Is it really 2011?

According to the calendar in my kitchen, a new year starts in two days. Like many Americans, I'm tempted to create a New Year's Resolutions list and fill it with at least a dozen lofty ambitions to make the new year creative and productive.

Not this year.

That sheet of paper makes me feel guilty, overworked and a slave to a grandiose list. Granted, they're promises that are good for me -- lose weight, keep a cleaner desk, exercise more and generally improve my life.

But because I lose the list by Valentine's Day, have gained weight by April Fool's Day, piled a mountain of papers on my desk by July 4, hidden my tennis shoes under a mound of dirty clothes by Halloween and gained even more weight by Thanksgiving, I realized my list serves no useful purpose.

So instead of resolutions, I decided to spend my energy in a different direction -- reflection, not empty promises.

Family. I've got a great family, both at work and personally. There are a few crazies in both places, but that's what makes life so special. Who wants a world where we all fit into that same cookie-cutter mold? The crazies remind us to take a look inside and see if we're the nutty ones, not the other way around.

Electronics. Although I don't understand how they work, nor can I figure out how to save a phone number in my cell phone, electronics are pretty fascinating, especially the Internet. I'd love to learn how to navigate and explore the online world and I'm thrilled so much knowledge is available with the click of a mouse button.

Escape. Although I try and stay productive, there are times I simply want to escape for an hour or two. Reading inane posts on Facebook and simply wandering around the Internet are interesting ways to pretend I have amnesia about the pile of work on my desk.

Reading. I'm not sure who introduced me to books, but whoever did, thank you. All my life, I've surrounded myself with everything from fiction to non-fiction, and now I'm entering the world of electronic reading. The written word has comforted me, kept me company and illuminated my life.

Klutziness. Not just an occasional trip or bumping my elbow against a corner. I'm talking trip-over-my-own-two-feet clumsy, the kind where people quietly move fragile objects away from me. But because I'm clumsy, I appreciate seeing grace in action -- my granddaughter perfecting her ballerina moves, a leaf slowly falling from a tree and a heron taking flight over the lake.

My car. I've driven cars where the brakes failed, wouldn't start on cold mornings and barely passed the state inspection test, but my car represents freedom. That sedan in the driveway allows me to explore back roads with my camera, visit family and friends and have a safe place to sing at the top of my lungs.

Forgiveness. I'm lucky I'm surrounded by wonderfully kind people who forgive my thoughtlessness, listen to my "did I ever tell you" stories over and over again and pretend to have amnesia when I do something really stupid, which is every single day.

Reflection. When I look back instead of forward, I realize I've got a lot to be thankful for and that, not a list of lofty resolutions I'll never fulfill, is what fuels my optimism for the coming year.

Here's hoping your 2011 is a year of appreciation for the mundane minutes, not just the memorable ones.

I wouldn't have it any other way.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Merry Christmas

To put myself in a holly, jolly holiday spirit, I attended a live Christmas concert. The singing was fabulous, and the choir sang all my favorites from yesteryear and today.

Many years ago, the only way to hear holiday songs was to go to church or a live concert. Then came home record players, and we could hear Johnny Mathis or Perry Como singing any time we wanted. A few years later, eight-tracks, cassette tapes and CD's allowed us to have our own playlists in our vehicles.

Now we can type "Christmas music" into our computer's search engine, save them as MP3's and listen to Christmas music in July if we want.

No matter the month, the holiday classics remain my favorites, especially one of the most beautiful voices ever recorded, Nat King Cole, singing "The Christmas Song." Karen Carpenter's "Merry Christmas, Darling" makes me tear up every time I hear it, just as Josh Groban's soothing voice gives me chills on "O Holy Night."

Like it or not, rock, country music and rap stars are notorious for changing the melody on Christmas songs. Kurtis Blow's classic Christmas rap is quite catchy, Eartha Kitt purrs on "Santa, Baby" and Christmas just isn't complete without hearing Elvis whoo-hooing "Blue Christmas."

Hearing all these holiday songs, and the way artists put their own spin on these timeless tunes, motivated me to massage some of the words to "The Twelve Days of Christmas." So to all you tired and frazzled moms out there, here's a parody for us:

On the first day of Christmas, my mommy duties called to me: A to-do list as long as my arm.

On the second day of Christmas, my granddaughter asked of me: Two impossible-to-find Little Tykes toys.

On the third day of Christmas, the crowded mall frustrated me: Three open cashiers and no change in the register.

On the fourth day of Christmas, the Post Office offered me: Long lines for the four packages I had to mail.

On the fifth day of Christmas, the newspaper promised me: Five early-bird, 80 percent-off coupons.

On the sixth day of Christmas, my tired feet whined to me: Only six parking spaces left in the entire mall parking lot.

On the seventh day of Christmas, my trash can called to me: Seven, oops no eight, ornaments broken while decorating the tree.

On the eighth day of Christmas, I slapped myself in the head: Eight inches of Scotch tape left on the dispenser at 11 p.m.

On the ninth day of Christmas, my mail carrier glared at me: Nine catalogs stuffed in my mailbox.

On the 10th day of Christmas, my answering machine blared at me: Ten telephone messages from holiday telemarketers.

On the 11th day of Christmas, my pantry reminded me: Eleven half-filled bottles of sprinkles on the top shelf.

On the 12th Day of Christmas, my exhausted inner voice sighed to me: Twelve minutes to actually sit and enjoy the decorated tree, 11 people in front of me in the grocery store, 10 burnt-out Christmas lights, nine missing gift receipts, eight more boxes to wrap, seven children fighting, six pounds of fudge, five stockings to stuff, four light plugs in one extension cord, three a.m. and a bike to assemble, two exhausted parents and a mommy looking forward to December 26.

Come on, Nat, throw some chestnuts on that fire for me. Christmas is here, the Savior is born and, despite all the hustle and bustle of the season, my blessings overflow.

Merry Christmas.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Just nip it, nip it, nip it

I am such an Andy and Barney fan! I always think of my sisters, Diane and Donna, when I watch an episode. And whenever I'm giving out rules, I think of Barney's two rules here at "the rock!"

When we were young mothers, my sisters and I often discussed discipline. We debated the pros and cons of spanking, time out and other methods of teaching our children right from wrong.
One of us usually ended the long discussion with two words that perfectly summed up what we were trying to accomplish: “Nip it.”

That phrase comes from our favorite television program, “The Andy Griffith Show.” My sisters and I are huge fans of the show, so much that we have DVD's of all the seasons and coffee mugs from Weaver’s Department Store, the online site where fans of the show can order merchandise.

This year marks the 50th anniversary of TAGS. The show debuted in 1960 and ran for eight seasons, winning six Emmys along the way. It currently accounts for more than half of the viewers on Hulu, an on-line film and TV show site, and reruns on TV-Land are some of its most popular programming.

For those who’ve never seen the program, Andy Taylor is the likeable sheriff serving his small community in Mayberry, North Carolina. He’s also a widow and the father of red-headed Opie. Faithful Aunt Bee takes care of Opie, just as she did Andy when he was a young boy.

Andy’s aided in his official duties by his deputy, the inept Barney Fife, who's also his cousin and best friend. Other townspeople include Floyd the barber, Gomer and Goober, two not-so-bright cousins who work at Wally's Filling Station and many others.

Although the characters on TAGS are the ones we hold dear, it's the stories on the show that continue to resonate with strong messages about life, families and what's important in life.

I especially love the black-and-white era of the show, and those early episodes could be used for parenting and life classes.

One of the best episodes about life is "Opie and the Bully." When Andy discovers Opie is asking all the adults in his life for a nickel for milk, Andy realizes something's not right.

Barney finds out a bully is taking Opie's money on the way to school, and the deputy wants to straighten things out for Opie, much as our "helicopter parents" do today. But Andy holds his ground and finds a way for Opie to take care of the bully himself.

Lesson learned: Parents, we sometimes have to step back and let our children handle their own lives, no matter how tough it may be to watch them cross that turbulent stream.

In Season 3, Opie keeps talking about Mr. McBeevee, a man he met in the woods who walks in the trees. Because Opie has a wild imagination, nobody believes he sees a man with a silver hat that jingles.

Andy finally has to make a choice to either believe Opie or not. Andy decides he doesn't believe in Mr. McBeevee, but he does believe in his son.

Lesson learned: Sometimes, we have to take a leap in faith and believe, even when it doesn't seem possible to accept the unseen and unproven.

That lesson is especially important during this holiday season. Common sense tells us there's no such thing as a jolly old elf that lives in the North Pole, but we can believe in the spirit of Christmas, especially when we see the generosity of people as they collect food for the hungry, donate gifts, toys and clothing for those in need and open their hearts to people who need a bit of extra love and compassion during the holidays.

And for those times when we feel our spirits sinking and start thinking the world is filled only with grinches and meanies, remember the wise words of Deputy Barney Fife -- Nip it. Just nip it in the bud.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The beauty in Brazos Bend

When I was 19, I bought my first grown-up camera. I remember driving around, snapping pictures of flowers and buildings. My blurry Pentax photos far outweighed the ones in focus, but each photo reminded me of something I enjoyed seeing at the time.

Many years later, I still enjoy taking pictures, and digital photography makes the hobby a lot more affordable. Looking at some of my favorite pictures years later always brings a smile to my face, even if they're not the best quality.

After days of gray, cold weather, I'd had enough of staying cooped up, so my husband and I headed out to Brazos Bend State Park. I had my camera in hand, and my husband laced up his hiking shoes.

I've visited the park many times over the years, the scariest as a Cub Scout leader leading 10 boys on a hike and coming across a hefty 10-foot alligator sunning himself on the trail.

Our first stop was 40-Acre Lake, and there were quite a few visitors enjoying the day. Children were laughing and romping on the playground, and their parents were sitting at nearby picnic tables, talking and watching the kids play.

We headed out on the trail and found peace and quiet. There's the natural sounds of ducks quacking and tree frogs croaking, but those are reassuring sounds and, I realized, quite a change from the city noise I've almost grown immune to hearing.

We walked out on the pier, and I marveled at how huge the Texas sky seemed overhead and how alive the lake seemed, teeming with plants, butterflies, birds and dragonflies.

As far as the eye could see, an almost neon-green carpet of duck weed floated on the top of the water, creating gentle circles around the mottled lily pads, a Monet painting unfolding right in front of our eyes.

Returning to the trail, we strolled quietly, pausing to watch a snowy white egret standing in the blue-black waters and chuckling as we passed noisy ducks rambling around in the reeds. We rounded another corner, and a huge alligator was slumbering on the path.

We took a wide berth around that fellow, tiptoeing past a few summer daisies hanging on to the last bits of warm weather. Half way around the lake, we sat underneath a shade tree for a long time, quietly taking in the view.

There's a serenity and calm about the outdoors, and Brazos Bend is an outstanding place to re-energize your soul and connect with nature, something easily overlooked in a society where we're constantly bombarded with noise.

On the way out, we spotted a sign for the park's "A Simple Christmas" celebration this coming Saturday. Park Ranger Sharon Hanzik said the event starts at noon Saturday and park guests can escape the rush and roar of city life and relax.

There'll be hay rides, Dutch oven cooking demonstrations and people dressed as early Texas pioneers, spinning a Texas tall tale or two. Take a turn at roasting some marshmallows over an open fire and making gooey s'mores.

Youngsters will enjoy spreading peanut butter on pine cones and sprinkling them with bird seed to create back-yard bird feeders.

Then from 5 p.m. to 7 p.m., the Brazos River Pickers will entertain the guests, and these guitarists and strummers are fabulous. Admission to the park is $5 a person ages 13 and older, and children ages 12 and younger are admitted for free. Seniors can receive a discount.

Browsing through my photos that night, I felt relaxed and refreshed, and the pictures reminded me that sometimes simple is better than complicated. At least on an overcast Sunday afternoon taking a quiet and uncomplicated stroll around the lake.

This article, and some photos, were previously published in The Fort Bend Herald. To see more photos, visit my Facebook page.

Happy Thanksgiving

(Thanks to those of you who read this blog. You inspire me to keep writing, especially on the days when I can only stare at the computer screen, thump my head on the keyboard and wonder why oh why I am so in love with words.)

Thanksgiving’s the day of the year when we’re asked to specifically count our blessings. In elementary school, we penciled our thanks on construction-paper turkey feathers, glued them to a construction-paper turkey body and displayed them on the bulletin board.
As teenagers, we were thankful we only had to endure our parents a few more years before we could get out and really start living.

As young adults, we were thankful we weren’t stuck-in-the-mud adults but then the reality of paying rent and taxes hit us square in the wallet.

As middle age arrived, we were thankful for Lipitor and IRA’s and painfully aware of all the new creaks and groans our knees were sending out.

As we basked in the golden years, we often became stereotypes of the “why don’t the kids call” senior citizen, and we still worried about paying the rent and taxes.

We're supposed to be thankful today, but let’s face it, there are times when it's hard to muster up gratitude. Few of us have job security; and when we hear about friends and neighbors getting laid off with little warning, we wonder if we’re going to be next.

Sniffles and coughs cause us to worry if our health care plan will see us through a serious illness. When we hear about expensive hospital stays, we realize we’re a bout with high blood pressure away from being one of those people others use as nightmare health-care examples.

Put those thoughts into park for a bit.

It’s easy to take the negative path because it’s the path of least resistance. Thinking positively when life is bleak is tough to do. But even for those of us experiencing tough times, there are snippets of hope in those dreary clouds.

Our freedoms. Those who come from countries where they’re not free to express their opinions understand what Americans take for granted. If we want to denounce the government and start our own political party, we’re free to do so.

The arts. Even if we can’t draw a straight line or carry a tune, paintings and music add depth and meaning to life. Think of all the times you’ve admired a gorgeous picture or painting or those days when you can’t stop humming your favorite song.

Instead of feeling guilty because you’re not overly joyful, let’s not let the day end without being thankful for just one blessing. Besides the true blessings of our families, friends and faith, here’s a list to get you started:

Blue Bell ice cream, escalators, Billie Holiday’s recording of “God Bless the Child,” Community Coffee, carousels, somebody letting us merge into traffic, the universal remote control, Claritin, free cell phone minutes, Frank Sinatra's recording of “It Was a Very Good Year,” cotton candy, microwave ovens, barbecue sandwiches and hot showers.

Chocolate in any way shape or form, blackberries right off the vine, bluebonnets in the spring, air conditioning, a doctor who listens, finding a perfect sea shell on the shore, home-made tamales, police officers, the railroad overpass on Highway 36, ball-point pens and costume jewelry.

Adult children who remember to call, cheap reading glasses, songbirds, front porches, baseball, firefighters, cheeseburgers, reading a bedtime story to a toddler, the classic movie “It’s a Wonderful Life," Andy McKee playing the acoustic guitar and pecan pie.

Spotting a streaking comet on a clear, cold night, memories of our grandparents, cornbread right out of the oven, boiled crawfish, walking through crisp, autumn leaves, a child's laugh, drying someone's tears and realizing life isn't perfect but, most of the time, it's pretty good.

I think I'll pop in my DVD of "It's a Wonderful Life, see if there’s any more pecan pie in the fridge, sit back and give thanks for the simple things. That's the way to end any day, especially Thanksgiving.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Pass that Dippity-Do, please

My friend slid in next to me at the meeting, and it was obvious she was steamed.

"My daughter just told me she has a science project due tomorrow," she whispered. "She's known about this for two weeks. She's toast."

The dreaded science project. Those words strike fear into the hearts of all parents, especially those of us who aren't as crafty as others. I remember when my sons studied the five senses in elementary school, and their homework assignment was to create a model of the eye.

I thought my first child was quite creative, using a cereal bowl to draw the eyeball and colored pencils to label the cornea, retina and nerves.

The following week, the teacher had their work on display. I was mortified to see the works of art the other "children" had accomplished. No doubt mom and dad stepped in and helped create these three-dimensional models of the human eye.

We moms who actually followed the rules and let our children create the project, huddled together and decided from that moment on, we'd get a bit more involved so our child's project didn't look like something created by Jethro on "The Beverly Hillbillies."

With my second child, when the human eyeball project came up, I was ready. I conducted scientific research -- talked to moms on the playground -- and discovered a jar of Dippity Doo hair gel works like a charm to suspend Cheerios, Froot Loops and strands of cooked spaghetti to resemble a three-dimensional eyeball.

We did quite well that year until a mom strolled in with a plaster cast of half an eyeball with all the parts actually molded into the piece, painted and marked with colored pins.

Over the years, I learned to take these over achievers in stride, and many times I had to reassure my child that, yes, having a volcano made out of mis-matched Play-Doh and adorned with paper umbrellas was really okay.

After my last child left elementary school, I thought my days of creating science projects were over.

I was wrong.

High school offered them a chance to join the Science Olympiad. I read the requirements for the Science Olympiad, and I bribed my sons to join any club other than the Science Olympiad. There was no way I was even going to attempt to recreate the Amazon jungle in a shoe box.

Once they'd all graduated from school, I breathed a sigh of relief -- no more homework projects.

Until two weeks ago.

Like many volunteers at my church, I teach a class. This year, the staff decided teachers would take turns organizing the opening ceremony.

The first week, Becky gave each youngster a note card that resembled an autumn leaf and asked each student to print a special blessing on the paper. I wasn't worried at that point, thinking she'd glue the leaves to a poster board and display the poster in the foyer.

The next week, she walked in with a three-dimensional, tri-fold poster card. She'd created a tree trunk, using brown wrapping paper she'd twisted to resemble the trunk and the branches. Then she glued those leaf note cards to the tree, creating a stunning three-dimensional piece of work.

I stood there, looking at the equivalent of the Sistine Chapel of science projects, and my heart dropped. I was scheduled to handle the opening ceremony the next week.

Some people, I thought, are at the top of the school project food chain. Others, like me, are the plankton at the bottom.

But as I remember from the Science Olympiad brochure, even we lowly pieces of plankton occupy a special place on the science board.

Now what did I do with that jar of Dippity Doo?

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

A good man

A city can be characterized by bricks, buildings and roads. A community, on the other hand, is a reflection of the people who live there, those who create a sense of family.
Fort Bend County lost one of its most beloved pillars of the community with the passing of Orin Covell. Orin's list of accomplishments are enviable -- numerous booster clubs, MUD boards and civic boards.

At his wake, the line to greet Orin's family stretched outside the funeral home and down the driveway. Many of us waited over an hour in line to hug Becky, and everyone from mayors to judges to business executives to college buddies came to pay their respects at both the wake and the funeral.

I remember Orin as the smiling guy in the starched white shirt and impeccable silver hair who'd start to tell me a story and, 30 minutes later, get to the end. But what a marvelous ride Orin took us on when he told his stories.

Mike Hafer, who knew Orin for many years, said Orin was the kind of guy people enjoyed being around. Orin was a fabulous sounding board, never in a hurry, and always had time to listen and then give an honest answer.

Mike said he overheard someone saying that Orin had to have lived two lives because no one could've given all that he did so well to both his professional and private life. But he did. Whenever we visited, he always talked about his family and we usually swapped grandbaby stories.

His sister, Ann, said she and Orin regularly went to lunch because family was so important to him. And that family included the community.

Orin was a second generation fireman, but he wasn't one to ignore the phone call when it came in. For over 30 years, Orin responded to the calls to help somebody in trouble.

Many times I saw Orin out at a fire, sweating and working alongside all the fire fighters on the scene, day or night.

He wasn't a paid firefighter -- he was a volunteer, and Orin embodied the word "volunteer." The day before he passed away, Orin spent the afternoon helping the Red Cross set up a bicycle event. And he did so with a smile and no regrets about giving of his weekend to a community cause.

At Orin's funeral, the Rev. Howard Drabek delivered the eulogy, and he said Orin was all about foundations. He was one of the original members of the Lamar Educational Awards Foundation, an organization that helps teachers fund enrichment projects in the classroom.

Many people knew Orin as a guardian of Fort Bend County's long and rich history, and he safeguarded that history through his work with the George Foundation and the Fort Bend County Museum Association.

Whenever I'd go out to the George Ranch as a reporter, I'd usually find Orin out and about the grounds. His office reflected his love of his family and of Texas, but it was on the open prairie where I heard the best stories about the Georges and the early days of the county.

Whether it was helping people in the insurance business or assisting teachers , students, Boy Scouts and teens inside and outside the classroom, Orin knew any successful community's foundation always starts with the volunteer.

For those sitting on the sideline, wondering how to make a positive difference in the world, look no further than the example left by Orin Covell.

Give freely of yourself and of your time, and, in return, you will be part of that solid foundation upon which families, churches, schools, communities and futures are built.

Thank you, Orin, for making so many dreams come true for so many.

You'll be deeply missed, good friend.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Technically, it's not cheating

My mom is famous for her chicken and sausage gumbo. Her Cajun stew is thick and dark and filled with flavor. My gumbo is a pale imitation.

I asked my mom how she manages to turn out a huge pot of dark, scrumptious gumbo every holiday. She smiled, reached into the back of the refrigerator and took out a plain glass jar.

"This is the secret," she said, setting the jar on the counter.

Kary's Roux, made in Ville Platte, the heart of Cajun Country, is a dark, thick pre-made roux that removes all the sweating and stirring over a hot stove. Cooks only have to add water, onions, chicken and sausage and thick, rich gumbo is ready to eat in 30 minutes.

"You cheat," I said to my mother. She denied the accusation.

"It's not cheating," she said, putting the jar in the back of the refrigerator. "It's just a little bit of extra help."

"What next," I said. "Are you going to tell me your spaghetti's not home-made?"

She put a cup of hot water in the microwave.

"Ragu," she said, pushing the buttons on the front panel.

"And your jambalaya?" I asked.

"Oak Grove," she said. "Comes in a package. Just $2 and you've got enough jambalaya to feed an army."

My mouth fell open in surprise.

"Don't tell me you don't use a little bit of help in your recipes," she said stirring coffee crystals, a packet of artificial sweetener and powdered coffee creamer into her mug. She smiled and asked me a simple question.

"Tell me how you're going to cook your Thanksgiving meal without a little bit of help."

I started to deny using any crutches, but then I stopped.

The cornbread dressing I stuff my turkey with comes right out of a Pepperidge Farm plastic bag. Forget baking cornbread the night before and sautéing onions and celery at 5:30 a.m. All I add to the package is water and butter.

Guess I'll have to concede that point.

"And tell me how you make those Thanksgiving mashed potatoes," she said, taking a sip of coffee.

Okay, I'll admit I use instant potatoes, but that's just because I don't have time to peel all those potatoes, boil them, mash them and spend 20 minutes beating out all the lumps.

It's so much easier to open a packet, add some milk and butter and, voila, I've got enough mashed potatoes to plaster a ceiling.

"And the vegetables," she said nicely.

Well, I had to admit I slit open a bag of frozen green beans and cook them in the microwave. I do, however, steam fresh broccoli each and every year.

"And did you grow said broccoli in your back yard?" she said, stirring her coffee.

She had me there.

"Now let's move on to your rolls," she said. "Make those with yeast and flour, do you?"

I had to admit I haven't the first clue how anyone makes fresh bread. I always buy the three-for-a-dollar packages of cheap rolls that only require me to throw them in the oven for six minutes.

"And the desserts," she said. "Roll out those pie crusts all by yourself?"

Sighing, I had to admit -- I use frozen pie crusts for the pecan pies and canned apple filling for the apple pies.

"Tell you what," she said, patting my arm. "There's an extra jar of that roux in the pantry. Go ahead and slip it into your purse when you're ready to leave."

The next time I have family over and they rave about my gumbo, I'm going to tell them my mom passed down an old family recipe.

And make sure I hide that jar of Kary's Roux safely behind the packet of instant gravy, canned cranberry sauce and jars of diced apples.

This article originally appeared in The Fort Bend Herald.

Getting through the check-out line gauntlet

Check-out lines often seem like they stretch out into eternity. I read once -- in a magazine while waiting in the check-out line -- that marketers spend a great deal of time deciding what to put on the shelves of the check-out lanes.

Those last-minute decisions shoppers make put a lot of money in the store's pockets, and that's why managers are constantly researching impulse buying.

Candy's a huge impulse-buy item because by the time we get to the checker, our blood sugar is low and we're often frustrated. Plus a candy bar isn't a big-ticket purchase, so marketers feel most people will give in to temptation. If they don't, their children will and, either way, they get your money.

But knowledge is power, I told myself as I waited in a long check-out line Saturday afternoon. I'd headed into town to shop for my son's birthday, and I'd found some casual clothes for him in a discount fashion store.

This store lined their check-out lane with shelves, and as soon as I headed into the long abyss, the first few items tried their siren song on me.

Stacks of holiday towels and wash cloths began singing. I ignored them until I remembered my daughter-in-law loves holiday decorations.

Well, the towels were only $2.99, so I tossed a set into my basket, thinking I'd tuck them into her Christmas stocking. But there was no way the rest of that junk was going to entice me, so I moved along, feeling confident.

Wait. There's a card reader for my camera. I'd been looking for a card reader for a while, and here was one for only $7.99. It could break, I thought, so I tossed another one in the basket.

Okay, that was an unexpected purchase, but it was something I needed. But wait, here's some headphones. The volume on my computer is often low, and using headphones seems to solve the problem. But I can't find the set I normally use.

I threw a package in my basket, telling myself it was only $4.99 and, after all, I really could use those headphones.

Then I came to a stop in front of the discount books shelf. I began to sweat. I'm a sucker for books, especially children's books. I spied Shel Silverstein's "Where the Sidewalk Ends," and knew I had to have that book for my granddaughter.

And the holiday cookbook for my sister.

And the book of jokes for my son.

And the poetry book for my mom.

Then it was my turn to check out. I placed my items on the counter, thinking I might put some of those impulse purchases back.

But just then, the little voice inside my head whispered one more time -- look at those holiday socks right next to the cash register.

Sure enough, there were some darling holiday socks my granddaughter would just love. I had to stop the cashier from totaling up my bill so she could add three more impulse-buy items to the ticket.

Some days the shopper wins, and some days the marketers win. This is one of those days where I lost the battle.

But, as I loaded six bags of clothes and other impulse purchases into the trunk of my car, there's always tomorrow at the grocery store.

Let's just hope I can make it past the Snickers and Twinkies with more success than I did the pumpkin towels and Frosty the Snowman socks.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Now that's a pizza pie

I was walking down the grocery store aisle, looking for something quick for dinner, when I spotted the sign for frozen pizza.
Having something hot for dinner sounded pretty good, especially if I didn't have to go to any more trouble than ripping open a cardboard box and sliding a pizza pan into the oven for 18 minutes.

As easy as that sounded, I found myself wishing I was as resourceful as my grandmother. She always made pizza from scratch, including the dough. She'd let me open the Fleischmann's yellow yeast packet and pour the warm water over it.

She'd add flour and work those ingredients together, gradually sprinkling more flour over the ball to keep the dough from sticking to her fingers.

We'd sit and talk while she kneaded the dough, and it was amazing to watch that ball of gooey dough turn into a beautiful golden globe.

When the dough was smooth, she'd sprinkle flour on a wooden cutting board and, using an old wooden rolling pin, roll out the dough and then use an upside-down small bowl to cut out small circles.

She'd ladle tomato sauce on top of each circle, sprinkle fresh cheese on top and then pop the pies into her gas oven. Our mouths would water as the smell of freshly baking bread and cheese filled the kitchen.

Times change, though, and we went from those home-made pizzas to a brand that became synonymous with my childhood -- Chef Boy Ardee. Whenever we saw my mom pull out that tall red box, we knew fresh pizza was on the way.

We had some old Appian Way pizza pans that, over the years, became slightly warped from spending so much time in the oven. That didn't matter because we loved making our own pizzas.

With a Chef Boy Ardee pizza mix, we could all have what we wanted on a pizza, from pepperoni to extra cheese to hamburger meat to sausage. Many a night we spent watching "Dark Shadows" or "The Smothers Brothers" while waiting for those pizzas to finish baking.

When we were young 20 somethings, price and time mattered, and we discovered Winn Dixie's frozen dinner aisle, specifically the section with the Totino's pizzas.

They were cheap, filling and easy. No one cared about trans fats back then. At 10 for a buck, Totino's fit the bill.

Then marriage and children came along, and it was back to the Chef. My sons loved kneading the dough and then spreading the crust to the edges of the pan. And then smearing the flour on their shirts, their hair and the wall.

Those were great until we discovered people would actually bring pizzas to our front door if we picked up the phone, placed an order and then gave them money when the doorbell rang. When Domino's came along, our long association with Chef Boy Ardee came to a sad end.

Now that my boys are on their own, I often find myself strolling the frozen food aisle, looking for something quick for dinner. We've come a long way from those cardboard Totino's days. Modern pizzas offer a variety of toppings from artichokes to roasted garlic to Kalamata olives.

Weight Watchers and Lean Cuisine offer low-fat, nutritious pizza choices. There's also gluten-free and vegetarian pizzas.

Some taste wonderful and others are like eating cardboard. And while it's a lot easier to pop a frozen pizza in the microwave, nothing beats the smell and taste of a pizza made with fresh bread dough, home-made tomato sauce and freshly grated cheese.

That's what I call a pizza pie.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The joy in the dance

I saw my daughter-in-law's vehicle pull into the parking lot as the high school choir began singing the National Anthem. Due to heavy traffic, they were running a bit late for the concert.
Luckily, the concert was a casual and family-friendly affair because the playlist featured songs from classic Disney movies. When I saw my 3-year-old granddaughter come around the corner of the car, a smile broke out on my face.

She was dressed in a classic Disney Snow White costume with a bright red ribbon in her hair and black tap shoes on her feet. The blue sequins on her dress sparkled as mother and daughter dashed into the auditorium, and we hurried to our seats on the front row.

As soon as the choir started with their next song, my granddaughter began rocking in her seat in rhythm to the music, a smile illuminating her face. When the song ended, she was clapping louder than anyone else in the auditorium.

The next song was a lively number, and Kylie was soon on her feet, her arms out by her side, swaying to the music. We tried to get her to sit down, but she didn't want to sit -- she wanted to dance.

She twirled in time to the music, loving the way her yellow skirt billowed out around her. When the choir sang the toe-tapping "Hakuna Matata" from "The Lion King," the teens were moving with the music.

And down front, my granddaughter was dancing and clapping right along with them.

Kylie danced the entire performance, skipping and swaying in tune with the piano and those beautiful young voices. She was uninhibited and spellbound in the magic of the music.

The ability to lose one's self in the moment is sometimes forgotten by adults. We're concerned with following the rules, coloring inside the lines so to speak, so we keep our emotions in check. We don't want others to think we've lost our senses.

But sometimes throwing caution to an arbitrary, strong wind is just what we need. How often have we sat in traffic with a great song on the radio and only hummed instead of belting that song out like Aretha Franklin or Elvis Presley?

Perhaps we believe we're not as talented as other or we don't want to look like we've lost our marbles, so we deny ourselves the opportunity to cut loose and lose ourselves in the joy of the moment.

The singers on stage, however, hadn't forgotten what it was like to belt out a tune and love every minute of the experience. One of the choir members, Ernestine, is in a wheelchair, and I know choir is her favorite class of the day.

Her radiant smile reflected the joy in her heart, just as my granddaughter's dancing reflected the happiness in her soul.

These two were not afraid for others to know they'd embraced the joy of the moment and were not going to let anything -- not social mores, an audience or the thought of being judged by others -- stop them from immersing themselves in feeling fabulous.

Toward the end of the show, my granddaughter began trying to sing with the choir. She didn't know any of the words, but that didn't stop her.

When I asked her keep her voice down a bit and let the choir sing, she gave me a questioning look.

"But I need to sing," she said. "I just need to."

And with that, I sat back, smiled and told her to go ahead and sing.

And dance.

And let the joy in her heart blossom.

Oh how I envy her.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Rhythm and Security at the Sink

Last Sunday, my family came over for dinner and to visit. After we'd eaten, I realized the dishwasher was already filled so we'd have to wash the dishes by hand.
As the sink filled with soap suds, I remembered the days when everybody washed the dishes by hand. When I was a young girl, my mom's family gathered every Sunday after church for dinner at my grandparents' house, and everyone chipped in for clean-up duties.

My relatives had the assembly line down pat, and I'm not sure if today's young people  -- reared on paper plates, take-out Styrofoam boxes and cheap plastic cups -- know there's a system for efficiently washing dishes by hand.

When heated debates about politics and football ended, everyone chipped in for kitchen duty. Some cousins were charged with scraping the food into an old milk carton so it could be added to the compost pile, and the uncles put the leftovers in smaller bowls and then in the refrigerator.

My grandfather was always at the head of the line to wash the dishes. He taught me to fill the sink with hot, soapy water and put a tablespoon of household bleach in the water to serve as a disinfectant.

Wash the glasses first, he said, because they needed the cleanest and hottest water possible to stay sparkling clean.

He showed me how to wash the inside of the glass, being careful to swab the bottom of the milk glasses. Next he said to wash the rim and then rinse the glass in clear, running water.

After all the glasses were clean, my grandfather said to refill the sink with hot soapy water, add a bit of bleach again, and then wash the utensils.

"Think about it," he told me, holding a fork up to the window. "People put this in their mouths. Make sure they're really clean."

As the glasses, utensils and plates moved on to the dish drainer, aunts, who talked nonstop, took turns drying them and putting them away in the cabinets.

Last but not least were the pots and pans. Before the invention of rice cookers and microwaves, there was always a stack of heavy-duty cleaning on the drain board.

Washing pots and pans was usually unpleasant if we'd forgotten to fill the pans with water so they could soak. It took a lot of elbow grease and the trusty Chore Girl scrub pad to loosen baked-on rice in the bottom of a pot or on the side of my grandmother's blue enamel roaster.

As the assembly line moved efficiently in the kitchen, someone made sure the leaf came out of the dining room table and my grandmother's bowl of plastic fruit was back in the center of the table.

When the last pot was dried and the drainer was empty, my uncles retired to the living room to watch football and my aunts sat around the kitchen table, sharing hot coffee, pie and more talk.

They'd reminisce about the old days, give each other advice about life and relax now that the work was finished. Those days are some of my favorites from my childhood, and I'm glad I was part of a large, extended family that laughed, argued and cried together.

As I washed the dishes and my daughter-in-law dried them, our sons, granddaughter and my husband cleared the table and took care of the chores that accompany a family dinner. All the while, we laughed and talked.

There's a rhythm in a kitchen, the give and take of seemingly mundane talk of family and friends that accompanies worthwhile tasks and puts a finishing touch on a slow Sunday afternoon.

This article originally appeared in the Fort Bend Herald.

Serenity in the Country

As usual, I was running late on a Sunday morning and found myself too far away from town to attend church services at my home parish. Luckily, I was crossing Wallis' city limits and pulled into the parking lot at Guardian Angel Catholic Church two minutes before Mass started.

A few years ago, Fort Bend Herald Photographer Russell Autrey and I collaborated on a story about the historic church, and that outing was one of our favorites. Russell captured the majesty of the church in his photographs as well as the intricate workmanship evident in the interior's every arch and graceful curve.

Founded in 1892, the church is listed on the National Register of Historic Places, and, according to the city's Website, the chapel was one of the last painted churches built in Texas.

The current building is the third one erected on the site -- a tornado destroyed the first one and the congregation outgrew the second. Construction started on the current church building in 1913 and was completed in 1915.

Seventy-five families contributed toward the wooden building, and the Gothic style church was mostly built by volunteers. The generous townspeople who gave of their time also donated incredible talents, as the church is gorgeous from ceiling to floor.

First and foremost is the altar. Catholic churches built before the 1960's often contain elaborate back altars, and Guardian Angel's is no exception. The altar resembles a cathedral with scaled-down yet delicate arches and spires. Statues of humble angels adorn the altar, and painstaking workmanship is evident in their expressions, hands and robes.

The leaded, stained glass windows were created in Italy, and each window contains the names of parishioners, written in Czech, as well as emblems that reflect a Catholic belief. These gorgeous windows allow the sun to illuminate the church in a soft, amber glow, and electric lights are almost unnecessary.

In newer construction, ceilings are acoustically sound, but they're often a boring, institutional white. Not at Guardian Angel.

The tall, domed ceiling is decorated with intricately painted medallions featuring saints. For this mostly farming community, the saints are those farmers hold dear, and the names are written in Czech and English.

Although the parish has a long history, the service was filled with young families, grandparents, young adults and teens, and it seemed everyone knew everyone.

After the Mass was finished, I spoke with people who were life-long parishioners. They said they treasure the church building, even though they sometimes take for granted the beauty of the interior.

The current pastor, the Rev. Twee Nguyen asked if I knew about the hidden statue of Christ inside a side altar, and I remembered that little known fact from my last visit. The statue is only revealed on Good Friday, and it's a replica of Michelangelo's "Pieta" sculpture.

So many other details hide themselves from those visiting the church on a quick visit. But in the quiet of the church, after the congregation had gone home, there was a definite feeling of warmth and home inside those old, wooden walls.

For once, I was glad I was running late for it gave me a chance to catch my breath and refresh my soul. From the worn spots on the wooden pews, I figure I'm not the first wandering soul to seek refuge from the storms of life.

I unexpectedly found that serenity at a quaint, wooden church in a small, country town.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. Note that Guardian Angel Catholic Church is open daily for tours. Call 979-478-6532.

Long-Time Friends of the Heart

The laughter coming from our table was almost embarrassing. Four of us were having dinner at a local restaurant, and we were reminiscing as only friends who've grown older together can do.

We've known Mike and Carolyn for over 20 years. Our boys were in Boy Scouts together, and the guys spent many weekends camping or canoeing.

We chuckled remembering how our boys survived their summer Scout camp in Texas and the times we'd sat down together at pot-luck dinners and evening campfires.

After our children were grown, though, we gradually grew apart, keeping up through Christmas cards or chance encounters in the grocery store.

Three years ago, Carolyn called me when she heard our son was getting married. She extended a gracious offer -- she volunteered to help at the rehearsal dinner at our house.

For hours, Carolyn refilled glasses, threw away paper goods, kept the food hot and handled all the hostess jobs, freeing me to visit with my family.

That night, I realized how fortunate I was to have someone like Carolyn in my life. But I'm not the only one who's benefitted from Carolyn's generosity. A family in need will always find Carolyn there with groceries, home repair supplies or clothes in hand.

Mike is just as gracious, and if we ever needed someone to help us with a tough chore, Mike was there, his dry wit and hearty laugh accompanying every adventure.

Recently, we were drawn together under sad circumstances, and I realized once again the strength of Mike and Carolyn's commitment to friendship.

Friends from the Boy Scout troop lost their son unexpectedly, and we were all devastated. Just as she did for my son's rehearsal dinner, Carolyn worked behind the scenes, coordinating the food for the wake and quietly overseeing details, from packing up food boxes for out-of-town visitors to gathering the information for the funeral program, typesetting it and then making copies for everyone.

When we saw Mike and Carolyn at the funeral home, we spent time catching up with each other -- where our children were living and the unexpected joys of being grandparents. But that short conversation left us wanting more, so we met up later at a local restaurant.

We reminisced about the old times and added more stories to our collective memories. We laughed loud and we laughed often.

Maybe it was with relief from the stress we'd all been under at the funeral. Perhaps we'd been reminded that life spins on a dime, and we'd better reach out and embrace happiness when it comes our way.

As we drove away from the restaurant, my face sore from laughing so much, I thought about all the people I've let drift away over the years, whether it's because we've moved, our children grew apart or we just got too busy.

I realized how much I missed having long-time friends in my life for they are irreplaceable. They remember our true hair color and the cars we drove when we were toting around lawn chairs and baseball bats.

When they come to visit, they never say a word about the dog hair on the couch, the pile of backpacks and wet tennis shoes by the back door or the big dent in the fender, courtesy of a teen-age driver.

If we're lucky and we live long enough, we have old friends in our lives. Because of them, we realize the world's not coming to an end of we linger a bit over a plate of beef stew, laugh until our sides hurt and remember bygone days.

And remember to give thanks for having long-time friends of the heart.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Technically Speaking

The old wives' tale is that bad things happen in threes, and such is the case in my life recently. Two out of the three had happy endings. One is a "to be continued."

A few weeks ago, I purchased a four-gig flash drive to easily transport cumbersome documents. What I love about this flash drive is it fits easily in my wallet or pocket. What I dislike is the same thing -- it's so small, I forget where I put it most of the time.

The last time I used the flash drive, I was in a hurry. I slipped the device in my pocket and forgot it was there. Days went by, and I kept wondering where I'd left it.

The mystery was solved when I threw a load of clothes in the washer and found that brand new flash drive in the bottom of my washing machine.

After the washer had finished its extra-rinse power cycle.

No way that flash drive was going to work, I thought, but I put it underneath a fan, crossed my fingers and let it sit there for a few hours.

I wasn't hopeful because I'd tried the same thing when I found my iPod in the bottom of the washing machine after the rinse cycle. I put the iPod underneath a fan overnight, tried drying it with my hair dryer and even waved my granddaughter's magic wand over it, but the device refused to return to life.

A friend suggested I put the iPod in a bowl of dry rice. Apparently the rice will magically suck the water out of a device.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained, so that iPod's currently buried under three inches of Uncle Ben's rice, and I've got my fingers crossed.

When it comes to technology, luck plays a huge part in my success because I have to see how things fit together to understand how they work.

I understand a needle and thread. After vacuuming up a sock, I understand how dust and dirt will accumulate inside a hose behind an obstruction, thus create a huge mess when the hose is disconnected from the vacuum cleaner.

But the Internet? That's an magical universe of atoms that can infect a computer without ever sneezing on it.

On the Internet, I can instantly see the beach conditions in Gulf Shores, Ala. With two clicks of the mouse, I can talk to my son in Taiwan for free -- that's just amazing.

So when my computer refused to log onto the Internet last night, I was stumped. I hadn't washed it like my iPod or flash drive, and everything looked in place from the outside.

I ended up dragging the tower into the computer store, waiting in line and then listening to the pleasant technician tell me it was the connection at home, not my computer.

As I pushed the heavy cart back to my car, I gave that tower a stern warning.

"Listen here, buddy, you're too heavy for me to carry in and out of the repair shop, so I suggest you find some kind of way to get along with what's coming out of the wall."

Apparently, that mom talk did some good as I reconnected everything when I got home, tightened up the wires and I could connect to the Internet.

I have no idea why my computer now works.

I have no idea what I did differently than what I did yesterday to make it work.

All I know is my computer is working. My flash drive works. My iPod's drying out in a bowl of Uncle Ben's rice. And I'm reconnected to the world.

Two out of three ain't bad.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

A Culinary Excursion

(My brother, Jeff, is a wonderful cook who's not afraid to try new dishes. Thanks, younger brother, for the culinary tip!)

On a recent visit to my brother's house, he whipped up a fabulous dinner of chicken simmered in raspberry chipotle sauce. I'm not exactly sure what a chipotle is, exactly, but it's delicious.
So now I'm on a new kick -- if it can be grilled, fried or sautéed, I'm smothering it in chipotle sauce.

In a few weeks, my husband will mutiny, and I'll have to find some new cooking binge.

That's the way it goes in my kitchen, and it all started with ketchup.

My dad loved ketchup with everything -- scrambled eggs, fish, potatoes -- almost everything was covered in Heinz 57.

As a result, I'm a ketchup fan. I don't have fries and a burger -- I have ketchup with a few fries thrown in and two layers of ketchup with a hamburger patty in the middle.

I also love ketchup and mustard on a hot dog, which brings to mind my love affair with mustard. We grew up on plain, yellow mustard. In my 30's, I discovered two words that would change the way I looked at a bottle of mustard -- Grey Poupon.

Once hooked, I branched out and discovered honey mustard. For years, I was on a honey mustard kick, ordering a bit of lettuce with four containers of honey mustard dressing.

Then I read the calorie count.

No wonder that dressing tasted so good.

Then I discovered lemon pepper. I first tasted lemon pepper on broiled catfish. Growing up in Louisiana, we had catfish fried, baked and in gumbo.

But eating that lowly fish with lemon pepper took the dish to a new level. I was hooked and bought a huge bottle of lemon pepper seasoning from one of the wholesale clubs.

I proceeded to put lemon pepper on everything -- chicken, steak, hamburgers, roasts -- everything off the stove and from the oven was a shade of black and yellow.

After a while, my family hid the bottle, but I'd already moved on to Old Bay Seasoning. Created from 12 herbs and spices, Old Bay actually pushed the hallowed, giant bottle of Tony Chachere's seasoning out of the forefront of my cabinet for a while.

Old Bay was my new passion. I'd seen that rectangular can in the store for years, but I thought it was for chowder, not southern cooking. I was wrong.

Everything that came out of the oven was covered with Old Bay. Someone hid the can after an extra heavy dosing on a chicken one night. So I resurrected Tony from the back of the cabinet, and proceeded to fall in love with that Cajun staple once again.

Then I read the sodium content on the side of the bottle.

Hello Mrs. Dash. After one use, it was Goodbye, Mrs. Dash.

I've only skimmed the surface when it comes to sauces and seasonings. There's the whole world of allemande and Bechamel sauces and habanero and white pepper spices.

There's even an chipotle chile seasoning. I could probably prepare a chicken with the chipotle chile seasoning and then cover it in chipotle raspberry sauce. My mouth's already watering.

As with all culinary crazes, this one will run its course, sooner rather than later, because while I was shopping this evening, I wandered down the spice aisle and saw an intriguing bottle, "Chinese Five Spice."

Something tells me a new adventure awaits my family.

Pass the Alka-Seltzer.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Gratitude in the Check-Out Line

It was the end of a long day. My fingernails were chipped, my left toe was aching because I'd taken a corner too sharp and there was a coffee stain on the front of my shirt.
The last thing I wanted to do was stop at the grocery store, but we'd eaten out a few times this week and the only foods the fridge was keeping cold were sodas, cheese slices and mustard.

After throwing a few frozen dinners, fruit and a bag of lettuce in my cart, I made my way to the check-out line and took my place behind an elderly woman and a young man as they painstakingly unloaded their grocery cart.

The woman gave the cashier three plastic cards, telling her there was $17 on the first gift card, $12.71 on the second and to put the remainder on the credit card.

It took a few minutes for the cashier to figure out what she was saying, and I found myself growing crankier every time the cashier squinted her eyes and said she didn't get it.

As I waited for some type of understanding to take place, I looked around at my fellow shoppers. The woman standing behind me was on her cell, complaining about her boss.

One line over, a frazzled young mother was trying unsuccessfully to convince her 3-year-old he did not need four candy bars.

There was the quiet elderly couple two lines over, their small cart filled with low-fat cheese, reduced-calorie bread and a day-old cherry pie.

A man in a rumpled business suit was holding a bouquet of roses in one hand and was busily tapping away on his Blackberry with his thumb.

The woman in front of me was still trying to explain what she needed the cashier to do, and I found my patience dangerously close to the "empty" mark. I kicked myself for, once again, choosing the slow line.

I have the worst luck choosing lines, especially when I'm tired and in a hurry. The last time I was in the grocery store, the lady in front of me disagreed with the discount the computer dispensed.

Instead of the dollar she felt she was entitled to receive, the register only rang up 50 cents. She asked the cashier to have someone physically go look at the display so she could get her discount.

I wanted to give her the two quarters so I could be on my way, but something in the way she looked prevented me from sounding off.

Perhaps it was those worry lines around her eyes or the worn edges on her sleeve that told me the 50 cents many of us take for granted meant a great deal to her.

Thinking about that lady, I looked again at the people in front of me. A cane was hanging over the young man's arm, his beard was shaggy, and his pants were a bit too tight.

The older woman appeared to be his mother, and the two of them watched every penny the cashier rang up, and their purchases were the essentials -- no junk food or name brands.

I was buying convenience groceries. They were buying what they needed, using a variety of resources just to make ends meet.

Gratitude is something we often feel when circumstances remind us to be thankful -- narrowly avoiding a fender bender, a friend helps us out of a jam or we make it home safely on a rainy night.

I didn't need a close call to remind me how fortunate I am. That opportunity was as close as the grocery store check-out line.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Three boys. Oh my.

In less than a month, my niece and her husband will be welcoming home a third son. Chrisy and Blair are the parents of two wonderfully behaved 3-year-old twin boys, and they're looking at their expected third boy as a genuine blessing.

Chrisy smiles when people say "three boys, oh my" and claims she's happy as long as the baby's healthy. But Chrisy loved dressing up in gowns for Mardi Gras balls, has a beautiful collection of Barbie dolls and taught dance classes for years. She was probably hoping to pass those loves on to a daughter.

I know how she feels. Many years ago, before parents could find out the sex of their unborn baby, I assumed my babies would be girls because I wanted a daughter so badly.

When I found out I was expecting, I made a soft pink blanket to wrap around my baby when she finally arrived. Just to be on the safe side, I stopped in a baby boutique and bought a beautiful lacy white newborn bonnet and carefully tucked it in my suitcase.

Surprise. My first-born was a boy, and I reluctantly returned the bonnet and traded it for a kid's LSU baseball cap.

I was thankful I had a healthy baby, but secretly, I wanted a daughter who would share her hopes about becoming a woman with me, a daughter who would grow into my friend, just as I have with my mother.

When I found out I was expecting a second child, I instinctively knew he was a boy. Still, there was a 50/50 chance for a girl, so I quietly crept back to the baby section in a department store, bought another white, frilly bonnet and tucked it into my suitcase.

And, a few months later, I traded the bonnet for a baseball cap.

With my third pregnancy, my mom said she was hoping I'd finally get that girl, but I knew better than to think pink.

Still, I went back to the same store, a 2-year-old toddler and squirmy 7-year-old in tow, and nonchalantly bought another white, lacy bonnet.

Once again, I tucked that bonnet in the back part of my suitcase.

And, once again, traded the lace for sturdy denim.

Thankfully, my three boys are healthy, intelligent young men, and they've brought us great happiness. Chrisy's third boy will bring her the same amount of joy. However, the joy that comes from rambunctious young sons is served up a bit differently.

We want pink ballerina shoes. We get muddy boots.

We hope for pink bubble baths. We get rings of brown dirt in the bathtub.

We want lacy nightgowns. We settle for camouflage underwear.

The mothers of girls will say they get the same mud, sass and sweat as the boys, but as I watch my granddaughter, I'm amazed at the different way she approaches life as compared to my sons.

My granddaughter snuggles with her favorite baby doll, cooing and singing her to sleep.

My boys slept with their Ninja Turtles and He-Man swords, but they beheaded Michelangelo and Splinter before dawn.

My granddaughter says "excuse me" when she burps. My sons belched as loud as possible and believed putting their cupped hands underneath their armpits and pumping their elbows up and down like greased lightning was great fun.

But my sons are my friends and they've brought wonderful women into my life who've become the daughters I didn't have.

So, my dear niece, you might not get the pink perks that go along with rearing a daughter, but the joys of being the mother of boys are just as rewarding.

They're simply buried underneath a mountain of smelly socks, bright red Matchbook cars and dried-out pizza crusts.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Crazy for Patsy

The set was minimal -- a plain Formica kitchen table in center stage, two matching chairs and an old Frigidaire in the back corner next to a kitchen sink.
When Traci Lyn Thomas stepped out from the wings, dressed in a cowgirl outfit, complete with fringe, sequins and cowboy boots, and began to sing, it was as if the legendary country singer Patsy Cline had come to life.

The event was the stage production of "Always, Patsy Cline" at the Durango Arts Center in Colorado. The play is based on a true story regarding Patsy, as she was called, and a friendship she had with a sassy Houston hairdresser, Louise Seger.

According to legend, Louise and Patsy enjoyed a friendship that lasted from the beginning of Cline's career until a plane crash in 1963 took her life.

The play is told from Louise's point of view and opens with a bodacious performance by Mary Ellen Cerroni who brings the spunky Louise to life.

When Patsy came to Houston to perform, Louise happened to arrive early, befriended the singer and then invited Patsy to spend the night at her house. The singer accepted, and it seems odd that a performer would go home with a fan.

But back in the early days of country music, singers and musicians didn't allow self-indulgent egos to alienate them from their fans, unlike modern singers who stay in expensive hotels and use stretch limousines and private jets to avoid their fans.

Patsy and Louise found they were more alike than different. Through letters over the years, these two women from different walks of life found they shared quite a bit -- loneliness, struggles with money, a love of music and the bonds that only women forge.

Numerous songs were featured in the play, which delighted me as Patsy Cline's one of my favorite singers. It's impossible to stay dry eyed through "Crazy" and "Sweet Dreams," and I found myself tapping my foot in rhythm when Thomas sang "Lovesick Blues" and "Walkin' After Midnight."

The audience loved the show, perhaps because Patsy's life reflects struggles many experience -- a hard-scrabble life, a rocky marriage and poverty.

My brother, sister-in-law and I loved the show, and we talked all the way home about the singers we admire and the ones whose songs have touched our lives.

The next day, I found myself humming some of Patsy's songs, reflecting on beauty and true talent. It's not in the movie star packaging of today's entertainers, and beauty's not necessarily in the skyscrapers of a bustling downtown.

Beauty is simple -- a freshly picked bunch of bright red radishes, a yellow daisy growing tall in a field of green grass, a crystal-clear stream bubbling over rocks and boulders and a strong, simple voice reminding us of love, cheatin' hearts and the blues.

And make no mistake -- Colorado is a gorgeous state. The Rocky Mountains are faithful sentries on the horizon, the humidity is low and there's a gorgeous surprise around every corner. The people are friendly, there are four distinct seasons and it seems there's a stunning site around every corner.

That beauty's also evident in a field of bluebonnets, the sun setting over the Comal River and days when country music's playing on the jukebox and you're dancing cheek to cheek with a special someone.

Like Patsy sang and Willie Nelson penned, we're crazy about lots of things, and living in Texas -- enduring the heat, humidity and more heat -- might be hard to understand from time to time, but because it's home, it's wonderful.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Love those school supplies

Some people love to shop for jewelry. Other love shoe shopping. But there's no way those jaunts compare to back-to-school shopping extravaganzas.

Perhaps it's because I'm a writer, but I cannot resist the siren's call of the spiral notebook or a thick, three-subject composition notebook.

My love of back-to-school supply shopping dates back to my elementary days. Long before the first day of school, I had my book sack packed with a Big Chief tablet, a few No. 2 pencils and a wooden ruler with inches, not centimeters.

Everyone had the eight-pack package of crayons as those were the affordable choice at the downtown Kresge's. I could only dream about having the box with 64-colors featuring a built-in sharpener.

Glue came in a dark, brown bottle, not a tube or stick, and I spent quite a few hours keeping myself amused by smearing glue over my hand and then peeling it off like skin, my imagination running away as I dreamed I was a secret agent like James Bond and being tortured by the Communists.

Inevitably, Sister Adrian noticed what I was doing and took away the glue, rapped the back of my hand with my wooden ruler and my daydreaming came to an abrupt end.

But there were other treasures in my sack, including a big, pink eraser and fancy Bic pens. When Bic pens first entered the market, we were mesmerized by the inexpensive ball-point pens. Best of all, we learned to take the ink cartridge out and turn the plastic barrel into a spitball launcher.

Today's student can still write in plain composition books, the ones with the white specks on a black background. We had to be quite careful with those books as the teacher could tell if we ripped a page out, usually to make a spitball.

Instead of plain, vanilla folders and three-ring binders covered with a blue material-type substance, modern fancy portfolios, as they're called, have pockets, zippers and hidden compartments where one can hide lunch money and all the passwords for school accounts.

Treasures abound in the school supply aisle. Highlighters come in a variety of bold or pastel colors. Need loose-leaf paper? I'm still drawn to the the wide-ruled style because we quickly learned we could jot down fewer words yet still look like we'd written the Great American Novel.

Then there are all the fun extras on the school shopping aisle. There are Post-It Notes in every color of the rainbow and backpacks in all styles, designs and shapes.

No more gray metal lunch pails to carry our bologna sandwiches wrapped in wax paper. These new plastic lunch boxes are durable enough to serve as a stepping stool, a tool to whack your brother or an impromptu third base.

And although it's hard to improve on a pink eraser or a plastic protractor, modern supplies dazzle the mind. Plain school supplies now share shelf space with external hard drives, memory sticks, blank CD's, mirrors and shelves for school lockers and tape dispensers in all colors and shapes.

There's no end to the wonders and marvels on the school supply list, and my writer's heart rejoices when I find a highlighter in a fluorescent green, a new ink pen that glides across the paper and an inexpensive device that can record voices and seamlessly play them back.

You can keep the electronics and home-goods aisles. I'm happy testing the purple and aqua blue pens, so until the sales are over, I'll be loading up until next August.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The Gulf Needs Our Help

The sun’s shining, the sand is sparkling and the jade-green waves are gently rolling into the shore. All the makings for a booming summer tourist season are in place except for one key ingredient – people.

For over 20 years, we’ve spent a week on the beach in Gulf Shores, Ala. Long known for its relaxed atmosphere and sugary white sand, the city has become a paradise for families looking for leisure time at the beach without the often-rowdy college crowd.

We’ve watched the area grow from a few mom-and-pop establishments to major chains and dozens of outlet mall stores.

Over the years, Gulf Shores, like many Gulf Coast cities, has weathered numerous hardships -- hurricanes, floods, droughts and economic recessions.

And then came April 20, 2010.

The Deepwater Horizon drilling rig exploded, killing 11 workers and setting off an uninhibited oil gusher that released millions of barrels of oil into the Gulf of Mexico, the worst spill in America’s history.

The Gulf Coast community watched, agonized, screamed, protested and howled at the political winds about the inability of the oil giant, BP, to stop the gusher.

Photos of oil washing up on the once-pristine beaches and helpless animals covered with sticky oil were splashed across the fronts of newspapers and Websites, branding this area as practically uninhabitable.

Three months later, the well is capped.

The waters are clear, and the sands are clean.

But the tourists are gone.

Eerily gone.

Normally during the tourist season in Gulf Shores, there’s bumper-to-bumper traffic, a 45-minute wait at all the restaurants, and umbrellas practically touch along the shore.

This week, we’ve cruised through the city with ease, been seated immediately at restaurants, and there’s less than 50 people on the beach as far as I can see in both directions.

Beach Patrol workers, driving brand-new 4x4 utility vehicles, motor up and down the beaches all day while Coast Guard helicopters fly overhead, dutifully checking for contaminants in the water and on the sand.

Souvenir boutiques have few shoppers, and the most popular items are “Save Our Gulf” T-shirts with a spewing oil well design on the front. When we ask where the catch of the day comes from, our waitress answers “Texas.”

Seeing once bustling restaurants boarded up, brand-new “for sale” signs in dozens of store windows and parking lots that are normally overflowing with mini-vans and family sedans practically deserted, the economic impact of that oil spill becomes painfully real and personal.

Our first evening, we visited one of our favorite restaurants, and I noticed an elderly gentleman clearing off the tables. Often the wait staff in a tourist area is filled with teens looking to make money for the summer.

From the deep tan lines on his face, his lean physique and his weathered knuckles, it appeared this man had spent a lifetime in the outdoors, perhaps hauling in fishing nets or piloting charter fishing trips. Now he was folding napkins, refilling salt shakers and cleaning up crumbs.

That’s where the devastating effects of any economic disaster can be seen – in the eyes of those who’ve lost their livelihood, their dignity and their connection to the land or the sea.

But people are resilient. They’ll hitch up their britches, roll up their sleeves and do whatever it takes to restore their way of life.

Along the Gulf Coast, however, they need people. So come back. Have some fun building sand castles, splashing in the waves and fishing in the Gulf.

The water’s beautiful, the sand sparkles, and laughter, especially laughter, is sorely needed in these parts.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The Dorm Life

It was 1 a.m. Footsteps reverberated up and down the halls, laughter seeped through the thin walls and my reconstituted mashed potato dinner was weighing heavily on my tummy.

I was spending a long weekend at Texas A&M University for a student workshop, and I'd forgotten all about life in a dorm.

When I left home for college, I thought I'd hit the big time. Although there was cracked linoleum on the floor and cinder-block walls, I embraced that cramped room like it was the Taj Mahal.

So when it was time for my eldest son to attend college, I insisted he live in a dorm because I wanted him to experience university life in all its glory.

After four nights on a college campus, I came to realize I was sadly mistaken in making my sons endure the dorm experience.

For example, bathrooms. Sharing shower facilities with 50 strangers was a lot of fun when I was 18 years old. Trotting down to the showers carrying a bottle of VO-5 shampoo and soap on a rope was an adventure.

Now, I've come to enjoy my quiet bathtub soak time. There's no one warbling "Rocky Mountain High" in the shower next to me, and I don't have to worry about athlete's foot.

College Food. For two years, I mostly existed on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, Ramen noodles and tuna fish because they were the cheapest eats around.

Occasionally I'd splurge on a cafeteria breakfast of reconstituted eggs, a few slices of bacon and buttered toast. I thought I was at a Renaissance feast.

Now, butter is a thing of the past. Likewise with full-fat cream cheese. We health-conscious baby boomers have meekly accepted we can only have imitation eggs, spray margarine and turkey bacon.

Walking. When I was a young girl, trekking across campus was a piece of cake. I simply slipped on my 20-pound backpack and practically jogged to my classes.

Now, a walk across campus felt like lumbering across the Sahara Desert wearing lead shoes. As agile Aggies whizzed by me on their sleek bikes, I was making deals with the heavens above if I could instantly transport my hot, tired body into an air-conditioned sedan.

Noise. Growing up in a house of nine, I was accustomed to commotion. In my youthful John Denver days, living in a noisy dormitory where girls were playing music so loud it seeped through the walls was no big deal.

Now hearing music at 2 a.m. isn't a time for me to rhapsodize about the mountains and eagles. It's a time to bang on the wall and crankily tell them to turn it off.

Beds. I never remembered tossing and turning on the mattress on the top bunk back in 1973. My roommate and I lounged there for hours, playing cards, talking about boys and eating chocolates and chips until the wee hours of the morning.

Now I need my therapeutic pillow, a heating pad and a full eight hours of sleep or I'm worthless the next day.

The dorm life. It's not the wonderful escape I remembered from my past, so the first thing I'm going to do when I get back to my quiet, air-conditioned life is apologize to my sons for making them live on campus instead of allowing them to live in a comfortable, quiet apartment.

The second is fix them a meal of real scrambled eggs, hot, bold coffee and fresh New York bagels with real butter and cream cheese.

Now that's the life.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

My Tragic Flaw from "Everwood"

(The television show "Everwood" was one of my favorites. I heard this speech and, before the days of TiVo, watched it three times to get all the words. I wish I'd written this, and I wish even more I knew who did write it. Whoever said TV is the vast wasteland misses those moments of poignant dialogue that touches the heart. This is one of them for me.)

The more things change, the more they stay the same. I’m not sure who the person was to say that – maybe it was William Shakespeare or perhaps Sting – but at the moment, it’s the line that best explains my tragic flaw – my inability to change. I don’t think I’m alone in this. The more I get to know people, the more I realize it’s everyone’s flaw.

Staying exactly the same for as long as possible and standing perfectly still feels better, or at least the pain is familiar if you’re suffering.

If you took that leap of faith, one outside the box, if you did something unexpected, who knows what other pain might be waiting out there.

It could be worse pain, so we maintain the status quo and stay on the road always traveled.

It doesn’t seem so bad – not as bad as flaws go. You’re not a drug addict; you’re not killing anybody, except yourself a little. But when we finally do change, it doesn’t happen like an earthquake or an explosion or, all of a sudden, we’re a different person.

I think it’s smaller, the kind of thing people wouldn’t even notice unless they looked really close which, thank God, they never do. But you notice it. Inside, it feels like a world of difference. You finally become the person you’re meant to be forever, and you hope you’ll never have to change again.

-- From “Everwood.”

Dieting since the Seventies

(Was going through files and thought I'd post this one from a few months back. The pizza, by the way, was worth every calorie!)

At the last minute, a friend and I decided to meet for a quick dinner. Both of us had a list of household chores a mile long, but we decided the dust wasn't going anywhere and we needed a girls' night out.

We talked and laughed from the minute we left her driveway until we arrived at a local restaurant. When the waitress came over, we instinctively ordered the typical "I'm on a diet" beverages -- water with extra lemon.

I think I've been on a diet since the seventies. As a teen, it was fashionable to be on a diet. As a young college student, eating light was a necessity as those dollar bills went to tuition, room and board before they went to the Winn-Dixie.

When planning a wedding, I dieted like a crazy person so I would be thin for the wedding pictures. In reality, I had the concept backwards.

A girl's wedding day should be the time when she weighs the most. That way, whenever she looks back on the wedding photos for years to come, people can say, "You sure have slimmed down since that time."

As a bonus, a gal can always get into her wedding dress years after taking that walk down the aisle.

But we don't think rationally as we count calories and try to Zumba our way into those blue slacks that have been hanging in the back of the closet so long, the price tag was printed by hand.

The young waitress handed us the menus, and I tried to figure out what I could order and still button my slacks in the morning.

We looked at the appetizers and spinach seemed like a good choice until I saw that healthy vegetable would be covered with warm cream and served with goat cheese.

So I skipped down and thought the salmon salad might be a good choice.

Until I saw the price tag -- $12.95. Sorry, but I'm not paying over $12 for lettuce that's $1.79 in the grocery store. And salmon, while tasty, just doesn't taste the same on lettuce as it does swimming in a sea of butter sauce.

I looked at the pasta selection and immediately lingered on one of my favorites, lasagna. "Layers of pasta, meat and cheeses" the description began, and I could feel the button on my pants begin to strain.

Immediately, I changed tactics, looking for the seafood box as that's usually a low-fat choice. The shrimp was grilled, but when served in a lemon cream sauce over angel hair pasta, I knew that thick sauce negated any health effects from the sea.

Ten minutes later, I was still studying the menu, wondering what low-calorie dish I could choose, and then I sadly realized there was nothing on that menu, except a dry house salad for $6.95, I could eat that wouldn't completely blow any semblance of a diet.

About that time, the waitress returned to our table and asked for our orders. Impulsively, I decided to go for broke.

I ordered pizza because I love pizza. I love the freshly baked crust and the way the melted cheese smothers the layers of pepperoni, mushrooms and Italian sausage. If I'm going to blow my diet, then I'm going to do it in grand fashion.

I'll diet tomorrow. And from the way that warm, scrumptious pizza tasted, probably for the next week.

Okay, the next month.

But when the food's delicious and the conversation's even better, calories shouldn't matter.

Now all I have to do is convince my hips.

This column originally appeared in The Fort Bend Herald.

Improving the World

The restaurant was crowded and noisy. Glasses clinked, country music filled the air and the wait staff bustled from table to table. The casual atmosphere suited us as we had our son, daughter-in-law and 2-year-old granddaughter along.

As is tradition in this steak house, the staff joins together once an hour and dances around the restaurant, arms linked, kicking and clapping as they wind their way around the tables.

Our granddaughter was enchanted with the smiling dancers, and we could see the wistfulness in her eyes as the lively group passed our table.

When our waitress, Lauren, returned with our check, we mentioned how much our granddaughter loved the dancing, and Lauren asked if she wanted to come dance with them.

We said we were getting ready to leave, but Lauren said she'd quickly round up the staff so Kylie could dance.

In minutes, Lauren came back to our table with a big smile and held out her arms, inviting our granddaughter to come dance as the music began.

The waiters and waitresses were clapping and kicking, and our granddaughter was right there with them. All of us had happy tears in our eyes, watching Lauren and the wait staff helping our young granddaughter learn the dance.

Our granddaughter twirled, clapped and spun with the teens. At the end, the manager proudly bestowed a smiley face sticker on our granddaughter's shirt, and the huge grin on that little girl's face is one we'll never forget.

Later that night, I opened my e-mail and read a letter from parents whose son, Alex, had attended the Boy Scouts of America's Cockrell River Camp, a summer camp north of Houston.

Alex has High Functioning Autism and is easily overwhelmed. During registration, Alex's worried parents made sure they talked with all the counselors about their son's special needs.

It was easy to see these were parents who kept a close watch on their son yet wanted him to experience
summer camp as independently as possible.

In the letter, Alex's parents noted that one Eagle Scout, Will Baumgartner with Troop 1880 in Richmond, took it upon himself to be Alex's unofficial helper. Because of Will's voluntary involvement and willingness to help someone with special needs, Alex was able to complete numerous merit badges and enjoy camp.

The biggest surprise, however, came at the swimming hole. At the beginning of camp, Alex was overwhelmed with the swimming test, so when it was time for the Aquafest race, Alex got into the water and stayed in one spot, not moving.

The swim directors jumped in the water next to Alex and encouraged him. Because these two young men came to Alex's rescue, the rest of the campers began calling Alex's name, and the parents said it was like a "Hallmark moment" to see the whole camp cheering for Alex.

So many times, we hear about the callousness and viciousness of people in our world. That self absorption is evident all over the place, from people who cut us off in traffic, jump ahead of us in the grocery store line and think only about their time and what the world can give to them.

But young people like Lauren and Will make this world a better place, and people like them, people who live from the heart, are all around us.

From volunteering to help a special needs boy earn a merit badge to helping youngsters on the playground at Vacation Bible School or simply taking a few minutes out of a busy work schedule to teach a child how to dance the Cotton Eyed Joe, life is a better experience when we reach out and improve the world one unselfish act at a time.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Look Back... And Remember

I wrote this for a dear friend who's relocating from the area.

Looking back,
We often yearn for what's left behind.
Friends. Family. Familiarity.

Even now, these people and events shape us,
Mold how we think, how we ponder and how we feel.
Our life lens is chiseled because of where we've been,

But it is the present that defines who we are.

So live.
Experience the moment.
Taste the sea and feel the wind lift your wings.
Look forward to the sunrises and savor the sunsets.

As you look ahead,
You'll see a foreign course -- cloudy and vague.
Ambiguity. Anticipation. Acceptance.

As you travel that new path,
Gather the memories you've made.
And add new friends, new experiences and new challenges.

But, every once in a while,
Look back and smile.

Remember from whence you came.
Thankful for where you are.
Hopeful for where you're going.

- July, 2010

Twenty-one nail holes and four trips to town

Twenty-one nail holes, four trips to town and $50. It took all that to successfully hang one mirror on the laundry room wall. How can something so simple turn out so difficult? Well, it all started with a plastic panel... We moved to a new house with white and beige everywhere, including, oddly, a narrow, white plastic panel in the middle of the laundry room wall.

While my husband was out of town, I thought I'd surprise him by covering up the panel. A long poster might do the trick, so I picked up an inexpensive print, but it was too short.

Realizing I should measure the panel before I bought anything else, I hauled out my trusty wooden yard stick, wrote down the panel's width and the length and headed to the local resale shops.

If a poster of Elvis or Hannah Montana was what I wanted, I was in luck. However, I wanted something a little more subdued.

Since I knew about a few consignment shops in Houston, I braved Westheimer at rush hour. But the right-sized choices were a faded 1985 poster from the balloon festival in Albuquerque or Elvis. I passed on both choices.

So I filled up my car, again, and went to one of the huge box stores. I found an inexpensive abstract picture but realized I'd left the measurements at home. Still, it looked to be the right size, so I bought it.

Bad choice. The picture was six inches too short and two inches too narrow.

This simple project had now turned into a grit-your-teeth mission.

Once again, I headed into town, measurements in tow, and found a nice mirror for less than $25. The only drawback was the mirror weighed 40 pounds and required two heavy-duty picture hangers.

Not a problem for a do-it-yourselfer, so back at home, I measured, carefully marked and nailed in the first picture hanger. Then I attempted to nail in the second picture hanger.

But less than two strikes in, I hit metal. I moved the hanger over a couple of inches, knowing I could move the clip on the back of the mirror. Ting! Hit metal again.

This job was harder than it looked.

I decided to use a nail and tap a few holes in the wall to avoid hitting metal again. Six holes later, I found a good spot, but that meant I had to move the hangers on the back of the mirror.

An hour later, I'd measured and moved the hooks on the back of the mirror so they lined up exactly with the hangers on the wall. I hoisted that mirror up and placed it on the hooks. Whew -- it was straight.

Unfortunately, the picture was two inches to the left of the plastic panel.

I yanked that mirror off the wall, dropped it on my foot -- that mirror really is heavy -- and eyeballed where I thought the hanger should go. This time, by sheer luck, I managed to get it hung so it covered the plastic.

However, there was that little matter of all those holes in the wall. I have a collection of paint chip samples and found one that seemed to match the wall color.

Ten dollars and an hour later, I had a small can of custom-mixed paint, spackling and a paint brush. When the paint dried, it was quite obvious someone had tried to cover up a poor patch job.

I called the neighborhood builder, and he promised to send over a painter and my husband would never know the damage I'd inflicted on that wall.

The grand total for covering a piece of plastic? Twenty-one nail holes, a professional painter, four trips to town, two tanks of gas, a bruise the size of a grapefruit on my foot and $50 worth of pictures.

Nothing to it.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The Newspaper Life

For the past 12 years, I've been writing a weekly column for The Fort Bend Herald, a daily newspaper in Rosenberg, right outside of Houston. Working for a newspaper came naturally. My grandparents owned a newspaper in Bridge City, Texas, and my grandfather, Herbie, was a well respected editor in that town, always championing the working person, and my dad was the newspaper's Linotype operator. My mom was the editor for the newspaper at the Exxon Plastics Plant in Baton Rouge, and my siblings are writers, artists and poets.

So the path was well laid for me. My family accepted my absences and late-nights at the computer, and my siblings pushed me to reach for the stars. My mom still posts my articles on the refrigerator, and my friends keep my spirits high. My fabulous editor at the Fort Bend Herald, Bob Haenel, encourages me when I'm discouraged and continues to persuade me to follow my dreams. I especially thank the Hartmans for allowing me to continue writing for them now that I'm a teacher.

People sometimes ask what's my favorite part of being a reporter, and the answer is easy -- people. Every person I've interviewed has left an impression on my soul, and it's mostly to be thankful for what I have, grateful for opportunities and eager to greet each and every day. I stopped complaining about seeing the mess in my sons' rooms after interviewing a mother who was blind. I stand when the American flag passes by, remembering the sacrifices the World War II, Korean, Vietnam and Iraqi vets I've interviewed gave so I could be free. Every person I interviewed reminded me that life is a gift and life, with all its flaws, is a wonderful, joyous journey.

Thank you for visiting here. I'll do my best not to disappoint!

Sewing on a Singer

For all of us who learned how to sew on a Singer sewing machine...

My granddaughter loves dressing up, and my daughter-in-law is always scouring stores and garage sales for dress-up clothes. Watching my granddaughter wrap a blanket around her waist, pretending it was a ball gown, I knew I had to make Kylie a princess outfit.
Luckily, my grandmother taught me how to sew when I was in my early teens. Marguerite was a fabulous seamstress, and she made all her clothes and her daughter's clothes.

One summer, she agreed to teach me how to sew. The two of us went to the local TG&Y, and she showed me how to look through the big pattern books to find what I wanted.

There were patterns for everything -- dresses, coats, pants and jackets. As we flipped through the pages, Grandma pointed out which patterns would be good choices for a novice.

We settled on a Simplicity pattern with a dropped-waist dress, a thin belt and cap sleeves. Grandma showed me how to read the back of the pattern so I'd know how much material I needed, what length of zipper to buy and to check for any extras, like interfacing or lining material.

I remember we paid less than a dollar for the pattern, and we chose bright red material and thread to match.

Laying the material on the kitchen table, Grandma made me carefully cut the pattern pieces out of that thin tissue paper and then showed me how to pin the pattern pieces in place, paying close attention to the pieces that needed to go on the fold.

Sipping her coffee, Grandma patiently explained what all the pattern markings meant -- this was a line for hand stitching so the material wouldn't fray on the curve and the black, diamond notches were markers to make it easier to line up the pieces.

Grandma said it was important to press the curves and all the seams as we went along, so the iron and ironing board were set up next to the sewing machine.

She showed me how to weave the thread in and out of all the metal loops and gears on my mom's black Singer sewing machine and how to load the bobbin. Grandma showed me how to use the foot pedal, easing up around the curves and a little faster on the straight seams.

Day after day, we sat down together, Grandma guiding me through every step, checking my seams and making me rip them out and start over if they were wrong.

I learned how to make darts and how to sew a gathering stitch. I learned how to baste a zipper in place and to clip the curves on the collar and sleeves.

When the dress was almost finished, she showed me how to make a belt loop by hand and how to hem, my grandmother's stitches so tiny, the thread practically disappeared into the material.

That initial sewing lesson has served me well in life. Not only have I made my own clothes, but also my sons' play clothes, curtains for our home and doll clothes for my nieces.

Now with a granddaughter, it was time to haul my trusty Kenmore out of storage. Running my fingers over the metal gears, I remembered those long-ago afternoons with my grandmother.

At the time, I thought I was only getting sewing lessons, but Marguerite was really passing on life lessons.

She taught me to stitch carefully, press out the wrinkles as you go and know it's possible to create something beautiful from the small pieces and moments in your life.

This article was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.