sidewalk, flowers and dew on the grass. As the day progressed and they grew, I’d spend time talking to them about what they liked, who their friends were, what they thought about life in general.

I’d spend more time listening, hugging, smiling and savoring every minute of being with my children and the people who made me who I am.

Having the opportunity to go back and experience those days isn’t a wish that could come true. But I’ve been given a second chance.

I might not be able to hold my own babies again, but I can love, snuggle and enjoy every minute I can with our grandchildren who are extraordinary humans.

Being with them is a dream that can come true.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

 

Last year, Taylor Swift performed live to a crowd of 96,000 people in Australia. It’s amazing how anyone could conquer stage fright to sing in front of a huge audience.

Now imagine teenagers singing, dancing and performing in front of a theater packed with relatives, peers and teachers. That’s exactly what many of our thespians did over the past month through their live musicals.

Our granddaughter has been in theater since junior high, and she loves immersing herself in a production, whether it’s a dual role of nice and mean teacher in “Miss Nelson is Missing,” the hysterical Clairee Belcher in “Steel Magnolias” or funny Sister Mary Patrick in “Sister Act.”

I’ve watched Kylie grow in confidence as she auditioned for, and earned, starring roles on the stage. It’s amazing seeing her friends perform in costumes, wigs and make-up. We’re used to seeing them in T-shirts and jeans, but they are transformed once they step on that stage.

Unlike professional performers, these teens attend classes all day, writing essays, learning algebra and completing study packets, and then go to the theater.

They build sets, including painting and decorating. They assemble the costumes, many of them learning to sew on buttons and stitch rips. They comb and style wigs and make sure the make-up trays are filled and clean.

They learn lines and practice dances and songs. In after-school rehearsals, they learn where to stand, how to work the lights and how to play off another character.

The bonds they develop in theater run deep. Not only because they spend so much time together, but because they depend on each other to make the characters, play or musical come seamlessly to life.

Fine arts relationships start early. Our youngest granddaughter is in the sixth grade, and her junior high staged their first-ever musical concert this week. Families sat in folding chairs to watch these nervous pre-teens perform.

One duo seemed to struggle a bit. I glanced at the back where Katherine and the other performers were waiting. They were standing up, acting out the hand motions and mouthing the words to their friends on the stage. I could feel their encouragement, and I knew the singers on the stage could as well.

Two girls sang “Defying Gravity.” One of the girls was in a wheelchair, and she sang the main part of not letting anything hold her down. Seeing her growing confidence and how she moved her chair along with the music, her partner encouraging her as well as all the other singers in the back, brought the audience to tears.

Fine Arts brings out the best in people, especially our young people.

The performance is all about entertaining the audience and making sure they come along with the actors on a fantasy journey.

Many thanks to the directors who work tirelessly before, during and after school for ensuring these young actors and singers see their hours of rehearsal come alive on the stage.

The next time you see an advertisement for a high school musical or concert, do yourself a favor and go. Lose yourself in the magic of the stage and forget about the troubles of the real world.

You’ll laugh, you’ll cry and, most of all, you’ll be amazed at how these young people will melt your heart.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Birthday parties are fun occasions. For the little ones, they blow out the candles on the cake, play games and gobble cake and ice cream.

Adults either ignore the number of candles on the cake or go full tilt with drinks and food.

When someone turns 95 years of age, that’s cause for celebrating in a big way. That’s exactly what my cousins did for their mom, Mary Eade Bett. They invited me to her party, and relatives came from far and wide.

Many came from our hometown, Olean, New York. As we sat around the table at an elegant meal, the cousins spent most of the time reminiscing.

Many of us hadn’t seen each other in decades, but we found we had quite a few shared memories about our relatives in Olean.

The story of how our ancestors came to America was retold. Each one of us added a little bit more knowledge to the story, which is probably not exactly the truth, but suited us just fine.

One particular trip remains memorable, but my cousins didn’t know the whole story.

They knew my grandfather, Henry, had gone back to Lebanon to marry the girl he’d always admired. His uncle, Louie, accompanied him to marry another girl in their hometown.

What my cousins didn’t know is that an American girl who wanted to marry my grandfather found out he was sailing back with a new bride.

Infuriated, she told the authorities my grandfather was married to her, so Henry was arrested on the ship for being a bigamist. There were gasps and laughter and then the stories started to roll. Some family tales were still shrouded in mystery, others brought quite a few laughs.

We spent a good bit of the evening trying to decide how many childhood stories were true and which ones were embellished.

What came through loud and clear was how much we loved our heritage and our relatives, especially our aunts.

Aunt Vickie taught us organizational skills and how to bake banana bread. Aunt Souad always had a gentle smile and plenty of food.

Aunt Bev cherished traditions and taught us how to knit and collect antiques. Aunt Mary paved the way for the women in the family to go to college. My mom showed us it was possible to have a career and a family.

These women made time to be an important part of our lives, and all these years later, we remember their caring with fondness and love.

Getting together with family for special occasions is getting less common these days. Facebook has taken the place of phone calls and Sunday afternoon visits on the front porch. There’s still plenty of family gossip, but the mystery’s gone since we can verify everything with a quick internet search.

I often long for the days when we weren’t sure what was fact and what was fiction. We’ll never know for sure if Aunt Flip was married to a mobster, what our great-great grandmother did to earn money in the war, or what our aunt did when she worked for the CIA back in the 1950s.

In all honesty, it doesn’t really matter.

What I know to be true is how fortunate we are to have some of our relatives still with us, telling more stories and reminding us to cherish our roots.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Snowflakes are gently falling.

The grass and lawn furniture are covered in white.

From the comfort of my living room window, the scene reminds me of every sentimental Christmas movie I’ve ever seen.

But there’s a downside to the quiet covering. That fluffy white blanket covering our Southern lawns means it’s beyond cold outside. Phrases like “arctic air” and “bitter cold” are being used to describe Winter Storm Enzo.

I dread opening the door.

Having this much snow in these parts is unusual, and it’s great to see people having so much fun in this once-in-a-generation storm.

People are embracing the cold, building snowmen and having snowball fights.

They’re making snow angels and using kiddie swimming pools to sled down the sides of the ditch.

It’s a lot of fun, but what does that get them?

Wet clothes, cold faces and fingers so cold they feel like they’re going to break off.

I’ll take summer heat over winter cold any day of the week.

For starters, I’m washing twice as many clothes when it’s winter. One days’ worth of cold-weather clothes and accessories is enough for a super load.

Contrast that with summer.

I can wait a week to wash clothes because lightweight summer clothes don’t take up much room in the washer. No need for wool socks, long pants or jackets in the summer months.

There’s also the cost of clothes.

The winter jacket alone will set you back $80 and that’s if you can find a heavy one here. You also need gloves, a hat, boots and a heavy scarf. Summer shorts, a T-shirt and flip flops are a lot cheaper.

Also, Southerners are accustomed to the heat.

In the summer, we can cool off with snow cones or chew on ice in an air-conditioned spot.

But the cold? We’re ill-prepared. We panic. We stress about temperatures in the teens. We clear all the shelves in the grocery stores.

Does that mean we’re wimps? Not at all. Bring on a heat wave or a hurricane and we’ll show you Southern grit.

We can prepare for a tropical hurricane, a monsoon and a prolonged drought in a moment’s notice.

We own beach umbrellas, lawn chairs and sun visors, not snowplows, tire chains or snow shovels.

We don’t own heavy parkas lined with fake fur.

We don’t own snow boots, gloves or heavy hats.

Southerners own well-used beach bags filled with sunscreen, mosquito repellent and Adolph’s Meat Tenderizer for jellyfish bites.

Living in the North does require knowledge we don’t have. Deep South residents haven’t a clue how to defrost icy windshields, shovel snow from sidewalks or how to spot black ice.

But a cold-weather person doesn’t know shade is more important than location in a parking lot, cracking the windows a half inch is mandatory if your vehicle is in the sun and to never grab a metal car handle if the vehicle’s been exposed to the afternoon summer sun.

We’re built for the heat, and we’ll demonstrate a hundred different ways we’ve learned to live with scorching temperatures.

We’ll drag out our fans, both the big box ones and the cheap personal fans that spray air and water on your face and sit comfortably outside at a baseball game.

We’ll remind you that high humidity keeps your skin looking younger longer unlike dry cold air that dries your skin out and ages you prematurely.

I will admit there’s one major positive and one hopeful possibility about frigid cold weather.

The definite positive – no snakes.

The possibility – perhaps this layer of snow can do what we’ve been unable to do for the past 50 years – kill fire ants.

If that happens, then Winter Storm Enzo would’ve been worth it.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

When my boys were young and people asked if I worked outside the house, I told them I had a job that fit my personality like a glove.

“I get paid to be nosy,” was my go-to answer.

When the boys were older, I went back to college and was lucky to keep my job at this newspaper. The answer I gave about my career remained the same – I got paid to be nosy.

But then I entered the education field, and people wondered why I’d give up such a fun job for one that carried a long list of negatives. I’d be babysitting other people’s kids all day long, the pay was lousy, the students had no manners, and the parents were a walking nightmare.

I found the opposite to be true. I was fortunate in that I spent time with mostly inquisitive young people all day long, the pay was three times what I made being nosy, and the parents simply wanted the best for their children.

Not only do full-time teachers find this out, so do those who volunteer in the schools. A faithful reader, Larry Richardson, wrote and asked if I’d write about substitute teachers.

Larry stated they are a necessary group for the school year, and he’s absolutely correct. I’m a consultant with some of the high schools in the area, and the list of subs needed each day is mind boggling.

These wonderful people come in and take over a class at a moment’s notice – literally. They might not know anything about math or chemistry or how to teach reading, but they willingly go into the lion’s den and keep students safe, happy, and in many cases, a bit more educated than when they walked in the door that morning.

Larry’s said he’s been a substitute teacher for 19 years, and I’m guessing the substitute teacher lifestyle fits into his own. Subs can turn down jobs, take a day here or a day there or even sign on as long-term subs and stay on one campus an entire semester.

The criteria are different for each district, but most require subs to have a high school diploma or a GED. Most will ask for subs to have completed at least 60 semester hours of college coursework at an accredited college or university.

What the job description doesn’t ask for is an endless amount of patience, a hide as thick as a rhinoceros and the ability to outsmart the antics of kids in the class whose sole mission for the day is making the sub’s life miserable.

So why would a rational human being go to a school where they’ve never visited before, be given vague lesson plans and take over a classroom of 30 upset students?

Because they understand children can feel abandoned when their regular teacher doesn’t show up.

They understand they’re a place holder for the day, but children need a stable adult in the classroom.

They understand if they put in the time, there might be a special moment that day.

A moment when a child’s eyes light up with understanding, and you’re the one there to see it.

When that connection is made, magic happens between that instructor and the student.

It doesn’t take long for that sub’s reputation to spread throughout the campus, and these part-time people become campus family.

I guarantee Larry is one of those subs who is valued by both the students and the adults in the building. His love for what he does was evident in every word in his email.

If you’re looking for a meaningful way to spend your day, consider signing up to be a substitute teacher.

You might discover, like Larry Richardson did, that spending your day helping young people learn benefits you more than them.

  This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

I was replacing an empty toilet paper roll the other morning, and I found myself saving the cardboard roll.

I looked at the tube later in the day and thought “save for what?”

“You never know,” I replied, and put the empty tube in the cabinet, along with the other 10 in there, for safekeeping.

Old habits die hard when you’re a parent, and saving odds and ends for school and Scout projects is one of those difficult habits to change.

You never know when you’re going to need the very thing you tossed.

The next day, I replaced my toothbrush. Instead of throwing away the old one, I put it in the bathroom drawer along with a dozen other used toothbrushes.

I stopped and wondered why I was saving all these old toothbrushes.

“To clean the grout,” I told myself.

“Who are you kidding?” a voice in my head sneered back.

Cleaning the grout in the shower with an old toothbrush is one of those cleaning chores I’ve watched a dozen times on YouTube. I’ve yet to try any of them because cleaning an entire shower with one small toothbrush seems like a never-ending job.

But I’ll keep those old toothbrushes because you never know…

As long as I was re-examining cleaning supplies, I thought about the old towels in the laundry room. My system is to use bath towels until the edges start to fray. Then I move them to the garage, or I cut them up and use the squares as cleaning rags.

There’s a stack of cut-up towels two feet high in the laundry room. There’s no way I’ll ever use that many cleaning cloths, but I’ll keep cutting up the old towels because you never know.

When I got to the kitchen, I went through the utensil drawer. I read about the hazards of using take-out black utensils, so I threw the fast-food ones away a few weeks ago. There’s still at least five spatulas in that drawer.

I asked myself if I really needed all those spatulas.

One has a sharper edge and is great for flipping pancakes. Another is long and skinny, and it’s just right for turning over a piece of chicken. There’s a short one I’ve had for years. I seldom use it, but… you never know.

Then I opened the cabinet where we keep the drinking glasses and coffee mugs. I read an article that one does not need more glasses than people in the house. Throw away all those old drinking glasses, the articles stated.

But some of those glasses have been with me since I was in my 20’s. There’s three that came from my grandfather’s five-and-dime store. Every time I use one of those glasses, I’m reminded of The Eade Standard Store, the shelves piled high with everything a household needs.

The mugs are like old friends. Each one has a special meaning. There’s the mugs my daughter-in-law’s parents brought us from Mexico. There’s another one with the name “James” on the side. That mug belonged to my dad, and now my grandson James uses it when he comes over.

One of my favorites is my Barney Fife mug. Whenever the grandchildren want hot chocolate, I get to explain how my brother-in-law picked the mug up for me because he knows my family loves “The Andy Griffith Show.”

So, until I run out of space, I’m going to keep saving scraps of towels, empty toilet paper holders and coffee mugs.

The grandchildren might need empty toilet paper cardboard rolls for a last-minute school project.

If they do, I’m ready.

Because you never know.

 

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

I looked back over the past few years of New Years columns, and they’re a hodgepodge.

I used to write a recap about the previous year. But then the internet came along, and those kinds of wrap-up stories filled the web.

Some national columns zeroed in on specific topics, like sports highlights, entertainment or pop culture, and were head and shoulders above my writing.

I gave that tradition up and concentrated on columns involving the human condition.

I’ve written about making small resolutions, like cleaning out the pantry and dusting the miniblinds. One year, I thought I’d visit other states. The furthest I got was Louisiana.

Then there were the years I wrote regrets for not calling people more, not letting go of past hurts or being a selfish friend or relative.

Those still sting.

Writing about specific holidays is fun for the first couple of years. After that, the goal is to find a new way to write about holidays that fall on the day my column runs. Eventually, the writer runs out of innovative holiday column ideas.

I’ve arrived at that year in January 2025.

I have no words of wisdom, no list of resolutions and no advice worth passing on.

Instead, I’ll stay on familiar territory. Perhaps the goals I promise myself in January might actually come to pass by the time December rolls around if I keep them realistic.

One year, a resolution was to clean out the medicine cabinet. I was surprised to discover how many medications were expired. I learned the hard way that expired meds aren’t worth keeping.

I cleaned out my sock drawer back in 2016. But it’s a wreck again as is the kitchen junk drawer and my office. I’m convinced I work more efficiently in clutter.

At least that’s the rationalization I tell myself.

A couple of years ago, I promised to stroll the streets of downtown Rosenberg, and that’s a resolution I accomplished.

Visiting that area on a pretty day is something I’m going to do again. Hometown shopping with the people who live and work in our area is not only fun but also helps neighbors. Most of all, downtown Rosenberg shopping is a lot more fun than walking around a sterile mall.

I enjoy browsing through the antique shops as those are a walk down memory lane. One of my favorite places to visit is the Art Center. It’s a colorful reminder of how wonderfully creative people can be.

In 2017, I wrote about going back in time to my teenage days. I’m still looking for go-go boots, and the soundtrack to “Saturday Night Fever” remains a favorite.

Some resolutions stay on the list year after year.

I’ll keep adding “make apologies” to the list again. I know myself – I will continue to blunder through life, so apologies are part of my daily life.

Another thread over the years is self-improvement. I’ve promised to stop nagging, to listen more and talk less and to pay attention. Losing weight is always on the list.

I’ve failed miserably in all of those categories.

So, I’ve amended the resolution to one that’s actually doable – give myself a break.

Accepting who I am and what I can and can’t accomplish might be the best resolutions I can make for 2025.

All those lofty promises have accomplished is make me feel guilty for what I didn’t finish and not give myself enough credit for what I did check off the list.

Reading through my past New Years columns, there’s one wish that appears year after year.

It’s to remain hopeful.

And, in 2025, that’s a resolution I can honestly keep.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.