Grown-up problems are tough.

There’s bills to pay, income tax woes and purchasing new tires for one’s vehicle.

But the worst grown-up problem is dealing with the “ick.”

It’s the yukky jobs no grown up wants to ever tackle.

I faced the “ick” this week when our freezer started acting crazy.

Instead of filling up the ice-cube tray with water and emptying frozen cubes into the ice dispenser, the water kept overflowing the tray and we’d find water all over the floor.

The inside of the freezer looked like something out of an arctic cave. But the worst was what our son discovered when he took a flashlight and looked up into the tucked-away water dispenser area to figure out what was going wrong.

He found the mother lode of ick.

Fifteen years’ worth of lime scale, mineral deposits and gunky stuff was all up in there. There was no way to see the ick because it was out of the line of sight.

So I started looking around the house at other hidden areas, and I saw quite a few housekeeping items to add to my ick list.

Since I was in the kitchen, I realized it had been a while since I’d swept or vacuumed underneath the refrigerator. When I got down on the floor and looked, there was so much dust under there, I thought I was looking into an abandoned mummy’s cave.

Standing up, I realized I couldn’t remember the last time I dusted off the top of the refrigerator. I’ve always rationalized that cleaning chore away with the fact that I’m only 5’2” tall and I can’t see what’s up there so it doesn’t matter.

It matters.

Same goes for the top shelves in the kitchen cabinets. I hauled out the step stool and looked – yep, lots of dust up there.

While I was on the ladder, I noticed there’s dust on the ceiling fan blades. Usually the fans are running because we live in the South where it’s hot most of the year.

Because it’s winter and they’re not spinning, I can finally see the layer of dust on top of the blades.

I took a long, hard look at the living room. I don’t remember the last time I took the cushions off the couch to vacuum, but I have a feeling it’s pretty grubby because the grandkids love to eat popcorn and cookies on the couch while watching television.

Then there’s the lampshades. I thought the bulbs were growing dimmer. Turns out, there’s dust on the lampshades. Since we never touch the lampshades, that ick layer has remained undisturbed for months.

A couple of weeks ago, I noticed the shower head didn’t seem to be putting out as much water. I put on my glasses and noticed mineral deposits were covering some of the holes.

We short people have a tough time keeping an eye on the shower heads, but some vinegar and a stiff brush took care of that problem.

I walked into the bedroom and looked behind the door. We never close that door, so, as a result, there’s a nice accumulation of dust and dog hair back there.

Out of sight, out of mind.

Just so it doesn’t appear our house should be visited by the board of health, I keep most areas clean. Bleach and Lysol are my big buddies on Saturday mornings when it’s house cleaning time, and the inside of the refrigerator gets a good cleaning once every couple of months.

This morning, I told my husband about the ick, and to tell the refrigerator repair people not to come. We’d be wheeling that fridge out and replacing it with a new clean refrigerator.

But by the time I came home, he’d completely taken apart the whole water dispensing section in the door of the fridge, cleaned and disinfected every inch of the water dispenser area and run bleach and water through all the tubes.

He got rid of the ick.

If only I can talk him into tackling the top of the fridge…

 

              This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

 

 

I’m not much for the outdoors.

Winters are the worst as I hate being cold. I’m bundled up in socks, sweat pants, and a robe every evening the thermometer dips below 60 degrees.

It doesn’t matter that the temperature in the house is the same in January as it is in July. My feet sense that winter’s here, and they turn into ice cubes.

I enjoy looking at snow and wintery landscapes as long as I’m snuggled up underneath a blanket indoors.

When our son invited me to come up and help him clear some brush behind the house he’s building, I was happy to go. Not because I’d be spending the day outside in January but because I’d be spending the day with my grandchildren.

Chris had built a nice rectangular fire pit, and it was all set up when we arrived. All of us got busy picking up logs and branches, throwing them in one giant pile.

After a while, we wanted to build a fire in the pit to warm up, so Chris gathered some old papers and a lighter.

He’d get the paper to light, but the fire kept going out. After about 30 minutes, my cold fingers told me that fire needed to get lit and lit fast.

Chris handed over fire duties to me, but this city gal wasn’t quite sure where to start.

And then I remembered how my husband taught our boys and me many years ago how to build a successful fire.

I recall being frustrated with his making us divide the sticks into four piles – small sticks and twigs to use for kindling, small sticks, medium-sized sticks and the biggest logs we’d gathered.

As a person who wants to get things done quickly, I didn’t see why we couldn’t just dump all the sticks into one pile.

An Eagle Scout and an engineer, hubby said we needed to line up what we needed first and then build the fire correctly or it wouldn’t last long.

So for years, I gathered sticks, separated them into piles and secretly complained that I was having to do a lot of work when I could just as easily have one giant pile of sticks and pull out what I needed when I needed it.

At first, I tried to light the newspaper on fire and throw some big sticks in there, but the flames went out. After about 15 minutes, I conceded – husband was right. We needed to start with the basics.

So I cleared everything out of the fire pit and built a rectangular base out of medium-sized sticks, just like he’d taught me, and put newspaper on top of that so air could get underneath the paper.

On top of the newspaper, I arranged small sticks and some dried moss. One click of a Bic lighter, and the newspaper caught fire, as did the small sticks. I slowly added more small sticks, careful not to overload the fledgling flames.

I had to admit, having the sticks separated made it easy to add the little sticks instead of hunting through a big pile.

With a nice-sized flame going, I added a few medium-sized sticks – just a few at a time – and watched the fire catch hold and actually burn. In about 1

I’m not much for the outdoors.

Winters are the worst as I hate being cold. I’m bundled up in socks, sweat pants, and a robe every evening the thermometer dips below 60 degrees.

It doesn’t matter that the temperature in the house is the same in January as it is in July. My feet sense that winter’s here, and they turn into ice cubes.

I enjoy looking at snow and wintery landscapes as long as I’m snuggled up underneath a blanket indoors.

When our son invited me to come up and help him clear some brush behind the house he’s building, I was happy to go. Not because I’d be spending the day outside in January but because I’d be spending the day with my grandchildren.

Chris had built a nice rectangular fire pit, and it was all set up when we arrived. All of us got busy picking up logs and branches, throwing them in one giant pile.

After a while, we wanted to build a fire in the pit to warm up, so Chris gathered some old papers and a lighter.

He’d get the paper to light, but the fire kept going out. After about 30 minutes, my cold fingers told me that fire needed to get lit and lit fast.

Chris handed over fire duties to me, but this city gal wasn’t quite sure where to start.

And then I remembered how my husband taught our boys and me many years ago how to build a successful fire.

I recall being frustrated with his making us divide the sticks into four piles – small sticks and twigs to use for kindling, small sticks, medium-sized sticks and the biggest logs we’d gathered.

As a person who wants to get things done quickly, I didn’t see why we couldn’t just dump all the sticks into one pile.

An Eagle Scout and an engineer, hubby said we needed to line up what we needed first and then build the fire correctly or it wouldn’t last long.

So for years, I gathered sticks, separated them into piles and secretly complained that I was having to do a lot of work when I could just as easily have one giant pile of sticks and pull out what I needed when I needed it.

At first, I tried to light the newspaper on fire and throw some big sticks in there, but the flames went out. After about 15 minutes, I conceded – husband was right. We needed to start with the basics.

So I cleared everything out of the fire pit and built a rectangular base out of medium-sized sticks, just like he’d taught me, and put newspaper on top of that so air could get underneath the paper.

On top of the newspaper, I arranged small sticks and some dried moss. One click of a Bic lighter, and the newspaper caught fire, as did the small sticks. I slowly added more small sticks, careful not to overload the fledgling flames.

I had to admit, having the sticks separated made it easy to add the little sticks instead of hunting through a big pile.

With a nice-sized flame going, I added a few medium-sized sticks – just a few at a time – and watched the fire catch hold and actually burn. In about 10 minutes, we had a nice fire going and we were able to add the big logs.

I relearned a valuable lesson that afternoon.

When you want something that will last, start small, keep going and don’t overload your pile or your life.

Everything starts with a solid, sturdy base, the patience to know when and how to add more fuel and when to add the big challenges.

I have to say the words my husband has been waiting over 30 years for hear, words I’ll readily admit he’s earned numerous times:  “Honey, you were right.”

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

I love a mystery.

When my sisters and I visited Charleston, S.C., one of the first activities we signed up for was the midnight walking ghost tour.

We looked in vain, but we didn’t see any ghosts staring out of windows or lurking in trees.

Likewise for touring The Myrtles Plantation in St. Francisville, La. We searched for the ghost girl in the window and for strange etchings on a mirror, but we didn’t see anything unusual.

Despite not seeing anything that would even come close to being classified as paranormal, I always hoped I’d see something other worldly.

I might’ve gotten my wish.

My husband and I were heading to Louisiana for our Cajun Christmas with the Hebert family. We left the Houston area late in the day, so we were driving across the Atchafalaya Basin at night.

The Atchafalaya Basin is the nation’s largest river swamp covering over a million miles of hardwoods, waterways and inlets. The basin bridge is about 18 miles long and allows travelers to cross the basin on a raised highway.

As we were cruising along, I looked up and saw two bright lights in the sky. At first, I thought they were part of a water or cell phone tower because they were too far apart to belong to an airplane.

But I realized they were moving, and I knew cell phone tower lights didn’t move. About that time, I asked my husband if he saw the lights, and he said he’d been watching them for a while.

As the lights got closer, I could see a panel of lights in between the two headlights, and then the lights took a right-turn and disappeared.

“Did you see that?” we said at the same time.

I had my cell phone on my lap but didn’t think I could get a picture to come out at night through the windshield at 60 miles per hour.

As we were trying to figure out what we saw, two more sets of lights appeared to the north, traveling just as quickly as the first set of lights.

That’s when I realized we weren’t seeing an airplane, a weather balloon or a helicopter.

We were seeing a UFO.

We’d seen three unidentified flying objects. I didn’t say they were alien spacecraft – they were unidentified. They were flying and they were objects.

I checked social media to see if anyone had posted anything about seeing lights over the basin.

Nothing.

I checked the news stations.

Nothing.

My husband did a bit more in-depth checking the next morning and read that the state of Louisiana was trying out drones on the west side of Baton Rouge and over the Atchafalaya to check on traffic, but we saw these drones at night over the water.

Common sense tells me that we saw weather drones or aircraft being used by oil companies or the state. Common sense tells me that just because we saw some lights in the sky doesn’t mean there were aliens flying above us.

There’s no way secret activities were taking place late at night over a sparsely populated swamp area where nobody could see what the government was up to.

But the part of my brain that wants to believe in ghosts, haunted houses and unexplained phenomenon in this world wants to believe we saw a UFO.

So I’m calling it like I saw it – check “seeing a UFO” off the bucket list.

That’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Most of us remember standing in the school nurse’s office, trying to read the eye chart. There was a giant “E” at the top, and we did our best to identify as many letters as possible.

Our hopes – having 20/20 perfect vision.

Today is the second day of the year 2020, the start of a new decade, the beginning of a year where we hope we get the 20/20 perfect diagnosis. New research, though, states that 20/20 isn’t really perfect vision, but most of us equate 20/20 with the ideal number at the optometrist’s office.

The internet is filled with prophecies about what’s going to make 2020 perfect. I read these websites with a grain of salt – we all remember when kale was going to be the miracle food.

Didn’t happen.

But it’s still fun to see what’s supposed to be the perfect trends for 2020, even if some of them are impractical.

According to Yahoo, online security continues to be a problem, and our cell phones will be the biggest target for phishing scams. These attacks come from hackers with nothing better to do than try and fleece you out of money.

Those of us who saw “The Sting” with Paul Newman know swindlers are nothing new, and there’s an easy mark born every minute.

People are still trying to decide between fake news and real news. The only way to do so is to follow the source of the story and do your own research. If the piece leans too far to the left or right, it’s fake.

If the headline screams “UFOs are landing now,” it’s fake. If the story contains facts from an unnamed source, it’s fake. If it’s on NPR, prepare to feel bad about breathing. If it’s from FOX, you know what side of the fence the reporter is on.

There’s always a lot of predictions about hot food trends for the coming year. We’ve seen tofu hailed as the next best thing only to fade from people’s memory within weeks.

Cauliflower pizza is supposed to be the hot item, but let’s be real – most people don’t like cauliflower.

The thought of trading a freshly baked flour-based pizza crust for a vegetable crust is sacrilegious unless one is gluten intolerant.

They also predict Korean cuisine will be the next hot food trend. Whether this is a way to pacify Korea and show them we want to play nice is anybody’s guess. Korean food is pretty good. My son and I had a great meal at a small Korean restaurant when I visited Taiwan.

There was a small barbecue pit sunk on one end of the table, and the server brought us raw beef, chicken and shrimp to cook to our preferences over the grill.

Of course, there’s no way barbecue I have to cook myself can ever compete with spicy Texas barbecue, enchiladas swimming in cheese or thick Louisiana crawfish etouffee.

Tall pancakes are supposed to be a hot ticket in 2020. Those look pretty in the pictures, but tall stacks of pancakes aren’t practical.

Tall pancake stacks fall over and there’s no way to cut into them without making a mess. Stick with the saucer-sized ones – stacked two high – and forget the trend.

According to Market Watch, the Impossible Burger at Burger King is available at over 7,000 franchise sites.

If I’m getting a burger, I want beef, tomatoes, lettuce, tomatoes, mayonnaise, a generous slab of cheese and dozens of pickles.

At least until I get that report back from the doctor with my updated cholesterol count.

I’m not even going to describe what Architectural Digest believes will be a top trend in furniture.

The day I put a plastic lawn chair in my living room with fake pink fur at the feet, brown velveteen for the seat and arm rests made out of puke-green metal is the day I put plastic wrap on our couches and plastic rug runners on the floor.

In this house, coziness wins out over fashion.

Our brown La-Z-Boy couches are broken in and comfortable, our end tables have survived two generations and I don’t care if the grandkids turn the kitchen table into a blanket fort.

My outlook for 2020 is to keep my sights on what I can see, to keep trying to read that bottom line and to know that 20/20 is good enough.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

It’s the day after Christmas, and if your house is like mine, bags of crumpled wrapping paper piled up under the carport and enough leftovers for a week.

The spirit of Christmas doesn’t have to be end. We need to remember the generosity of some folks in our midst and pay forward their giving spirit all year.

The people in Pecan Grove understand what the holiday spirit is all about.

For decades, families have decorated their yards for the Christmas season, and people drive from all over to see the lights.

We know about this first hand since we lived in Pecan Grove for over 20 years.

Our boys were toddlers when we moved in, and we told them the lights were a Texas way of welcoming us to their midst.

Pecan Grovers are still welcoming, and this year, neighbors outdid themselves. Visitors were welcome to take pictures in front yards. At the “Frozen” house, the owners dressed as Anna and Elsa and greeted visitors every night.

One home encouraged people to take pictures with their yard signs. A neighbor dressed up as The Grinch and handed out candy canes.

But what touched so many was the Facebook Wish List where people in Pecan Grove could nominate families needing a helping hand and receive the help they needed and much more.

Even though we moved, administrator Paul Christy invited me to stay as a member of the Facebook group, and I’ve been reading the incredible responses to people in need.

Sometimes it was a family asking for help, a neighbor with a debilitating disease, someone out of work, a single parent trying to make ends meet. The wishes were granted above and beyond what was asked.

People banded together and gave thousands of dollars in gift cards, donated frozen meals to those unable to cook, donated bicycles, groceries, toys and furniture.

They made connections for employment for those out of work and provided hope for those unsure of where to reach out for help.

Not only was the list of items provided more than what the family asked for, the bounty was made possible by neighbors who chipped in to bring an abundance of Christmas cheer.

That’s what a whole neighborhood can do when they have a mission, but young families, like Coy and Lisa Elliott, also spread holiday cheer.

Our eldest son, Nick, has been friends with Coy since they were in high school.

Coy, his wife, Lisa, and their three sons were part of their church effort to deliver food and supplies to the homeless in downtown Houston.

But the Elliotts went past that Christmas charity.

They found out about three elderly veterans at a local nursing home who seldom received visitors.

The Elliotts went to the nursing home and brought slippers and gifts to these men who served their country when asked and were now in the twilight of their lives with few visitors left to see them.

The Elliotts not only brought smiles to these men’s faces, they taught their sons the true meaning of charity and good will.

I was picking up some last-minute Christmas gifts with my sister-in-law who’s battled rheumatoid arthritis all of her adult life. Things are tight for them as medical bills keep rising, and my brother had to get a new job as his company was closing.

On our way out of the store, my sister-in-law reached over and handed an elderly lady sitting some cash and told her to have a Merry Christmas. I never even thought of randomly giving a stranger a gift, but she did.

She reminded me of an invaluable lesson – to preserve our humanity and to make the world a better place, we need to keep that spirit alive year round, and not just at Christmas.

There will always be those who suddenly find themselves in trouble – if we all reach out together, we can make a positive difference.

There will always be a lonesome person in a nursing home – let’s remember them at holidays throughout the year.

There will always be someone in need. Let’s remember it is truly more heart-warming to give rather than receive.

And let’s keep that holiday spirit alive each and every day of the year.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

In the movie “Field of Dreams,” a voice whispers to Ray Kinsella “Go the distance.”

I thought about that phrase when wrapping Christmas gifts this week. After a full day, the last thing I wanted to do was fiddle with wrapping paper and bows.

I’ve always been a fan of curling ribbon, and I usually love creating colorful swirls of curling ribbon on top of the wrapped boxes.

This year, I was tired. I wanted to slap some wrapping paper on the box, write the person’s name on the front with a magic marker – forget a gift tag – and be done with the whole enterprise.

But after wrapping the first gift and looking at the plain box, I could hear my mom whispering – go the distance.

Take the Extra Step

Years ago, I volunteered to make sandwiches for a family baby shower. A few days before the event, my mom called and asked what kind of sandwiches I was going to make.

“Chicken salad,” I said. “I’ll just pick up a container of pre-made stuff from the store.”

“You’re going to cut the crusts off those sandwiches, right?” my mom asked.

“No way,” I told her. “That takes too much time.”

She didn’t say anything for a minute, and then came the zinger.

“You need to go the extra step and cut the crusts off,” Mom replied. “That extra step shows the guests you think they’re special.”

Frankly, I didn’t think anybody would pay much attention to whether or not there were crusts on the sandwiches.

But my mom’s words stuck with me, and I ended up cutting the crusts off.

They did look a bit fancier that way, and I learned going the extra distance is worth the trouble and not only for crust-less fancy sandwiches.

The extra step is what people do when guests are coming over and you sit at the table with real forks instead of passing around a bag of chips and a jar of salsa.

The extra step is when we ask someone about their day, wait for an answer and truthfully ask an interested follow-up question.

We don’t always have to add the extra step for others – taking that extra step for ourselves makes life easier and more enjoyable.

When taking off our dirty clothes, the extra step is turning them right-side out and then putting them in a clothes basket instead of dropping them on the floor.

We don’t have to look all over the place for our dirty clothes – they’re in one place, making life easier.

Plus when we take the clothes out of the dryer, we don’t have to turn them right-side out. That step is already done because we took time at the front end.

The extra step is what I need to do to these presents before I put them under the tree. The people I love, the ones I spent time shopping for, deserve that extra step of my curling the ribbons on their Christmas gifts.

There are days when the bag and the jar are going the extra distance, when we drop our dirty clothes on the floor because we’re dog tired, and we don’t have the energy to hear someone whine about their day.

And that’s okay.

There’s a secret about the extra step – if we always took that step, it would no longer be special.

At the end of the night, I looked at the gifts, ribbons dangling over the edges and pretty name tags on the front.

Mom was right. Going the extra step is definitely worth it, especially for the people who are extra special and that includes you.

May your travels and loved ones be safe this holy season. Merry Christmas and happy holidays to all of you!

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

I’ve always racked up mileage on a car.

I blamed the miles on taking the boys to and from school every day, going to sports practices and games and the long distance between home and the grocery store.

The truth is, I’ve always loved driving.

For my 15^th birthday, the only thing I wanted was my driver’s license. Back in the day in Louisiana, the legal age to get a driver’s license was 15, and I was the first one in line on my birthday.

I was ready on all counts. My dad said if I didn’t know how to drive a stick shift, I didn’t know how to drive, so he spent a few afternoons teaching me the art of using a clutch and the column shift.

I remember learning how to maneuver the shift “H” on the column. That Ford moved like the wind, which made sense as the police in town drove the same model and style car.

The Ford had a habit of stalling, and I got pretty good at talking friends into pushing the car while I popped the clutch.

The first car where the keys stayed in my purse was my dad’s old Pontiac Executive.

There were lots of reasons why my dad gave me that car. Mainly, he got a better one and gave me the junker.

I had to pump the brakes to get the car to stop, and the butterfly valve on the engine stuck.

Starting the car on cold mornings required two people. One person had to pop the hood and jiggle the valve while the other person started the car. But then we were off for adventures.

My favorite part of driving the car at night was the dimmer switch for the lights. It was on the floor, near my left foot, and I’ve never understood why car engineers deleted that option.

When my brother started driving, my dad traded the Pontiac for an old 1958 Chevy. Driving that car was like driving a tank, and my mom liked that just fine.

One morning, the car’s thermostat came on while I was on my way to school.

I pulled over at a gas station – back then there were mechanics at the gas station – and I asked him to take a look.

He came around to my window and told me not to get out of the car. Apparently a cat had crawled up into the engine compartment to stay warm, and he didn’t get out in time when the fan came on.

The attendant said I didn’t want to see what was under the hood. I was relieved a few years later when Detroit started putting a housing on engine fans.

The first car I ever bought on my own was a white hatch-back Honda Civic. The price was non-negotiable which was fine as the sticker total was a few thousand dollars below anything else on the market.

That car was reliable, fast and easy on gas and maintenance. I kept that car for years until our second child was coming along. No way could we fit a car seat, a 5-year-old and two adults in that little car.

I cried when we sold it, even though I knew we had to, and happily drove mini vans until our youngest son went to college.

I moved to sedans for a while, but with four grandchildren in the Houston area, I’ve been driving a Highlander with a third seat.

Some days, I wish I still had that old Ford, just so I could see if I could still pop the clutch.

Until then, I’ll have to be content with all the bells and whistles on modern cars.

I think I can handle it.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald

When my eldest son was born, I panicked when it was time to take the baby home.

“How do they know I can take care of him?”

“I don’t know if I can take care of this baby!”

“There’s no manual, no guide, no directions. Don’t they know I don’t have a clue what to do?”

Luckily I had my mom to help guide me through those first few weeks, and she was a life saver, both to me and my son.

She gave him his first bath because I was scared to put him in water.

I agonized over whether to put him to sleep on his back or his stomach. Both scenarios had dire consequences, and I got up numerous times during the night to flip him over to his tummy and then over to his back.

That was almost 40 years ago, and he turned out just fine. When the second and third babies came around, I felt like I had the hang of things, but I never forgot the feelings I had with the first baby.

I thought about those days when our friends, Bridget and Dave, announced their first grandchild had been born.

When buying a baby gift, I thought I’d include a note to help the new parents through those first few weeks. Here goes:

“How can something so small…”

Something that small can scream loud enough to shatter your eardrums. At times, that endless screech will be like a sword running through your head.

Of all the things you imagined your newborn doing, how their voice sounded probably never occurred to you.

That oversight will come back to haunt you at 2 a.m.

Something that small can generate more dirty diapers than you ever thought possible.

You’ll change the diaper and, literally two minutes later, they are filling the diaper up all over again. Get used to it. That end of your newborn is the gift that keeps giving.

Something that small needs more clothes than a fashion shoot. There’s onesies for casual day-time wear, and you need at least a dozen because babies spit up all the time.

You also need booties, socks, hats, extra pacifiers and at least three back-up outfits for all trips.

You’ll need at least a dozen receiving blankets. Those are used to keep the baby warm and they come in handy to catch the never-ending flow of spit-up, leaking diapers and to put over your shoulder for the inevitable spit up that erupts like a volcano and with as much regularity.

Something that small will cause you to completely redecorate your house. For the first few days, you’ll think the breakables can stay on the coffee table.

Wrong.

Those have to go to make room for the extra diapers, boxes of wipe ups, stacks of diapers, clean clothes and empty plates you’ll generate because you can no longer eat at the table. You’re eating on the couch with the baby on your lap.

Enjoy those action movies filled with profanity now. Once the baby starts babbling, you’ll have to save those for when the baby’s asleep. Get used to watching Paw Patrol and Bubble Guppies.

Everything within arms’ reach has to be evaluated – can they swallow it? Break it? Chew on it? Smash it? Have an oversized wine glass filled with wine corks? Those now become choking hazards. That breakable joins the glass figurines and remote controls on the top shelf of the bookcase.

But there’s a bright side.

Something this small will cause your heart to grow more than you ever thought possible. You thought you knew what love was when you met your significant other.

That’s nothing compared to the love you’ll feel for this so-small person you’ve welcomed into your life.

Something this small will make you believe in miracles, and you’ll wonder how you ever survived without this child.

Something this small will make the biggest impact in your life, bigger than you ever thought possible.

That bigger-than-life feeling will stay with you for the rest of your life.

Something so small requires something big – your heart.

You’ll gladly hand it over.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Today is Thanksgiving, the day we share turkey, dressing and pecan pie.

As I’ve done for all my adult life, I can use Thanksgiving as a time to give thanks for all the wonderful people in my life and the many blessings I’ve been fortunate to receive.

This Thanksgiving, I’m going to turn the sentiments around. It’s time to stop focusing on my blessings and thank people who seldom get the thanks for what they do day in and day out.

Your neighbors. I’ve got great neighbors.

They check on my dog if it’s raining and always have a smile for us.

They’ve saved us when a water pipe broke, checked on our house when the alarm went off unexpectedly and will bring the empty trash cans and recycling bins up to our house when they know my husband’s out of town.

I need to thank them with a personal visit, not a text, and express how important they are to our whole block.

The grocery-store baggers. In the old days, sackers would bag up your groceries, load them in a cart and help you put the bags in your car. We’d tip them and everybody won.

For those of us who still physically shop in the grocery store, the baggers do the job but don’t get the tip.

Thank them for bagging your groceries. Make some small talk with them. You’re already standing there so why not acknowledge the person separating your eggs from the bread.

The librarians. I love the library. When I was a young girl, the library was my favorite place in the world.

I was in love with the wonderful smell of old books and bindings, the towering bookshelves and the thousands of books that allowed me to learn, relax and visit people and places from all time periods.

Librarians do a lot more than check out books. They shelve books we leave on tables, read voraciously, create seasonal displays and encourage children to become life-long readers.

I haven’t thanked them for their knowledge and willingness to recommend books to library patrons. They deserve thanks for keeping the library one of the last quiet sanctuaries in the world.

Behind-the-counter workers. People feel workers at the fast-food joint or the corner store already get paid so why thank them.

It’s their job, after all, to take our money, bag up our purchases and do everything fast and efficiently.

You are correct. But you could smile and thank them.. Look at life from their point of view. People are surly, grouchy and in a hurry. They stand there for over eight hours and have to smile at customers they probably want to punch in the face.

The mail carriers. Email and text messaging has replaced birthday cards and letters we put in an envelope and mail.

But there’s hundreds of postal workers who still put your mail in the right slot or box every single day, and we don’t even know what those people look like.

No matter how paperless we’re becoming, the U.S. Post Office is still delivering mail to you, whether that’s junk flyers or your paper copies of your credit-card statements.

Tape a note to your mailbox thanking your carrier for delivering your mail and your packages.

Our readers. I want to thank you for taking time to read my musings all these years, both in print and online.

If you’re a subscriber, thank you for supporting your local, home-town newspaper and the folks who deliver the paper to your driveway every day.

From my heart, thank you for giving me your time and allowing me to share my thoughts with you every week.

To as you ponder all of life’s blessings, consider those who seldom get thanked and make sure they know you appreciate them.

It’s a great way to start the Yuletide holiday season.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

There are silent, quick moments that jump out of my childhood. Not just the big ones like moving to Louisiana, getting a new sibling or when my dad’s toupee came in the mail.

Snapshots of ordinary days that, for some reason, cling to the top of my memory bank.

I’m the eldest of seven children. We’re stair-steppers – two years separates most of us, and we grew up sharing a lot of the same likes and dislikes.

Our parents taught us to stand up for each other, and even during our worst arguments, we stuck together.

One afternoon, my brother came home and said a kid down the street was picking on him. The four eldest children in the family – Jimmy, Johnny, Diane and I – immediately jumped up off the couch and walked down the middle of Evans Drive, our shoulders touching, looking for that kid.

We felt invincible alone but, together, we were more powerful than the Fantastic Four.

That afternoon was over 50 years ago, and we’ve all grown older since that summer in Baker Estates. As the eldest, the aches and pains should start with me, but we’ve all shared taking turns at the front of the gray-haired line.

My brother, Jimmy, was born a year and five days after me. We’ve always been close and he has a sixth sense when I need to talk to him.

He’s been an outstanding dentist all his adult life, and, as a result of craning to look into people’s mouths, developed arthritis in his neck a few years ago.

I didn’t realize how much the pain bothered him until I watched him complete a few chores at his house. He held his neck in a stiff manner, and it was obvious he didn’t feel great. But he’s not one to complain, in fact, none of us whine about the way Father Time is marching up and down our bodies.

That march is subtle at times – all of us wear reading glasses, and there’s a lot more gray in beards and hairdos than there used to be.

Almost all of us walk with a slight limp, thanks to a gift from the gene pool of having bad backs and sciatic trouble.

The youngest two in our family – Jeff and Donna – are still spry and healthy, and I wonder if they look at their older siblings like people look at flashing caution lights.

Time, however, keeps moving on, and there’s no way to stop the progression of wear and tear on our bodies.

This week, sister Diane had double knee replacement following years of painful walking. She was a runner in her youth, which didn’t help with the gene pool gift of rubbery knees, and she also spent years on the soccer field sidelines taking pictures.

But Diane’s one of the toughest and most determined women I’ve ever met, and she told me she’s going to do everything the doctors tell her to do to recuperate.

She’s following our mom’s lead. When Mom had knee replacement surgery a few years ago, she was walking down the halls the next day and completed all the rehabilitation exercises the doctor ordered.

All this at the age of 80.

Diane says if Mom can do it, so can she.

It’s in the genes. It’s in that mental snapshot I have of my grandfather walking to and from work every day following a massive heart attack, my Grandma Marguerite losing weight without complaining when she found out she had diabetes and my dad letting his granddaughter decorate his electric scooter when he didn’t have enough oxygen to walk.

Those memory snapshots seem like they happened yesterday. And perhaps that’s how life progresses – a series of memories that when strung together, convince us to be stronger than we believed we could be.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.