Happy Tday

Thank you to all our friends, family, and ~illegitmate Blog readers~ for the roles you play in our lives. We are so rich and each of you contributes to our list of blessings. May you have a happy holiday and God bless.

Thanksgiving when I was little

When I was little, my parents had a grand mahogany table and high sideboard. They were beautiful. My mother kept her great-grandmother's Haviland soup tureen out on top of the sideboard. It was huge.

When I was about 10 or 12, they got rid of the mahogany and got this terrible pecan modernistic crap with artificial caning in the chairs. I always missed the old, darker furniture. It was "real."

When I was little, Mother used real linens for Thanksgiving, and her crystal glasses. She made the pink parfait recipe she learned from her best friend, Rose.

When I was little, Thanksgiving always smelled the same. Mother worked by herself for days and got everything ready without a word of complaint. She never said she was tired. She rarely asked us to help.

We had turkey and dressing and rice and gravy and LeSeur peas with canned mushrooms in them. We had roasted pecans and pickled beets and pickled vegetables from the grocery. We had sweet potatoes with fat brown marshmallows on top. We had black olives and pimento-stuffed green olives. We had celery with pimento cheese or cream cheese in it. We had lots of desserts, but I liked the pink parfait best. She made it with strawberry jello, canned crushed pineapple, and vanilla ice cream. She blended it all up with her mixer and served it in her beautiful crystal glasses.

Most dads in the 60's didn't help, I guess, and ours was no different. Mother shopped, polished the silver, got out the china and crystal, prepared the linens, chopped, cooked, and served the food, and did all the cleaning. With a smile. For the following week, she creatively recycled the leftovers.

Daddy carved the turkey, watched TV, and took a nap. When I was little, it was just the way things were, but looking back, she really had a raw deal there.

I remember swiping the black olives out of the cup before dinner. I remember the lovely smell of pecans roasting. I remember the blessing and holding hands around the table. And most of all, I remember Mama's smile.

When Mom died, my sister and I opened card after card from the sack or two of mail that arrived. One well-meaning friend had written, "When she smiled, she suddenly became beautiful." Sister and I laughed and laughed at the left-handed compliment, but he was right: when she smiled, she suddenly became beautiful.

Miss Alice

If you've read this blog at all, you know that I rarely disclose people's names in here, except for mine ....my own name is in the name of the blog. It's kind of fun, thinking up pseudonyms for the people in my life. Little One is not so little anymore, and has commented that she won't be Little One much longer. (She'll always be Little One to me.)

Today we are breaking that tradition to talk about Miss Alice.

Miss Alice lives across the street in a white frame house, with a perfect yard, and hedges whose leaves are never out of place.

I would eat off Miss Alice's kitchen floor.

When our neighborhood held our membership drive last month, Miss Alice's check was the first to arrive at the PO Box.

Miss Alice celebrated her 91st birthday on Saturday.

Four years ago, when her son-in-law insisted on taking over the mowing of her lawn, she agreed: "Well, you may mow, but you may not trim with the WeedEater. You don't do it right." She weed-ate her sidewalk edges just last week. When she finished, she used the weed whacker as a cane to help her up the porch steps.

I went to Alice's house on many occasions -- usually to seek her guidance. She was a gifted seamstress in her day, and if I were making something complicated, she would advise me as to how to keep the lining from showing, or how to roll the facings inward, or what color thread to use.

When I became President of the neighborhood, I began visiting for her counsel. After 40 years in the neighborhood, she knew the history about as well as anyone. She could predict what the reactions of the neighbors might be if we took this or that action, and she supported my decisions like a trouper.

I loved, respected, and appreciated Miss Alice, and she passed away this morning.

I am sad.

The good news is that it happened quickly. Fiercely independent, Alice would never have wanted to be a burden on anyone. She would never have wanted to be dependent on anyone, and for heaven's sake, she wouldn't want to be sick or incapacitated in any way.

She didn't feel well this morning, and called her daughter in a neighboring town. The daughter asked Alice if she could go on and call 911. She did so as the daughter sped to town.

When first responders arrived, Alice had fallen down with a stroke and they were unable to revive her.

Thank you, Alice, for all your wisdom, your sage advice, your time and caring, and your gentle sense of humor.

I loved you.

The Cup

A hundred years ago, when I was nine, I gained unilateral permission to ride my bike to the local shopping center. It was about a mile-and-a-half from the house. (Those were different days. Very different days.)

Mother's birthday was the nineteenth of November. By the week prior, I had saved eight dollars (A fortune!) and on Saturday, set out on my bike to buy her a birthday gift.

The shopping center had forty or so stores, all quite nice. My favorite, after the bakery, (everything there made right there) was Loveman's department store. It smelled great. The clothing was downstairs and the furniture, appliances, and of course, Santaland, were upstairs. They had everything! Sometimes I fantasized about living there. It was the location of my first -- and only -- "getting lost," but that's a story for another day.

I headed straight for Loveman's, dropped my bike on the bike rack (no bike locks in those days; no helmets, either...) and stepped inside.

Loveman's was ethereal. You could hear the muted "ding-ding" of the elevator through the whole store. The lights were subtle. And, of course, as I mentioned, it smelled so good.

I browsed a little downstairs, but little or nothing caught my interest, and nothing could be had for eight dollars.

I took the escalator upstairs, and soon I saw a set of four mugs. Picture is above. This was so "mother." Mom loved autumn colors. Mom loved her coffee. I loved the Jacobean design, still do, even though at that time I had no clue that it might be a classic design, much less something called, "Jacobean."

I bought the mugs, and had money left for a card.

I was thrilled. Never before had I saved so much money. Never before had I shopped independently for a gift.

The ride home on my bike was a little precarious. Plastic shopping bags wouldn't be invented for about eight more years. The wide box corners began cutting through the thin paper bag before I even left the center. By the time I reached the busy avenue, I had decided to walk my bike all the way home. Even at that, the bag swung back and forth in my hand and the split grew quite large by the time I reached the house. I made it, though, and hid the package under my bed.

When Mother opened my gift, I could tell she truly liked it. I was so excited, so proud, that I burst in tears.

Through the years Mother drank her coffee from these cups. After I grew older and moved away from home, my visits to her always included a cup of coffee -- in one of these cups.

The original set of four dwindled to three, then two. By the time I came home to be with Mother during her illness, there was one cup left.

Daddy sort of flipped after Mama left. Even though she had painstakingly written our names on the back of paintings and memorabilia, even though she had left clear instructions as to who should receive which items, Daddy couldn't let go of one thing.

My sister and I communicated a lot during those days. We mourned Mother and we mourned those material things, just because having something of hers would allow us to feel that a piece of her was still near. I called Daddy and tried to persuade him to let Sister have the Haviland china. Mother had often told us of her great-grandmother receiving them in barrels from England.

All this transpired over the course of about two years. During the same time, I had endured a divorce, the loss of a job (downsizing!) and a move to another state. The kids and I lived in a small apartment here in Smalltown, USA.

About two weeks before Christmas, a small box arrived in the mail with directions written on top: Early Christmas gift: Open Now.

Curious, I tore into the box. There, inside, was the lone remaining cup. Sister had traveled to Hometown to check on Dad, and in a fit of human kindness, had filched the mug from the cabinet, tucked it into her handbag, and dashed for the car.

It is my prized possession. It sits in the safest spot in the mug cabinet. The family all treat it with kid gloves. I drink from it rarely -- twice a month or so -- just when I need a cup of warmth and comfort along with my coffee.

It brings up memories of my adventure, my love for Mama, and the Sister who loved me enough to steal the cup.

News from the Homefront

My brother and I talk not-too-often. He is really busy with a wife, new house, and a new consulting business. He lives in our hometown, where he knows everyone, and keeps up with all the hometown news. I have plenty of time, and sometimes call him, and that has been about the extent of our relationship until recently, when we have begun emailing.

I received this bit of news from him via email today:

Wayne Greenhaw and the guy who salvaged the Rosa Parks bus have written a new book about the Boycott. As you would expect from Wayne, there are 25 pages about Dad in it. He also references Mom. Here's the link in case you're interested in it:

http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1556525907/103-8692639-6128669?v=glance&n=283155&n=507846&s=books&v=glance

Hope all is well -

David

He adds a "ps.":

P.S. - Have been reading your blog. Sad to read you're still a Democrat and don't like W. Our family is freakin' FULL of opposites, isn't it?

This is my bro's way of saying "I love you anyway," although he would never actually say that. Ain't life grand??

Finding Trash

Yesterday, I pointed some new friends to this blog to see the story of working as a trash lady.

If you look on this page, and scroll through the entries, you will not find it. These are recent entries and the blog only shows so many at a time.

To find the trash story, look to your left, and down a little, and click on, "September." Trash is the third or so entry on that screen.

Hope you enjoy it. :)

Oxymorons

I met today with a group of the loveliest ladies. They are a book group here in Smallville, USA, and their group is comprised of many of the leaders of our small town. Several years ago, they worked successfully to bring an Authors' Symposium to our Small College, and it has thrived ever since.

This year, they are hosting an author whose work I love, and hate, at the same time.

I love her work. I love her insights. I love her skill. I love the way she weaves normalcy into the most bizarre situations. I love the way she speaks from the heart of characters who are nothing like her.

I hate the situations she writes about. In one book, an Amish girl gives birth to a baby who is murdered. In another, a father abducts his own child and establishes new identities for himself and the child in another state. When the child is a woman, he is arrested for the abduction and the woman is faced with realizing that her whole life has been a lie. The most recent one I read is about an assistant DA who has specialized in prosecuting child molestation cases. Her world is turned upside down when her own child becomes a victim of this devestating crime.

I hate her books, and I can't put them down.

Now, that's a real....writer.

The local book group (please don't think it's the only one; there are 35 or 40 in Smallville, USA) discussed her work today.

The first order of business at their meeting was, well, their business: old business and new. They discussed and discussed. They couldn't remember how they did this or that, last year. They didn't have last month's minutes to remember what they decided last month. Some couldn't remember what their dues were this year.

Several of them mentioned to me how embarrassed they were at their disorganization.

It "so" totally did not matter. Here's why: in the process, they approved sending money to Pascagoula, MS to re-start a library for the flood-torn high school. They approved sending money to the Christmas Happiness Fund, a local charity that provides Christmas for needy familes. They are doing this for the nth year. (They've done it forever.) They approved sending money to their Symposium, which is really under the auspices of Small College, but they continue to support it.

Then to top it all off, they really discussed the author and her books. Many had been online to research her and her style. They really read. I've been to many other book groups. Most discuss the story. This group, thankyouverymuch, discussed the style. The depth of characters. The voices of the book. The interplay. They contrasted one book to the other.

This is what a book group should be!!! How, how, how, do you make that happen? I guess it's a combination of education, intellect, energy, and a short dose of luck. They've got it going on, and it was such a pleasure to visit.

If any of you from the book group are reading this: Thank You for having me. It was a delight.

PS. Quick addition. I titled today's entry, "Oxymoron," then did not explain why. I was the guest host. (Oxymoron.) Other favorites of mine: jumbo shrimp, military intelligence.

Our Nation

Friday November 04, 2005--Forty-three percent (43%) of American adults now approve of the way George W. Bush is performing his role as President.
Overall, 55% of Americans Disapprove of the President's performance including 40% who strongly disapprove.

NPR this morning said that W's approval rating had fallen to 39%, but when I did a Google search on "bush approval lowest" this was the first of the over 1,000,000 hits produced.

Most of you know I am a Democrat. I like to believe I'm an independent thinker as well.

Many of you may have observed that as Democrats, we have missed some Golden Opportunities in the past couple of Presidential elections.

I'd just like to say, here and now, that: if we miss out on the next presidential election, we are complete and total morons, and should just DISBAND the Democratic party.

W has done more for us than we EVER could have done for ourselves.

Halloween

Halloween is a big day in our neighborhood. Small Town, USA has 2 or 3 neighborhoods where all the kids from rural areas, and kids from the projects, come, and ours is one of them.

In recognition of the day, I decided to put on a little makeup.
Took an hour.

Reactions were mixed. Some little ones cried.

A few said, "I like your face," but they said it in a very quiet voice, as if they were not quite sure if they did, or not. It was fun to put it on and fun to wear. A few friends did not recognize me -- until I spoke.





Our neighborhood has a Halloween parade at 5pm on Halloween Day, every year. We've been doing it forever. We get a permit from the city and a policeman comes to lead the parade. We gather in the median on our street (there are 4 other avenues in the neighborhood; it's always held on our street, which is the main one.) For a half-hour, we hold the costume contest, and people straggle in. Finally, at 5:30, the policeman leads the parade of kids. They troop behind the police car down one side of the median, one block only, and around the median and back up to where they started. The whole thing takes about 4 nanoseconds. The kids love it. The winners of the costume contest get to walk in front, right behind the police car. The policeman turns on his blue lights, but not the siren. (It makes the babies cry.)
This year, kids came from the local college and painted faces and took Polaroid shots of the kids. They collected canned goods throughout the neighborhood for the local Shelter. I hope they come back for future parades. They added a lot.

I guess DH took this shot. I was talking to somebody's child. My friend TC, is to the left and her husband, a relocated Newfie, can be seen just behind my head. Our next-door-neighbor is to the right, holding her little girl, who is also named Maggie. The house in the background is where the college kids set up their facepainting in the driveway.

Here are some more neighbors gathering. You can see Captain Hook and Peter pan in the foreground. They won in their age group this year. Judges were identified by their funny tall pink hats. You can see one to the left.

This is the 3 to 5 year old category. The judges had asked them to raise their hands. Some of them were a little overwhelmed, and could not understand the request, or comply with it. The princess in the middle seems to be one of those. To the right you can see the tip of a float. We have a float competition, too, and kids (and dads) decorate their wagons, scooters, bikes and strollers, to go with the theme of the costume. Our NDN's made Cinderella's coach from their wagon. The green & gold float you see here was a tiki roof for a Hawaiian girl. The girl won her category so the parents did not enter the float into the float contest. They did not want to take 2 prizes. Thoughtful!

More of same.

Little One carved this pumpkin herself -- freehand. We had a few pumpkin-carving parties to attend on Friday night. I washed and gutted the pumpkin before going. She did the face at the first party and the "hair" at the second party. She had decided she wanted to do an "anime" pumpkin. She can draw anime designs for hours on the weekends -- has a folder full of them. Last night as people came for Trick or Treat, many commented on what a good pumpkin it is. Some took pics. We thought she did pretty well, too.

Won't be too long til she is too grown-up for the festivities. Of course, maybe she'll just choose not to outgrow it -- as I have. Particularly in our n'hood, it's the coolest holiday.