Details vs. De Tales!

Here I sit on 29 November 2011 in the midst of boxes that are to transfer my indoors from autumn to Christmas. I look around the room and make mental note of where every autumn piece of brick-a-brack is sitting; I know one will remain tucked into a corner until Easter! I found a wooden egg from Easter when I was setting out the fall stuff. This is how it goes. In July I will be startled to find an angel still trumpeting the birth of Jesus. At Thanksgiving I will find an Easter egg or two (wooden); and, yes, you might say I hid them myself. At Christmas there will be a remnant of summer or autumn and the cycle repeats.

I think of myself as a detail person. In my heart of hearts, I know it to be not so! I miss things. Every part of my life has been plagued with responsibility for detail and I miss the little things. Even this blog can amaze me with my inability to post without error. After proofing until I have sandpaper eyeballs, I post and there before my wondering eyes are typos, misspellings, odd punctuation, or unfinished thoughts.

Consistently, I repeat a conversation to Dave giving rich detail and fact. Before I put an end to my final sentence, he begins with questions I would not have thought to ask if I had used a note book and pen over a month of planning. I get the time, place, and cost correct. Dave soon proves that I left out how many are going with us, whether we meet ahead of time to have something to eat, how dressy or casual it is, and whose idea it was. I don’t know. I thought I had all “my stuff” together, but I missed something.

I once had my purse stolen from our motel room. When I was giving the police report, I happily told the officer the man who knocked on our door earlier in the evening (not necessarily the thief as he said he was looking for friends), looked like Farrah Fawcett’s brother. Sadly, the officer didn’t know who Farrah Fawcett was nor did he have any clue what her brother looked like. I saw Dave’s eyes and knew I had dropped details. We began looking at composite pictures. If you ever want your brain scrambled like this morning’s eggs, try putting a real face together using a composite book. It is a great deal like playing with Mr. Potato Head! I finally asked for paper and pencil (mine were in the purse I no longer had) and drew my own sketch! Ha! Stick that in your old detail pouch!

I once worked for a man who was even worse with details than me. One day I returned from lunch and took things out of my “in” basket to set priorities. I had worked for approximately half an hour when Mr. Boss came at me with purposeful stride. “Did you send that packet to Mr. Bigger Boss by courier? He doesn’t have it yet.” Confusion danced through my brain. “What packet? I’ve sorted my entire in basket and there was nothing there.” We stared at each other – not an uncommon occurrence for us. “I put it on your chair not wanting you to 'sit on it' (meaning: to not delay attending to it)." I rose slowly to my feet, and there, on my chair, was the packet. I had literally been sitting on it. Much later when we were both in a calmer frame of mind, I asked "Why my chair?" when I meticulously sorted my in basket every time I returned to my desk. He didn’t think I would notice it in my in basket!

I am organized. I love putting things together in efficient, time-saving, methods for future use. I always color coded my files. Each person I reported to I assigned a file tab color. When someone was pressuring me to find something because they were having a panic moment, I only had a particular color of tabs to look through rather than multiple drawers of folders. If I organize something for you, I expect you will use it and maintain it. Maintaining my own organization means I put things right where they go when I am finished with them. Maintaining your organization means I am picking up after you have been disorganized all over the place. Not my forte.

Details and my inability to tend them follow me into cooking, as well. Pot roast, pork and beef roasts tied together, roasted chicken or turkey, pot pie, soups and stews are my area of expertise. Pies, compotes, salads, and sauces I can handle. If we want something with true elegance, Dave puts on the chef hat and I stand back. He follows recipes to the letter, measures carefully, and performs tasks in proper order. If I put that much time and attention into the entrée, there will be no salad, no potatoes, no vegetable, and no beverage. If Dave is being Super Chef, we get all those things timed to perfection, finished and served at once. His cooking is delicious which makes it OK with me if I have to be his sou chef and it takes me a week to clean up the kitchen! If I am to have an entire meal timed, finished and served, my focus cannot be on one picky little recipe! Therefore I read ahead. Aha! There are twelve steps to this recipe and I think five, nine, and eleven are unnecessary tomfoolery.

In the kitchen our kids used to give me “presentation, ten; taste, zero” after the song from A Chorus Line. We have had various treats and tricks as meals. My thought is: “If I make it look impressive, no one will notice what I forgot.” This attitude is something that only makes me feel better. I once, only once mind you, made apple crisp where something went awry. Our children came home from school and Dave from work wafting in on the delicious scent of cinnamon, apples, and brown sugar still warm from the oven. I had cut it straight out of the oven and placed it on serving dishes for our after-dinner dessert. Once the main course dishes were cleared, I served the apple crisp. It was cement that would have kept the face on the Sphinx intact. We chipped, sawed, hacked, and gnawed into our first bites. Once in our mouths, the dessert flavor was great! That proved to be a good thing since our teeth were glued solidly together and all we could do was wait in silence for the apple crisp to dissolve. Once people were able to speak again, my dessert was re-christened “apple crap” and even though I now produce excellent apple crisp the new title has remained. I have mentioned my friend Gail before. She liked to serve Ebleskevers (a Scandinavian pancake) with orange syrup. She silenced nearly 30 people at one of their church up north weekends by over boiling her syrup. No one picked on her for years!

Another detail I miss is kitchen towels set too close to a burner or candle catch fire. I know I shared in an earlier blog that people refuse me matches for good reason. However, there have been charred meals pulled forth from our oven to rival any grill out gone to the bad. I put eggs on to boil and went about making beds, vacuuming, dusting, etc. I did smell something odd that seemed to get stronger and make my eyes burn, but assumed a neighbor was doing something stupid. When I found the eggs, the pan was burned, the eggs had exploded and I know I don’t want to go to Hell because the burnt sulfur was with us for days! Most times when I burned something in the kitchen, my friend Donna was visiting us. Donna also is blessed with detail orientation and is an excellent cook. In fact, it is usually Donna who lets me know she has read my blog and in paragraph so and so, sentence such and such, did I intend . . .

Once when Donna was visiting, I was trying a new recipe for cake topping. Butter cream and cream cheese frostings are easy for me. I also like to make the whipped egg white frosting that turns out similar to marshmallow cream. Boiled frostings are not the best for me nor do I prepare Royal Icing for anything other than decorations not to be eaten. However, this particular recipe seemed so simple. One baked cake, still warm, is topped with miniature marshmallows, walnut pieces, and chocolate or caramel chips. Place under the broiler for two or three minutes, remove it from the boiler, and swirl the melted topping to make lovely designs. Family and guest heard my screech from the kitchen and were horrified to see me coming fleetly through the living room toward the door, with a flaming cake pan in my oven-mitted hands. Dave, ever quick in emergencies, jumped to his feet and opened the door. I registered the expression on his face as I heaved the pan, cake, and flames into a snow bank.

One excessively cold winter evening, again visited by Donna, everyone but the Disaster Queen was in the living room chatting. I was in the kitchen finishing a meal with no problems attached. I was plating the roast and placing carrots and potatoes around it. I entered the living room to announce dinner. Dave was reading a newspaper; Donna, Helen and Marc were chatting quietly and just across the street was a house fully engulfed in flames! I screamed “fire!” and grabbed the phone to make a 911 call. We stared in disbelief as fire trucks wailed to a stop outside our windows and battled the fire. The house was already a total loss and the fire was so hot it had melted siding on nearby homes but not incinerated them. Arson was suspected as the man who lived there had vacated weeks before and had serious money problems. When I asked how they could sit there and not see the flames nor smell the smoke, their answer was poignant. “We thought you were burning something in the kitchen!” Drat! I hate honesty.

So, they smelled the fire but didn’t investigate. Re-reading the beginning of this brings to mind there is one more Easter egg tale. Marc played hockey. He was a goalie (a good one a proud mother may say). Helen was statistician for the high school team (a good one a proud mother may boast one more time). The point is we were around hockey arenas, hockey players, hockey gear, and hockey locker rooms many of our waking hours. The gear of a hockey player takes on a smell that creates an aura that just orders “stand back!” The smell permeated everything, curled nose hairs and singed eyelashes. One year after the season ended, I washed and dried the hockey pants, shirt, under shirt and jock strap and hung them in the laundry area. The pads were put out in the sun to fully dry and air. Easter was late that year. To be funny, I put a hard boiled, dyed Easter egg in Marc’s jock strap. It was never found.

Late summer brought about hockey once more as teams began practice for the coming season. Marc began stuffing his gear bag with all the things that were needed, taping his new hockey sticks, and checking skates to see if they needed sharpening. The first day of practice rolled around and Marc came down the hall in total dismay. “There’s a rotten egg in my strap!” Oh, the horror of what I had done! The egg and the strap were sealed in a Ziploc baggie and thrown in the garbage. We were only slightly late to practice because of stopping to purchase a new jock strap. I sat in the stands not wanting to make eye contact with the coach as Marc reported for duty. I don’t know what he told his coach, I don’t really want to know what he told his coach, I am hoping I never find out what he told his coach! The bald face truth is that none of us realized the smell wasn’t “eau d’ hockee”!

So we smelled the rotten egg, but we didn’t investigate it. How often do we fall into pits of our own making because we smell the smell of Satan but don’t recognize him? God says the Devil “prowls around like a roaring lion” seeking us, his prey, to destroy us and to hurt God. There is an adage if it walks like a duck, talks like a duck, and quacks like a duck it is probably a duck. Too often we don’t investigate the odor or the duck so we can save ourselves from grief. Our God is a God of details. He leaves nothing to chance. He is always there to answer our question, “What’s that smell?” and hopes we will take time to ask Him. He is standing by to identify our danger zones and help us to escape them. All we have to do is remember to ask. It also doesn’t hurt to look back at those times when we were oblivious to danger and God saved us anyway. Praise God for saving us because He notices the details!

Black Friday; Gift Giving and Receiving

You will have to bear in mind this entry is my opinion, unsolicited by you, offered freely (big savings), and meant to clear my mind without changing yours (although it would be lovely if you allowed that to happen). Think and do as you will. I just want to get this off my chest!

Bett and I would spend part of our playtime in imaginary games. One of our favorites was “I’m Hiding”. The “hider” would choose a spot to hide (i.e. behind the tree in the painting over the sofa). The seeker would then be allowed to guess and the hider could choose to give clues. Bett, and later, Belle would often change their hiding places so seeking was a mental strain. Another favorite game was “For Me?” This was a special game and we could play for a long time without either of us wanting to stop.

I would offer Bett a gift. She would press her hands over her heart and say, “For Me?” I would place an imaginary box in her lap, my gestures indicating the size and the weight. Her next question would always be, “Is it fragile?” I would affirm or deny. This would indicate how she would open it. Bett would then commence untying a bow, carefully removing wrap without tearing it (sometimes peeling tape for long minutes), then lift a lid or pull open flaps, remove tissue paper, and then tell me what was inside the box. She would smile around her “nook” and give me a gift in return. When Belle was born and had reached the ripe old age of two, we were still playing our game. One day, we had exchanged gifts and Belle had watched the whole process. She would lean over and look in Bett’s empty lap, then my empty lap. Each time we got excited over what was in the box that wasn’t there, she would shake her head. We held out a gift for her. Belle’s eyes opened wide; she looked like she wanted to cry. She shoved our empty hands away and said, “Stupid!” Later, she learned to play along with us but not as enthusiastically as we.

Once at a women’s correctional facility, I explained the game and asked them if they wanted to play. I handed the first woman a gift and she opened hers, then passed a gift to the woman next to her. Rubies, diamonds, cars, houses, husbands, spilled out of those boxes. There was laughter, but like Belle, they were suspicious. The boxes contained frivolous or practical things.

At a men’s correctional facility, I was co-teaching with Helen. We had perhaps ten men in our small group. We had a program to follow and a Bible study to do, but once or twice during the nine-month period that we met with the men, we would reward solid effort and diligence on their part with a “party”. No food or beverage, but we would devise games and conversation that rewarded them for lessons finished on time. This group of men was hard working, but they were not accepting of one another as early in the study as we would like. I asked if we could try the gift-giving game. I explained it with Helen and I making eye contact for how the idea was being accepted.

G was sitting next to me and said, “Can I please go first? I know just what’s in my gift. Can I stand up? It’s big!” We nodded and he jumped to his feet. He tore into a very large box and threw his arms around something. “It’s my dog!” he said. “I miss him so much! I’d just love to give him a hug and have him sleep at the foot of my bunk!” Each man willingly joined in. There were no diamonds, but there were practical things, things they had given up for their pursuits on the outside that landed them inside. There were wives who had chosen divorce rather than wait for release dates in those boxes. There were free hours to spend with children who would be grown up when dad was released. J said, “My whole family is in there. We have a good family but we are all over the place and I will never see them all in one room again. Mom and my brothers are in a far-away state, my daddy is in another country deported because he was here illegally. I don’t get visits, but I’m taking my box back to my cube because they are all in there.” We all were reflective awhile. J had such a contented peaceful expression. Finally, the last man opened his gift. After that evening, the group was more cohesive, they had bonded.

Today as I write, the day is referred to as “Black Friday”. Greedy people in high places have found yet another way to open their stores at exceptional hours so other people (possibly just as greedy) will part with money they suffered much to put in their pockets in the name of gift giving, holiday spirit, and savings. Yeah. Right. Some people walked away from time with family to sit like homeless on the streets to wait for store doors to open at midnight. The large difference is that the homeless don’t have the luxury of the sleeping bags, warm coats, caps, mittens, and full bellies of those waiting outside various stores. In many cases, talking to these people in the harsh light and heat of summer, will reveal the bargains weren’t so great, the gifts were returned after the holiday, and the money might have helped more with a home or car repair that was necessary after the BIG SALE!

Have you ever noticed when a business or a financial institution has a major year, the people who performed to bring in the largess rarely see improvement in their lot. They are, however, encouraged to rejoice with the CEO, CFO, President, and Vice President over the six and seven figure amounts increasing their income. Thus the cycle is repeated in ever increasing circles of greed until the economy crashes. Then we have large sales to “stimulate the economy”. Over simplification is one of my strong suits, so don’t get your knickers in a twist.

Why would anyone want to leave home and fireside, act like those who have no home and fireside, to enter the doors of retail to be battered, bumped, bruised, robbed and otherwise mistreated to arrive home with “stuff”? Even a minor sale intimidates me. I have had things I was looking at pulled out of my hands. I once watched a woman actually remove a toy from another woman’s cart while said “another woman” was distracted looking at other sale items. The first woman whisked around a rack of clothing and was on her merry (?) way. I also once had my head whacked solidly by a door because the woman behind me wanted to be in front of me! No thank you. I’ll stay home where my toes are not stepped on, my head is not in your way, and my body can escape bruising.

To those of you who say you enjoy it. Great! Have a nice day. Feel good about your accomplishment. Give ‘til it hurts! Don’t worry about those you elbowed, jostled, or possibly knocked over; they most likely deserved it in return for someone they treated the same way! As we push into the season of giving, and shove our way into diluting the message of the “holidays”, what do we think we accomplish?

I have become accustomed to those merchandise marts where the dictate is to greet the customer or send off the customer with “Happy Holidays” or “Season’s Greetings”. Generic? Yes. But what does it mean? Possibly the former includes Kwanzaa, Hanukkah, and Christmas (so not so all inclusive as you might want to think). Season’s Greetings? What does that mean? “Happy Last Leaf Is Raked”, “Have A Wonderful First Flake Day”, “There’s No Snow Or Ice Yet (but duck it’s sure to come)” are possibilities and Season’s Greetings is shorter to say. I would find it difficult to work in retail. I would forget and use the MC words to customers. At a particular store, their decorated artificial trees are known as “holiday trees” or “winter trees”. If someone came in asking me where to find the Christmas Trees, I would have to say, “We don’t sell them, you might want to try other box stores to see if they carry them.” I just would not be good at the “all inclusive replacement phrases”.

I digress a little here, because I have a wonderful story. Some Jewish friends of ours had a son who was born with Downs Syndrome. He loved the Hanukkah traditions and they celebrated their time with him to the full. He also liked Christmas lights so they trimmed a “Hanukkah Bush”. His favorite thing about that time of year, was Christmas music; extravagant, glorious, larger than life Handel and Bach. So every Christmas Eve, they took him to midnight Mass at a local, large Catholic Church. I just had to share.

There is One Gift. Merry Christmas does not sum up that gift except for six letters in certain order contained therein. The original “merry” means drunkenness and dissiplation, a party hearty attitude. Christmas refers to a Mass given in honor of Christ. Jesus’ exact birth date is unknown, but He became a reason to celebrate. God incarnate, He came to us meek and gentle as a child. Angeles sang about him, Shepherds believed and sought Him and relayed what they found to others. Wise men also believed and sought and found. He became a sign of Hope for more than anything offered in this life, a promise fulfilled. He went on to pay for every wrong perpetrated by humans past, present, and future; for those who choose to believe, Christ is Who He says He is. You don’t have to accept the Gift. Free choice! Once you accept THE GREATEST GIFT OF ALL, you have to peel back the layers of beautiful wrappings to find what is inside for you. Look at it, discover it, hold it dear, consider it precious. Be careful. There is no “sale tag” the cost is high. You must give everything to get this gift. Once you possess the gift, the Gift possesses you. You may give away the Gift to others, many others, over and over, repeatedly. You are encouraged to do so; your pockets will not be gouged. Your heart will be filled to overflowing!

One other caution I would offer. Accepting this gift carries an eternal warranty and guarantee. Your soul is cleansed, you have reserved for you a mansion in God’s house of many mansions. However, in this lifetime there will still be heartache and struggles. Disease is real and strikes Christians as well as non-believers. Christians are human and may still commit blunders of rudeness, anger, etc. Family differences can still disrupt harmony. Friends may turn their backs. Life decisions may become more difficult to determine because you will be an adopted child of God with the high standards of your Older Brother, Jesus, to live up to.

No matter how much the world seeks to dilute, destroy, or pervert God’s Gift, it continues to increase in strength and luster. It does not tarnish, nor fade, nor chip, nor crack, and there are no refunds or trades. While so many have it, there is always more to be given. For those who seek, it becomes crystal clear. For those in deep need it may come out of nowhere and confront in your darkest hour. Hold out your hands, peek inside, believe.

I want to say to you: Good wishes during this time of celebration! May your Christmas be blessed! May you choose to accept the Gift. Merry Christmas!

Have a Blessed Thanksgiving

As I look at the groceries I still have to put away, I think about the work ahead. Pies, (already you can guess my priorities), turkey, stuffing, yams. I think when I was young the task often seemed insurmountable, I did too much, I was a novice, and I put too much emphasis on the food. Every Thanksgiving when our children were small, Dave bought a new toy or game and brought it home on Wednesday to keep the kids busy and away from the kitchen full of hot or sharp things. It worked.

Thanksgiving evening until Sunday afternoon, we had board games set out to spend time with Helen and Marc. Eventually that gave way to hockey tournaments, heavy-duty homework, and events with friends. We sometimes went caroling Thanksgiving night or the Friday evening after the Day. I remember one Thanksgiving when we surprised my sister Pat and her family. She, her husband Tom, their combined six kids and Tom’s extended family all looked surprised as the kids and I (Dave was at work) stood outside their picture window at about 7:00 PM on a snowy Thanksgiving evening and serenaded them with several carols. After caroling, we would return home for hot chocolate with marshmallows, Chapter 1 of Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol and snuggles before bedtime.

I am a product of the Saturday Evening Post covers by Norman Rockwell. Dad and I would take the magazine when it arrived, settle down at the table or maybe on the couch and talk about the latest cover and build a story around what Mr. Rockwell had portrayed. Some were so funny and our stories were outrageous! Others were touching. The Four Freedoms series was case in point. Therefore, Thanksgiving in my younger days seemed a painting come to life, never to be achieved in a real-life family! Look at those paintings! Mom is not crying because the gravy has lumps. The children are not squabbling over whatever the current provocation might be. Dad is not so engrossed in football he hasn’t heard the call to dinner (rarely true in Dave’s case as he is usually hovering over the oven door encouraging the turkey to get done!) No one in those paintings has recently died leaving a somber hush to the conversation. Be that as it may, I caused myself much unnecessary stress striving to match those magazine covers! I love them still, but I am more realistic.

So, just what am I thankful for?

Family! Past, present, and future family. I may not be able to jam them into the mold of a painting, but they are my constant delight (even when I am threatening to send them all far away to have some peace!). My past family makes up parts of who I am, my present family gives me continuity, and my future family whether I am around for them or not is my heritage.

I am thankful for the home that shelters Dave and me. I am thankful for the food we have, the clothes we wear, the car that gets us where we need to go, the fireplace that warms and relaxes us, the herb garden that adds zest to our summer foods, the reading material we have (and the freedom to choose what to read). I am thankful that again this year we were able to share some of what we have with others less blessed.

While I look at Nutmeg with a wary eye when she is at her oddest, I am thankful for my dog. She can be the world’s most determined pest or the sweetest sidekick ever. This reminds me I am thankful I have doggie shampoo and the time scheduled to get rid of whatever that was she must have rolled in!

I am thankful for friends who have encouraged, prompted, pushed, and demanded I begin to share my writing. If you are looking at this you better be reading regularly and often and you better be sharing with others! Still I am thankful for you one and all.

I am thankful for memories of Thanksgivings with Mom and Dad and with Dave’s parents. I also give thanks for siblings who both loved and ganged up on me: there was life instruction in both scenarios! I thank God for our children. Each was so different. In spite of the curse of humanity that each child always believes “Mom always liked you best!” I did not have an all round favorite. There were times when what we did caused one or the other to more closely relate to our experiences. Helen is funny, likes and appreciates kids and their antics, but most often had poor timing when I was crabby. Marc was a cuddler, telegraphed his mischief with wiggly eyebrows, and could disrupt my finest angry lectures with humor. I am thankful for the memory of the first time I held Bett and Belle. I am thankful they like to spend time with their old Bacca and Grammy! Like my own children, there are no favorites each is dear in her own way.

I am thankful that all of our health issues over the years have been minor and manageable. Even though I have a left leg that chooses to do its own thing and not walk in the direction the right leg is headed, I am thankful that’s all the worse it is. Dave’s diabetes is managed, Marc’s family is healthy, Helen’s family is healthy and her cancer numbers are good so no sign of recurring cancer anywhere. We are blessed. We take it for granted that we “have it pretty good”.

I am thankful that in spite of the problems our country has, it is still a country where we may attend the church of our choice (or not), Bibles may be read openly and without fear, I may pray for a friend in need or ask for prayer. Freedom of speech still allows me to say what I want to say in the manner in which I choose to say it. Of course, that means I must allow others to speak their thoughts as well. We each have the freedom to think the other is wrong or to agree. My vote still counts and I am allowed to go to my polling place to cast it. Speaking of voting, my vote cast means the person of my choice may not be the elected mayor, governor, representative or president. However, if I neglect my right to cast that vote, I cannot complain about those in authority. Casting my vote and being disappointed at the outcome gives me credibility when I say I am unhappy with the person(s) in charge. That’s a blessing.

Remember a blessing is not always just happiness. Sometimes the blessing requires effort, pain, monotony. A baby is a blessing, sweet, and soft, and tender and then he/she grows into a teen who costs money, eats you out of house and home, and leaves you hungry for conversation to run off with friends. Your parents are blessings. They showered you with love, time, thought, and care. Perhaps they don’t recognize you when you enter their room. Perhaps they live in an apartment in your home and sometimes try to control you and your family. Perhaps the job you wanted is now one endless project after another with more time spent at the computer planning than actual hands on excitement of creating. Family is a blessing, but even in the Bible family squabbles ruined many a peaceful valley. In spite of all, blessings energize us, put us to the test, help us to find our personal best, and bring home to us life could be worse.

How I use what is given me can be a blessing to others as well as to me. Sharing what I have with those who have less is important. Helping another with the skills and gifts and talents I have usually is more of a blessing to me than to the person I set out to help. Sitting with someone incarcerated and helping them to see their behavior and actions caused their current address but meeting my Savior and allowing Him input in future decisions can determine their future home.

I may wake crabby any given morning, but coffee, a good sunrise, and the sound of mourning doves or redwing black birds can turn my mood around. I am thankful we have the coffee and even when the birds have left for the winter there are still sunrises and later in the day sunsets. In short, counting my blessings is good and I could go on and on. Rather than do that, I’d like to ask you to take even ten or thirty minutes to count your blessings.

Abraham Lincoln suggested the first Thanksgiving Day to be set aside. Later Harry S. Truman chose to make it the same day annually. Below is Abraham Lincoln’s proclamation. It is true today as it was when he penned it (and, no, contrary to what Dave would have you believe, I was not there!)

A Proclamation by Abraham Lincoln

The year that is drawing towards its close, has been filled with the blessings of fruitful fields and healthful skies. To these bounties, which are so constantly enjoyed that we are prone to forget the source from which they come, others have been added, which are of so extraordinary a nature, that they cannot fail to penetrate and soften even the heart which is habitually insensible to the ever watchful providence of Almighty God. In the midst of a civil war of unequaled magnitude and severity, which has sometimes seemed to foreign States to invite and to provoke their aggression, peace has been preserved with all nations, order has been maintained, the laws have been respected and obeyed, and harmony has prevailed everywhere except in the theatre of military conflict; while that theatre has been greatly contracted by the advancing armies and navies of the Union. Needful diversions of wealth and of strength from the fields of peaceful industry to the national defected, have not arrested the plough, the shuttle or the ship; the axe has enlarged the borders of our settlements, and the mines, as well of iron and coal as of the precious metals, have yielded even more abundantly than heretofore. Population has steadily increased, notwithstanding the waste that has been made in the camp, the siege and the battle-field; and the country, rejoicing in the consciousness of augmented strength and vigor, is permitted to expect continuance of years with large increase of freedom. No human counsel hath devised nor hath any mortal hand worked out these great things. They are the gracious gifts of the Most High God, who, while dealing with us in anger for our sins, hath nevertheless remembered mercy. It has seemed to me fit and proper that they should be solemnly, reverently and gratefully acknowledged as with one heart and one voice by the whole American People. I do therefore invite my fellow citizens in every part of the United States, and also those who are at sea and those who are sojourning in foreign lands, to set apart and observe the last Thursday of November next, as a day of Thanksgiving and Praise to our beneficent Father who dwelleth in the Heavens. And I recommend to them that while offering up the ascriptions justly due to Him for such singular deliverances and blessings, they do also, with humble penitence for our national perverseness and disobedience, commend to His tender care all those who have become widows, orphans, mourners or sufferers in the lamentable civil strife in which we are unavoidably engaged, and fervently implore the interposition of the Almighty Hand to heal the wounds of the nation and to restore it as soon as may be consistent with the Divine purposes to the full enjoyment of peace, harmony, tranquillity and Union.

In testimony whereof, I have hereunto set my hand and caused the Seal of the United States to be affixed. Done at the City of Washington, this Third day of October, in the year of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and sixty-three, and of the Independence of the Unites States the Eighty-eighth. By the President: Abraham Lincoln William H. Seward, Secretary of State

What Can I Say? It's An Art!

Dave and I stepped through the garage door of the house-made-office of the church after one of my days as secretary there. The long, sloping back yard was covered in freshly fallen snow. Just as Dave uttered the words, “It’s kinda slick!” my feet flew out from underneath me. I took a few running steps, I flew, I flapped my arms, I bobbed and weaved to no avail. In a hurdler’s leap I landed. I landed on my leather purse (which was the size of a shopping bag). While the purse softened my landing it acted like a child’s sliding saucer in the slippery snow. At breakneck speed I careened down the back yard and came to an abrupt stop piled against our van. I was head down and feet up wondering what had happened when I heard an unusual sound.

The sound was Dave laughing. He made it to me to ask if I was all right, but he could barely choke out the words through a strange gargling sound. I assured him I was fine and together we got me back on my feet. I heard a gasp and a soft moan and then Dave collapsed against the van laughing so hard he couldn’t catch his breath. It was worth falling just to see him laughing so hard. He finally regained composure enough to again ask if I was hurt. I assured him I was not. Then he started all over again and it was another five minutes before he could straighten up and open the car door for me. Getting in on the other side, Dave wiped tears from his eyes and apologized. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but you looked like a penguin!” That was all it took and it was awhile before we could start the car and leave the parking lot. He said he had never seen anyone go through so much to gain so little.

That was not the only time my inability to stay upright made someone’s day. In the 1960’s, I worked at Northwestern National Bank of Minneapolis, in the original, before the fire, building. It was a lovely building with marble floors and pillars. The banking area was on second floor and that was where I worked in Trust Estate Planning. At the time, the bank had a skyway leading from the bank toward Donaldson’s Department Store that was maintained and decorated on a shared basis by the bank and the store.

There was a winter when the two combined with the Minneapolis Art Institute to display paintings and photographs for the public. As I came up the escalator to cross the skyway to visit a coffee shop on the other side, I beheld the busy spectacle of a TV crew filming the skyway exhibit for the evening news on Channel 4. Smirking to myself that I would be one of the people crossing the skyway on camera, I was incredibly pleased with the fact I was a fashion plate exceptionale that morning. I was wearing: a black faux fur pillbox hat, a cherry red side buttoned coat trimmed in real fox fur, black high-heeled boots trimmed at the ankle in black faux fur, and carrying my brand new briefcase. Audrey Hepburn from head to toe, smile firmly in place, charm and style oozed from every poor as I stepped from the escalator to the marble floor. My wet boot went across that marble floor like a greased pig fleeing eager farmers! I landed flat on my back with both arms outstretched still clutching my briefcase in one hand.

A startled cameraman looked down at me and asked, “Did you fall?” With great disdain and forced patience I replied, “No. I was tired and this seemed a good spot to rest!” He held out a hand to help me to my feet and I pulled myself to my full five-foot, four-inch height and strode majestically through the skyway. Once through the doors on the other side, I leaned against the wall and laughed. I was virtually yowling with embarrassment and a good sense of the ridiculous. The doors opened and the camera man and I came face to face with startled expressions. I pulled myself together and walked down the hall and through another set of doors. I’m sure he wondered if he should call someone to lock me away.

That evening after sharing the story with my roommate Karen, we turned to the ten o’clock news on Channel 4. There in glowing color were the paintings hanging in the skyway and an evenly modulated voice off camera telling about the exhibit. Quicker than a flash, able to be missed in the blink of an eye, at the bottom of the screen there appeared a black fur-trimmed boot! We were late getting to bed because we laughed so long.

While traversing the same banking floor one day, I walked straight into one of the marble pillars. These were not small easy to miss pillars, these were at least five feet in diameter pillars. I backed off, said “Excuse me,” and then ran into it again. Aside from being embarrassed, I was smarting from the pain of ramming my shoulder into the thing two times. It is interesting to note the expressions of people pretending they didn’t see what you just did. They vary from “even though I’m inside I’m looking for birds” to “hope she doesn’t see my lips trembling” and then there’s the “wish she’d move on so I can laugh” and "where's my camera when I need it?". They were all there.

I have fallen up stairs and down stairs. When I was pregnant with Marc, Dave was working on the steps by our back door. He had moved the steps to make it easier to work. I knew they were gone. I only wanted to tell Dave something. I opened the door, leaned out and the weight of being pregnant carried me right out the door to the ground. A neighbor who happened to be chatting with Dave while he worked commented, “She probably shouldn’t be jumping from that height while she’s pregnant!” Yeah, like I was practicing for the upcoming pregnant ladies’ high jump, pregnant parachutists league, or something! What was he thinking?

The family I was reared in all had a penchant for doing enormously funny, clumsy things and then laughing over it, relating it to the rest of the family and friends to relish their enjoyment. My brother lit a cigarette with his new lighter. He then shook the lighter out and threw it over his shoulder like the matches he was used to using. Pat, at a movie theater, managed to stuff one foot into a discarded popcorn box and step on the box with her other foot. Bent double trying to figure out her predicament, she scooped up the person (who stood to let her through) with her butt. My sister, Betty, and others in the same row, watched in horror as this little pantomime played out. What could be described as the Dance Macabre in silence lasted for some minutes with Pat and the gentleman on her back pretending nothing was unusual. Betty, who looked like Grace Kelley or Princess Grace of Manaco, could never make it through a revolving door in one try. Bemused friends and family would watch as she made several trips around looking more perplexed with each circle. She would emerge, often on the wrong side, and have to try again.

Dot was the champion. She fell so often, she eventually did damage herself; and arthritis was a constant companion in the later years of her life. She sold Avon products for a time. Attempting to deliver an order, she fell in a woman’s drive and was quick to say “Avon crawling” as the woman rushed to her rescue. Dot fell down 39^th Avenue hill in Columbia Heights after leaving for work one morning. My mother was looking out the kitchen window and mentioned to Ev that there was an old woman she had never seen before coming down the street. He looked out the window and said she looked really old or crippled. It was Dot. She had bruised everything so badly, she could hardly walk. When they realized it was her, they went to help her. They called work to say she wouldn’t be in, cleaned her up, helped her get into pajamas, and tucked her in bed with hot water bottles to ease the pain. When she woke from a deep sleep, she discovered Ev and Mom had put chairs all around the bed (the way we do to keep a child from falling out and getting hurt). When Dot was in her 80’s she was given a walker. Chatting on the phone, I mentioned to her I was glad she had a walker because she would no longer be falling. The very next day, she called me to tell me she was moving from her bedroom to the kitchen to do something and, though using her walker, managed to fall through it bumping her chin on the way down and needing stitches. It could have been serious, but the two of us laughed long and heartily over the timing of the conversation and the fall.

I have skidded, slipped, hopped and jumped across a stage to receive an award. Once, I was entering a restaurant in down-town Minneapolis with my supervisor and her boss for a luncheon meeting and performed terpsichorean feats to amaze and delight ending with me as a crumpled heap at the foot of the podium of the maître d.

Dave has rarely found the ludicrous funny – especially if he was the one who became a performer in the ludicrous. When we were oh-so-young and oh-so-in love, we would walk together. Of course thin high heels were very much in Vogue at the time and I was an expert at getting mine caught in sidewalk gratings. I would get them jammed so firmly, I would have to remove my foot and balance against Dave who was bent double trying to pull the shoe free of the grate without pulling the heel from the shoe. One evening, he put both my shoes in his pockets and made me walk stocking foot to the theater we were going to. There was only so much a young knight in shining armor could bear! I have no sense of direction. Often, when we walk, Dave would turn one way and I would turn the other at a corner and either go our separate ways or run into each other. Since he was in the army at the time, he solved that problem by calling out just prior to the corner, “Column Left (or right as the case might be)”! I also frequently lag behind his purposeful walk because I am looking at anything but where I’m going. If Dave stops quickly, I walk right into his back which earned our nickname of “Punch and Judy” given by friends.

While Dave can be patient if the ridiculously clumsy is affecting me more than him, he had little or no patience with the day he was hanging onto the door frame of our first apartment while trying to change the bulb in our entry light. I was on my way to the car so exited the apartment and closed the door. When the door didn’t latch and in spite of the ear splitting roar from Dave, I opened it and closed it with more vigor. Apologizing and informing him that was a poor place to have his hand probably was not in my own best interests.

When relating the things I’ve done, you’ve probably gotten the sense I exaggerate to increase the fun. I do. But remember, you are laughing with me and not at me so all is well. Our children will tell you that the security they felt when small was not Mom. Oh, I was the one they came to with hurt feelings or troubles at school or for cuddles when they were sick. But I was not the one they relied on for sureness and deftness in any physical sense. They will also tell you their own tumbles or trips were met with my laughter more often than deep sympathy.

Helen (with hardly any provocation or prompting) will relate I always promised to catch her at the bottom of the slide but rarely did. Somehow, no matter how ready I was, she would come down and sail right through outstretched arms ready to receive her. I was always very good at lifting her out of the dirt and brushing her off. Dave would be so exasperated. He would tell me to get my legs right up against the end of the slide and be ready. I would. Even though Helen would argue at the top of the slide, he would send her down and I would miss. Once on a trip to southern Minnesota, where Dot and Ev had their childhood times, Dot took us to the park and the long slide they had loved. Dave, not wanting to spoil a special outing, suggested I take Helen up the steps to the slide and he would catch her. Somehow, just before Helen was to start down, she fell off the top of the slide. Recently, while battling cancer and suffering through chemo treatments, I heard a nurse tell Helen not to get up and walk unless her mother accompanied her in case she felt dizzy. Helen’s response was, “Someone else, please. Mom always said she’d catch me at the bottom of the slide, but she never did!” The nurse couldn’t figure out why we thought that was funny. It only has humor because Helen was never injured.

Marc remembers not wanting me to be the one to help him learn how to ride a bike. I can’t blame him. As I would run along beside him steadying the bike, I was more likely to trip and fall over him and the bike than be of any real help. He relates wanting to learn to jump rope. I tied one end of a stout rope to our steps railing and at the other end I began to swing the rope. He remembers I smacked him solidly in the head several times before I explained he was supposed to watch the rope and be ready to move forward and jump rather than stand there and let me beat him. He maintains I left out a few instructions on purpose, I maintain only a child related to me would stand there!

As a result of childhood memories, Helen and Marc have not allowed me to be at the bottom or the top of a slide while teaching Bett and Belle to slide. I also was allowed little to do with their learning to ride bikes.

I have not contained all my clumsiness to walking. I cannot eat neatly. The harder I concentrate on not spilling, the more I am sure to spill. After spending several months working for a company as a temporary replacement, I was applying for permanent placement. Sitting at lunch, I didn’t realize my napkin was slightly under my plate. Dripping a small drop of soup on my belt, I grabbed the napkin to mop at it, and pulled the whole bowl of soup into my lap. I hurried to the woman who would be my supervisor and explained what happened as my interview for employment was in a few minutes with her and the man I would be reporting to. She assured me I should not let it bother me. When we entered his office, I saw her reasoning. He also had gone to lunch; a woman in the cafeteria had been jostled causing her to pour her salad, drenched in Russian dressing, over his shoulder. Our supervisor said it was a match made in heaven and we should not argue with heaven. I got the job! For an entire year we crashed through the business day together. I slammed his hand in a drawer. While I was looking for a file, he pulled out a bottom drawer behind me without telling me. I backed up and fell over it. We bumped heads and ran into walls together. When he left for another position I missed him greatly – so did the rest of the office. I was only half the spectator fun!

Applying for another position, I was taking a typing test. I had made my living typing for so long I could proudly put down on my application that my typing speed was 120 words per minute and my accuracy was 98 percent. On certain typewriters I was even faster. Upon completing my test, I was asked to wait while the woman interviewing me evaluated my test. She soon appeared and said there had been a slight problem and she hoped I would not be upset at having to repeat the test. I did not mind taking the test again (had it been the math portion of my testing I’d have screamed like a banshee!) When I finished the second test, I was evaluated at 125 words per minute with 99 percent accuracy. It was only then she informed me I had taken the first test entirely from start to finish with my hands on the wrong keys! It was the first test I had ever taken on a computer keyboard, and I had not once looked at the screen. I have always been grateful to her for letting me take the second test without telling me what was wrong with the first.

Would you not assume someone who types for a living and creates knitted items for gifts would have nimble fingers? Not so, sadly. I was introduced to Pat’s very good friend one early morning. Pat thought we would instantly like each other. We really never got a chance to find out. Pat went right on to work, but her friend and I stopped to have coffee and get to know each other. The coffee arrived and I chose to add cream to mine. In the process of prying the super-glued lid off the little plastic creamer, it slipped. We both stared in fascination as it rose in the air, twirling rapidly and landed with a little “plop” in my coffee. Still looking at the container bobbing in my coffee cup I said, “I think that is the first time I have ever done something that clumsy without wearing my mistake!” A soft “Oh!” from her made me raise my eyes. I don’t believe her navy blue suit nor her glasses had little tiny white polka dots prior to my blooper. She left her coffee on the table and went to clean herself up. She never returned. I wrote an apology never aknowledged. I think she and Pat remained friends but the absence of invitations to join them were singularly absent.

I have set my newspaper on fire because I chose to read it by candlelight. Twice during church candlelight services, as part of the choir, I have set my own or someone else’s music on fire. While making dinner one night, I complained to Helen that the light was flickering and annoying me. She came to see what I was talking about. It was then she yelled, “Fire!” and put a lid over the mixer bowls standing next to me. I had one of those water heaters with the coil at one end and a plug at the other for making a cup of water boil in seconds. I had put the heater in the mixer bowls to keep it out of the way. I had also sometime thrown a dishtowel on the bowls while cooking. When I plugged in what I thought was the mixer, I accidentally plugged in the cord for the heater. Of course there was no water so it set the towel on fire. I try to convince my family these things could happen to anyone; they assure me they are a specialty with me.

I also have the strangest ability to open mouth and insert foot. At our house, we call it “Foot-In-Mouth” disease as a play on Hoof and Mouth Disease. Former Governor Rolvaag dropped in to see my boss one morning. My boss had a breakfast meeting and was not present. I so informed the governor without recognizing him. He asked me to say he had stopped. I asked his name. With only a hint of the shock he must have felt, he stated, “Rolvaag”. Not having driven the spike into his heart far enough I asked, “Would you spell that, please?”

After answering the phone with the canned answer we were trained to give, “Good morning, Northwestern National Bank of Minneapolis, may I help you?” a voice asked for one of the people in my department. I replied she was in a meeting at the time and would gladly have her return the call. The man I was talking to though unknown to me was the president and CEO of the bank. “Moorhead!” was all he said. “Mr. Moorhead is not in this office, but if you will hold I will transfer you to his secretary.” There was a long, a very long, pause and then he sighed, “I . . . am . . . Mr. Moorhead”. Well, why didn’t he say so!?! I apologized but I don’t think he really thought I was sincere. While this may not be completely just, I felt they both were sure the public was just waiting for a chance to recognize their imminence. I have always hoped their desire to rise to political and business heights thickened their skin enough to prevent me causing lasting damage.

On my way to work one morning, I was given a pamphlet touting the skills and qualifications of someone named Elmer N. Anderson for next governor of Minnesota. Being young and foolish and brash, I said to my friend walking with me, “So who is Elmer N. Anderson, anyway?” The man waling just ahead of us turned and held out his hand. “Good morning,” he said with a gracious smile. “I am Elmer Anderson and I’d like your vote in the next election!” I was not yet old enough to vote, but had I been I would probably have voted for him just because he was gracious enough not to give me the set down I deserved.

While working in International Banking, part of my day was answering long-distance calls from around the world. I had stock phrases to see if they spoke English: “Sprechen ze American? Habla Englé?  Parle vous Anglais?” etc. One morning I answered the phone to a burst of rapid French. I quickly inquired “Parle vous Francais?” (Do you speak French?). After a startled pause, the man replied, “But, of course! Do you speak English?” I snorted, he choked, and we both started laughing. It was so funny we couldn’t stop. I couldn’t ask what he needed and he couldn’t tell me. My co-worker kept making a slashing motion across her throat to indicate the madness should cease. We couldn’t. I don’t remember if we ever transacted any business, but we both had a good laugh for our day.

As a child, I longed to be a ballerina. I had books about ballet, sketched ballerinas, and tried to strike the poses I saw in pictures. I’ve stated in other blogs my family had little money to spare. Dad and Mom thought I would not be determined enough to make the cost of lessons worthwhile. They bought a baton and I took free lessons at school for a time. It wasn’t the same and they just did not understand. In my senior year of high school, our choir was going to perform the music from South Pacific for our final grand concert. Six of my friends and I decided to put together a ballroom scene to the music of Some Enchanted Evening. It’s not time to laugh yet; so stop it! I was not going to dance; I was going to choreograph. With no natural grace of my own, I put together steps and whirls for them to perform. My closest friend knew one of the Minneapolis Ballet chorus members and asked him to come help us smooth the rough spots. He complimented me and said I had put together a good performance. He encouraged us to add a bit of adagio (graceful lifts and poses). He began to help.

One of the girls father decided he did not want his daughter dancing. We tried everything, but he was firm. His daughter would not be dancing. She was so pretty and graceful and as willowy as Aurora in Walt Disney’s Sleeping Beauty. Our good dance master, announced to the amazement and consternation of all I would be taking her place. I begged him to find anyone else but me. I think my friends silently hoped he would agree. He was adamant. I had talent. I had created choreography for a sound performance. I would take her place. He began working me into the line while using me to design and perform the adagio. Oh, poor man! Poor, poor man!

In teaching us a fast twirl requiring concentration and athletic ability, my partner and I were the third couple to try. We held each other just so; our feet were alternated and he had a firm grip around my waist with one arm. Success depended on our feet remaining in the alternated placement and his strong embrace. The music started and we began. The long, stiletto heal of my right shoe wedged itself inside my left shoe and into the arch of my left foot. I had, literally, pinned my feet together! My partner gripped me harder and tried to break the momentum of our spin. He managed to carry my full weight, keep us upright, and bring us to a stop. When I got home, Mom cleaned and bandaged my foot and I sobbed uncontrollably; I would tell Mr. Strom, our choir director, we would scratch the number. Dad looked stern. He put his newspaper down and told me I would appear for rehearsal the next week and would see it through. He said the amount of work, the dedication of the others, and my own praise for its design meant I would have to finish what I started.

With a still tender foot, I arrived at rehearsal the following week and was told by our dance master that he and I would now demonstrate the first lift. I sensed this man had a death wish; my father had just pronounced execution! I followed his instructions to the letter. I glided to him, pirouetted, and with his hands at my waist, felt him lift me high to his shoulder where I exultantly raised my arms, posed my legs and we glided quickly away. This was sublime! What rapture! He said we would do it one more time only please not to be so hesitant. His own death knell from his very lips! I glided, pirouetted, sprang into his lift and landed not on his shoulder, but on the side of his neck and face. There was a loud snap! Since we didn’t fall I was assured the snap was not his neck. It proved to be his glasses!

Most of our practice had been in one of our backyard spaces on grass where the terrain was less than smooth. Our DM now decided it was imperative we begin to be accustomed to the stage. We were scheduled into practice times by Mr. Strom. In spite of having scars, some of which would be permanent, on both legs from my stilettos, my partner was still my partner. One more of our adagio moves was to be three young women twirling across to stage front to the waiting arms of our partners. A polka side-step maneuver followed by a small jump on our parts with a hearty lift on theirs and they would catch us at our knees. With arms uplifted and joyous looks on our faces, we would be slowly turned and gracefully set down. Yeah. In who's alcohol induced dream? My best friend (who was an acrobat and gymnast) ran to her partner, jumped too hard and he being the strongest of the three young men, tossed too hard. He caught her not at her knees, but at her ankles. She balanced while he ran trying to keep her upright. It was all resolved without serious injury. For once, it hadn’t been me feeling awkward. When I ran to my partner, all went well, until I realized added to his six-foot height was an eight-foot drop to the orchestra pit. Only that first time, did I yelp and then bend to grip his hair firmly in ten terrorized fingers. Do you know? The thought just occurred to me, that not once did our DM make me feel uncordinated or stupid. I believe he honestly knew the artist in me crying to be released from a body that didn't cooperate. The night of performance, that number went off without a single hitch. Our DM was in the audience (still wearing tape on his glasses) and I think he applauded harder than anyone. In spite of the all, the memory is not traumatic but wonderful. We did it.

Approximately four years later after working and saving money, I walked into a school of ballet and paid for my lessons. I was the only 21-year-old in a class of four-to-eight-year-olds. For one solid year I made every single lesson. I learned not to wince at the joints that creaked and snapped for the barré exercises, and I worked through the pain of breaking three toes. I bet you are feeling some pride in my effort, right? Well the broken toes did not come from dedicated ballet. Each was broken away from class or practice. The first was my right little toe when I accidentally caught it on my purse strap on the floor and tripped myself. The second was when I stepped off a curb and twisted my ankle. The third was a second break of the first when I once again left my purse on the floor. At the end of a year, I knew I had proven I could see the lessons through, I could not start at the age of 21 and become a ballerina, and I had lived at the heights of trying. I still have excellent turn out and can do all five first positions. Not bad for someone older than dirt!

Why would I set down all these foibles and flops for all to read? Because, if you have known me for longer than five minutes you have most likely seen me in action. If you are meeting me through these pages and may someday have a meeting with me, you have received warning to be very wary! If there is no other reason, it is to share God made me to be impulsive and clumsy simultaneously. I am thankful He also gave me the ability to laugh. He gave me a mother who had the foresight to teach me to use that laughter to lighten the load of living. I am also thankful that God gave me the spouse and children who could love me in spite of keeping a healthy respect for distance when I am in motion. He is beginning to teach me I can make you laugh and lighten your day. My driving and nursing skills appear in other blog chapters.

The Turkeys I've Known

I believe, somewhere in one of the family albums, there is a charming child with large eyes, curly hair, oxblood oxfords, sitting in a high-chair with a drumstick of a turkey nearly as large as herself. That would be me. For some reason, the turkey drumstick became important to me early in life and has not diminished. I am no longer that sweet baby with the drumstick. I am older than dirt at this writing and I may yet bowl you over to get to the drumstick before you do! I love the Renaissance Festival for the primary reason there are smoked turkey drumsticks to be had at every other stall. I usually limit myself to one; well, two. Whoever heard of Long John Turkey? Why would I want to leave Tom Turkey one leg and a crutch when I could have two and he would qualify for a wheel chair? See what I mean? Mention turkey and my mind unhinges. Mom always cooked perfect turkeys. Of course I was born the last of 5 children with a 21 year spread in our ages from oldest to youngest so she had much practice before I sat at the Thanksgiving table. I digress. Perfect turkeys were something I came to expect. We ate one at Thanksgiving and another Christmas Day.

When I married Dave, we had turkey at Thanksgiving and Christmas until he suggested there were other foods for holidays. He suggested ham. Ham? Pigs don’t fly! Pigs don’t have drumsticks! Pigs aren’t stuffed (unless you count the apple they always put in the mouth). Ham is for Easter. You may begin to see the effort it took to convince me the work of fixing a turkey for two holidays approximately 30 days apart was something Dave did not undertake lightly.

We made several attempts to find a Christmas meal that suited us that was not turkey. Don’t misunderstand. Dave loves turkey as leftovers: sandwiches, ala king, soup, pot pies. He does not like getting up at four in the morning to stuff icy cold stuffing into an icy cold bird to get it in the oven so it will be done in time for family to partake of everything but the work involved. He also did not appreciate the fact that, while we did return to bed, I sprang up every 30 minutes to baste the turkey. In his opinion there was one turkey in his life that wasn’t even available as leftovers; even the pilgrims would have put her out of her misery! Home baked beans are another all night treat but I’ll leave those for another story. Our later years have seen some times of beef or pork on the table at Christmas.

Back to my original thoughts: turkey. My roommate in my single years, Karen, and I tried to convince the world we could cook. To some extent this was true. We used recipes and made whole meals, some of which were edible. For a short time, we had two other roommates. Their idea of their weeks to cook meant eventually over the period of a week we would receive a meal. Monday, dessert; Tuesday, salad; Wednesday, hot dogs (with or without buns); Thursday, beans; Friday, chips and chocolate. We were so thankful when Saturday rolled around and we all helped in the kitchen for two days. Karen and I tried to have a holiday meal before we went to our respective families. We cooked a turkey a couple times. The first time, we both agreed we liked stuffing and crispy skin. We argued over what goes into stuffing and reached a compromise of some of each of our favorite herbs. We stuffed, buttered, cooked and basted our little turkey. We loved that thing nearly to death! In our poor attempt to make sure the skin was crispy, we crisped the entire bird! We over cooked it. It was beautiful. It was nearly picture perfect. Way down inside farthest away from the heat of the oven there was even a little meat that would not break a tooth. When we put a knife to the breast, the whole thing popped open with a crackling noise and a gush of steam. Literally we had mummified it. Good for us we compromised on the stuffing as that was the only truly edible part to the turkey.

Dave’s and my first Thanksgiving was spent with my folks. Our second Thanksgiving was while Dave was in Viet Nam and I spent it with my family again and Helen had the drumstick (one disadvantage to having children). Our third Thanksgiving was spent with him still away from home at Fort Leonardwood, Missouri, and me with my family once again. Therefore, our fourth Thanksgiving was to be, wonder of wonders, in our own home with Dave’s dad and brother included. We made everything from scratch. Our table was picture perfect. We served mashed potatoes with gravy, homemade rolls, vegetable and salad, cranberry sauce, banana bread, cranberry bread (my mother’s recipe), pumpkin pie, mincemeat pie (there’s a lovely story at Dave’s expense about mincemeat pie), real whipped cream, stuffing and, of course, turkey. Most of the food was rather tasty and the turkey was good. The homemade rolls might have been used as deadly missiles. Dad McElyea ate several and I’m positive it took him at least a week to digest them. Helen and Billy got the drumsticks (darn kids!).

For a time, Dave and I tried the latest cooking methods when it came to turkey. There were the days of the turkey in a roaster (oven type or freestanding), on the grill (nasty), in a brown paper grocery bag (later considered possibly poisonous by the experts), in a new and safer turkey roasting bag (later discovered to contain carcinogens). We cooked turkeys breast up and breast down. We share the work. Our stuffing does not contain any raw meat so it is permissible to be cooked inside the bird (temperature probe tested for correct degrees required).

One year when I was a teen, Dad had a 35mm movie camera. His first real use of it (other than catching all of us in less than flattering activities) was Thanksgiving. He had not yet mastered using the pictures in a way that told a story. Odd; because dad loved to tell stories and he was very good at it. This particular story became an amazing parade of many Moms always entering from the kitchen with food in their hands, going past the camera, but never returning and never setting the food down. The camera was stationary and did not follow the food nor record Mom returning to the kitchen for more. We laughed heartily and long when the film was developed. There was no record of our having ever eaten the food, no record of empty food bowls and platters. There was only a parade to rival Macy’s. My dad always loved a good joke. If the joke was on him he loved it even more. He rarely laughed hard but when he did, he gave his whole soul up to laughter. Watching that film he laughed so hard he had to keep mopping tears.

For many years, we shared Thanksgiving with my sister, Dorothy. Most of the rest of Dave’s and my families were out of town. Dorothy and I would work together to prepare the meal and it was held alternately at their home or ours each year. My sister, Pat, and her son Larry would join us. Pat worked long hours to care for Larry and keep a roof over their heads but always brought an offering to the table. Dorothy’s husband, Will, had a penchant for clearing the table as soon as the meal was over. Being a slow eater, my plate was often whisked away before I was finished. After becoming a mom, I was even slower and lost even more food (much to Will’s delight). One year, Dorothy and I planned I would be served first and eat early. As the plates were dished and people sat to eat, I jumped up, grabbed Will’s just filled plate and scraped it away! Yes, it was a sad waste of food. Yes, it was premeditated. Yes it was all worth it to see the look on Will’s face! He never again took my plate.

Sadly, those shared Thanksgivings came to an end largely because of alcohol. Both heavy drinkers, Will and Dorothy became more and more difficult to enjoy. Dave was working shift hours as a police officer and often had to work holidays. While we would change the hours of our eating to coincide with his having to leave for work or return home from work, the alcohol was more important to Dot and Will than timing. Dorothy would never consent to eating until she had her fill of alcohol (she said she could not drink once she had eaten. What a shame.). When it was our turn to have the meal we didn’t offer alcohol and timed it for Dave’s schedule. The final Thanksgiving together occurred when Dave left for work without a meal because Dorothy was still busy imbibing. We made a tough decision that we would welcome them to our home but the alternate year exchange was ending. I am thankful to say, there was no argument, nor broken relationship over the decision. I am sorry to say that probably they were relieved to not have to miss out on their drinking except for the years they came to our home.

My brother, also an alcoholic, returned home to Minnesota when Marc was a young teen. He preferred solitary holidays, so spent very few with any of his sisters. After going through treatment at VA Medical Center, he did alternate between us. Always fighting depression, he still preferred holidays away from people. I may be wrong, but I think it was the first Thanksgiving after the death of Dorothy, he agreed to have Thanksgiving with us but wanted it at his apartment. He would spend the morning at the AA Center where he worked in the kitchen and would prepare Thanksgiving for all the men and women without families who would come to be together, smoke countless cigarettes, and drink endless cups of coffee. Everett was set on seeing to it they had a family feeling and a celebration before he returned home. He suggested we come early, cook our bird there and celebrate with him when he was done at the center. Okay. We would adjust our supplies and cook in his efficiency apartment.

The AA Center was at Chicago and Lake, and Everett’s apartment was just off Franklin and Lake. Once a rather posh area of Minneapolis, it was now a place to get mugged, watch drug deals going down, and see the sad side of humanity. Many fine old houses had been turned into apartment living and Ev lived in one. It was a living room/bedroom combination with a kitchen. It was drafty and cold. He was fussy about the cleanliness. We arrived, let ourselves in, put the already stuffed turkey in the oven, got the potatoes ready to put to boil, set the table, and plated the relishes, breads, etc. that would go with the turkey.

That’s when the oven began to smoke. The oven was too small for the size turkey we had brought. No matter what we did we could not get the cooking turkey to not touch some area of the oven. After about 30 minutes of fighting the smoking oven, the fire detectors began to wail. We grabbed Everett’s window fan. Dave had the fan, I had the plug from the cord, and Helen was running from window to window unable to open any. Marc, tall for his young age, was fanning the smoke detector with a newspaper. Keep in mind the entire square footage of the apartment was approximately four feet! We are not small people. Helen finally got a window open; it was not near any known plug in! By this time, all the smoke detectors in the building were going off. People were spilling out into the hallways. We found an extension cord, plugged in the fan and the smoke began to dissipate. People in all levels of poverty were banging on the door. They were yelling at us not to burn the building down as if we thought being trapped in there with them would be fun! We got enough of the smoke to go out the window so we could open the door and assure them all was under control. The smoke detectors stopped bleating. All those people were staring in at the happy little, white, middle class family who were staring out at a mix of hard-working poor, drug users, alcoholics, prostitutes, and homosexuals. We might have invited them in but they wouldn’t have come. In their eyes we were crazy, didn’t belong, and looked dangerous!

For one moment in time, the odd mix of assembled people were united in a desire to have our holiday, spent in our individual ways, and not become crispy critters in a burning building! We got the dinner on the table albeit we had to keep the window open and the fan going on a day about ten degrees above zero. The food tasted good, yup very good. It was good to be with family no matter the circumstances. For me, the hysterical giggles began before we closed the door on the outraged but relieved group in the hall. I’m sure they thought Dave, Helen and Marc were hiding the fact that I had escaped from the local asylum and tried to burn the place down. They probably thought it was Ev we had stuffed in the oven since he put in no appearance at the door.

Relating the story to Ev when he got home was even better. The expressions on his face ranged from grateful he still had a place to live, to wondering if his neighbors would lynch him when the crazy lady was gone, to laughing as hysterically as I was. My dear, obsessively neat brother, who smoked like a chimney, was irritated that his apartment smelled smoky and he would have to wash walls! Go figure!

While Dave and I were waiting for our granddaughters’ bus to arrive from school, we noticed a wild turkey in their yard. It was a hen who had been a pest in the neighborhood off and on all summer. She had nested in the neighbor’s yard. Her chicks were grown, but she was tending the home fires still. We watched her for awhile as she moved from yard to yard. She wasn’t taking to the air much; her design was not aerodynamic and a lot to lift off the ground. We tired of watching her and both opened our books to read. After about 5 minutes of reading, we heard a noise. Looking up, we were nose-to-nose with Mrs. Turkey staring in the windshield at us. All of us looked like cartoon creatures – you know the kind where the eyes are large ovals with lots of parenthesis shaped lines around them to show surprise. She stared in; we stared out. We laughed and she looked indignant. She soon jumped down and strutted away. I know what we thought of her. I wonder what she thought of us.

One more Thanksgiving I must relate. In 2010, Marc, Jenny and the girls headed to Disney World for the Thanksgiving holiday. Kevin and Helen invited Dave and me to go to Nebraska to spend Thanksgiving with Kevin’s family on the ranch. We all said our well wishes and our requests to be careful ahead of time and settled into planning for a “different kind of Thanksgiving”. While Marc doesn’t like large puppets, the pictures from their holiday show that the family enjoyed each other and the change of pace. This year when I asked if they would like to spend Thanksgiving with us, they decided to have just their family celebration. I understand. Last year was exciting and fun, but Marc needs to know there is no gigantic Mickey, Minnie, or Goofy (well I’m still around) looming over his shoulder.

Early (very early) on Wednesday, Dave and I drove to Kevin’s and Helen’s home and added our last minute stuff to the suitcases we had already put in their car (a Mariner) Tuesday evening. We had thermoses of coffee, donuts, and were off! Dave rode shotgun for a spell and Helen and I shared the back seat. We are both pretty good at making good use of small spaces so we arranged those things that didn’t fit in the back space around us and settled for the long trip. We settled, that is, until we both began to complain about feet and legs being cramped. When we stopped for breakfast, it became apparent the stuff Kevin keeps under the front passenger seats had not been removed as requested. With mutterings, grumblings and much pulling and shoving we got the stuff stowed other places in order to be able to move our legs.

I won’t go into great detail about the ride down there, but we got to our motel around 9:30 PM and checked in. We again piled into the car and drove through the very dark Nebraska night to the ranch. There we met a small portion of the large number of Kevin’s family that had already assembled. We deposited our offerings we made prior to the trip on the table for the feast the following day. There was not much to see about the ranch as it was dark as pitch! Pitch? Did someone say Pitch? They all love a good game of Pitch (a card game seemingly devoid of rules and played with any number of people and multiple decks of cards). Guests are not allowed to bow out because they don’t know how to play!!!! It was after midnight when we saw our beds.

Early the next day, we met for coffee and small talk. Kevin, Helen and Dave made small talk. I hovered over my hot coffee as usual hoping I would come fully awake sometime over the next 24 hours. At the ranch, there was a procession of people. There were sights and smell totally unfamiliar. Their Thanksgiving table holds a lot of southwest flavored foods (tacos, and taco salad, corn bread, chili). The turkey meat is pulled and kept warm to be eaten with a variety of gravies and sauces to add to it and there is beef and pork as well. We all had a place to sit but I don’t know why they weren’t hanging some of us from hooks by our shirt collars. What a lot of people there were. I understand not all could come that year.

Friday, Kevin took me on a walk around some of the close to home sites. John Deer and Allis Chalmers tractors from several eras were there to see. Juniper bushes shielded the ranch house from the wind (which was bitterly cold even thought the temperatures were mild). Across the road which was about a half-mile driveway from the house, was the homestead where Kevin’s mother had lived. All four of us went over to the old homestead and Kevin told us stories about being a kid and breaking horses there. He showed us where his Dad, brothers and cousins have their deer stand. It is made out of hay bales with a wood plank roof and a few broken down kitchen chairs for all the comforts of home. While Dave and Helen were walking in the field and freezing their noses off, Kevin and I were in the deer stand protected and quite comfortable. No dummies between the two of us!

To be seen are cattle. Lots of cattle roam the hills. Along with the cattle one can see jack rabbits, mule deer, sand, spike weed, sand, prairie grass, sand, lots and lots and lots of blue sky! In other blogs I’ve mentioned that sensation of wanting to just start running or walking. There it was again, but this time I could try it. It took very little walking to realize the vista points were much farther than they looked in the pristine air; the peaks I wanted to top could not be reached by a person used to city blocks to count the distance. Kevin took us on a ride to show us places he played, or worked, or got into trouble as a youngster. The one room school his mom attended is just a set of steps but we could see the foundation marks where it once stood. Around one bend in the road, we came to a deep canyon. We got out looking and photographing the canyon. Kevin is very patient with me and helped me pick a seed pod from a spike plant. It resides in a glass jar on my window sill.

Later in the day, Kevin and his brother, Les, used Les’ truck to give Helen and me a tour (Dave declined and will always know he missed something special!) We went cross country! Heavenly! Rocks, ruts, gullies, hills, fences to open and close and we bounced and jounced our way across the prairie. The day was sunny and the wind was raw. It smelled . . . well, tangy! A cow and her young calf had wandered over from a neighboring ranch. Mama kept a wary eye on us as we got close enough to take pictures. She was more at ease when we finally drove away. I have to say there is no describing that ride fully here. Suffice it to say, being seat belted meant the next bounce (and there always was one) would tighten the seatbelt to strangulation tension. Getting rid of the seat belt to breathe meant the next jarring would send us skyrocketing to the ceiling of the cab or rolling from side to side. Helen was enjoying watching me suffer the way I had made passengers suffer!

I have to tell you about “UPS delivers”! A UPS truck came down the road and pulled into the long drive to the ranch house. This is not a paved drive but a sandy, rutted, long, long trail to the house. Kevin and his brother, Les, and his half brother, Troy, stepped out onto the patio thinking he might be coming to ask directions. Now, these three men strolled out in jeans and work shirts, boots, and less than greeting faces. They weren’t menacing nor crabby but they weren’t waving and calling “how dye” either! They just stepped out. The UPS driver put his truck in reverse and backed all that long way down the drive when there was a perfectly good turn around to use. They watched in surprise as he made it to the road. Troy was laughing because now the truck was turning into the old homestead which obviously was falling apart from disuse. They shrugged it off figuring he would see the error of his ways and come back for directions. About fifteen minutes later, I was sitting at the table trying to practice what Kevin had taught me about getting used to the distance and recognizing cattle from mule deer. What to my wondering eyes appeared? Not a tiny sleigh, nor Santa, nor reindeer. The UPS truck was headed cross country toward the hills the other side of which only contained more cross country and hills. He was also headed right toward a herd of cattle grazing them thar hills. He was not on a road, nor a track, nor a cattle track. That boy was lost! We never saw him come back.

I think God created animals to give us a picture of ourselves. Although we’d like to soar like eagles, glide like swans, leap like deer, and have the wisdom of owls, we tend to be more like turkeys. He made us more to have trouble taking off like loons, waddle like ducks, be earthbound like penguins, and need Him for wisdom. He allows us to do the stupid, flop and fall, so we will allow Him to pick us up, dust us off and let us try again. While all the Thanksgiving praises come to mind: family, friends, work to do, food to eat, a place to sleep, a spouse who is most often patient with me, I am most thankful for a God who hounded me from Heaven until I asked Him please to no longer leave me on my own but take charge of the life I can’t manage alone. It is much to thank God that Jesus paid for the wrongs I commit without even thinking.