absit iniuria verbis: duos

And then there was the time....

I was a young Air Force wife.  We belonged to the Non-Commissioned Officer's Club where we could join other couples for dinners, cocktails, dances and social events.  The wives had an auxiliary social group that met during the day for luncheons that would feature an educational speaker, community service projects and charitable fund raising efforts.  At the end of the club year, we held a banquet to record and applaud our successes, elect committee chairwomen, and give awards for achievements.

The club photographer gathered us all on stage for a group photo.  We stood, row-by-row, shoulder-to-shoulder, refreshed our lipstick, straightened skirts, tucked blouses, grimaced to each other to check for a lodged poppy seed or pepper flake in our teeth, and then posed.  A much older woman --the wife of a senior-ranking non-com officer --who was standing next to me wore a white pullover knitted sweater.  As she smoothed down her front I spied a dark black hair on her bosom.  I delicately reached over to snatch it and just as the photographer was putting us in focus, I gingerly and effectively tugged.

"OUCH!" she loudly exclaimed!  I startled and froze with the short curly hair pinched between my still extended thumb and forefinger that just seconds before had been attached to her chest.  Too embarrassed to comment, I lowered my hand turned and faced the photographer and smiled.


That was a case of not knowing what to say.  Here's one of saying it all just plain wrong.

In high school, before Stephen and I were dating, but were getting better acquainted, I quickly learned that he was very well read--often admiring him quoting entire passages from Shakespeare, lines of poetry, or pages from classic literary works.  I was impressed; after all, I was a reader, carried honors level English lit classes, and we had a respectable library in my family home where books were considered especially important and valued when we were growing up. I was glad that I was at least familiar with Hamlet and Polonius, and could return with such quotes as, "To thine own self be true" and "Neither a borrower nor a lender be."

Stephen would frequently walk me to my locker between classes, and we'd chat before the bell rang.  In those early days, he would tell short, lively, and captivating stories of his time living in Cyprus until the war.  He recounted adolescent thrills of being a refugee and his efforts to come to the United States without his parents but with two siblings in tow.  I was growing more and more attracted to him.  (See the Do You Like My Hat blog entry.)  We also quietly shared knowing that the teacher whose French language class he was walking me to each day stood close-by carefully eavesdropping on his tales.  It was fun to watch her expressions as the stories became dramatic or when she was frustrated by student distractions when she was clearly trying to attend to Stephen's narrations.

Most of our locker visits were quick between bells and he dominated the conversation as he recounted his experiences, shared favorite authors, or we bounced back Monty Python dialogue and quotes.  On one particular day I remember, he was quieter.  He seemed concerned about something, and naturally, with my personality, I self-consciously considered that he was growing tired of me, and was distancing himself. 

So I drew upon my vast grade-eleven literary knowledge, and searched for an appropriate quote or reference to open a conversation about his quiet concerns.  Remembering an important Greek legend, and thinking it appropriate after recently learning so much about his Greek culture, I said:

"Why, Steve, you appear to have the Spirit of Androcles above your head."

He simply said, "What?"

So I repeated, "It seems you have the Spirit of Androcles hanging above you!"

He paused, thought for a moment, nodded, then said, "Do you mean the Sword of Damocles?"

Crushed, I felt my face get hot, and quietly said, "Ah, yes, I guess I do."

I then replayed in my mind's eye where I'd learned of this famous historic morality tale.  Oh, how my memory had betrayed me.  I hadn't read it in Aesop's Fables, where I'd confused Androcles the Lion, and some wistful guiding spirit of Greek Mythology somehow creating my own Spirit of Androcles, but rather entirely botched the quote as I recalled it from a version of Pygmalion.

But now, I must reveal my literary sources.

The Three Stooges.  It was in the episode of slap-stick comedy that I'd seen so many times:  Half-Wits Holiday, where Moe, Larry, and Curly are transformed in a Pygmalion plot adaptation from bumbling repairmen into society gentlemen.  In an ensuing food-fight, Moe sends a pie upward that sticks to the ceiling, and seeing his concern, a society Dame --one they were supposed to impress with their new gentle manners -- says, "Young man, you act as if The Sword of Damocles is hanging over your head!"

BINGO!  That's what I meant.

Stephen laughed.  Not so much at me, which would have been humiliating, but just for the humor of it.  Oh, yeah, I was really, really starting to like him.  It wasn't long after this admission, that I fessed up that my knowledge of Hamlet was solely from the Gilligan's Island television episode when the castaways created a musical version of Hamlet using music from Carmen.  Stephen had never seen an episode of Gilligan's Island.

Even without that in common, years later we married, and in our wedding ceremony hearing it and repeating it for the first time, I solemnly pledged him my trough.

absit iniuria verbis

Communication.  It can be difficult.  Here is just one example of the many troubles I've had.

While waiting my turn holding a Chinet™ paper plate and plastic fork I stood in the hot sun and humidity in a long line at a summertime buffet along several tables of generous offerings for a potluck of picnic foods.  There was country ham, burgers, hot dogs, sausage & peppers, a variety of salads including garden, Jell-O™, and endless varieties of macaroni or marinated bean, and typically, there was the ubiquitous potato salad of every culinary variety known to North Americans.

I am usually wary at potlucks if I don't know the cooks or the cleanliness of their kitchens, and I was especially wary as these heaping vessels sat exposed in the sun and heat.  My mind's eye replayed my grade-eight science class movie about germs and bacteria, and I saw the teeming micro-organisms dividing and multiplying exponentially as Monsieur Pasteur narrated the growing potential for food poisoning the longer the uncovered dishes sat and the line slowly progressed.  I was making my selections very carefully with an uneasy feeling on an empty stomach.

I made step-by-step advances and noticed as several people bailed from the line and simply cut in with quick precision to grab a scoop of whatever caught their eye to plop it onto their plate and exit again without interrupting the flow.  I chose to follow suit.

Having spied a dish sitting in a small portion of shade, I made my choice and slid in line next to a woman whose plate was piled high with several large portions of a wide variety of dishes.  She reached for the serving spoon from the same bowl full of the shimmering molten mayonnaise and macaroni salad that I had cut in line next to her to serve myself. 

Now, let's pause for an expository passage:

We watch a LOT of movies.  We have favourites in every genre whether foreign, independent, a Hollywood blockbuster, or a clip from a little known gem.  We watch movies, rate them, discuss them, enjoy them, recommend them, love to hate them, seek out soundtracks from our top picks -- and we quote from them.

  

A lot.

For example:

Nell, starring Jodie Foster who plays a girl who was brought up in a cottage in the forest.  Her character had never met anyone and spoke a kind of language that she developed learning from her speech-impaired stroke-victim mother.  Moviegoers get to understand some of her mangled English during the movie.  We adopted one: "Ehbadee"; her word for 'every day'. I use it a lot.

Rain Man, starring Dustin Hoffman playing Raymond Babbitt, an autistic savant.  We use Raymond's line, "I'm an excellent driver" (it's very useful) and "UH-Oh, VERN, V-E-R-N!", when something goes slightly wrong such as a messy spill, or when we're unsure in a tense situation like when a scary dog advances; "82, 82, 82" (when Raymond immediately counts a box of spilled toothpicks) when we have to quickly add anything out loud -- a couple of us in the family seriously struggle with math.

Now, back to the picnic.

My line companion was a large woman.  Not just overweight, but one that a responsible doctor would accurately chart as morbidly obese.  She schlucked her selection of the mayonnaise and macaroni concoction off the spoon mounting it onto an already filled plate and was about to return the spoon to the bowl when she looked at me as I waited my turn.  She motioned the spoon, speechlessly saying, "want some?"   I nodded and held my empty plate forward, so she scooped and shook off approximately a half cup portion onto my plate and immediately scooped a second spoonful and motioned to drop a second helping on top of the first.  I shook my head and said.

"That'll do, pig."

Movie:  Babe; the story of a runt piglet on Hoggett's farm who trains as a shepherd dog -- Farmer Hoggett uses sheep-dog training commands to teach the pig using phrases such as "come-bye", "away-to-me" and "that'll do".  A famous line repeated throughout the movie especially in the final scene, "That'll do, Pig."

The woman snapped her head and looked at my face.  I immediately realized that in this situation, it was not an appropriate time to make that particular movie quote, and so I then blurted out:

"Oh, not that YOU'RE a pig."

She frowned and continued to look at me, remaining speechless.

So I continued, stumbling with words, stammering, becoming breathless (I can fix this!)

"It's from a movie, about a PIG! We quote from movies all the time......it's a quote from the movie, BABE; the pig's name.  I wasn't saying you're a pig.....or calling you a pig....." The word PIG ringing hard and jarring each time I repeated it.

She put the spoon back in the bowl, and walked away from me, mid-sentence.  She never said a word.  I felt helpless and humiliated.  I remember I had to physically close my still-open mouth and with tunnel vision, rejoined my family.  

Regrettably, I have quite a number of other incidents to tell about in this blog-entry category, but for now,

That'll do, pig.

Just let me go naturally

We recently returned from an 800 mile trip to attend a funeral.  It's a sad day when you bury a loved one.   Peter was buried on February 3, 2011.

The first funeral I attended was for my grandfather, Ernest Henry Carritt.  I was six.  I only have vague memories of the event.  It was held in spring in Massachusetts.  He was buried in the cemetery offered for those whose bodies have been donated to science and used by medical students, so his funeral was long after his actual death.  We'd traveled as a family from Illinois to be there.  My grandmother, his widow who was 28 years younger than him, and the five of us stood quietly at his graveside in Tewksbury, Massachusetts.  I asked Nana if Granddad was in that box, and she kindly whispered back that he was. 

I have attended only a few funerals, memorial services, celebrations of life, interments, cremations, and transitions to eternal happiness over the years since then.  Each one, I assume, executing the wishes of the deceased. 

Naturally, it brought to mind some of my own wishes.  I have to assume that people will be sad when I die, will gather to scatter my ashes, and have some happy memories to share.  I think that funerals are for the living--no matter what customs are observed-- to say goodbye to the dead.  So, when it's time to say goodbye to me, here are a few of my wishes--

Food.  Make sure there's lots of of it, and come hungry.
Laughter.  An important facet of my life.  Enjoy it when you're remembering me.  Laugh hard enough to cry.
Spirits.  Raise a glass. 
Children.  Embrace ours.  They've made us unfailingly proud.
Regret.  Acknowledge it; do not dwell on it.
Flowers.  Do not spend money on any. Use that money to gather again at a fine restaurant and tip well.
Music  Just a few selections.  Sit quietly and listen, then play your own.

• Randy Newman's He Gives Us All His Love

• Blood Sweat and Tears' When I Die

• Owen Steel's Wake

Also, be good to my family.  Dress appropriately.  Be kind but not maudlin.  If you can't find the words to express your feelings, just say that.  Everyone handles grief differently, but be practical.

The funeral we just attended was respectful; the eulogy was notably brief, describing our cousin as a simple man, who loved his family, enjoyed life, and laughed easily.   We will remember him as laughing heartily, embracing his large family both literally and with an abundance of love, generosity and good humor.  A fine legacy.

Rest in Peace Peter Chrysostom November 15, 1959-January 30, 2011

One child born in this world to carry on, to carry on.  Tigh Robinson Woolsey born Feb. 3, 2011.

Fifteen Minutes

We were famous for a few minutes.   Our family of six was seated and posed in our tiny Lincoln Nebraska living-room, including our dog Scout, while the newspaper photographer silently took numerous shots of us.  A few days later we were on the front page of the city newspaper in vivid color.  It was an odd feeling to immediately recognize our own faces looking back from behind the little acrylic window in the box at the gas station that held the daily paper.

I bought the morning paper, and a few extra, and shortly after I got home, the phone started ringing.  The first call was from the pet shelter who wanted to donate dog food for Scout.  Several more supportive calls came offering money, babysitting services for our four children, group meeting times and places, and groceries.  Lots and lots of groceries.  We were overwhelmed by strangers' generosity and compassion.

We only spent a year in Lincoln.  We rented an apartment just a few blocks away from Stephen's work.  His boss had strongly suggested that a move to Lincoln would be a real gesture of Stephen's commitment and loyalty to the company, and consequently possibility for better opportunity and a secure future with them.

Previously, we had been living in Omaha for several years -just an hour's drive from Lincoln. We owned a very old home and had dug in, probably far too ambitiously and well beyond our capabilities, making improvements and renovations ever since we'd settled in and where we planned to raise our family.  But life changed very quickly and it all started with a little girl's nosebleed.

After a series of dramatic events, we discovered that our youngest daughter, Olivia, had an unusual blood disease that required frequent hospitalizations, often in isolation, sometimes in critical care, and usually required several day's stay. It was a routine we were forced into like many families who have major medical issues.  Our situation was not unique, it was just unique to us and we were managing as best as we could; Stephen had a decent job with medical insurance, and other than the long daily commute to Lincoln in a fairly reliable vehicle, we muddled through.

But then, we had to move to Lincoln.

We knew we had no possibility of selling the house in Omaha in its condition, so we shut it down, and made the 'commitment to the company' by moving close to Stephen's work and taking a year-long lease for an apartment in Lincoln that would allow pets and larger families.  We traveled back and forth on weekends to continue working and making improvements on the house, either for a potential buyer, or for our future in Nebraska. 

Three months later, Stephen was fired.* 

Things got more difficult, but mostly just financially.  We had a mortgage to cover, monthly rent at the apartment, and suddenly astoundingly astronomical hospital, medical, and doctor bills.  Someone at the Lincoln newspaper got wind of our story and thought it was a good human interest piece reflecting the concerns of those with middle income and rising health insurance costs.  We were featured since we suddenly had no job and no health insurance with serious medical costs and so we became the headline story, above the fold, on a weekday, in a Midwestern city newspaper for a day. Our fleeting moment of fame.

It took several years of treatments, countless hospitalizations and procedures, and surgery before Olivia was finally in full remission and considered cured.  Those difficult years are ones I often look back on to measure how we've come along, and remember those who we encountered along the way --many leaving lasting impressions that in some ways have influenced who we are.

One elderly lady who had been living for several years in a senior citizen apartment complex called and invited us to her storage area in the basement of her building.  In there, she had her own grocery store.  She had rows of peanut butter jars, carefully arranged varieties of dried pasta and cans and jars of pasta sauces, boxed potatoes, neatly categorized row upon row of canned beans, vegetables, fruits and soups.  Her son had built floor-to-ceiling two-by-four shelving all around her 6 foot by 8 foot allotted space and in there she had been storing surplus foods that she'd been purchasing ever since she'd moved in.  For ten years.  She explained she often invited people who were in situations like ours to visit with her.  She was a child of the depression, and found that if there was a sale on something at the grocery store, she was compelled to bring extra home for someone who could use it.  We left, very gratefully, with several bags of premium groceries for four growing young children.

We were reminded of this generous woman and her orderly and methodical ways of charity many, many years later.  When we were doing some routine grocery shopping we noticed an elderly woman with several plastic shopping bags at the entrance to the store who appeared to be waiting in the cold for a ride.  After we'd finished our own shopping and headed out to our car, she was still there.

We asked if she was expecting a ride or needed one --it was cold!  She meekly suggested that she needed one, so Stephen immediately collected her bags, took her arm and we gave her a ride home which wasn't far from the store.  When we got to her senior citizen apartment housing complex, Stephen carried her many grocery sacks in one trip and escorted her to her very small apartment while I waited in the car.

There she'd stashed what Stephen described as at least ten years of grocery purchases.  However, these were all in bags, sacks, and indistinguishable piles of disarray and chaos.  She invited Stephen in to her apartment and he set the bags of her most recent purchases among countless others of identical non-identifiable shape and abandon. She expressed her gratitude for the transportation, offering a generous contribution for our gas and the effort. Stephen left empty-handed but wide eyed with the contrast of a memory from a fairly similar scenario from years past.  Two senior women, compelled to purchase more than they themselves could use or needed, but with entirely different intent.

A couple in Omaha offered us a day free from parenting and providing.  She called in the morning, offering to take the three kids to the park and a variety of activities for the day, and returned with them tired and ready for bed at then end of the day providing soup and home made bread for supper.  It offered us a chance to sit quietly, at home, taking several naps with a very ill child, worry-free from the needs of others and meals.  It was a short, unexpected, and very appreciated respite that I often recall.

When our car broke down, our teen babysitter's family offered us their second vehicle so we could get around Omaha in winter until ours was repaired.  An older friend offered us her credit card to pay for the repairs, knowing her bill would take a month to arrive, and we could take another to pay her.

A friend at church, a plumber by trade, helped in a most generous way with labour, advice, skill, and services when we moved back into our Omaha home from Lincoln after a year of shut off water and frozen pipes.

There were a lot of people who helped us along in a variety of ways during those short years, but we try not to dwell on the hardship; it's much more pleasant to remember the generosity of others, the details of laughter and friendship, the gestures of kindness.

I hope to always remember those who are kind and understand those who are not.




* Since another family in the company who had a terminally ill child was fired at about the same time, I'll always believe that the reason for the firings was because of the health insurance costs for the small company.  I also suspect that Stephen's boss felt that his strongly suggested move to Lincoln (for a family of six needing proximity to a children's medical facility.) would be rejected and Stephen would resign.  Oh--the wisdom of hindsight.

Guess What?

On several occasions over the years when I was growing up my Dad would quietly grin as he'd ask the question.  As I recall it was usually timed just as we were lifting our forks to take the first bite of a meal as we five sat at the dinner table.

"Guess What?"

It immediately made my sister cry.  My mother would set her fork back to her plate with a look of realization, steel herself, and simply state:

We're moving.

I'd be elated.  But for everyone else in the family, it meant something different.  For Dad it was a promotion, a new territory to cover for Norton Company, a better opportunity.  For my mother, it meant selling a home, searching and buying a new one hundreds of miles away, and cleaning.  Not just dusting and setting aside knick-knacks and gee-gaws to attract a potential buyer, but a thorough scouring and renewing of our house that was already in near pristine condition  -often, one we'd lived in for just a few years.

Mayflower was the contracted mover for Norton Company, and the familiar green and yellow transport truck would pull up in front of our house with three men, blank newsprint and cardboard boxes.  It was a good contract for them at our house, no doubt.  We had books, and lots of them.  Books are easy to pack and weigh a lot--benefits for the both business office and the packers at Mayflower.  Also, our house was clean.

When they pulled a chest of drawers away from the wall, there was nothing there; no dust, no stray socks or missing toy parts, no intricate cobweb structures that had housed several generations--all that was there was the footprint of the furniture in the thoroughly vacuumed carpets.  When the washing machine was disconnected, there was no lint, no detergent spills, no telltale sign of leaks that had repeatedly dripped and dried, just gleaming linoleum that was cleaner than most family's kitchen floor, all the while, my mother exclaiming and apologizing to the burly workers for the unsightly conditions, contritely suggesting that they must see some real 'doozies' of filth in their line of work.  They'd nod politely and continue with their work while she'd kneel and wipe. 

As a little kid, of course, I was oblivious to the concerns of my folks who had to oversee these operations, transitions, school transfers, mortgage approvals, title searches, interest rates, closing dates, car and pet licensing, and my siblings' emotional turmoil for the upheaval of yet another move.  My brother and sister were several years older than me and they had to leave schools, friends, scouts, bands, and familiar neighbourhoods; mostly the ties that I never had or realized being much younger. 

When a new home in a new state was ours, my mother acted as forward artillery and attacked all its imperfections, wear and tear, and the previous owner's dirt with fresh paint, and elbow grease.  Our boxes would arrive ready to start again.  We kids would start a new school -often in mid year, and then we'd do it all again, soon.  A familiar routine, each with a unique story or memory.

A vivid memory is the move from Illinois to Michigan in dead winter in the late 60's.  My sister and brother were in high school by then, and had several moves under their belts.  I was seven.  We stayed at The Mayflower hotel in downtown Plymouth, arriving tired on a blistering cold mid-winter's night.  After a full day's drive in our Volkswagen bus, we were keen to get out of the car and get some warm elbow-room in the hotel.  We walked up the wide stairs in the stately 30's era hotel, continued down a long hallway to our large 3rd floor room, and settled in.  Beds were turned down, the heat turned up.  Once pajama'd, we were ready to call it a night, but nature called and Buffy, our dog, needed one more run.  To make a quick trip of it, shirtless, but wearing his pajama pants and socks, my brother Allyn took the dog to the fire escape at the end of the hall.  Once outside, the door shut behind him and he quickly realized there was merely a two-foot square platform and he would be unable to get down to the street level carrying the dog on the iron-rung drop ladder.   Too late, he also realized that the door was now locked from the inside. They were trapped.

As the rest of us slowly let the day drift away, it didn't occur to us that the knocking and muffled yelling outside was my brother --just a faint background noise in strange surroundings.  He banged, hollered, and pounded on the thick fire door for a long time while holding a very unhappy dog who did not like being suspended several stories above ground on an open grid ironwork platform and wriggled earnestly to be freed. The pounding persisted, the yelling continued, until it worked its way to Dad's nearly asleep semi-consciousness when it occurred to him that Allyn and Buffy had been for gone quite a while.  He poked his head out of the room to look and heard -much more clearly- the imploring racket.  Back in the room, as Allyn warmed up and described his predicament, our laughter was even louder.  My brother was not nearly as amused.

That was our last move together as a family.  When I was in high school, my folks and I moved again to rural central Massachusetts.  I watched, unseen as one mover whisked away my dress-making mannequin, and with a gruff voice, said, "C'mon baby, let's dance!" while he waltzed her all the way out to the truck. It's funny, the little details you remember that made big impressions.  As adults Stephen and I moved many times with our growing family.  Those moves, too, had some stresses and unique adventures we can recall --you may have read a few of them in earlier blogs.

After Stephen and I moved from Nebraska to New Jersey in the mid 90's, our family of six stayed at an extended stay hotel called Embassy Suites.  We had a two room suite and they allowed pets.  The company that had hired Stephen was paying for the stay while he worked as a consultant.  The four kids and I went house hunting with real estate agents during the day.  At the end of the day, we'd all meet up at the heated indoor pool, enjoy the Manager's Complimentary Cocktail Hour, and the kids swam while Stephen and I would catch up.  Our spacious rooms, which had complete housekeeping services and two televisions  included a full cooked-to-order breakfast every morning in the dining-room/courtyard.  I quickly got used to the surroundings, routine --and luxury-- while we stayed there for several weeks.  

Eventually, we found a home, the kids enrolled in school, and we started again.  Justin started middle school and since the school year was well underway, he was quickly thrust into the curriculum and his science class required a few 'from home' supplies.  Justin was asked to bring a raw potato the very next day.  Not yet moved into the house, Justin matter-of-factly explained we didn't cook and didn't have any potatoes.  The teacher, understandably, took this as a lame excuse to avoid the assignment and quickly chastised him and dismissed his excuse.  Justin insisted he was being honest, and compromised that he could probably ask one of the kitchen staff for a potato.  Now his teacher --with an entirely new assumption-- wanted more information about her new student and his 'kitchen staff' and asked where he lived.  Justin simply replied,  "The Embassy."  She stopped asking questions and I think with our foreign sounding last name, it temporarily left quite an impression on her; it may have been Justin's first not-lie.
 
Recently, I hope, we've finally made our last move.  Stephen and I have settled in at Cleveland Place.  Here my folks, Pat and Wally, had done the spectacular and complicated forward artillery work with their battery of skills, taste and work ethic.  We have the luxury of turning the key and comfortably settling in to continue the high standards that they set. The stories and memories and friendships they shared here are abundant, and we hope to carry on those standards and traditions. Except for one.

Guess What?  Chicken Butt.

It rhymes with hurt

I take full responsibility.

It was the worst camping trip and worst Thanksgiving our family ever experienced and they still resent me for it.  They bring it up whenever they give an example of how they've suffered by being a member of this clan.  I dismiss their whining and assure them that it wasn't that bad.  Stephen gently suggests that it was just as they  describe and remember. 

It started as my innocent effort to create a memorable Thanksgiving Day holiday before the kids all grew up and left the nest--Justin had just recently flown away. Otherwise, we had no real traditions or history associated with the holiday.

We rarely celebrated Thanksgiving most years since it was the tradition for gathering extended family around the table, grocery shopping, cooking, baking for days in preparation, and hosting traveling families arriving from any point in the country. 

When Stephen and I were first married, we lived far from both of our families.  I enjoyed playing house and preparing our small meals for just the two of us.  In those early years, Stephen was in the Air Force.  The base Morale Officers often sent young airmen and their wives to holiday functions hosted by senior-ranking officers around the base.  We took advantage of the new friendships that those might offer and left the details and chores to other hosts.

In later years, when the kids were all quite little, I didn't really see the point of all the effort made for a special meal which would be consumed in short order creating extra cleanup work.  Since both of our families were at least a thousand miles away, and rarely held big family gatherings, we ignored Thanksgiving and started our Solstice celebrations, instead. 

So over the years, Thanksgiving was a holiday we'd enjoy, but only if we were invited away--we rarely made the effort to host our own.  On the few occasions that we did, it just reinforced our opinion that we just weren't getting the true meaning of it all.

For example, when we were just getting settled in Omaha, we had a small circle of friends through The Unitarian Church and Stephen had a small circle of co-worker friends who, like us, were displaced in the Air Force, far from home-towns and family.  We hosted a small group of unattached people and offered an open sideboard to which everyone was assigned what they could contribute to the meal.  One guest, in charge of bringing a vegetable dish, brought a 7 pound raw acorn squash and set it in pride of place on the buffet, arriving just moments before dinner was served.

On the other hand, for more than one Thanksgiving, we were invited to the child-hood home of our church friend, Charlotte Shields, joining her parents Bill and Jean.  Charlotte and her then husband, Al Vovolka, and their young son, Robin, took all nine of us, in a van they'd borrowed from another friend, to rural Red Oak, Iowa, crossing The Missouri River, and traveling over an hour past farm-fields and the rolling countryside of western Iowa.  It really put us in the heartland and mindset of family, heritage, and tradition.  Once we were in the farmhouse, surrounded by hundreds of acres of naked, recently-harvested, soybean fields, we sang songs while Charlotte accompanied with piano, listened to family stories, admired the artwork of Charlotte's mother, Jean, watched the kids play together, and created some remarkably happy memories in the most traditional way of holiday and setting.

On our first Thanksgiving visit, once seated at the table, Charlotte's father, Bill,  asked that we go around the table to recite what we might be giving thanks for this year.  I started to get nervous--I'm not very comfortable with genuine, heartfelt expressions of personal reflection or emotion.  As we went around the table, I got an increasing case of tunnel vision as this close-knit family displayed their affection for the company, their love for their family, their gratitude for their health, and their delight in watching their grandson, Robin, grow and develop.  By the time they got to me I was a sobbing, blubbering mess of uncontrollable emotion and appreciation for being included in this warm embrace of a family gathering.  It was exhausting and a little confusing for the kids to see me in such an emotional state at a dinner table.

Growing up, my suburban family Thanksgivings were probably all very stereotypical.  I just don't recall any vivid details or memories of them.  I'm sure my mother slaved in the kitchen, preparing for the five of us: stuffing a turkey, mashing potatoes, and mixing pumpkin custard (she cooked everything by scratch), using few gadgets of convenience.  Her cooking and preparation techniques were simple, food was good, and clean-up had the importance, efficiency, and sterility of a military hospital operating room after triage.

I remember one holiday spent with the Larson family of seven.  Five children and parents, Ed & Jean.  Ed and Dad worked at Norton Company together and our families were frequent companions for camping excursions, often centered around Ed and Dad's scuba diving expeditions.  On one holiday, they joined our family in Plymouth, Michigan, which created a full table, mostly of teenagers, I --not yet a teen--was the youngest of the lot.  I remember just sitting and watching the activity around me, and dearly recall the lively nature of the group and the laughter--non-stop laughter.  Dad remarked that there wasn't a morsel of meat left on that turkey carcass--- like a cartoon turkey skeleton sitting on the platter when the meal was complete.  I often think back to that particular brief moment in time, watching and listening to the frivolity and high spirit of many happy people seated around a full table.  Frequently, I still use that image as a model when planning a dinner event.

So we fast forward to our own three teenagers, those still at home, and my efforts to combine the fun of a camping weekend and a memorable Thanksgiving Feast just a few miles south of our home in urban New Jersey.  Historic Allaire State Park offered the setting--the only camping facility still open in late November.  I booked our camp site at one of the few that had a permanent yurt set up with a fire pit outside and full length picnic tables, all located just a few hundred yards from the heated flush-toilet/shower house.  This was going to be perfect; luxury camping compared to some of our past experiences.

We loaded the van with our most precious camping equipment, leaving the tent at home--we were going to be off the ground, on bunk-beds!  More luxury!

Kathryn, Olivia and I acted as forward observers arriving in Mid-afternoon with all the necessary equipment: an 8-quart cast-iron dutch oven for the turkey, a 4-quart dutch oven for the pie, a three burner gas camp stove, 5 gallon water jugs, the Coleman (tm) lantern, a 60-quart marine cooler full of food, sleeping bags, and the chuck box:

This is an elaborate wooden cabinet with drop-down sides, pop out drawers, and a lift-off piano-hinged top that Stephen built for me fashioned after the chuck-box I remembered growing up as a child.  My grandfather, Allyn, had built it years before and it was always used as our camp kitchen and pantry.   Stephen's version was a little more sophisticated, featuring cubbies for my Tupperware (tm) spice containers--everything from salt to sage, a slide-out for my stainless steel flatware (service for 12), a hanging shelf for KP duties-soap, dishcloth, SOS scrubbing pads, hooks for soup ladles, pancake turners, sausage tongs, mixing spoons, wire whisks, carving knives, and shelves for my traveling canisters of flour, sugar, baking powder and soda, coffee, chocolate, and tea, and enough plates, cups, bowls, and mugs for at least 12 people.

The chuck box, in happier times.

Since we were about to dig in to prepare a simple but full Thanksgiving meal, I needed all the right tools.  We set the fire just right, employing hot coals to roast the turkey in the dutch oven, the girls mixed the ingredients for a pumpkin pie and home-made pie crust, I heated a pan for cranberry sauce, made a slurry of flour and coffee to simmer gravy with the turkey drippings, set several pounds of potatoes to boil and mash, and made efforts to keep-kamp before Stephen and Andrew joined us after work.

Remember, nothing's more fun than gathering sticks. NOTHING!

Caught in typical pre-holiday New Jersey rush-hour traffic, the one-hour drive, took over two, while the girls and I puttered about the campsite, anxiously but silently noticing the setting sun, and more of a concern, the rapidly falling temperature.  The table was set with coordinating Tupperware (tm) plates, tumblers, flatware, serving dishes, and eventually--finally-- Stephen and Andrew arrived.

It was either because we were starving and shivering or because no one dared say otherwise, but I thought it was the BEST Thanksgiving meal we'd EVER eaten--before or since. 

Nothing says camping like setting everything on fire.

The turkey was roasted to perfection, the drippings providing a robust base for a savoury gravy, the stuffing was moist and aromatic with spices and homemade bread, the cranberries jellied sweet and tart, the potatoes soft as silk, a buttery, creamy vessel for a puddle of gravy.  A meal of perfection.  Eaten in less than 10 minutes.  In darkness.

We were cold.  The temperature had dropped dramatically and severely once the sun set. 

Immediately after the meal, we quickly began KP at the Camp Sink:


Another of Stephen's creations at my request.  Our camp sink station.  He built a wooden tabletop using the legs from a discarded folding table, and attached footings to the table top that would hold a shelf strong enough to support two filled 5-gallon water jugs.  One for hot water, the other for cold.  He plumbed one of jugs' spigots to have a sprayer hose to make dish-washing effortless and aseptic  The table top had ample room for a large stainless steel basin used for a sink.

Once clean-up was done--not so easy in the dark, most unpleasant in the cold--and after vainly trying to stay warm around the dwindling campfire, we abandoned story-telling and harmonica playing and retired to the yurt:

A yurt is a semi-permanent, but portable, dwelling traditionally used by nomads in Asia.  It's constructed of canvas around a lattice-work frame and roofed--more cabin-like than tent-like. 

The Yurt. Sleeps up to six, freezes up to eight.

This being New Jersey, there was no hand-felted roof made by Mongolian shepherds, and our flashlights revealed the many names carved into the planks and wood bunk frames of previous visitors.The yurt also had a large permanently framed sign stating that under no circumstances would stoves, fires, or heaters of any kind be permitted in the yurt.  So, the kids each took a bunk, unrolled their -30 degree ranked sleeping bags,  and Stephen and I zipped our sleeping bags together and unrolled a sleeping mat on the floor.  We all hunkered down for the night.

But the temperature kept dropping. 

and dropping.

and dropping.

We tossed, we cuddled, we adjusted, we zippered our heads into the bag.  We just couldn't get warm--no one could get warm.  We could hear teeth chattering.  Frequently, someone would get up and 'go to the bathroom', but they were really just warming up in the heated facility.  It was a long, cold, uncomfortable night.  I was sure I'd make it up to them all by making a fabulous camp breakfast:  eggs, sausage, pancakes, hot coffee, the works.

When first daylight came, we stirred, and I was first to get the morning routine going.  I went to fill the kettle for a large pot of strong coffee, but the water jugs had frozen.  Solid.  The gas stove (the ever-faithful Coleman pressure pump) wouldn't hold a charge, so I couldn't get a burner lit. I started a new camp fire;  I could make pancakes and sausage over the flames. 

We'd spent all our collected wood the night before trying to get warm, so I sent the kids to forage for kindling and branches.  They culled enough to get a modest fire going and I made pancakes.  The butter was frozen, but worse, the maple syrup wouldn't pour.  Anything we left outside of the cooler froze, anything inside the cooler was fine.I didn't think real maple syrup could freeze at all, but this was as close to frozen as it could get.  The kids were as frozen as they thought they could get. 





So tradition was lost, very little fun was had, I created way too much work for a simple turkey meal, and, really, everyone just wanted just to go home. So much for Thanksgiving. 

I'm remembering this particular Thanksgiving celebration since we just celebrated our Canadian Thanksgiving. (It's the same weekend as the US Columbus Day.)  So what am I thankful for?  It's simple; A vivid memory of a time spent with friends and family, ultimately, a story to share. 

Mostly, that no one lost any toes to hypothermia.

In the background, Andrew and Kathryn stare dully at a tent bag.
It's the most fun they had all weekend.

Good Art Doesn't Match Your Sofa.

I like a good short story.  An anecdote.  An amusing recounting of events among friends  Here's a quick one.

Several years ago we received an invitation to a local Albert County art gallery called Joie de Vivre which was having a seasonal grand opening featuring several Maritime artists.

At the time, I didn't have many acquaintances in the area and not wanting to go to the intimate event alone, I was happy to be accompanied by a woman who was visiting her family in the area on holiday.  She's since divorced, but at the time, she was married to John, the son of our good friend, Dick Squiri from Waterside.  Doree and John lived in the United States, and were spending a few days visiting Dick at their long-time family summer home.  We'd often been invited over for suppers or cocktails, and met most of the extended Squiri family over time.

After one especially lively lobster chowder supper, John and I were in the kitchen finishing up the dishes and cleaning the counters and pots and pans.  After all the dishes were done and the sink drained, I asked John where to put the drain's garbage and he showed me the switch for the garbage disposal, which I promptly pretended to activate with one hand while my other hand was clearly still in the drain and made the motions and frightening sounds of someone whose hand was being macerated.

John was not amused and stopped fast, met my eyes, and said, "That's not funny at all, don't ever do that again."  Humbled, I stopped, withdrew my hand, and flatly said, "okay, I'll never do it again."  We finished the last of the kitchen chores in chilled silence.  I felt very small.

Doree, however, seemed more easily amused, and told me not to worry about it--explaining that John sometimes takes himself too seriously.  I don't think anyone should take themselves too seriously.  When she called later and suggested we go together to the opening, I was pleased to be asked.  She drove her luxury car and we chatted amiably on the 25 minute trip.  A nice getaway on a clear Fall day.

The Gallery was very nicely appointed with high-end artwork of every variety: pottery, metal-smith jewelery, sculptures, photography, and artwork in several mediums.  Several of the artists were local, and all of them talented.  Joie de Vivre was a small gallery, but tastefully arranged to keenly feature each artist's creations in the historic building.

Throughout our quiet tour, we both made polite comments about the different works of art, sometimes we would separate momentarily if we lingered over a specific piece and then meander back together, raise our eyebrows about prices; some high, others very high, and cluck our tongues at pieces or works that we just didn't like or understand.

On the newly renovated second floor, one unframed painting immediately caught my eye.  It was titled Two Drowned Rats, and was just that.  A pale, unfocused background, featuring two very dead rats --on their backs, eyes closed, paws in the air, long tails extended-- in realistic detail in the foreground.  It was simple, to the point, matter of fact.  I liked it.

I remarked to Doree, "Gee, wouldn't that be great in the baby's nursery?" and to my relief, she saw that I was joking, and we shared a laugh.

But the more I looked at it, the more I liked the painting and was compelled to ask the gallery owner about the artist and if there was a story behind it.

It, too, was simple.  The artist had passed her garden rain barrel which was full after seasonal storms, and saw the two rats, dead-- but afloat.  She removed them by their tails and laid them nearby on a barn board, stiff and wet.  And then she began to paint.  Easy as that.

So, overall, the event was lovely; I had a nice outing with a new acquaintance, enjoyed some finger sandwiches and punch and had a laugh with someone who shared my sense of humor--few do.  A good day.

I told my folks about our day, the artwork on display, and my keen interest on the very expensive but compelling painting on the second floor.

The next day, Dad bought me the painting and eventually Stephen made me a frame out of re-claimed barn board so we could hang it in pride of place in our living room.  Over the years, it has caught the eye of several guests and served as a conversation piece on different occasions.  The scene is neither gruesome nor pitiful; it's just a fact of life.  Sometimes, I think we should look at a lot in life with that approach, hopefully finding peace in the end.

I suppose that's easy to say when it's about rats.