One resolution... just one

As 2011 comes to a close and 2012 prepares to roll in, I find myself tapping my pencil against a notepad, hoping to come up with some resolutions for the next 12 months.

Over the years, I've changed my philosophy about making New Year's resolutions. When I was younger, the list was all about improvement –clean out my dresser and organize my closet.

Then I went through a phase where resolutions were all about personal growth – lose weight, be nicer to people and try to not lose my temper while in traffic.

There were a few years where I refused to make resolutions, believing they were limiting and often unattainable although they were made with good intentions.

But not having any resolutions for a new year left me with nothing to shoot for, and drifting through life without any goals felt a bit lazy.

So I began thinking about what resolutions are supposed to accomplish. If I look up the definition of the word "resolution," it means a firm decision to do something.

At the end of December, I'm quite dogmatic about the resolutions I've committed to a piece of paper. Come the end of January, I'm wavering. By the time the ides of March rolls around, I've totally forgotten what I wrote down and am back to my old ways.

They were good intentions at the time they were made, but as my Grandma Marguerite used to say, the road to perdition is paved with good intentions.

As I wrote down resolutions, crossed them off, and tried to think of what I wanted to accomplish this year, I thought about a year where I made only one resolution, and I kept it all year long.

The resolution was to do something fun once a month. That might seem odd, but in a world where we work 12 hours a day and spend the weekends running errands and the washing machine, having fun is a luxury I often put on the back burner.

I remembered the qualifications for accomplishing the resolution. The outing didn't have to be extravagant or expensive, but it had to move me out of my comfort zone.

One month, I had lunch at a Lebanese restaurant in Houston, one I'd read about but never had time to explore. The food was delicious, and I savored every bite that Saturday afternoon.

Another month I visited the antique shops in downtown Rosenberg. I found myself going down memory lane as I saw plates and serving trays from my grandmother's kitchen and lost myself in an old red and white checked copy of Better Homes and Garden's cookbook, similar to the one my mom used when I was growing up.

I went to a theatre production one Sunday night, finding my way through downtown Houston adding to the adventure. Another month I visited a friend, and we had lunch at an out-of-the-way cafe.

One month, the money I would've spent on my resolution went to a charity and another month the money went to a family member so they could have some fun.

Knowing someone was stepping outside their comfort zone fulfilled the resolution for me and, at the same time, made me feel a little less selfish.

So this year, I'm going back in time and making a resolution to do something different once a month. It's not a resolution that's going to change the world, but it's often in the small details where we find the most clarity.

Happy New Year!

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

And to all a good night...

In most families, there are movies that stay at the top of the watch list, especially around the holidays. My sister and her husband don't consider it a true Christmas unless they've watched "A Christmas Vacation" while decorating the tree.

When I was younger, my family always watched "The Wizard of Oz" at Thanksgiving, knowing the movie was the first harbinger of the Christmas season.

In December, I look for "A Christmas Carol," a 1950's black-and-white movie starring Alastair Sim as the crotchety Ebenezer Scrooge. It's one of my favorites and always introduces the yuletide season. For the Hebert family, nothing beats the musicals, especially "Fiddler on the Roof." My dad was profoundly affected by the film, and my mom said he choked up every time one of Tevye's daughters left home.

Every song in "Fiddler on the Roof" is etched into my memory because my mom played the soundtrack constantly. We know all the dialogue, and we sing along with every song, from "If I Were a Rich Man" to "Matchmaker, Matchmaker."

Tevye, the father of three daughters, is my favorite character in the movie because he evolves and changes as he experiences prejudice, his daughters' wishing to make their own decisions and then having to leave his hometown.

What connects Tevye to the universe is tradition. As life evolves, Tevye keeps some traditions while leaving others behind. I think about Tevye every Christmas as we maintain the traditions I grew up with and add new ones as our family changes and evolves.

For over 35 years, everyone in the Hebert family met at my parents' home on Christmas Eve. My mom always made a huge pot of gumbo, enough for over 50 people, and everyone brought their own special dish to add to the banquet.

My brother, and then his children with him, serenaded us with guitars and Christmas songs as everyone waited to open gifts, the children first and then the adults. Laughter filled the air, and every Christmas has its own special memory -- the year my we all made the gifts for each other and the ritual of taking the huge family portrait.

The first Christmas Eve after my father passed away was difficult. It was his tradition to read the Bible passage of the birth of Christ, and we knew we'd miss him even more at that moment. But my brother quietly took over dad's duties, keeping what we did in spirit but adjusting to the changing times.

As we brothers and sisters became grandparents, we adjusted again, and many of us were no longer able to all travel to my mom's for Christmas Eve. As heartbreaking as it was to miss the family gathering, my mother had some sage advice for those of us who couldn't make it. She said traditions are what bind us, but making new ones is what keeps the family connected from generation to generation.

So this Christmas Eve, I'll be making a pot of chicken gumbo but adding a few Texas dishes to the menu.

We'll still read the passage from the Bible and I hope my son will serenade us with his guitar.

My wish is that other families can also honor the past, celebrate the present and create for the future so that, despite what obstacles and triumphs come our way, all our Christmases may be bright.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The best wrapping paper of all

The bed in our back room is covered with plastic bags, the result of my hitting the holiday sales over the past few weeks. I've got a mountain of gifts to wrap, but I'm armed and ready.

Like most thrifty shoppers, I've got at least five rolls of holiday wrapping paper in the back of my closet. I can't resist the after-Christmas 75 percent off rolls of paper; and by the time the 90 percent rolls come around, the paper's almost free.

Of course, there's only about three feet of paper on the rolls and the printing is sometimes off center. Santa might be wearing a Hawaiian shirt and the reindeer often look like beavers, but at 90 percent off, who's complaining?

Over the years, I've camouflaged gifts in a variety of wrapping papers. One year, I used the comics pages from the Sunday paper. I saved those comics for over three months, but I still ran out at midnight and resorted to using remnants of rolls from the past three Christmases.

Then there was the year I decided to wrap everything in brown paper. I got the idea from my sister-in-law, Janet, who wrapped her gifts in brown paper and had her children decorate the outside with free-hand drawings.

What I didn't know is that brown wrapping paper is heavy and practically requires duct tape to seal the edges shut. And while her children drew pretty candy canes and snowmen on the front, my boys went all out with Ninja Turtle battles and blood-drenched superheroes.

And then there's the matter of the labels. I've used old computer labels, index cards cut in half and I've even written right on the wrapping paper. My boys believe masking tape is the perfect to/from label – cheap, easy to write on and the vanilla color stands out against the red and green.

But no matter how the gift is wrapped and tagged, the best part of wrapping gifts is making bows. I have three coat hangers in my closet, each one holding four or five different spools of curling ribbon.

It's easy to cut the exact length I need and I can use a variety of colors for a one-of-a-kind bow. I spend quite a bit of time making sure the bows match the wrapping paper, and then I use the edge of the scissors to curl the ribbon into long tendrils.

I settled on curling ribbon after the year I decided to use raffia to decorate the boxes. Martha Stewart promised that raffia-wrapped gifts would be the hit of the evening. So I wrapped every single box with strands of red raffia and tied big raffia bows to the fronts.

They looked fabulous underneath the tree. The only problem was nobody could pull the raffia apart, and we ended up using scissors to cut every single bow and raffia ribbon from every single present. The boys made me promise I'd never try to copy any more gift wrapping ideas from Martha.

Instead of chasing after trendy gift wrapping ideas, I should probably follow the example of my son, Stephen. He's found the perfect wrapping paper for birthdays and Christmas – aluminum foil.

Not only are his gifts instantly recognizable, our Aggie claims the receiver can then use the foil in the kitchen or to clean off the barbecue grill.

Foil – the perfect gift wrap – recyclable, original and cheap. Now that's what I call creative gift wrapping.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Where there's smoke, there's an inattentive Facebooker...

There are two ways to test a smoke detector. One is to stand on a chair and press the "test" button.

The other is to fill your kitchen with smoke and see if the alarm goes off.

One guess as to which option I chose.

The story starts out innocently enough. I had a left-over ham bone in the fridge and decided to make some soup. My husband was away for a couple of days, so getting caught up with a make-ahead meal seemed like a good idea.

I dropped the bone in a pot, filled it with chicken broth, threw in a handful of frozen mixed vegetables, and put the fire on medium high.

Soon the aroma of ham and pea soup was filling the air, so I decided to check my email on the computer in the back room. And then I jumped on Facebook to see what was happening.

Someone posted a song by Frank Sinatra, and I found myself listening to some of his other tunes as well as some other holiday favorites.

I was quite relaxed.

Until I smelled something burning.

I jumped up, ran to the kitchen and saw smoke. The liquid had boiled out of the pot, and all that was left was a charred ham bone and a pot spewing out thick smoke.

Immediately, I turned off the fire and then spent the next half hour turning on fans and opening windows. I counted myself extremely lucky there hadn't been a fire and no damage had been caused.

Thirty minutes later, the smoke was gone from the house, but the burnt smell remained. And here's where I came to a fork in the road.

It's one thing to do something incredibly stupid when I'm alone. That act of stupidity jumps to a whole new level when I have to tell someone else – my husband who would never leave something cooking on the stove unattended – what I did.

Guess which option I chose.

I had 24 hours.

I stopped at the store the next day, bought two cans of Febreeze and sprayed every single room in the house.

Next I opened all the windows and turned on all the fans. I had to sit in the living room with a jacket and a blanket, but after three hours, the smell seemed to be gone.

I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking I'd covered up the fiasco. Until I went to set the house alarm. While opening the windows, I'd accidentally broken one of the alarm seals.

Still trying to escape admitting my stupidity, I sent my husband an email, nonchalantly mentioning I might have broken one of the alarm seals while airing out the house. I conveniently left out why I was airing out the house, but I rationalized that was a minor detail.

The next day, my husband returned, fixed the alarm and didn't say anything about any smoke smell. I thought I'd gotten away with it and then the guilt hit.

Sighing, I told him the real reason I was airing out the house. He said he'd smelled the smoke right away and was just waiting for me to give him the whole story.

I've learned my lesson – never walk away from anything cooking on the stove and every month, test all our smoke alarms the easy way – press the button on the front.

And, just in case things do go wrong, belly up to the bar early on. Eventually, those chickens, or in this case a ham bone, come home to roost.
 
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

A Southern Christmas

It's the first day of December, and many of us are finally finishing off the last of the Thanksgiving leftovers and turning our thoughts, and wallets, toward Christmas.

On the radio, crooners Perry Como and Nat King Cole gush over snow-covered sidewalks and shoppers bundling up in coats, scarves and boots.

For way too long, northern states have crafted what Christmas is supposed to look like, totally ignoring the South that, frankly, has it pretty good during the winter months.

First there's the weather. Here in the South, when it snows every 10 years or so, it's a delightful treat, not a mountain to battle our way through every morning.

Santa might visit other parts of the world in a sleigh, but he'd probably find it a lot safer using water skis to land on a snow-free Southern roof.

And that woolen suit? Forget it. A southern Santa would be better off trading those scratchy duds in for cotton khakis and a "Gulf Shores" T-shirt.

Then there's those time-honored traditions mentioned in song and verse. Most Southerners have no idea what it means to roast chestnuts on an open fire or sip flaming rum punch.

We do, however, understand the satisfaction of gathering pecans in our back yards and making a home-made pie from the bounty while sipping on a glass of Luzianne iced tea.

Jack Frost doesn't nip at our noses. It'll be a cold day in July when any Southerner with an ounce of gumption allows an elf to bite at his or her nose.

Here in the southern states, we're more likely to run the air conditioner than the heater during the winter, and many of us have no idea what it means to have coal delivered to the cellar or how to make angels in the snow.

We don't understand wearing three layers of clothing, a coat, scarf and snow boots just to go outside nor would we ever believe getting up an hour early to shovel snow off the sidewalks is acceptable.

We scratch our heads at people who think 20 degrees below zero is tolerable and think it's odd for people to put chains on their tires – chains are meant to tote logs, not drive on.

But when it comes to the winter holidays, there are a lot of things Southerners intuitively get.

We understand boxing gloves, not snow mittens, Dickey overalls instead of snow bibs and splashing through bayous and marshes in a four-wheeler, not a horse-drawn carriage.

When we go out to cut down a Christmas tree, we ride on the back of a flat-bed tractor, not a sleigh, and we're okay with that mode of transportation.

We appreciate the thrill of receiving roller skates or a bike on Christmas morning and then going outside and playing to our heart's content – in shorts.

Southerners don't dash through the snow nor do we stop for a visit with Frosty the snowman.

Instead, there's plenty of fresh mud on the flaps of our Ford F-150 trucks and we've got Mike the Tiger, the Georgia bulldogs and Bevo instead of a fickle snowman that'll melt at the first warm snap.

Just like our Northern brothers and sisters, we understand the true meaning of the holidays – family, fellowship and faith. In these parts, we simply celebrate the holidays Southern style.

And, honey, that's just fine with me.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Happy Thanksgiving

At various stages in our life, Thanksgiving has a different place in our hearts.

When we're young, the aromas we smell in the kitchen become part of our childhood – the turkey in the oven, sweet potatoes covered with marshmallows or enchiladas smothered in gravy.

On this one day, no one fusses at us when we snitch a bite of turkey off the platter or dip our rolls in the gravy.

As teens, we pretend to resent the time with family, believing other folks must be better behaved, their mealtimes are quieter and somewhat more civilized than our families.

But secretly, we're happy for the familiarity of our crazy aunts and uncles, our grandfathers and fathers who pass on the tradition of carving the turkey and our grandmothers and aunts who make sure everything on our plate is smothered with gravy.

As young adults, we often miss Thanksgiving dinner with our families as we travel the world, head off to college or eat with a boyfriend or girlfriend's family.

But while we're sitting at a different table with unknown rituals, many of us secretly wish we were back home for at least one helping of Aunt Sarah's cornbread dressing.

When we become parents, we're the ones stuffing and baking the turkey. We usually cook the same favorites our mothers and grandmothers prepared, but we add our own touch to the dinner and thus create new memories for our children.

And before we carve the turkey and serve the green bean casserole, many of us will bow our heads and thank our creator for our many blessings and bounties.

As I think about all my blessings, the one that comes to mind this year is for the people who aid and help my family along life's sometimes bumpy highway.

My nephew, Blair, gives patient advice about medications and willingly shares his pharmaceutical degree with my boys and their families whenever they're unsure about meds for their family. Thank you.

To my sister-in-law, Annie, who answers our questions about our pets, day or night, and always has the best interests of the human and the pet in her answer, thank you.

My siblings, nieces, nephews, cousins and in-laws have always always opened their homes, hearts and occasionally fishing boats to me and my family. Thank you. Your generosity has provided dozens of happy memories for my sons and me, and I thank you for those treasured memories and the ones yet to come.

I'm thankful for my mom. She makes everyone in her life feel special, and she's always there for our family, day or night. Sometimes with a sandwich, sometimes with pears, but my mom treats every grandchild and person in our family as if they're her favorite.

For the people who've stepped into my family's path at crucial moments and helped them make wise choices, thank you. And even to those who were not so nice – you showed them how not to live.

Those thanks extend to the people who've helped me in my life. Their advice or being there when I needed a shoulder to cry on was crucial. Not a day goes by that I don't thank the people who were encouraging voices in the darkness.

So this Thanksgiving, I'm giving thanks for people, the ones who help us figure out where we're going, how we're going to get there and, most importantly, how we're going to stay there.

They are life's bounty, the treasure we're most thankful to have.
 
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The sins of omission

It was a tossed-off comment from a friend, a casual remark, but the words were unbelievably harsh.

"My father thinks I'm a failure," he said.

This young man is anything but a failure. He's artistic and witty, but no matter what I or anyone else says, the words of his father pierced his heart, a wound that will never mend.

Most of us compliment our children after a triumphant sporting event, a school play where they're the star or when they bring home an ace report card.

What about the times when our child isn't the star of the football team or the lead in the school musical?

Worse, what happens as we watch our friends' children torpedoing up the ladder of success while our children seem to sit on the same rung day after day.

Often that frustration is a reminder of how we were as youngsters, and we feel the hurt all over again but with much more anguish when our children are involved.

But instead of being the wind beneath their wings, we're sometimes gale-force winds, destroying our relationship with our children and blowing away their confidence.

Looking back, there were times when I said the right thing at the right time to my boys. They'd be angry or confused, and our subsequent conversations seemed to help.

I believed I was an involved parent – I read them bedtime stories, tucked them in at night and was on the front row for all their events, from kindergarten plays to sports to graduations.

I thought I was providing a good example by some of the things I did and, shamefully, an example of what not to do.

One evening, after the boys were grown and living on their own, I found myself on our back porch, listening to the quiet, watching the sun go down. I thought about all the good times we'd had together and, then reluctantly, all the tough times.

The arguments. The disagreements. The times I didn't listen. The times they didn't listen. And I longed to pull my boys back in time, hold them close and tell them I was sorry for my mistakes and shortcomings.

So I called one of my sons and apologized for all the missed opportunities and missteps I'd made as his mother. His answer surprised me.

"I don't remember anything you did wrong," he said softly. "And I think I turned out okay. So don't worry about it anymore, Mom. I'm just fine."

And with that short conversation, I realized that even when the sins of omission are great, even on the days when we feel we haven't an ounce of patience left, our children forgive us and accept us for the flawed human beings we are.

Thank God.

Thinking about that conversation with my son, I told this broken-hearted young man the best way to prove his father wrong was to continue growing into a strong man, one capable of loving his children without reservation or judgment.

He'd come to understand that, over the long parenting road, sometimes he'll be right and sometimes he'll be wrong.

We all are.

I won't win any parenting prizes, nor will my boys send me mushy Mother's Day cards. But I can watch them as they continue to grow into wonderful men, capable of great love and genuine forgiveness.

And, in the grand scheme of life, that's a whole lot better than a gold-plated mother-of-the-year trophy.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The Wonders Inside a Book

The young man sitting next to me was resting his hand on top of two small books. He was waiting for a book appraiser to tell him how much they could be worth.

He was one of dozens of people visiting the Houston Museum of Printing recently for a book fair, some there to purchase or sell rare books. Others, like him, to have books appraised.

"I picked this one up in New Orleans," he said, showing me a book with a worn leather cover. "I liked the way the author described all the old-fashioned remedies for ailments."

He then showed me his second book, a look of pride on his face as he disclosed he'd bought the slim book at a garage sale for 50 cents.

"But no matter what the appraiser says they're worth, I wouldn't part with them," he said, breaking into a smile. "I just love books."

And that seemed to be the spirit of everyone visiting the museum for the annual book fair. My friend, Pat, invited me to go with her to the museum, and I readily accepted her invitation.

I've always wanted to tour the museum as my family's past is intertwined with newspapers and printing presses. I know my family's history, but I've always wanted to know more about the printing industry that shaped my grandfather and my father.

At the museum, we were treated to the entire history of printing, from using rocks to make prints to sepia-colored etchings to rooms filled with antique books for all ages and interests.

One of the first exhibits we toured featured an old Linotype machine. I knew what it was without looking at the metal plate on the front because my dad ran a Linotype machine for the family newspaper when he was a young man.

From his stories, I knew the printer had to load small letters into a slot backwards, and just laying out a newspaper required hours of behind-the-scenes work.

For the next few hours, Pat and I wandered around the museum, marveling at copies of front pages documenting important days in history – the day President Kennedy was shot and the day the Titanic struck an iceberg.

We were peering through the window of the old-fashioned print shop when a friendly girl came up behind us. She was going on break, but she said she'd be happy to give us a tour first. She unlocked the room and then patiently explained how the machines worked and how much effort was required to print one poster.

She was quite excited about the process and said she began volunteering after taking a paper making class at the museum. Seeing how much time and effort went into these antique presses made me appreciate a printed book even more.

As Pat and I rounded a corner, we ran into the young man we'd been chatting with in the appraisal line. He said the expert told him one book was worth $50 and the other $75.

"Not a bad investment for a garage sale and a souvenir," he said, a smile spreading over his face.

I asked him if he'd reconsidered selling them, and he said the answer was still no. Books, he said, would only grow more profitable as printed books lose the race against electronic editions. Besides, he confided, he simply loved his books.

Book lovers know exactly how he feels. There's something about holding a book in one's hands – feeling the weight of the paper as we turn the pages and running our hands over the covers – that transports readers to a far away time and place.

I know electronic readers are portable and save paper, but I can't take one to the beach with me nor can I spend hours in a cozy store, my neck crooked to one side as I read titles and authors, getting ink on my fingers and marveling at the beautiful dust jackets that protect old covers.

The Museum of Printing History reminds us to cherish and treasure written words for they are the most powerful tools in the world. They can enlighten and empower, entertain and educate and move us to action, laughter or tears.

And that adventure begins with four enticing words – "once upon a time."

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald. The Museum of Printing History is located at 1324 West Clay Street in Houston.

The Bugs of Texas Are Upon Us

After one of the driest summers in recent memory, recent showers were a welcome relief. The rainbows appeared, the grass perked up and the flowers bloomed again.

Yes, beauty was everywhere until, of course, millions of flood mosquito eggs hatched. In a matter of hours, we were literally swamped with squadrons of blood-sucking bugs.

Not even a heavy dose of Off kept them away, and maybe that's because they're skeeters from Texas. And everything in the Lone Star State, from bugs to the state capitol, carries that unique Texas stamp.

We're big. We don't quit. We're ferocious.

Growing up in New York state, six months of snow kept mosquitoes and bugs at bay. After we moved to Louisiana, however, my knowledge of the insect world grew exponentially because we were surrounded with bugs year round.

From the cicadas in the trees to the stinging caterpillars – which should be used in trench warfare – to stink bugs, southern states have more than their fair share of creepy crawlers.

I shouldn't mind the bugs as they're all part of Mother Nature's plan. But my rational mind is overruled by my irrational mind when I spot something skulking across the floor.

Like the cockroach.

These insects date back thousands of years. They adapt to any environment, they're indestructible and absolutely gross. Walking outside after dark and seeing one crawling across the sidewalk sends me running for the front door.

Once you know these 2-inch long monsters can glide from the top of a tree, or a door frame, and sail down on top of your head, those prehistoric bugs become a living nightmare.

Texas is also home to the practically indestructible fire ant. Nothing, and I mean nothing, seems to be able to get rid of those ferocious ankle biters.

They can survive for days at sub-zero freezing temperatures and a prolonged drought. No amount of ant killer, Tide detergent or, in desperate measures, gasoline and a match, can destroy them. The grass might be struggling to survive and the shrubs are withered and brown, but the fire ants are alive and well.

Like their cousin the cockroach, fire ants survive floods, hurricanes and twisters. Maybe it's because they're sneaky. They hide down in the ground and, when they hear a person arriving, they're out of that hole like after-Thanksgiving Day Wal-Mart shoppers.

Right behind the ruthless fire ants are the Crazy Raspberry Ants. Although they're small, they're not hard to spot – they scurry around like they're on crack. They're an invasive insect that's recently made its debut here in the Houston area, and there's nothing on the market to get rid of them.

Great. One more bug that'll be here long after humans, like Elvis, leave the building.

The crazy ant's cousin is the pesky but fairly harmless sugar ant. Once those ants are in the house, they're harder to get rid of than telemarketers on a Friday night. Nothing's worse than opening a cereal box and finding those little critters crawling all over the Capt'n Crunch.

But there's more to fear in the creepy crawly Texas world than just ants and bugs. One of the creatures that thrives in the South and terrifies me is the newt. They're those small, embryonic salamanders that are absolutely disgusting because you can see right through them.

They don't bite and they're pretty harmless, but they scare the daylights out of me. I've actually paid a neighbor's son to get them out of my house. He looked at me like I was crazy, but those newts definitely belong in the bushes, not my kitchen window sill.

Cool weather has finally arrived, and the first cold snap wiped out the flood mosquitoes. Thankfully, we'll have a couple of months of mosquito-free weather until spring arrives.

The flowers will bloom, the grass will grow and the mosquitoes and fire ants will return, bringing their distant cousin, the Love Bug, with them.

I can hardly wait.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

For Baby Lily

The post on the "Caring Bridge" website was sobering.

"Kinley, the baby girl in the room directly across from Lily is being taken off the list today. They are turning off all machines. Kinley will die today. Surely she will be a guardian angel for the other children on the unit. Please pray for her family."

The post came from Lily's parents, Michael and Cheyenne. Lily is their 9-month-old daughter who was born with CMV, a common virus that causes chickenpox and shingles.

It's harmless unless the baby is infected before birth. If that's the case, the child can develop serious health problems. In Lily's case, this cruel and silent virus destroyed the left side of her heart.

Michael and Cheyenne found themselves in a New Orleans hospital a few weeks ago receiving news that would devastate any parent – their baby daughter needed a heart transplant or she wouldn't make it.

Most of us never have to face a life-and-death operation like this for our children. I cannot imagine what those young parents felt like as they watched their daughter struggle to live.

In Lily's case, a human heart became available almost immediately, and Lily became a donor recipient. In the midst of their joy, Michael and Cheyenne asked for prayers for the family who'd lost their child.

Lily's been slowly improving since the transplant, and we all feel a mixture of elation for Michael and Cheyenne and admiration for all the heartbreaking decisions they've had to make in the last four months.

Before I had children, I dreamed of all the fun activities we'd have together – dressing up for holidays, coloring together and going to the park to fly kites. It never occurred to me that along with the fun times would also come tough situations.

Those include frantic trips to the hospital emergency room and the terror a high fever brings when it's 2 a.m. and you're the one your baby is depending on to take care of business.

Parents face hundreds of unexpected moments in their child's life, the ones where things are normal one minute and hanging in the balance the next.

Those start the minute they get here, and we kid ourselves into thinking the day will come when we'll no longer worry about our offspring.

When they're infants and cry inconsolably, we worry because we don't know what's wrong. Those nights last forever, as do the nights when they're young children and they're crying because of a stomach ache.

Then there are the nights when they're adolescents, worried about their appearance or that they don't have any friends. They turn into teens, and we worry about drugs, alcohol and premarital sex.

Every day, parents wonder where they're going to find the strength to be an effective mom or dad. The parenting books don't mention what to do about a tired that seeps through your bones.

They don't offer solutions to feeling like you want to scream at the top of your lungs in frustration. They don't tell you what to do when you receive news that your child could be facing a terrifying health issue and you have to make difficult decisions.

Books don't tell parents what to do when they grapple for the answers with every ounce of strength in their bodies. We ask friends, family and experts to help us make a decision, but our children, whether they're 9 months old or facing mid-life, are where we find the answers.

With one hug and one smile, we find the strength to go on without a moments' hesitation and know that the tough decision is usually the right one. Because no matter what cards we're dealt when a child is put into our arms, we will play that hand and never, ever fold.

In Michael and Cheyenne's case, they've always known they had a winning hand with Baby Lily who's getting better every day, thanks to a difficult decision another set of parents had to make.

They found the strength to give the gift of life to another child. And for that heart-wrenching decision, we are eternally grateful.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Winter, Texas style

Driving home from work today, my little sedan battling ferocious winds, the meteorologist on the radio confirmed my suspicion – colder temperatures are barreling toward southeast Texas.

After a brutal summer of 100-plus degree temperatures and a lingering and crippling drought, most people would be glad the temperatures are dipping into the upper 40's over the next few nights.

Not me.

I grew up near Buffalo, N.Y., living with snow for six months out of the year. After we moved to the South, my blood thinned out, and I cannot take cold temperatures anymore. I thrive in the summer and whine my way through the winter.

When cold weather does roll into town, it means I have to find the few winter items I own. I put off hauling out those cold-temperature clothes until the mercury hits 50. According to the weatherman, the day of reckoning has arrived.

Sighing, I started rifling through my closet to see where I stand. I have a pair of blue jeans I wear in the summer and the winter. They're light-weight denim because I refuse to wear pants that weigh more than a bag of potatoes.

Underneath the jeans I discover my favorite winter clothes – sweat pants. Avant-garde fashion designers turn their noses up at sweat pants, but I don't know what I'd do without my baggy sweats to get me through the winter.

One pair is gray, and they're worn on the knees, but quite serviceable. The other pair is blue, still decorated with the beige paint I used on my son's bedroom about 10 years ago and the silver paint I used on my youngest boy's bedroom five years earlier. Both go on top of the winter pile.

Let's see – there's a couple of pairs of black jeans in the back of the closet I can wear to dress up, so I should be all set in the pants department.

Now for shirts – I wear T-shirts year round because I avoid long-sleeved shirts like the plague. The cuffs somehow find their way in my lunch and serve as a magnet for every speck of dust and dirt I walk past.

That's probably an exaggeration, but I've come up with a reason why I dislike winter clothes.

Sweaters are too itchy, turtlenecks are too suffocating and scarves, well, they're just too frou-frou. Usually I throw a sweater over my T-shirts because I can toss that aside, and I run fast from my car to the front door so I avoid wearing a jacket.

There is one area, though, where I can't avoid the winter fashions – shoes.

Oh how I miss my summer shoes in the winter. Summer footwear consists of lively colors, breezy open toes and slip-ons in every color of the rainbow.

For some reason, shoe manufacturers think all women love to wear boots in the winter, and store shelves are filled with dozens of boots in two colors – black and brown.

Unfortunately, I have thin calves, and my legs roll around in boots like a 5-year-old playing dress up, so I'm stuck buying sensible winter shoes that look like something my first grade teacher, Sister Adrian wore.

Reluctantly I dragged out a pair of black and brown tie-up shoes and wistfully tossed my sandals in the back of the closet.

But in every cold cloud there's a silver lining.

Socks.

Because winter clothes are so drab, I have socks in every color of the rainbow. Of course, most of them have holes in the toes and heels, but I don't care. Those dowdy winter shoes cover up the holes, and I love having some color in my wardrobe when it's stark and bare outside.

Even though it's blustery outside, hope springs eternal in we warm-blooded creatures. I'm going to leave out a few summer clothes for those warm winter days and circle the vernal equinox, March 20, 2012, on my calendar.

I want to be ready to walk out the door wearing my shorts, T-shirts and sandals when those hot-and-humid Texas temperatures finally return.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Living it up with 'Southern Living'

My mailbox stays filled with sales fliers, postcards from digital television companies wanting our business and, my favorite, magazines.

Curling up on the couch with a magazine is a great way to relax, and I love any kind of magazine which is probably the reason I get about six different publications every month.

When I was young, I remember flipping through the beautiful "Life" and "Look" magazines my grandparents had on their coffee table, and I was fascinated by the black-and-white war photos and those of the Kennedy family.

The boys always snickered when flipping through "National Geographic." They were only looking for the pictures of naked tribes people.

But "National Geographic" wasn't about exploitation – the magazine was and is about introducing people to the wonders of the world through stunningly beautiful photographs.

The covers are just a sampling of the wonders inside the pages. Nowhere else can one see such fantastic pictures of majestic mountains, hidden lakes and the open plains that make Earth such a beautiful planet.

The stories are extremely well written, and the authors not only describe geography, they give readers a glimpse of how people and animals live, think and survive. These wordsmiths – often writing on a laptop from an igloo or a hut – can make the life cycles of fleas and the Incas equally interesting.

A magazine I've subscribed to for over 20 years is "Better Homes and Gardens." My mom had a well-used copy of the BHG red-checked cookbook in the kitchen and getting the magazine seemed appropriate as I headed off into adulthood.

Although I still enjoy the magazine, most of the decorating articles are for people who love stark contemporary homes, and the gardening articles are geared toward the northeast or the Pacific Coast.

Few of us south of the Mason-Dixon line can grow lilies of the valley in our gardens nor can we leave cushions on outdoor furniture – the mildew, brutal heat or the dogs will make short work of those.

So, for the first time in two decades, I'm letting my subscription lapse because I want to read something that has meaning to me.

Hence the reason "Southern Living" is at the top of my favorite magazine reading list. The articles are about the South – grits and ham hocks, azaleas and pine trees and buttermilk biscuits. There aren't feature stories about multi-million dollar mansions on the Pacific coast or how to protect the home against an ice storm.

The articles in "Southern Living" are about people who live with 100 percent humidity, year-round air conditioning, beauty salons and dominos.

Their readers are constantly searching for the best way to sprinkle Louisiana-grown Tabasco sauce over every dish at a back-yard barbecue and the best flea markets in Texas and Alabama.

Over the past few years, I've moved away from the magazines that concentrate on fashion and make-up. I've become a fan of practical magazines like "Real Simple" and Oprah Winfrey's "O" magazine.

My friend, Pat, gave me a subscription to "O" right after the magazine started publication, and it's been one of the best gifts I've ever received.

The layouts are creative, and the pictures are first rate. Fashion spreads feature clothes that fit the average gal who shops at Target and the mall, not a size 0 model wearing eight-inch heels and fishnet stockings.

The best part of any magazine, however, is the writing, and "Southern Living" and "O" feature talented authors who write from their hearts.

"Southern Living's" Rick Bragg entertains readers with his thoughts on growing up with shrimp fests and crawfish boils, and "O" readers find articles from women who've overcome cancer, rebuilt after losing their home to a natural disaster or simply survived a teething toddler.

Oprah always closes the magazines with her thoughts, and she retains her connection with those of us who wrestle with static cling, extra pounds and whether or not we're good enough.

Though the pages of magazines, we find our kindred souls and, through that connection, we know we're not alone.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Couch time -- the best meds around

Most people can feel a cold coming on for days. There's that nasty tickle in the back of the throat, the beginnings of a stuffy nose or the start of a mild cough.

Not me.

Whenever a cold strikes, it's a sudden storm-the-beach assault by a legion of nasty viruses looking for someone to beat up. In a matter of hours, I am down for the count, losing the battle and not caring that the enemy's winning.

Luckily, I don't get sick very often and I'm back to normal in a day or so.

The trade off for not being sick long is that for those 24 hours, I feel like I've been mauled by a Mack truck that not only ran over me but then put that 18-wheeler into reverse and came back to finish the job.

My fever spikes, I ache all over and I'm hot and cold. But no matter how bad I feel, I always follow the same routine for getting over the crud quickly.

First, make room on the couch because staying on the couch is more comfortable than staying in bed.

With a cold washcloth on my head, a box of tissues hugged close to my chest and the remote control in my right hand, I become one with the couch while the battle rages.

I don't want to talk to anyone. I want to be left alone with reruns of "I Love Lucy" and doze on and off until the cold or tummy virus runs its course.

The couch is where my sons camped out when they were sick, and they coped with being stuck on the couch quite differently than their mother.

They liked being pampered. I remember tucking blankets around them, getting their favorite pillow from their room and then constantly refilling water glasses and taking their temperature every hour because they were all was convinced their fever was high enough to require an emergency trip to the hospital.

And of course there was the moaning and groaning – them from the couch, me from the kitchen fulfilling their coughing request for a grilled cheese sandwich – cut in thirds, please – with chicken noodle soup and crackers or fruit and cubes of cheese, all served on their favorite tray.

This scenario only happened, of course, when they were really sick because all three of my sons tried to worm their way out of going to school at least once a week.

"Mom," they'd croak from their rooms. "I'm sick."

"Are you bleeding?"

"No."

"Are you throwing up?"

"No."

"Then get dressed," I'd yell back to them. "You're going to school."

I'm sure that sounds mean, but I'd been duped by boys who tried every trick in the book to skip school. Over the years, I learned that my darling angels were sneaky.

My boys knew how to hold the thermometer close to the light bulb or run the thermometer under hot water when I was out of the room.

They knew to only spike the mercury to 100 – just enough to stay home for a day but not high enough to miss any real fun.

The fake act that usually works is the stomach ache. It's hard to judge for sure if a teenager is lying about a stomach ache. But let's face it – if they say they're too sick to eat ice cream or Lucky Charms for breakfast, then they're really sick.

Having sons who faked being sick is where I first came up with the couch as the best place to recuperate. They thought it so I could pamper them while they were in the throes of acute illness.

The real reason was to keep an eye on them, both to make sure they weren't faking; and, if they really were sick, to watch over them until they felt better. I also told them they'd get better faster if they rested up on the couch.

So a few days ago, when my head started throbbing, the coughing started and I ached all over, I knew it was time to hibernate in the best spot for recuperating – the couch. And in 24 hours, I was as good as new.

Couch time – the best medicine around.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Me particular? No way.

When people take personality tests, they're asked to rate their habits to see if they're guardians, nurturers, performers or givers.

I took one this past weekend, and I scored on the easy-going side. Because I fibbed on a few of the answers, the test reflected what I wanted it to say -- extroverted and non-judgmental.

Until I looked in the linen closet.

My husband put away the towels, and they weren't folded in thirds. The shelf is narrow, and the towels fit better if they're folded in thirds versus in half.

I refolded the towels and the washcloths – the folded edge needs to be facing outwards – and lined up the extra bars of soap.

After I was sure the linen closet was tidy, I went back in the kitchen and, while rearranging the spices in the cabinet, told my husband how I'd scored on the quiz. He hid behind the newspaper.

"Well, I'm not particular about things, "I said, sensing his reluctance to talk about my score on the test.

"Except for the toilet paper," he replied.

I'll give him that one.

When I was a teenager, there was a major news story about an imminent truckers strike. Newscasters were warning people to stock up on canned foods and paper items.

For some reason, it struck me that the Winn Dixie could be out of toilet paper for months.

I made my mother buy at least 20 rolls of Charmin, and my dad thought my fretting was the funniest thing he'd ever heard.

So much, in fact, that he gave me a four-roll package of toilet paper for Christmas.

But that irrational fear has stuck with me. To this day, I always have at least 10 extra rolls of toilet tissue in the linen closet.

My husband cleared his throat again.

"And those pillows on the bed," he said.

Well, of course, the pillows on the bed have to be lined up. If the smaller pillows are thrown on top of the bed in every which way, the bed looks messy and untidy.

"And don't forget the pillows on the couch," my husband added.

That's not even being particular. Two pillows go on either end of the couch – coordinating patterns on either side, and the long pillow goes in the middle.

"Everybody's picky about the couch pillows," I said defensively.

"You're right," my husband said, a light touch of sarcasm in his voice. "You're not at all particular about things, like for instance, folding the clothes."

Okay, I will admit to having a particular way of folding clothes. First, they have to be folded within minutes of the dryer's buzzer going off.

T-shirts are folded with the design facing up so that when I reach into the drawer, I can see exactly what's on the front of the shirt before I pull it out.

And permanent press items must be hung up immediately after being removed from the dryer.

"If you don't hang the shirts up right away, they'll wrinkle," I said, refolding the towels in the kitchen drawer.

My husband went back to reading the paper, asking if I was going to leave the dishes in the sink overnight since I wasn't so particular.

"Are you kidding?" I said, looking at him as if he'd grown two heads. "And face that mess in the morning."

Then it hit me.

I'm that curmudgeon who reads the newspaper from back to front, checks the clock radio every single night to make sure the volume's at the right level for the morning alarm and separates the dinner forks from the salad forks in the kitchen drawer.

I'm the minus 10 on the personality quiz.

Tonight I'm going to live dangerously and leave the dishes in the sink, forget about rearranging the pillows on the couch and leave the clothes in the dryer overnight.

This deluded person – who fudges on a magazine personality quiz so she's not in the bottom half of the answer sheet in the back of the magazine – just might break the mold and run with scissors, drink milk out of the carton and leave the top off the peanut butter jar over night.

Look out world. Change is a-comin.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Address for Chandler's Tree Farm

Note the address for the McBride's is 13330, not 1330. I need to proof my numbers better!! Thanks and please do support Kevin and Dana. They are truly angels on this earth.

The love behind Chandler's Tree Farm

When we talk about heroes, often a larger-than-life person comes to mind – the firefighter who dashes into a burning building to rescue a child or the solder who puts his or her life on the line in a war zone.

It's easy to overlook heroes in our midst, those who are presented with an overwhelming obstacle and then rise to meet that challenge with dignity and grace. Such is the case with Kevin and Dana McBride.

I first met the McBrides almost 10 years ago after hearing about a penny drive at Austin Elementary entitled Chandler's Tree Farm. My first thought was the students were collecting money to plant trees on the school property.

That assumption was wrong. The school was collecting pennies to benefit the children on the Bone Marrow Transplant Unit at Texas Children's Hospital.

One of the students, Chelsea McBride, had a toddler brother, Chandler, who'd gone through two bone marrow transplants, chemotherapy and radiation at Texas Children's. The McBrides knew how difficult and lonely it was for families on the unit, especially during the holidays.

Back in 1998, Chelsea's classmates, along with the entire school, collected enough money for the McBrides to purchase Christmas gifts for all the patients and their families who could not leave the hospital.

The McBrides loaded up a red wagon and, with 1-year-old Chandler riding in the back, the family delivered gifts to all the patients on the unit as well as brothers and sisters back home.

Chandler quietly passed away in the arms of his mother a year later, a heartbreaking end to a bright young life. The McBrides could have retreated into their own sorrow, become bitter and angry or blamed the world for their loss.

Instead, Dana and Kevin did what very few people could do – they decided to remember the families who were still on the unit, waiting for a miracle.

The first few years after Chandler passed away, Dana and Kevin visited the unit on major holidays – bringing patriotic baskets with goodies on the Fourth of July and candy and decorations on Easter and Mother's Day.

Eventually, they decided to concentrate on Christmas, a happy time for most families but a painful one for those on the ward who are isolated from the rest of the world.

Throughout the year, the McBrides collect money so they can spread holiday cheer on the cancer ward, and this year is no different. Dana said after they get the patient wish list from the nurses, they go shopping, and their living room resembles a department store.

The gifts they purchase includes toiletries, cologne, toys and tokens for the parking garage. They choose gifts specifically for everyone in the family of the child isolated on the unit. The McBrides decorate a tree and put up holiday garland and lights in the lobby.

They load up a little red wagon and Santa takes Chandler's place handing out the gifts. Dana and Kevin understand the fatigue, sorrow and helplessness those mothers and fathers feel watching their children undergo test after test and procedure after procedure.

This is the 11th year for Chandler's Tree Farm, and 100 percent of all the funds collected go directly to the patients and their families. Your donation can help ensure the families on the ward know others care about them and haven't forgotten them as they fight for their child's life.

Donations can be mailed to Dana and Kevin McBride, 13330 Raintree Dr., Montgomery, Texas, 77356. For more information, email chandlerstreefarm@gmail.com or search for Chandler's Tree Farm on Facebook.

There you'll meet the McBrides and the nurses, family members and friends who've had their lives changed by parents who've endured the worst tragedy a parent can imagine but turned their grief and sorrow into a positive outreach to people in the midst of despair.

Yes, heroes dash into danger to help others. Some, like Dana and Kevin, load up a little red wagon with gifts and, in the name of their little boy, spread as much joy as they possibly can in a place where hope can often seem out of reach.

Want to know the definition of a true hero? Look at the people behind Chandler's Tree Farm. There's your answer.

This article was previously published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Goodbye, chocolate, my sweet, sweet friend

I had to bid farewell to a dear friend this week. This friend saw me through good times and sad times, celebrations and crying jags.

My dear friend did not judge or gossip behind my back. This friend was never too busy for me and listened when I needed to vent.

Chocolate, dear friend, I shall miss thee.

Over the years, I've noticed I've become more sensitive to foods and additives, especially caffeine.

Where I could once down a Coke at 10 p.m. and be fast asleep an hour later, now a cup of caffeinated coffee in the morning will have me wide awake at 1 a.m.

So a couple of years ago, I switched to all decaffeinated beverages. Although they quench my thirst, they're still poor substitutes for an early morning caffeine zing.

I almost had to say good-bye to dairy foods. A few years ago, I noticed I had a tummy ache after drinking a glass of milk. Research indicated I might be lactose intolerant.

I'm intolerant about a lot of things – people who take up two parking spots, dogs left chained up in the back yard and drivers who text while driving – but good old-fashioned Vitamin D milk couldn't be on the aggravation list.

So I decided to experiment. I filled a bowl with creamy Blue Bell milk chocolate ice cream, sat back and enjoyed every spoonful.

I had a cramping stomach ache for three days.

My sister-in-law told me about Lactaid. This magical pill, as it's advertised on its Website, counteracts the effects of dairy products for people who react unpleasantly to milk, ice cream and cheese.

It took me two years to gather up the courage to fight that stomach ache again. But the lure of Blue Bell Triple Chocolate ice cream finally got to me, and I bought a box of the pills.

The manufacturer was right – it was magic, and I can now enjoy a bowl of ice cream without dreading the after effects.

Unfortunately, I might strike out when it comes to chocolate. Chocolate's caffeine levels aren't sky high, but they're obviously enough to play havoc with my system, and that's a sad state of affairs.

Chocolate, you see, has been my best friend since I was a young girl. My grandparents owned a five-and-dime store, and they had a candy counter near the front door.

The section was filled with all types of sweets – pink, yellow and white candy necklaces, licorice strips and bubble gum.

Those gummy candies were a distant second to the delicious, creamy taste of chocolate, and that love affair has sustained me for over 40 years.

And what a friend chocolate has been. It never asks me for money and doesn't want to borrow my car. Those Hershey Kisses and Dove Milk Chocolate candies patiently waited for me in the back of my desk drawer until I reached for their help.

So after my last bout with insomnia, knowing full well chocolate was the culprit, it was with great reluctance I cleared out my secret stash of chocolate.

With tears in my eyes, I now walk past the candy counter at the grocery store, my old friends, Mars and Cadbury, wistfully calling my name as I reach for the spearmint Tic Tacs.

I've had quite a few satisfying relationships in my life, all with people, but the relationship I've had with chocolate stands tall and firm in its own right.

I'll be keeping my eyes peeled for a "live with chocolate" pill so my stalwart buddies, Nestle and Hershey, can take their rightful place in my desk drawer.

Goodbye, dear friend.

Parting is such sweet sorrow.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

A speech from "Everwood"

"Everwood" was one of my favorite television shows in the early 2000's. On one of the early episodes, the character of Ephram gave a speech about his tragic flaw -- his inability to change. I've always liked it and decided to share it here for no other reason than the excerpt is poignant writing, probably from show creator Greg Berlanti, and writing that tugs at the heart is always a joy to read again and share.

From “Everwood” – penned by Ephram Brown, a teen-age character on the show:


The more things change, the more they stay the same. I’m not sure who the first 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.

One brick at a time

The news came via email from my aunt last week – a fire had completely destroyed the church in Olean, N.Y., the town where she lives, my mom was married in and I was baptized in.

St. Joseph's Maronite Catholic Church was over 100 years old and was the central gathering place for my parents, grandparents and great-grandparents.

The case is still under investigation, but foul play is not suspected. Perhaps old wiring, maybe a spark in the attic – no one knows exactly what started the blaze, but a church where thousands of weddings, baptisms, funerals and daily Masses were celebrated and observed is now a pile of rubble.

The horrendous fires currently raging across Texas drove home the point of what happens when fire roars through a city, town or a building.

Everything's either burned beyond recognition or damaged by smoke and water used to put out the flames. All that's left are cinders and memories.

I can still remember attending Mass at St. Joe's as a young girl – the church always had a lingering, faint scent of lemon furniture polish and incense. The same people sat in the same pews week after week, and bingo was a staple on Saturday nights.

My parents were married at St. Joe's, and the picture of my dad kissing my mom on the church steps is one of my favorites.

Three of their children received their first Holy Communion at St. Joe's, and I always loved stopping in for a quick prayer whenever we went back to Olean in the summers.

It seemed I'd no sooner read the news about St. Joe's than I heard about the Texas wildfires thundering across the state.

Tracking the fires online and reading posts on Facebook, the fires weren't a distant threat – they were within 200 miles of our home. With the strong winds we had this weekend, the wildfires quickly grew and seemed to pop up all over the place.

Sunday afternoon, my husband and I were out on country roads, and we drove past parched meadows and pastures. People were outside, tending to their horses, watering trees whose leaves were withered and sparse or simply standing outside, watching distant smoke from the fires slowly drift their way.

Skies that were blue slowly but surely turned gray, and bits of ash landed on my shirt when we stopped. The smell of those fires was in the air, and we knew people's lives were being decimated minute by minute.

So many people lost their homes and all their belongings in fires that seem impossible to believe, especially in a state where hurricanes, flooding and tornadoes are Mother Nature's wrath, not out-of-control wildfires.

Later that evening, I watched a video from the fire back in Olean, and one lady put her parish's disaster in perspective. She said the fire destroyed a building, yet she felt blessed. No one lost their life in the fire.

She was holding a brick from the old church and said anyone wishing to buy a salvaged brick could do so. All the money would go toward rebuilding St. Joe's.

For the people affected by floods or fires, nothing can bring back their treasured heirlooms and irreplaceable photos and belongings.

But when the time comes to rebuild, I want to keep in mind what that parishioner said – rebuilding is one brick at a time.

And that's what the resilient people in Olean will do as well as the people in Texas affected by fire. They will rebuild one brick, one cabinet and one crucifix at a time.

A home, as they say, is where the heart is and nothing can destroy that dwelling place.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Gentlemen, it's a brave new world

While chatting with my friend, Pat, she said her son was invited to a wedding shower for couples. Mark, a bachelor, wasn't quite sure what to make of the party as he'd never been to a that type of shindig before.

Gentlemen, welcome to a brave new world – the wedding shower.

In the past, wedding showers were considered a woman's domain. But what men don't realize is that before anybody walks through the front door carrying an ice bucket wrapped in silver and white paper, there's quite a bit of behind-the-scenes planning happening.

First, there's the invitations. Traditional bridal shower invites are usually printed on embossed paper, a delicate tissue paper sleeve protecting the print, and sent through the U.S. Postal service.

Today's groom believes texting the invite is more efficient and, because it's free, allows more money for beer and pretzels.

And speaking of snacks, they're as important as the invitations. I remember watching my mom make sandwiches for bridal showers she hosted.

A week before the shower, Mom ordered colored bread from the local bakery. On the day of the shower, quite a bit of time was spent slicing cucumbers for the filling and then artfully arranging those tiny blue triangles on a silver tray.

To this day, I cannot figure out why anyone would think a slice of cucumber between two slices of blue bread could be considered a sandwich.

But now that men are attending showers, I guarantee there will be barbecue and bratwurst alongside those frilly sandwiches.

Then there's the drinks. Old-fashioned wedding showers required the hostess to come up with some type of sparkling punch served in an oversized glass punch bowl, usually borrowed from a great-great aunt.

The punch mixture was either a container of lemonade mixed with a bottle of 7-Up with sliced lemons floating around the top or a half gallon of orange sherbet covered with 7-Up to create a frothing cloud.

With the couples shower, I'm betting part of the beverage list includes "get your own" sodas in the fridge and a battered Igloo filled with adult beverages on the patio.

No bridal shower is complete without the games. My friend's son loves games, but hopefully we've moved away from the traditional games nobody likes but everybody plays because it's expected.

There's the written game where participants have to unscramble letters to make words all pertaining to a wedding. For some reason, "expensive" and " budget" are never on the word list.

And then there's the game where participants write down advice for the bride-to-be. They're usually lofty ideals, never practical advice like, never ask "does this make me feel fat" or "does this lasagna taste as good as your mother's?"

Wait until the guys find out that if you win the game, you give your prize to the bride to be. I found out about this traditional act of generosity the hard way.

At one of the first bridal showers I ever attended, I won a game. The hostess handed me a set of pretty kitchen towels, and I thought those would come in handy in my dorm room.

I was feeling pretty good about my win until the girl next to me – a seasoned shower attendee – leaned over and whispered "You have to give it to the bride."

Sure enough, the hostess was standing next to me, a forced smile on her face. So I reluctantly handed her the towels and everyone breathed a sigh of relief.

Something tells me if there are games at a couples shower, the men will keep the prizes, high five each other and then spend the rest of the afternoon gloating about their win.

I'm betting gifts given at a couples shower are fun. Let's face it – a new drill is a lot more fun than a chafing dish. In fact, I'll bet brides think a new drill is more fun than a chafing dish, even if a silver serving tray comes with it.

So gentlemen, RSVP to that invitation, come on in and let the games begin.
 
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Laughter + Love = The Best Dish

Food has always played a significant part in get togethers for my family, especially for my mother's relatives. Her parents were Lebanese, and stuffed squash, tabooley, kibbee and chicken and rice were Sunday dinner staples.

My mother kept up the tradition, and all of us drop everything for a chance to have dinner at Mom's house, those ethnic dishes an integral part of every mealtime.

When my mom visited us this summer, she spent a Sunday afternoon showing my sons how to cook some of those family-honored meals.

When my nieces heard about our afternoon, they good-naturedly demanded a "Cooking with Delores" session as well.

My mom obliged and most of the female members of my family gathered at my mom's for an afternoon of chopping, slicing, simmering and learning.

My mom said in the old days, her mother would rise early to boil a chicken and pick the peppers and mint from her garden. We took a modern short cut and picked up an already roasted chicken and raided the produce section at the local Winn Dixie.

We all helped take the chicken off the bone and hollow out the peppers and squash. My mom showed us how to mix rice, tomato paste and seasonings together to stuff the bell peppers and yellow squash.

As we worked, the aunts entertained the nieces with stories about our childhood, each story growing more grand with subsequent tellings, the laughter practically nonstop.

In the background, my mom was carefully arranging the peppers and squash in a pot, and I remembered watching my grandmother perform the same ritual. Her kitchen smelled heavenly as she cooked, and now my mom's kitchen was smelling the same way.

My youngest sister took notes as my mom explained how to make the dishes but, she tried to sneak a few moves past us, claiming it was faster to leave out the little details and share the big picture with us.

We good-naturedly accused her of trying to keep all the recipes to herself, and then we remembered our grandmother was the same way with her recipes. Truth be told, I haven't shared any of my favorite recipes with my sons, so I guess that tradition lives on.

As more family members arrived, nieces, aunts, sisters-in-law and sisters chopped, told jokes, reminisced about the old days and eagerly shared news about what was happening in their lives.

Boyfriends and husbands talked about LSU football, fishing and the best way to fry a turkey, Louisiana style. And, of course, there was lots of kidding and laughter, as is the way when my family gathers.

One of the last dishes we made was the kibbee, and I finally found out how my mom created the mystery middle layer of that baked meat dish – she sautéed seasoned meat, onions and pine nuts together and placed that scrumptious mixture between the two layers of raw meat.

The baked layer – the one that had been seasoned and taken to the end stage – held the entire casserole together. It seemed fitting we ended our cooking lesson with the kibbee because that's how we were that afternoon.

We all tasted the dishes and declared them the best we'd ever had.

That afternoon, laughter, good-natured kidding and many-times-told family stories, shared between four generations, bonded us together, just as sharing foods from our childhood connected us with our roots and our heritage.

When all the food was on the table, we stood back and took photos of our handiwork. You'd have thought we were documenting a gourmet meal in a four-star restaurant. For us, it was a banquet, but not of fancy canapés or grand soufflés.

Ours was a family banquet held together and served up with love and laughter.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Transporting the Tots

Whenever I'm getting ready to leave the house, I put everything I think I'm going to need in my purse. That includes my car keys, the current grocery list and letters to mail.

In under a minute, I can pick up my purse and head out the door.

I was reminded how few things I need on the road when taking my daughter-in-law and grandchildren out for lunch. It doesn't make sense, but the lighter and younger the child, the more equipment he or she needs, even for a quick trip.

First, there's the car seats.

Having children safely secured in a vehicle is of the utmost importance to me, and manufacturers make sure infant and child safety seats are not only reliable but trendy. Most models feature a five-point harness, chest slips, a built-in recliner and holders for a sippy cup.

These mini Barcaloungers are surprisingly heavy.

Wishing to be helpful, I volunteered to carry my grandson in the car seat to buckle him in, and I might as well have been in the gym. The car seat alone weighs over 20 pounds. Add in a 10-pound baby, and we're talking a work out that'll put wrestler-sized biceps on anybody.

Then there's the diaper bag. Forget tucking a single diaper and some wipe ups in one's purse. No, today's parent has to carry at least six or seven Sesame Street disposable diapers, skin-sensitive wipe ups, ointment, swabs, non-perfumed powder, toys, extra pacifiers, two or three changes of clothes, a blanket and two or three spit-up towels.

That alone adds another five pounds to mom's already backbreaking load.

And let's not forget the stroller.

I remember an old pram my mom had in the attic. The oversized buggy had big wheels, and it bounced up and down like a trampoline, an activity my siblings and I enjoyed immensely, especially when a younger brother or sister was inside the pram.

Over the years, manufacturers streamlined prams, morphing them into strollers. But no ordinary strollers. They're now promoted as travel systems, featuring modern swivel wheels with a suspension system that creates a sleek, smooth ride, the Rolls Royce for the younger set.

A basic stroller, I mean travel system, sets parents back about $180. They weigh 22 pounds, that's without the baby, and come in three or four parts. And, yes, it requires a degree in mechanical engineering to put them together.

And then there's the baby accessories. Just as a teenage girl needs her cell phone and lip gloss, modern babies have their own must-have items for an outing.

Let's start with the outfit.

When I went shopping for baby clothes for our grandson, I was shocked at how the prices have risen over the years. A simple outfit – a shirt and shorts – starts out at $14.95. No well-dressed little prince is complete without the baby Air Jordans, and those shoes retail for $47.

That's right – almost 50 bucks for "pre-walks," shoes that never hit the pavement. Throw in some "baby bling" for the girls, and a pair of pink glitter sneakers for our little princesses will set buyers back a minimum of $45.

After 30 minutes of filling the trunk with the diaper bag, stroller, extra clothes for two children and the back seat with the uber-heavy car seat, a "Pinkalicious" book, a pink toddler car seat and a bag of Goldfish crackers for our granddaughter, I thought we were finally ready to head out.

Until I realized I'd forgotten my purse.

Heading back into the house, I realized that when and if more grandchildren join the family, we're going to need a truck just to haul around baby stuff.

A big truck.

This column was previously published in The Fort Bend Herald.

The price for freedom

They were on a quick nighttime mission.

Thirty Americans, trained and fully equipped to defend themselves, were shot down over Afghanistan. Those lost included 22 Navy SEALs – 20 from SEAL Team 6, the unit that killed Osama Bin Laden – three Air Force members and a dog handler and his dog.

They were on their way to help Army Rangers under fire when their Chinook helicopter came under attack and crashed. The event became the deadliest single loss for U.S. forces in the war in Afghanistan.

But the loss is more than a news release and statistics.

The losses, as in all wars, are personal. There's Matthew Mason, the father of two young sons. Mason was a former high school athlete who'd lost part of his left arm while fighting in Fallujah.

Twenty-five-year-old Michael Strange enjoyed snowboarding, running and being part of the SEALs. Tommy Ratzlaff left behind two sons and a baby on the way.

Most of the time, casualties during wartime are referred to as statistics. According to the American War Library, over 25,000 soldiers were killed during the Revolutionary War. During World War II, over 408,000 soldiers gave their lives, and over 58,000 soldiers died during the Vietnam War.

To compare, the city of Denver has 467,000 people and the cities of Richmond and Rosenberg together have almost 50,000 people. Imagine losing everyone in those areas in a violent manner.

I'm not naive enough to believe warring nations can sit down calmly at a negotiating table and solve their differences peacefully. Nor am I blind to the reality that meeting force with force is often the only route dictators understand.

But when I read the biographies of the Navy SEALs and tally up the number of the dead and wounded from military action over the course of our country's history, I cannot help but imagine a face for every one of those grim statistics.

They were somebody's son or daughter, a father, mother, sister or brother. They gave their life to defend our country and the freedom of people around the world.

In addition to the soldiers whose lives were lost while in combat, there are those who served and returned. The veterans I know are proud they served their country, but the scars and horrors they witnessed stay with them for the rest of their lives.

There's no way we can ever repay someone for putting their life on the line to defend our freedoms. There's no way to give these men and women back the nights they spend huddled in a fox hole, on the front lines or far away from their families.

We cannot give back eyesight, legs or arms to those who lost them to grenades or enemy fire. Many of them volunteered, but has the price they paid ever felt personal to us or are they just names in a news release?

I was in the airport over the weekend, and I saw a soldier waiting for a flight. She was on the other side of the security ropes, and I wondered about her life. Perhaps she'd just visited her family and that was the last time she'd see her loved ones.

Would she be one of the soldiers called upon to give everything to defend my freedom? There is no way I could ever repay that debt unless I honor what she puts her life on the line to fight for.

Americans need to stand whenever the American flag passes our way. We need to support our soldiers for the choice they made to do their duty to their country and ours.

We need to remember to say thank you whenever we see a soldier and to continue to believe that freedom is a sacred responsibility every one of us is required to safeguard in our own way.

Most importantly, we need to remember that these soldiers are men and women who made the choice to step up to the line for you and me.

That's no longer a line in a news release or a statistic in a history book. That price, that soldier, that choice, is someone's son, daughter, mother, father or friend.

Let's hope we make the price they're paying worthwhile.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

In the blink of an eye

In the blink of an eye.

That's how long it takes for life to change.

With one phone call, we went from a leisurely dinner to a white-knuckle drive across Houston to see our daughter-in-law and granddaughter in the hospital emergency room.

Later that week, we found ourselves back at the hospital to welcome our grandson. We thought his arrival would be a quiet affair; but in the blink of an eye, that home delivery turned into an unexpected, middle-of-the-night trip to the hospital.

But those worries were forgotten the minute we held young James in our arms, everybody safe and sound, and we knew we'd passed a significant milestone in our family.

Big events are tough to miss. They're anticipated for weeks, circled on the calendar and then heralded with numerous emails and phone calls. But they're over rather quickly, remembered through photos or videos.

It's the filler days where life provides some of the most significant moments of our lives, and we often miss what's happening because we're busy waiting for the red-letter events.

We impatiently endured our teenage years because we were waiting for our 21st birthday. Adults were the ones having fun, we thought, so we hurried our way through those years, often forgetting to savor the firsts that only the teenage years bring – our first driver's license, our first kiss and our first official paycheck.

Then we became young adults, and we spent so much time establishing ourselves in the work world that we often missed the nuances that formed us into adults.

We don't remember the day we threw away our tie-dyed T-shirts in exchange for button-down Oxfords or cleared away the stuffed animals from our bed and replaced them with coordinating pillows.

But those were the significant moments when we crossed from one phase of our lives into another. Those phases often sneak up on us and are gone before we know it.

Parenthood especially provides so many memorable moments, and we can immediately recall the milestones of our children's lives – their first step, their first day of school and their high school graduations.

But I forgot to take my time during some of the most significant days of my sons' childhood – what their faces looked like while playing in the dirt or sleeping peacefully in their beds at night. I witnessed those events, but I didn't appreciate the fleeting sweetness of parenthood.

In the blink of an eye, they were babies and then they were grown and on their own. Now I watch my grown sons as they talk with each other, not for what they're saying but memorizing how they sound when they're laughing and how their eyes sparkle when they're having a good time.

I watch my granddaughter skip and listen to her sing so I'll remember what her voice sounded like when she was a happy, carefree little girl. I'm watching my grandson as he adjusts to the outside world and committing to memory those first smiles.

For sure, I'll remember the milestones in our family's lives, but I want to make sure I'm paying attention to the seemingly mundane because those moments are the defining times.

In the blink of an eye, life can go from happy to tragic, confusing to clear or worried to reassured. We remember what happens after we blink, but often little of what happened before.

For the second half of my life, I'm going to try and not miss as much as I did the first half because life isn't just about the red-letter days.

Life happens in the every-day moment, when we're least prepared and changes in the blink of an eye.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Gotta know how to fold 'em

Some inventions come about from sheer necessity – the wheel and pantyhose, for example. Others come about because people want a more convenient way to live – the electric light bulb and the Barcalounger.

Other inventions come along because somebody has a crazy idea – the Veg-O-Matic and a coffee frother. Both, however, were banished to the back of my kitchen cabinet after failing to deliver what the salesman promised.

But my favorite off-the-wall useful invention is the windshield sun shade.

They come in a variety of sizes and colors and cost less than 10 bucks. As a bonus, they block damaging ultraviolet rays from transforming a dark gray dashboard into the color of bones left in the desert sun.

The manufacturer promises that the shade "folds easily for compact storage." If one has six arms and the skills of Houdini they fold easily. But for me, the shade refuses to cooperate.

I usually get so frustrated I just throw the whole contraption in the back seat, fully extended. One afternoon, my husband gave me a logical show-and-tell demonstration on how to fold the shade up in one easy-to-copy motion.

"Put your hands on either side of the panels," he said, holding the sunshade up. I made a mental note to do just that.

"And then twist one side one way and the other side the opposite way," he explained and, in a wink, that huge blue shade was the size of a dinner dish.

That maneuver looked pretty simple, and if I can manage parallel parking, I reasoned, folding up the sun shade should be a walk in the park.

The next day, I tried to duplicate my husband's instructions. I twisted. The shade rebounded with a vengeance and knocked my sunglasses off.

I tried again. Instead of looking like a dinner plate, my attempt at refolding the sunshade resulted in a lop-sided rectangle the size of a suitcase. Frustrated and hot, I threw the unfolded shade in the back seat.

A few days later, my son spotted the uncooperative and still fully extended shade in the back seat.

"Mom, these are easy to fold up," he said. "Let me show you."

In three seconds, he had that shade folded and the elastic band firmly around the middle to keep it from exploding. I was amazed.

"Show me how to do that," I said. "Explain it to me like I'm 5 years old. Make that 3 years old."

Laughing, he went slowly through the steps again, and I actually managed to snap the shade into place.

That is until the next time I was in a hot parking lot by myself. I bent, I twisted, I folded – that shade did everything except what I wanted it to do.

"Fine," I said in exasperation and banished it, fully extended, to the back seat.

The next passenger in my car was my daughter-in-law. I explained to her my frustration with that stupid car shade, and she patted me on the back.

"No problem," she said. "My job when I was a teen was to fold my mom's car shades for her. I'll do the same for you."

Finally someone who understood that not all of us have the flexibility of an acrobat to perform that magic folding trick.

Now if only she can show me how to use that Veg-O-Matic.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Tall in the Saddle - Buck Brannaman

One of the prettiest sights on a back country road is of horses galloping or quietly grazing in a wide open field. Truth be told, I'm afraid of horses, having ridden only a few times in my life.

I didn't know how to control the powerful animal I was sitting on, so I just held on for dear life, palms sweating, heart pounding.

But I've always marveled at people who have a sixth sense about animals, and I was particularly drawn to a documentary, "Buck," about cowboy Buck Brannaman who uses natural horsemanship to train horses.

His early life was traumatic. After Buck's mother died, his father beat him and his brother so savagely and so often that Buck feared for his life every single day.

When he was 12 years old, his football coach saw welts and bruises on his back, and he and the sheriff removed Buck and his brother from their father's home the very same day. Buck went to live with foster parents Forrest and Betsy Shirley who provided a safe home for the brothers.

Buck learned a lot from the Shirleys – respect does not mean fear, people need to feel wanted and productive and a family's love does not include intimidation and fear.

Because the Shirleys came into their lives, the brothers were able to grow up in a home filled with strong family values and two foster parents who lovingly treated the dozens of boys who lived with them as their own sons.

Buck translated that understanding into the way he trains horses using natural horsemanship, the philosophy of working with horses by appealing to their instincts and building a partnership instead of intimidation.

For over 24 years, he's built on the natural horsemanship methods he learned from Ray Hunt and Tom Dorrance and now gives four-day clinics all over the country.

Watching him as he rode alongside colts and their owners, constantly giving feedback, I realized Buck was also giving lessons in how to train children – be firm and quick with instruction. Give praise when a task is accomplished correctly.

Discipline does not mean cruelty. Give love freely when a task is accomplished and praise when it's earned.

His dry sense of humor is evident throughout the film, and I found myself wondering how anyone with as violent a past as Buck lived could grow into such a funny and compassionate man and trainer.

I think it's because Buck realized he had to understand why a horse did what it did before he could accept or change that temperament. And that same understanding applies to people – we must understand what motivates someone and then we can begin to communicate and change for the better.

In Buck's clinics, people of all ages come to believe they can be better horsemen and women than they ever thought they could be. When the sessions are over, owners realize Buck didn't just teach them about animals – he taught them about life.

Buck reminds us to be kinder to our fellow humans and understand we accomplish more through respect than through fear. We can experience quiet healing and unconditional love when we extend a trusting hand to both humans and animals.

This film stays with viewers long after the credits stop rolling. "Buck" is a reminder that people make free choices as to how they want to live their lives. Either live bravely in the moment or brood about and resent the past.

Listening to Buck Brannaman, I know what path I want to take.
 
This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

Lessons learned on the playground

My granddaughter loves going to the park. With the mercury hitting 100 during the day, we confine our visits to later in the evening when the mercury's hovering at only 85 degrees, cool for Texas.

On a recent visit, my granddaughter made quick friends with two other children – Trey, who said he was 4, and Jaquisha, 5, a bright-eyed youngster filled with energy. The three quickly settled into a fast friendship, and their laughter filled the park.

After watching them for a while, I realized adults can learn a lot about how to treat people if we observe the little ones.

Rule No. 1: When playing a game, play fair so everybody enjoys the activity.

Pre-schoolers love playing chase, and that game started almost immediately. Trey and Jaquisha were cousins, so naturally my granddaughter was the one doing the chasing.

But they didn't gang up on her. Instead, they ran slow enough for my granddaughter to run with them, instead of leaving her behind.

At one point, Trey lost a shoe and the two girls helped him put it back on, and the chase began again.

Lesson learned: If you're smarter, faster or older, you can annihilate your opponents, but where's the satisfaction in that. Play fair and everybody has fun.

Rule No. 2: Teach each other.

Trey taught our granddaughter how to lay on the seat of the swing, twist the chains and then let go so she could spin in quick circles. She laughed with delight , and the two spun for at least 10 minutes.

Lesson learned: Try something new. It might feel confusing at first, but stay the course and see what happens.

Rule No. 3: Help each other. At the age of 4, mastering the art of swinging is tricky. You have to lean back and reach to the sky with your toes and then, on the back swing, lean forward and pull your legs back underneath the seat.

Neither Trey nor Kylie knew exactly how to swing by themselves, but they knew enough to try and explain the basics to each other.

When that didn't go as well as they thought – both of them were practically motionless after a few minutes – Trey jumped off his swing and pushed Kylie until she was going pretty well. Then he jumped back on the swing, and Kylie jumped off her swing and she pushed him.

Lesson learned: When you help someone else, often at the expense of your own fun, both people benefit.

Rule No. 4: Be willing to change direction. My husband found two pieces of chalk in the grass, and he handed a blue one to Kylie and a purple one to Trey. They immediately found an open sidewalk and began drawing.

After a few minutes, they exchanged chalk so they could draw with different colors. As they drew their masterpieces, they found a water spigot. They didn't have cups, but my husband taught them how to cup their hands and get a drink.

Lesson learned: Let life unfold, go with the flow and improvise when needed.

Rule No. 5: Listen to your elders.

When Jaquisha – the eldest in the bunch at the age of 5 – told Kylie and Trey to avoid a hidden nest of ants, the two younger ones listened and avoided getting bit. She also told them not to run behind someone swinging as they'd get hurt.

Lesson learned: Experience is often the best teacher but, sometimes, it pays to listen to someone who's been around the block.

As the sun began to set, we all headed home. Trey and Jaquisha waved until they were out of sight and Kylie did the same. In the course of an hour, these three youngsters established lines of communication, a teamwork philosophy and had fun along the way.

And they taught this adult that, sometimes, the best lessons in life can be found in the most unexpected places.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.