It’s a dreary day and I’m going to tackle a dreaded chore I’ve been putting off for about 10 years – cleaning out the closet.

This isn’t first on my gotta-do list. I could sit down in front of the television with a bowl of popcorn and binge watch “America’s Worst Cooks.”

Or I could find mates to all the orphaned socks, clean out the junk drawer or vacuum under the couch.

But it’s time to roll up my sleeves and organize my closet, the one area where I find myself totally overwhelmed.

When we moved in, I promised myself I’d maintain my closet. All the pants went on the bottom rod and shirts and skirts went on the top.

I folded all the T-shirts and put those on a shelf. I lined up my shoes on a shelf instead of throwing them in a corner. Hangers were finally used.

That was years ago, and there’s only so much room in a closet. I faced the facts – some things needed to go.

T-shirts seem to be the most out of control, so I decided to start there.

I only own two long-sleeved T-shirts so both of those should stay. Same goes for the Christmas T-shirt – it’s the only holiday shirt I own.

There’s a couple of sentimental shirts from family reunions and from my teaching days. In the words of superstar organizer Marie Kondo, they “bring me joy” and get to stay.

At the bottom of the stack are two paint-splattered T-shirts. I use those for messy projects, so they have to stay as well.

Seems like I’m keeping all the T-shirts.

Time to move on to the dressy shirts.

Some have tags from stores that have gone out of business. Some are sleeveless, even though I won’t wear sleeveless shirts, and some are itchy or the collar’s too high.

However, I paid full price for them, so I’ll keep those as a reminder that full price doesn’t always mean full comfort. Also, for full price, I need to learn to like turtle necks.

On to the pants.

These seem to fall into three categories:  too small, barely fit or if I suck in my stomach and hold my breath, they’ll fit.

There’s a pair of jeans in the back part of the closet I wore before I had my first child.

They’re 40 years old, but one day, I’ll fit into those jeans.

One day, bell bottoms will come back in fashion.

One day hasn’t come yet, so I’ll hold on to those a little bit longer.

I’m not a fan of long sleeves but after this past winter where the temperature was 50 degrees in my house, I’m holding on to everything that’s warm.

Dresses are next. Now that I’m retired, I consider tossing all of the dresses on the donate pile, but there are some dress-up occasions I have to attend so I’ll keep all of them.

Dresses remind me I need high-heels. This one black pair isn’t the most comfortable but they make me feel tall, so I’m keeping them.

Another pair are like fun tap shoes, so they’re definitely staying.

These black flats were a terrific bargain, and I’ll keep those as a trophy to smart shopping.

I stand back with satisfaction – all the T-shirts are neatly folded on a shelf, pants are on hangers and the dresses are all facing the same direction.

The donate pile doesn’t have one thing in it, but that’s okay. When I lose weight, I’ll have a bunch of too-big clothes to donate.

That’s going to happen about the same time aliens land in my back yard and take me to their leader.

At least I can tap dance my way onto the ship.

 

This column was originally published in the Fort Bend Herald. 

We all have that picture.

The one in the elementary or junior high yearbook. The picture where we cringe every time we see it.

Either we had a goofy look on our faces, we were having a bad hair day or our eyes were closed.

For me, the hide-my-head year was seventh grade.

I’d given myself uneven bangs on a forehead not created for bangs.

The bangs were supposed to hide my bushy eyebrow – yes, I had only one that went across my face – but the bangs made the look worse.

I also needed braces, so I held my mouth in a funny smile that looked like I was sitting on a cactus, trying to remain serious.

I came across that picture when going through photos I picked up from my Mom.

She was recuperating from a minor heart procedure, and my sister and I were sitting on her bed talking to her.

Mom opened a drawer and we noticed it was filled with small photo albums and loose pictures.

The hundreds of photos in that drawer were the result of everyone sending her pictures over the past 30 years and from her days of taking pictures with a small Kodak camera.

I took the photos home to scan and post the images on our Facebook family page for everyone to see.

As I went through the stacks, I found some gems.

Mom had pictures of her mother throughout the years. I saw my grandmother’s hands and remembered how silky soft they were.

Those hands were seldom still as she was either making chicken and rice, crocheting or finishing up an embroidery pattern on pillowcases.

There were also pictures of our Grandma Marguerite, always wearing high heels, jewelry and her hair perfectly styled.

There were pictures of Mom’s siblings, some of whom have passed away.

Pictures of our Aunt Bev made me tear up but then smile as seeing her again reminded me of the many conversations we had and how she taught me how to knit and find bargains.

Seeing our relatives’ smiling faces in my grandparents’ living room with the gold couches and gold-flocked wallpaper was like stepping back in time.

Once again, I could hear the laughter in that room, and then I noticed the bright red carpet that ran through all the downstairs rooms.

I’d forgotten the carpet back story until I saw the pictures. My grandmother asked my grandfather to go pick out some carpet for the house as she was busy.

Red was his favorite color, so that’s the color he picked out. I don’t think she ever forgave him.

I was reminded how gorgeous our Aunt Kathy was and how she lit up a room with her smile and kindness. Photos of my Cajun uncles brought up memories of crabbing and fishing.

The photos showed how we’d all changed, from young kids to grandparents. Our children’s growing up was documented as well, from darling toddlers to apathetic teens to parents themselves.

Family trips were recorded, like the time some of the siblings visited Las Vegas.

There was a late-night blackjack game where the dealer took pity on us and allowed us to win a few hands.

The memories might be hazy, but those tangible pictures allow us to remember and relive those wonderful moments on a sandy beach at some property my parents owned, at a backyard barbecue accompanied by a never-ending basketball game, at chaotic Christmas celebrations, birthdays and impromptu get-togethers.

The photos are now scanned and posted on our family Facebook page where relatives are loving taking a trip back through the past.

Even the cringe-worthy elementary school pictures.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.  

For most of my life, I’ve battled tossing and turning at bedtime, eyes wide open, unable to shut my brain off.

Recently, I started watching mindless YouTube videos to try and get to sleep.

One restless night, I found the gold-mine of insomnia-chasing videos:  cleaning channels. Over 400,000 people tune in to one of the most entertaining cleaners, Jessica Tull.

Jessica and other YouTubers have all kinds of tips for taking your home from a total wreck to a neat-freak’s paradise.

None of the professionals in the videos are distracted by finding the remote control under a couch cushion and settling down for a “Friends” marathon.

No interruptions courtesy of the dog turning over the water bowl.

No balancing the telephone under their ear while trying to scrape gum off the floor.

No frustration in discovering someone left a marker on the rug and there’s a two-inch ring of color around the now-dried-up marker.

After watching Jessica straighten up her kitchen, garage and entire house, I was inspired to be honest with myself.

Exactly what needed cleaning in my house?

Answer:  Everything.

The floors needed mopping, I haven’t dusted in months – oh be honest, years – closets are places I hide things and the only reason our refrigerator is clean is because we had to buy a new one.

No more procrastinating.

It was time to organize, clean and conquer.

I headed to the store, determined to make sure I was fully armed for the task ahead. One hundred and twenty dollars later, I was back home, confident and ready to clean.

Big jobs are always easier if I start with the smallest task. I started with the cabinet where I’ve stockpiled water glasses, coffee cups, Thermos mugs and superhero drinking cups.

I took everything out, threw away the glasses with cloudy bottoms, cracks or chips, wrapped the coffee cups we don’t use in newspaper and put them in a bag to donate.

As instructed by Jessica, I used one of my new cleaning products to wipe down the shelves before putting back only what’s usable.

Result:  Organization.

Energized, I got out the new floor vacuum I’d bought, a Dust-buster on steroids, and ventured into No Man’s Land – underneath the couch.

After months of not cleaning, those dust bunnies were the size of elephants, but my new vacuum sucked them right up, and I only had to empty out the canister three times before I finished.

Next was the cleaning supply cabinet. Sitting on the floor, I realized a few things.

One, I had no idea what some of those cleaners accomplished.

Second, because I was disorganized, there were four bottles of 409, two almost-empty containers of Lysol, an empty can of Comet and three cans of Pledge, one with a missing nozzle.

I was undeterred because, thanks to Jessica, I’d purchased the ultimate cleaning tool, one that empowered me with confidence to tackle anything:  the Mr. Clean Magic Eraser.

Mr. Clean’s been the face of powerful cleaning since I was a kid, and the word “magic” promised salvation.

The big bald guy and I got to work.

Three minutes with the Magic Eraser, and the scum on the shower doors was gone.

Same with a few pesky rust stains in the bathtubs and the calcium build up around the faucets.

I went through three of the Magic Erasers before I called it a day.

There’s still a lot left to organize and clean and a lot of cleaning products I need to figure out what they’re good for.

At least I know when all else fails, magic works.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Every town with a newspaper had one – the society editor.

In bygone days, the society editor was a woman who reported upcoming teas, weddings, receptions, galas and social events.

She knew the correct way to list the attendants in a wedding, how to address a minister and the best gossip source in town.

The Herald-Coaster’s society editor was Betty Dawes Humphrey, and the grand dame, or grand heifer as she might call herself, passed away this week at the age of 88.

And she made the most of those 88 years.

She started her over 50-year career in the newspaper business balancing a manual typewriter on wooden crates as the printing presses were rolling.

It wasn’t long before her knack for writing in a conversational style and her friendships with hundreds of people made her the best choice for the Herald Coaster’s family editor.

Her office was located in the middle of the newsroom, and her desk was cluttered with things Betty loved – photos of her family, newspaper proof sheets and her legendary Rolodex with the phone numbers of almost every single person in Fort Bend County.

New reporters were taken under Betty’s wings, encouraged and taught the correct way to report the news. “Children,” she instructed us “are reared. Animals are raised.”

Fancy, three-syllable writing was for those unwilling to get details. Plain factual writing in a conversational tone was her style.

Betty made sure we gave her tips and information for her “Bits from Betty” column, written as if you were sitting in the beauty parlor with your best friends trading gossip and local news.

One of the events Betty loved was the Fort Bend County Fair. She usually announced the parade lineup from a grandstand in downtown Richmond, and she always added her own side note to groups as they passed by.

When intern Kim Kovar was taking pictures near the grandstand one year, Betty called her name out on the loudspeaker and complimented Kim on her reporting skills.

Kim wanted to dive underneath the closest folding chair but she knew better than to tell Betty “no.”

Betty took me with her to the Fair’s senior luncheon once or twice, and I was usually left handing out plates while she visited with every single table in the building.

Former Fort Bend Herald editor Bob Haenel worked with Betty for over 30 years and remembers her nosiness was what made her so successful.

It wasn’t unusual to go to lunch with Betty and she’d practically fall out of her chair to eavesdrop on the people talking next to her, he said.

But Bob, like most folks who knew Betty, loved her.

If you were single, she’d tried to get you married, he said. If you didn’t want to tell your age, Betty got that number out of you no matter how long the digging took.

She loved her children and was a bragging grandmother. She had her share of heartache with the loss of her son. Perhaps that’s why she was always so kind and patient to whoever came in with an obituary. They found an open heart and a patient ear in her office.

And it didn’t matter what color or nationality you were. Betty knew people from all walks of life, and I watched her talk with everyone, from janitors to mayors, with equal amounts of respect and friendliness.

There was no “I’m better than you are” in her world.

Your child’s birth, First Communion, Quinceanera, baptism, wedding, reception, accomplishment – all were important to her and she made sure your family was represented with the knowledge someone knew you mattered.

I’d bet there’s hundreds of well-worn scrapbooks with a “Bits from Betty” column glued inside because she knew the importance of having one’s name in the local paper.

I have at least a dozen of the holiday cookbooks the newspaper published, and she could write a column faster than anyone in the office.

She critiqued my stories in a frank, honest manner, and her advice was right on the money.

When I’m writing, I hear her voice, her wonderful laugh and her warning to not park in her spot.

Betty, I hope the angels know someone’s recording their every move and listening in to every conversation.

Make room for her at heaven’s table, Lord. Like all of us, you’ll be glad you did.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.         

I’ve lost lots of things in my life – keys, money, keepsakes.

I once lost the year I was 25.

During a casual conversation, a co-worker realized I was wrong about how old I was.

“You’re the same age as me,” she said. “You’re 25.”

Slowly, I realized she was absolutely correct.

I’m not good with numbers or math but, this time, I knew my math skills had to be part of my DNA because I’d made myself older instead of younger.

This deficiency is because I was born a right-brained person, more interested in the arts and creative thinking.

Right-brainers daydream, something I still do. Usually I’m saving the day because in daydreams, one can be Tarzan, Wonder Woman or Batman.

We right-brainers also have a rich imaginative life. I used to imagine I was graceful.

As a teenager, hours were spent in my bedroom walking back and forth on an imaginary line, pretending I was a gymnast like Olga Korbut who dominated gymnastics in the 1970s. This fantasy was to make up for the reality that I was a complete klutz.

My left-brained husband never spends a minute straightening out a closet because he always puts things where they belong unlike on the floor like me.

Said left-brained husband never finds himself questioning the extra hardware after putting together a shelf because he counted all of the nails and screws and compared them to the supply list before he started.

That’s opposite to his right-brained wife who dives in without reading the directions and then wonders why there’s three screws left over.

Both of us have recently picked up our cameras and are taking pictures for fun. We both enjoy nature photography, but we approach our hobbies quite differently.

I was showing him some pictures I’d taken at a park, and he asked me some technical questions about the images.

“What f-stop did you use,” he asked.

“Not a clue,” I replied

“What was your shutter speed,” he asked.

Same reply.

He started talking about the mathematical relationship of the aperture opening and the camera’s ISO and I started thinking about what I was going to cook for dinner.

It wasn’t that I didn’t care what he was talking about – I honestly didn’t understand most of what he was saying.

When I’m taking pictures, I’m looking at lighting and my subject.

I don’t look at the numbers on the back of the camera – just how the image shows up after I snap the shutter.

I look at the gas gauge on my car and, when the gas gauge points to the half-way mark, I top off the tank because I don’t want to run out of gas.

Left-brained people know how exactly many more miles they can drive before they have to stop and refuel. That’s because they read the car’s manual and know that function actually exists.

Left-brained people measure before they hang pictures on the wall and only leave one hole in the sheetrock.

We right-brainers eyeball where we want the picture to go and leave at least four holes in the wall before we find the right spot.

Left-brained people seldom forget their deodorant or socks at home when on vacation.

We right-brainers know a trip to the dollar store is in our future whenever we’re out of town.

We right-brained people often get lost, but we don’t get mad. We figure the detour is a chance to explore somewhere new, and we’re open to seeing something unexpected.

Besides, we get lost a lot.

Right-brained people drive left-brained people crazy because we’re unpredictable, impulsive and believe mistakes are a chance to try something new.

If we’re lucky, though, right-brained people appreciate the logic and calm left-brainers bring to our lives.

Life is all about balance and appreciating that sometimes you have to get out of your comfort zone.

We right-brainers are walking examples that a wrong turn can actually become an adventure.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

 

Eating healthy is usually at the top of my resolution list. Ditch the Doritos, toss the Twinkies and fill the fridge with fruit.

The key to limiting fat and calories is healthy cooking. But as a girl raised in a Cajun kitchen where fats are the main ingredients, learning to cook without butter is practically impossible.

Last year, our son gave us an Instant Pot for Christmas. I oohed and aahed and said I couldn’t wait to use it.

In reality, I could wait to use that appliance because having a mini nuclear reactor in my kitchen was scary.

I’d heard that an Instant Pot is an updated pressure cooker. My mom had one, and I remember her locking the lid and telling us to move back.

Taking the top off, she said, would cause the food to explode all over the room.

Visions of beef stew dripping from the ceiling was a recurring nightmare.

That was then, this is now, I told myself as I read the Instant Pot directions. Technology has probably made pressure cooking a lot safer.

Maybe. Maybe not.

The “do nots” far outweighed the “dos.” No deep frying, no noodles or spaghetti and, in big letters, do not open the lid before the timer goes off.

There’s 16 keys on the front pad, the instruction booklet requires an engineering degree to decipher and big red “danger” warnings were on almost every single page.

So the mini nuclear reactor went back in the box.

Our Aggie son and his wife went for another healthy gift this year – an air fryer.

Great, I thought. Another appliance to hide whenever they’re coming over.

But wait a minute.

Our son wants us to eat healthier, and he’s given us a great tool. How hard can it be to use an air fryer?

I decided to be open minded and at least give it a try.

At least there were fewer buttons on the front than there are on the Instant Pot, and the owner’s manual wasn’t 100 pages long.

Best of all, there were dozens of air fryer videos on YouTube that looked easy – especially the ones cooking hot dogs and fries – so I decided to overcome my anxiety and cook some chicken I’d purchased.

I have a fear of undercooking poultry so our baked chicken is always tough and rubbery.

All the YouTubers I watched said poultry is juicy in the Instant Pot and I only had to cook the meat for 10-12 minutes. That’s a lot less than 45 minutes, so maybe this air fryer was a good thing.

I seasoned the chicken, rubbed some oil on top and pushed the tray into the air fryer.

The control panel lit up, dinged and made me feel as if I’d started the space shuttle.

For 10 minutes, the air fryer hummed along, and when the timer went off, I thought I’d pull out succulent, juicy chicken.

Wrong.

I pulled out chicken that was still raw. So I flipped the meat over, set the timer for 10 minutes and pushed the tray back in.

I seriously underestimated the power of the air fryer to cook in nanoseconds.

Ten minutes later, the chicken breasts were done all right. They were the same texture as if I’d overbaked them in the oven.

The next night, I tried fish in the air fryer. Despite following the directions to the letter, I could pick up the fish and eat it with my hands like it was a beef jerky.

I’ve learned my lesson. No more sacrificing chicken. No more cooking fish in the air fryer so it resembles the bottom of my tennis shoe.

From now on, I’m going to use the Instant Pot for its primary directive – cooking rice – and the air fryer for its primary mission – hot dogs and french fries.

And put healthy eating on the calendar for January 2022.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

A friend posed a house-cleaning question on Facebook – how often should one clean baseboards.

Most people posted once a month.

Some dusted every time they mopped the floor.

I posted that the baseboards were clean when we moved in eight years ago. Nothing much has changed since then so I figure leave well enough alone.

Maybe people are staying home due to covid or they’ve got spring cleaning fever, but I’m seeing a high number of posts asking for help in cleaning out closets and general housekeeping.

Some writers have easy advice. Others go full commando on dirt.

One video showed how to remove the toilet seat so you could take a toothbrush and scrub underneath the hinges.

If someone is looking underneath the hinges on your toilet to check for residual soap scum, that person has a lot more lacking in their life than you can fix with shiny porcelain.

Another hack was to take the oven door off so you could get your head in there to get the oven really clean.

This hack fails on so many levels.

An oven door probably weighs 50 pounds, so who wants to remove that oversized hunk of metal to clean something no one will ever see?

Besides, when you take the door off, the chances of dropping it on the floor and cracking the tile or ripping a hole in the vinyl becomes a reality. Then you have to somehow reattach the door.

I see a broken toe in this scenario.

Baking soda and vinegar are popular cleaning champs. They’re good for unclogging a sink, getting the skunk smell off your pet and removing soap scum.

Supposedly, a paste of these two will dissolve all the baked-on muck on a cookie sheet and, a few hours later, you have a cookie sheet that looks brand new.

Sorry, but the baked-on grease on my baking sheets is decades old and there’s no way a foaming baking-soda volcano is taking off those layers.

Kitchen condiments are often mentioned as cleaning wonders from using mayonnaise to repair scratches in your furniture to using ketchup to shine a stainless steel hook.

These hackers don’t mention that your clean household items will probably turn sticky and rancid and attract ants. But your hooks will be shiny.

One hacker believes those in search of clean floors should put double-sided tape on the bottom of slippers to dust the floor while you walk around.

The amount of dog hair on my floors would clog that tape up in less than 10 steps.

Organizing closets is a big seller on the hack channels. Let me offer the disorganized some hope – no one is going to go into your closet and grade you for how organized your shirts, shoes and pants are.

If they do criticize, it’s your fault for letting them into your closet.

The only time you need to clean out that closet is if you’re totally bored, can’t find your favorite jeans or there’s a cricket in the back of the closet and you can’t fall asleep until you find that singing insect.

To ease your mind, remember – no one is going to give you a medal if the ceiling fan blades are dust-free.

No one is going to type up a positive review if the inside of your pantry is organized and no one is going to post a glowing atta-boy on social media if you roll up the T-shirts in your drawer instead of shoving them in a drawer.

However, if you feel you must jump on the housecleaning bandwagon, buy a can of WD-40.

That spray will get rings off swollen fingers, remove gum from a child’s hair and will keep spiders away if you spray some on the window sill.

I think it’s a waste of time to mop a floor you’re just going to walk on 15 minutes later, but banishing spiders makes perfect sense.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Our dog is terrified of loud noises. Whenever there’s a thunderstorm, she whimpers, trembles and has to be held until the booming stops.

Fireworks are especially tough. We get ready for the New Year’s Eve and Fourth of July meltdowns by taking Channell for her nightly walk before dark.

On New Year’s night while on her nightly walk, she growled when an especially loud firework went off. Once inside, she slept right through two hours’ worth of “Auld Lang Syne” noises.

We’d been wondering if our 13-year-old buddy was having trouble with her hearing, and her ignoring the fireworks was worrisome.

In the past, if we said the word “squirrel,” she raced to the back door and jumped up and down until we opened the door.

These days, we say the word “squirrel” and she doesn’t budge from her comfortable spot on the carpet.

I’d be more worried if she didn’t show signs of hearing what she wants to hear.

The rattle of the dog food bag.

Food accidentally hitting the kitchen floor.

The grandkids unwrapping a piece of candy.

Because I grew up in a family with seven kids, I conditioned myself to hear what I wanted to hear:  the ice-cream truck and hidden messages in The Beatles songs when played backwards.

In a three-bedroom house with nine people, one had to learn to listen for important sounds and to tune out the worthless noises like my sister banging on our bedroom door, demanding to be let in.

Being a mom fine-tuned my hearing. When the boys were babies, I woke up if I heard them turn over in their crib.

If they cried, I bolted out of bed and was picking them up in seconds.

As they got older, I learned to ignore most noises, including the refrigerator being raided at 2 a.m., the beeping Mario theme from the Nintendo system and full body-slam wrestling matches.

They ignored my yelling “cut it out.” They turned deaf ears to my final warning:  “I’m not taking anybody to the emergency room today, so if you get hurt, deal with it.”

The boys could find hidden money in my purse but they couldn’t find the commode when they were nauseated. I was an Olympic sprinter when I heard “I have to throw up.”

There were sounds I could hear in a deep sleep:  The sound of the window slowly being raised at midnight, a door being opened just enough to let a teenager squeeze through without setting off the house alarm and someone taking money out of my wallet.

Our sons never remember hearing me say “clean up your room.” They thought I said “live in a pigsty – it’s okay with me.”

They never heard the phrase “bring back the change.” Everything either cost the exact amount of money I gave them or I owed them $5 more.

I can’t blame them; they were simply being kids. In reality, they get their selective hearing honestly from their grandmother, my mother.

At the age of 88, we’re always watching for signs she’s slowing down. One day, I told her about needing to go to the grocery store. Later in the conversation, she asked me if I was going to the store.

“Mom, I already told you that. Do we need to have you checked?” I asked.

There was a short silence and then her answer.

“Denise, I’m not senile. I’m just not that interested in everything you have to say, so I don’t always pay attention,” she said.

That’s selective hearing at its best.

It seems Channell has picked up a few tips from the grand master.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

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.