It’s Thanksgiving 2023, the time to give thanks for all our blessings. Those are a lot like our plate at Thanksgiving – either smothered with gravy or slim pickings because we can’t cook, are away from home or can’t muster up the holiday season.

It’s easy to lose sight of some of the small things we’re thankful for, the small gifts that make life a little easier.

For example…

Instant movies. No longer do we have to wait for Thanksgiving to watch “The Wizard of Oz.” It’s there with the click of a button on TBS Friday night or in the middle of July from any streaming service.

These premium channels have gotten so good, we can watch a black-and-white movie from the 40’s and the latest blockbuster on the same day without ever leaving our living room.

Salad in a bag. I used to buy lettuce, tomatoes and cucumbers in bulk. It was cheaper and the only way those vegetables came.

I’d forget those healthy choices were in the refrigerator. So the lettuce wilted, the tomatoes were squishy and the cucumbers turned gross before I could use them.

Now I can have a variety of yummy add ons to a salad just by buying a bag of salad fixings. Want a Caesar salad? Buy the bag. What about salad with fruits. Same answer. No more wilted lettuce. No more soggy tomatoes.

Microwave popcorn. Those of us who grew up in the 50’s and 60’s remember making popcorn on top of the stove with a nifty product called “Jiffy POP.”

You’d shake a covered metal pie plate filled with unpopped kernels over a stove burner until the foil on top magically lifted, the sounds of popping corn filling the air.

Most of the time, we burnt the popcorn because it was hard to tell when most of the kernels were popped, despite the big ball on top of the pie plate.

Now, pop a brown bag in the microwave, hit the popcorn button and, three minutes later, the corn is all popped, salted and ready to eat.

Mini drinks. I can’t count the number of half-full cans of Coke, Pepsi or Dr. Pepper I’ve poured down the sink because a full can was too much. Now they make mini cans of carbonated beverages that are the right size. They even make mini bottles of cappuccino. Caffeine lovers are thrilled.

I’m thankful for the following items, but with reservations.

        Cell phones. Yes, they’re convenient. Yes, they’re smart. But if you call a number by mistake, there’s no trying to hang up quickly so the person on the other end didn’t know you called.

You can no longer call someone just to see if they’re home. They know you called. And if you’re one of those people who used to call somebody at least a dozen times because you were worried or obsessive, the jig’s up. They know you were checking on them.

Fast-Food Hamburgers. Yes, they’re convenient. Yes, they’re inexpensive. But nothing beats the smell of a hamburger cooking in the kitchen.

Add some onions and you’re all set. If the burger’s done right, it’s okay when the juice runs down your arm. In fact, that means the burger’s perfect.

Old fashioned isn’t always bad.

I’m happy my mom taught me how to cook Thanksgiving dinner. I’m grateful our house will smell like my childhood home with turkey, dressing, home-made mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes and pecan pie.

Growing up, I took for granted my mom would have a great Thanksgiving meal for us. Now I know how important it was that she took the time to make sure one meal became a big memory.

Maybe stepping back in time isn’t always bad.

Happy Thanksgiving to you and your family!

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Christmas is weeks away, but people on social media are already posting pictures of their homes decked out for the winter holidays.

It’s impossible to go into a store and not see Christmas and Hanukkah holiday decorations. Red-and-green sale signs are on top of every display, and Christmas songs are playing in the elevator.

Craft stores cleared out Halloween pumpkins weeks before the end of October. Thanksgiving gets two weeks and then retailers go straight from orange and brown to red and green.

I used to be one of those people who muttered and complained – “Can’t they wait to push Christmas until we’ve at least eaten turkey and dressing?” “What’s the rush? They’ll get our holiday dollars soon enough.” “Give it a rest – I’m still wearing shorts.”

But my attitude has changed.

Now, I’m thrilled that we’re already celebrating Christmas and Hanukkah. Sappy songs, twinkling lights, and tinsel – count me in.

I look forward to driving at night, just so I can see people’s homes decorated with lights, metal reindeer and waving Santas.

I can’t wait to drive through Pecan Grove to see all the homes decorated, especially the time-honored favorites. I’m like a child, anxious to see what new yard displays will appear this year.

There’s a reason why I changed my attitude from “wait your turn” to “bring it on.”

We need happiness.

The sooner, the better.

Many people are still reeling from the effects of a world-wide pandemic. Families lost a loved one to Covid, and that pain is as raw as it was when they were denied seeing their sick relatives in the hospital.

Children struggle to catch up in schools, the job market is on a roller coaster, and people are afraid of things closing down again. Whenever I see a story about Covid coming back and hear whispers of a shutdown, I want to scream at the computer.

There’s a war in the Middle East that’s violent and relentless. The photos of the dead and wounded are haunting.

The possibility of a government shutdown looms over our heads. I still remember the backlog caused the last time – passports and immigration papers were delayed for months.

The bad news is overwhelming, so much so, that I turn off the news, reruns of “The Andy Griffith Show” a better alternative.

But all is not doom and gloom.

One of the Houston radio stations started playing holiday music, and I’m tuning in, laughing and singing “Frosty the Snowman” along with Jimmy Durante.

I still get choked up when Josh Groban sings “I’ll be Home for Christmas,” and there’s no better holiday song than Nat King Cole’s “Christmas Song.” Just try to stay dry eyed during that ballad from the 60s.

The depressing news, the hatred in the world and the cynicism all around is enough to make me question whether or not there’s any good left.

But then I see a child looking at the Christmas displays in the store, wonder in their eyes, and know there’s still hope and magic. If a child can believe, so can I.

We’ll enjoy turkey and dressing on Thanksgiving and we’ll thank the Lord for all the gifts and blessings we’ve received. Families can still enjoy the autumn holiday with a Christmas tree in the living room.

Celebrate now. Don’t wait. Go ahead and put your Christmas decorations up, plug in the tree, light the candles and enjoy the love that surrounds you.

I know I will.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Brain studies believe the left side is responsible for logic and order.

The right side is more aligned with creativity and intuition.

Together, the left and right side of the brain allow us to function at top levels.

The late humorist Jeanne Robertson referred to her husband as Left Brain, and I can relate 100 percent. Like the Robertson’s, my husband’s a left-brained person and I’m a right-brained human.

For a couple of months, my bike has been making sounds, like something’s rubbing on the tire. My right-brained solution was to ignore the sound by playing music on my phone while riding.

I asked my left-brained husband if he knew where I could take the bike to have it looked over. He said he did or I could let him look at the bike first. I got off and handed him the handlebars.

He rolled the bike back and forth, made his hand into a fist and hit the brakes a couple of times.

“Try that,” he said. I walked the bike a few feet and, wonder of wonders, the sound was gone.

He then went into a technical explanation of how the brakes work… my right-sided brain tuned out and marveled at how beautiful the sky looked and how many leaves were falling now that the weather’s cooled off.

Despite my trouble in thinking logically, I keep telling myself I can do complicated mechanical things. For instance, disabling the “maintenance required” prompt in my car.

YouTube fix-it videos are some of the most popular clips on that platform. So I typed in the problem and a couple of videos popped up.

I chose the one I understood the best. I got in the car with my phone and paper because my right brain needs step-by-step written directions – on flowered paper, of course.

Watching the video, I followed the instructions – I pressed the start button twice. The lights came on, just like in the video. I followed the next step, but the prompt didn’t come up like it did in the video.

I turned the car off and restarted the video. After the third time of being unsuccessful, I decided I could live with having the “maintenance required” screen on permanently.

After all, my right-brain rationalized, that screen’s small and I’ve ignored bigger things than that in the past.

Failure was still aggravating. I came inside, slamming the door behind me and throwing my keys on the counter.

“That stupid prompt about maintenance won’t go away,” I said. “I’m done.”

He sighed.

“Maybe you can let your spouse try and turn it off,” he said calmly.

Two minutes later, he came back inside and said the problem was fixed.

We right-brained people have to accept the reality of what we can and can’t do. I’m always going to struggle with getting flashlight batteries in the right way, even though there are plus and minus signs on the inside.

I’m never going to remember how to reset the clock in my car when it’s daylight savings time.

I’ve yet to figure out how to use the convection setting on our microwave, and I gave away our Instant Pot because I couldn’t figure out how to use it.

However, we right-brained people have a few tricks up our sleeve.

We can take scraps of material and create everything from quilts to pillows.

A can of spray paint is an opportunity to transform junk into treasures.

We see the world in vivid reds, blues and greens with adventure around every corner. Our imaginations transport us to beautiful, imaginary worlds every single day.

I’m moved to tears by beautiful music, a painting, no matter the age or talent of the artist, and the sound of a baby’s laugh.

So I can’t fix my computer, the brakes on my bike or reset the clock in my car.

My right brain knows to appreciate and thank my left-brained person who can do all those things.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

I fell yesterday.

I was leaving a store and tripped over the rug by the door. No physical injuries except a bruised hand and knee. My pride, however, was crushed because, years ago, I never would’ve tripped.

Older people on commercials are young and energetic. They’re wearing a sweater around their shoulders, their silver hair beautifully combed. They’re slim and athletic as they ride their bike, mountains in the background.

Let’s get real.

I ride a bike but I’m wearing a helmet, and I’ll never win the Tour de France. Maybe the Tour de Geezers.

Getting older has been humbling. I can remember so many insensitive phrases that came out of my mouth when I was young.

“I’ll never dye my hair.”

“I’ll never turn the music down.”

“I wish this old goat would drive faster.”

“No way I’ll ever go to bed before midnight.”

My natural hair color now is battleship gray, so it gets dyed every six weeks.

I value the hearing I have left so I turn the music down. Occasionally I’ll turn the music up, but the reason is simple – I can’t hear it.  I’m not ready for hearing aids, but I do tend to turn radios up louder than I did 10 years ago.

On the freeway, I’m the old goat driving slower – my reflexes aren’t what they were when I was 18 years old. However, I’m not in a huge hurry anymore. I understand the store will still be open when I get there. No appointment is worth a speeding ticket.

When I was younger, the weekends were for staying up until 2 a.m. and hitting the IHOP for breakfast. I stayed up until one in the morning not too long ago. I was a zombie for a week.

There are some advantages to being older. We head to a restaurant early to beat the crowd. It’s five o’clock, but we’re in and out before the crowd shows up. Plus, dozens of restaurants offer a menu with smaller portions for seniors.

After the age of 55, there are all kinds of ways for seniors to save a few bucks. Retailers from Big Lots to Kohl’s to Walgreen’s offer discounts on specific days of the week to those of us old enough to remember when The Beatles first hit the music scene. Since we’re not punching a time clock, we can head to a retail shop on a Wednesday and take advantage of the mid-week discounts.

For $10, I’m the proud owner of an America the Beautiful Senior Pass that gives me free entrance to all national parks for the rest of my life.

Of course, I’ll have to do something about these bum knees so I’m able to enjoy walking the trails.

There are things we seniors no longer spend money on. We don’t have to go to the movie theater to see the newest release. Sooner or later, that movie will show up on free television.

We don’t worry about the latest fashion – sensible shoes beat out stiletto heels, flannel shirts are much warmer in the winter than silk, and I don’t own anything that has to go to the dry cleaners.

In our golden years – which are sometimes like fool’s gold – we fall. We need hearing aids, bifocals, and orthopedic shoes. Little by little, it seems we’re falling apart.

Looking back, though, there were shining moments.

We watched the first human walk on the moon.

We were the first ones to see Luke Skywalker and Darth Vader light up the screen.

Most of us bear a scar on our arm from the polio vaccine and no longer lived in fear of this disease.

We heard John F. Kennedy and Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. change the world.

You know, being a geezer ain’t all bad.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Standing in the grocery store line, I looked at a magazine cover. Another celebrity’s fast weight loss was the lead story. Ozempic-thin is the new label to throw at someone who loses a lot of weight rapidly.

Luckily, I don’t have to worry about being on the cover of a magazine for quick weight loss. I’ve been trying to lose the same 25 pounds since I was in my twenties.

Okay, 30 pounds.

Losing weight isn’t easy.

Diet experts tell you to throw away all the forbidden food in your pantry. I don’t see how innocent Little Debbie can be taboo, but she’s on the “Most Wanted List.”

She’s right up there with cute treats as Ding Dongs and Twinkies. How could they ever hurt you?

But in the trash they’re supposed to go. That’s throwing away good money, my mind tells me even though I know I shouldn’t have bought them in the first place.

My rational mind also says those empty-calorie treats aren’t healthy choices, but my checking account wins the argument.

Then there’s shame. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and wonder who’s staring back.

Surely that’s not me.

Surely I don’t have two chins instead of one. Let’s not even mention what I see in the rear view mirror.

I feel awful, ugly and not worthy of anything. Except maybe that Little Debbie cake in the pantry because Little Debbie’s innocent and sweet.

Shame and guilt aren’t the best motivators. Just ask any Catholic that goes to confession time after time with the same sins they confessed 30 years ago.

Instead, I try motivation. Be your best self! Be healthy! Be strong! After all these years, I’m starting to think my best self is the one that wears oversized T-shirts and baggy sweat pants.

Can’t argue with maintaining a healthy weight – everyone knows those extra pounds cause trouble for the joints, back and everything else that goes wrong with your body.

Losing weight by myself is pretty hard. That’s why I’ve joined Weight Watchers at least a dozen times.

The first time I joined was when I was 25 years old. My dad called and said he’d signed me, my mom and himself up for Weight Watchers.

“You were fat before and you’re fatter now,” he said.

Ouch.

But it worked. Together we all lost weight and he kept it off. Mine returned home, much like Lassie did, with my first pregnancy. Then those pounds brought their friends with my second pregnancy and those pounds invited all their relatives to join the party on my hips.

I still go to Weight Watchers. The pounds leave, they return, and then we start the process all over again. They give out pins and awards for milestone weight losses – five pounds, ten, twenty, fifty. I keep wondering if they’re going to give out pins for those who’ve joined and rejoined Weight Watchers. If so, I’d have enough pins to fill a jewelry box.

I tried seeing a hypnotist – all that did was convince me that hypnosis might work on television, but not in real life. Plus my checking account was $100 lower.

I’ve been on the Sugar Busters and South Beach diets, Jenny Craig, Dr. Atkins and Carbohydrates Addicts plans. I donated all those books to the Friends of the Library.

I gave up real sugar for Sweet’n’Low, Coca Cola for Tab and chocolate for apples. For those of us with a real addiction to sugar, these substitutes don’t cut the mustard – which, by the way, has zero calories.

I suppose Little Debbie and I will have to finally come to a truce. She can live in my memories but not in my pantry.

I hope she understands.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Recently, I had a conversation with a working journalist. He pointed out I technically wasn’t a journalist any more – I’d left the daily newspaper business to start a career as a teacher.

I was speechless because, career-wise, I thought of myself as a journalist and a teacher.

I read news stories with a critical eye – did the journalist report the story in an unbiased way? I subconsciously look at the lead – was it interesting, balanced, eye-catching? I see incredible people around me and think they’d make a great feature story.

If you love what you do, that career becomes part of your life. One of the professions that stays forever is education. When teachers retire or leave the field, the educator mindset remains.

Many retired teachers, or even those who’ve left the profession, step in to teach if the opportunity presents itself. The enthusiasm and love of teaching is reignited.

Engineers are always going to be engineers. They have specific ways of doing things that are ingrained in their DNA. My husband’s an engineer, and he solves problems logically and efficiently.

Parenting is one of those careers you never leave. Even when your kids are adults, the urge to mommy is strong.

If one of my sons says he feels sick, the first thing I do is put my hand on his forehead to see if he has fever.

I’ve learned to let their wives take the lead, but it’s difficult to resist the urge to tell them to lie down on the couch and I’ll be right in with chicken-noodle soup.

My brother is a web developer. But he’s a gifted artist who has the ability to draw or sketch anything. We all love it when Jeff shares his doodles from staff meetings.

Mine are usually squares, lines or circles. His are portraits or poses of hands or faces showing different emotions and stages of life. He can’t stop being a talented artist – it’s part of who he is.

Musicians are the same. The people I know who taught music, played an instrument or sang on the stage will always dissect a musical piece.

They’ll either play the score in their heads, sing the songs or break down the artist’s method of creating beautiful sounds.

Just because they’re no longer strumming an electric guitar in somebody’s garage or in the high school choir doesn’t mean they stop being musicians.

Retired geologists will always search for interesting rocks, and theater directors will read a play or novel and wonder how they can block and stage the action.

If we love what we do, the career becomes part of us, second nature.          Realistically, writing a column for a newspaper doesn’t mean I’m a journalist. It means I’m a writer.

But in my heart, there’s a lot of chambers – journalist, writer, mom, photographer, seamstress, grandmother, sister, cousin, wife, daughter, grandmother, neighbor, traveler, secretary, concession stand worker, babysitter, chauffeur, friend.

If we’re lucky, what we do in life becomes part of who we are.

Working as a secretary taught me to embrace new technology.

Being a mom taught me love is unconditional. Patience is not.

Being a columnist taught me to look for lessons in little events, in people and in what’s around me.

A career as a teacher taught me we learn in different ways and at different speeds. If a child is reluctant to learn, look beyond the obvious. I learned to do that as a journalist.

I’m glad that trait is part of my soul.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Sometimes, life clicks into place. Events and people randomly cross your path and you realize the cosmic dice rolled your way.

Our granddaughter has talked about becoming a pilot for the past few years. She considered joining the U.S. Air Force to save money as flight school’s expensive.

Nobody in our family or hers had a career in aviation, and I wondered how she settled on this particular career. But she was constant – becoming a pilot is her dream.

A couple of weeks ago, I was at a meeting of women educators. The guest speaker was a young man who taught us how to build paper airplanes.

At the end of his presentation, his mom handed out a flyer about the Young Eagles Club®. The national group launched in 1992 through the Experimental Aircraft Association. Their mission – introduce young people to the joys of aviation.

Over 2 million youngsters have flown with the group since the club’s beginning. They also offer aviation talks, scholarships and education about the different types of aviation opportunities.

One of their give-backs is to offer youth ages 8-17 their first free ride in an airplane.

By chance, the local chapter was having their monthly meeting that Thursday in Brookshire. We couldn’t believe our luck, and we made sure we were there early.

The people running the meeting were knowledgeable and welcoming. They talked about their experiences flying and building planes and how excited they were to see so many young people in attendance.

An even luckier chance was the Young Eagles® free flight was that Saturday.

Early that morning, Kylie, her mom, brother and I met at the Houston Executive Airport, none of us knowing what to expect.

Over the course of the morning, we saw youngsters in groups of two and three head outside. Finally, we saw Kylie coming out of the waiting area. An older man with a smile on his face led the way, and he beckoned for us to follow him out to the tarmac.

We stopped at a blue-and-white three-seater plane. Mike, the pilot, showed Kylie and a boy the parts on the outside of the plane and what their function was. Then he buckled the boy into the back seat and Kylie into the front.

I know her heart was pounding and so were ours. We stepped back to the hangar, and the propeller on the small plane started whirling. With a wave and a smile, Mike started taxing down the tarmac to the runway.

There was a chance she’d get up in the air and change her mind – flying might not be for her. She could be afraid of heights or the ride could be too scary.

We watched the plane rise into a bright blue sky, and her mom and I both wiped our eyes as we walked back inside.

A half hour later, the plane touched down. When Kylie got out, the smile on her face was brighter than the sun. She said Mike let her take the plane up, and she was both scared and excited. Kylie said she was certain – she wanted to become a pilot.

She picked an unlimited path. Women pilots only make up about 6 percent of trained pilots, and scholarships abound.

Later that morning, her mom showed me a picture she’d taken of Kylie headed to the plane.

“She’s walking toward her dream,” she said and we both teared up.

Following a dream deserves encouragement, and Kylie’s got a supportive ground crew – her family, and now a group of flying enthusiasts who believe in making aviation dreams come true.

The sky’s the limit, dear granddaughter.

Soar.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

When my sons were in elementary school, these two commands came out of my mouth on a daily basis: behave and be nice.

When I had teenage boys, the words changed:  study and clean your room.

As an older adult, I realized how lame those phrases were.

Children don’t really understand what “behave” means.

At home, they’re allowed to run around in their underwear like they’re wild beasts.

It’s not until we explain the difference between what we can do at home versus what we do out in public that the word “behave” starts to make sense.

As far as “be nice,” they thought that meant to stop sitting on their brother. When they were teens, “be nice” meant stop drinking orange juice straight out of the carton.

They didn’t understand “be nice” meant to not do those things in the first place. “Be nice” meant absolutely nothing to them. Instead “stop it” usually did the trick.

I thought teachers explained the process of studying to my boys. “Study” meant on the day the teacher gave information, my sons should go home and rewrite what the teacher said.

They needed to do that every day. In addition, they needed to read their notes from beginning to end every night.

That way, they were reviewing the lessons at least 10 times before a test. There was no need to stay up for hours the night before the test.

Did they follow that advice? Not one bit.

I finally understand why they were at a loss when I said “clean your room.” To them, that meant gather up all the dirty clothes that were under and on top of the bed, thrown on the floor and shoved in the closet and dump them in one giant pile in front of the washing machine for me to take care of.

I should’ve been more. The phrase “clean your room” should’ve been replaced by a step-by-step explanation.

“After taking the clothes to the laundry room, go back to your room and bring all the dirty bowls and plate you shoved under your bed down to the kitchen.”

Then we could move up from clearing off the floor. It was time to “make the bed.”

Those three words meant different things to me and my teenager. “Make the bed,” in his mind, meant throwing a blanket over the wrinkled sheets.

To me, “make the bed” meant tucking the ends of the sheets underneath the mattress, putting the comforter over the sheets, putting the pillows on the bed and smoothing everything out.

We compromised. They were fine with unmade beds. I learned to close the door to their rooms.

It’s the same when we get to be adults.

“Do your best.”

“Keep trying.”

“Don’t give up.”

My best and somebody else’s best are definitely two different things. One person’s best might be to endure a boring, uninspiring job until it’s time to clock out. That’s the best they can do.

Another person’s best might be to find a way to make that boring, uninspiring job interesting. That’s the best they can do. Who am I to say who’s on the healthier path?

“Keep trying” was always frustrating for me. The first ten times I tried to do what you asked me to do, I failed. Why should I keep trying when what I’m doing isn’t working?

Wouldn’t it be better to tell me “let’s find a different way?” And then you help me find a better way?

The phrase “don’t give up” works when you’re learning how to ride a bike. The more you pedal, the more you find your balance, the more successful you’ll be.

There is one instance where “do your best” works for me. I’m going to do my best to be specific when asking myself or someone else to do something.

And learn to live with an unmade bed.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Painting isn’t exactly a talent of mine. When I was a teenager, I was painting the border around the top of my room.

I was stupidly standing on a folding chair, and the chair buckled out from underneath me. I spilled bright blue paint all over the carpet and the wall.

Since then, I’ve successfully painted a few bedrooms and our mail box, but I never attempted to paint a picture. Until my daughter-in-law Alle booked a birthday painting party for Ingrid, our eldest son’s wife.

One daughter-in-law couldn’t make it, so there were only four of us there – Alle, Ingrid, me and another girl, Lily. Her boyfriend didn’t want to come so she came alone.

We immediately asked her to join us. We had plenty of snacks and wine, but she declined. She did, however, join our conversation throughout the night.

The instructor, Professor Moonshine – I’m not making that up – had a painting we could use as a reference. He said he’d lead us through creating the painting step by step, but we were free to experiment.

The first part was easy – a blue-and-white background.  I painted blue and then white, and my canvas resembled the one on the easel.

He said we could add some extra colors to the background, so I got a little bold and added some purple to my blue and white. It looked okay.

Then it was time to add green leaves.

Mine were awful. They were too wide with no definition, but the professor said I could cover them up during the next step, adding small flowers.

This advice was familiar – I know how to cover my rear end and double chin – long tunics and scarves. Those leaves would soon be history.

I couldn’t get the hang of the five-stemmed flowers. Moonshine showed me and I still couldn’t do it. I settled for flowers that had a Monet quality – a little out of focus.

There was supposed to be a big peony on the right-hand side. I tried but I couldn’t get it right.

I looked at my daughters-in-law’s paintings. They painted their big flower perfectly. Their shading was spot on. Mine looked like a giant blob of pink on one side of the canvas.

I didn’t think it was possible to camouflage the leaves and this big flower. I settled for swirling some white over the pink. Okay, a lot of white.

Then we were supposed to add tall, thin flower stems. These I knew how to do – dab, dab, dab. I walked over and looked at Lily’s. She’d added orange to her painting, a color not on the tray Moonshine prepared for us.

She said I could borrow her idea. I added some light orange dabs and a little white to the purple – I could not resist that purple puddle on the plate – and the picture started to take shape.

Finally it was time to add a few final touches. By this time, I was feeling a little adventurous. I put a yellow dot first and then small black dots on the centers of the flowers, just like I’d seen in my yard.

Was my picture perfect?

Not by a long shot.

Did I have a blast?

Absolutely.

Mostly it was the joyous company of my daughters-in-law. There was also a freedom after I let go, freedom that comes from creating something you never dreamed you had inside you.

I texted a picture of the painting to my brother, Jeff, an extremely talented artist and writer. I pointed out most of my mistakes. His reply was what I needed to hear:  “Chasing joy leads to much better results than tracking errors.”

He’s absolutely right.

Every time I look at my first painting, I’ll remember what a fun idea Alle had to honor Ingrid and realize, our pictures, just like the evening, were perfect.

 

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. 

Our 8-year-old grandson loves checking the mail. Doesn’t matter if it’s Sunday or a holiday – he’ll ride his skateboard down to the street and check the box every time he’s here.

I remember when getting the mail was a big deal, especially around our birthdays.

Our grandparents sent birthday cards, usually with a couple of dollars inside. We loved the money, but having an actual letter addressed to us was the biggest thrill.

I wrote letters to my grandparents and my aunt because they lived far away from us. I’m sure my letters were filled with inconsequential details, but they were a glimpse into our daily lives.

I found a letter I’d written to my dad over 20 years ago after we’d taken our one and only trip to Europe. I could see the trip again in my mind from the details I gave him. I switched gears and detailed some of the frustrations of having temperamental toddlers.

My handwriting’s gotten a little sloppier over the years, but seeing my thoughts written in my own hand brought back memories of those long-ago days.

The last time I got an honest-to-goodness hand-written letter was last year from my cousin, Vickie. We’ve always called her Aunt Vickie and she’s an incredible writer. Her letters are like her – organized and filled with news about her children.

She always asks about my family, and always asks me to send her best to her cousin, my mom. My reply to her was typed because it’s faster, but I’m regretting I don’t take the time to actually write her a letter like she did for me.

These days, our mail consists of flyers from roofing companies or coupons from the local pizza restaurants. Occasionally we’ll get a bill from a doctor’s office, but for the most part, almost all of our mail is in the junk mail category.

I, for one, buck the trend. I have a box of greeting cards for all occasions, but the biggest section is for birthday cards. There’s cards with dinosaurs on the front, kids playing soccer, heart-felt cards and cards with hunting or fishing scenes.

My calendar lets me know when birthday are coming up, and I’m often on time when it comes to dropping a card in the mail. I know it’s old fashioned, but my young great nieces and nephews love getting a letter in the mail. My nieces tell me their children carry the card around all day.

It doesn’t matter that most people use e-mail or text messages to wish someone a happy birthday. I believe in the old ways when it comes to certain things like sending birthday cards in the mail. I suppose I’m also one of the few that also plays VHS tapes and has a box of floppy discs in my closet.

There’s no denying it’s easier, cheaper and quicker to send an email. I try to make the typed words in the response personal, but there’s no personality to a Times New Roman font. There is in someone’s handwriting – a flourish here, slanted letters there, little hearts in the margin and at the bottom.

Even though it’s not expensive stationery, I think I’ll pull out a few sheets of loose-leaf paper and write a letter to my Aunt Vickie with all the small, seemingly inconsequential details of our lives. Even though it’ll take a few days to get to her, something tells me she’ll enjoy getting a letter like that much more than an email.

Old fashioned? Yep, but sometimes, the old ways are best.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.