By SHARON RANDALL, Scripps Howard News Service

It's interesting, isn't it, what interests us? Of all the people I've written about, no one has sparked the curiosity of readers as much as my brother Joe.

I'm not sure how it happened. It's not like we planned it.

Between my husband and me, our collective five children and their significant others, most of the birthdays in our immediate family fall within four short weeks, January to February.

Yes, just after Christmas, when we've all pretty much exhausted our credit limits, not to mention any clever ideas for cheap gifts.

The flight to Las Vegas, where I live, from California, where I'd been visiting my kids, sounded like a tuberculosis ward.

Seriously? Who goes to Sin City when they're sick? Don't they know you're supposed to wait until it's time to go home, after you've partied for days, lost a month's wages, gotten a tattoo you can't explain and suddenly remembered you have to go to work on Monday?

When he is older, I will tell my grandson Henry this story. It is his story, mostly. But it also belongs to other children who were, like him, born into a world where one income is seldom enough to support a family, but were lucky enough to have parents who made it work.

It's a good story. He will like it.

The night was cold, getting colder by the minute, forecast to drop into the 20s. In a rush, I hadn't bothered to wear a coat, a decision I already regretted.

I wanted to make two quick stops -- one at the market, the other for takeout -- before hurrying back to have dinner and start working on a column that was due the next morning.

How will you be remembered? What do you want people to say about you when you're gone?

I recently lost a longtime friend, a man with a larger-than-life personality and a heart, soul and mind to match.

I've been giving myself what my mother used to call a good "talking to." It's a kind of pep talk to remind me to count my blessings, when all I want to do is crawl up under the porch with the dogs and cry.

No, I don't mean that literally. It's a figure of speech. I don't own a dog. Or have a porch it could crawl under. If I did, we might both be under it tonight.

At the end of a year, I like to look back, count my blessings and give thanks for whatever the new year may bring.

The older I get, the more I think the only real difference we can make in life is to be grateful. It's simple, but not always easy.

Did somebody say eat? All I have to do is mention food and I will hear from enough folks to polish off an all-you-can-eat buffet. They're kind enough to say they like my column, but what they really want is a recipe.

Not that I blame them.

I like food, too. Especially if someone else cooks it.

The holidays are sometimes like a patchwork quilt. We stitch them together from scraps -- pieces of time and memory, imagination and hope -- to form something new from the old.

That's especially true after the loss of a loved one, when traditions can feel as empty as the missing place at the table.