A Thanksgiving Throw Back

Our path to Thanksgiving is unusual this year. No Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade. Probably no turkey. Unlikely there will be football in the afternoon. We are going to Florida for a few days, and as the plan stands now, we will be celebrating the day with Harry Potter in Hogsmeade. So my Thanksgiving fix will come from Thanksgivings past. This one is from Thanksgiving morning, November 2012... Ahhhh. Thanksgiving morn. I felt a telepathic scuttle when my alarm went off this morning. That turkey energy running through kitchens all through the country. Houses quiet but for the one person carrying the load of the day: preparing the turkey.

In our house, it’s double duty. I’m kind of the director and Bill does the hands-on lifting, cleaning, rubbing, and carving. We have a special guest of honor this year: we know our turkey lived a charmed life roaming on Chestnut Farms. On Sunday, Bill went to the distribution point to collect our gobbler. My name wasn’t on the list, but the farmer remembered my name. She asked, “What size did Linda order?” Bill hadn’t an idea of available sizes. “Probably a medium.”

And on that day our turkey grew from 14-16 pounds to 17-20 pounds for four people. There will actually be six of us, but I’m pretty sure Will & Liam won’t be trying the turkey. “Point of View” by Shel Silverstein was read by one of the students at the all-school Thanksgiving meeting Monday. Many of us chuckled at it. Others of us used it to sum up exactly why mac’n’cheese is a perfectly good Thanksgiving entrée.

All week I’ve been visualizing that beautifully roasted, domed bird. Daily Bill has been given it cold baths, per farmer’s direction, then covering it with a wet towel, foil and returning it to the fridge. I’ve been studying the many options of preparation: brining, buttering, herbing, or simply shoving it in a 350-degree oven. Since we are having an evening feast, I’ve decided to go with brining it for the day in kosher salt in a sinkful of ice water.

At 6:30 a.m., Bill brought the turkey up from the basement fridge and uncovered it as I gave directions. “I think it should go breast down so that meat is fully submerged in the brine.” We started filling the sink with water and ice; Bill placed the turkey into its prep sink. I restated, “No, it needs to go breast-down.” Bill, looking at me as if I had two heads, “It is breast down. It’s been this way all week.”

Thus we enter a very peculiar state of “I’m right… No, I’m right.” But I AM right, as sure as I can tell the pungent difference between cow manure and pig shit, I AM right. At this intersection, I can’t speak. After a few seconds staring at the tail, the elbow of the wing – and yes, the backbone – I say, “Bill, do you really think this is the breast?” Pause. Sigh. “No, now I don’t.”

Our DD breasted turkey was now a BB. Flat chested. Condensed. Flat as a pancake. She had been lying comatose on her breasts for four days.

Today, I’m thankful for a slower pace so we can gather as a family, turning off the responsibilities and the roles outside our four walls. After all, it’s the human side of Bill that I just adore. At moments like this, he makes me smile deliriously.

Next weekend, I think we will roast a chicken together. I will make a farmer out of him yet.

The Quilt Cocoon

Monday morning I walked into the kitchen and saw a giant cocoon leaning upright against the counter in the corner. After a short shock that ended with a blink, I see that the cocoon’s shell was of Grandma Mills’ quilt, the one she gave us when Will was a baby. And the tuft of black hair shooting out the top of the cocoon confirmed that it was in fact a boy wrapped in a quilt.

I remember this is Will’s quilt because I got to pick out his quilt from the three or four that Grandma had pre-made for great-grandchildren, plus it’s a fall quilt and Will was born in October. This fall, I had brought it out of the closet when I put up the fall decorations.

Of course, I also remember the quilt Liam was given by Grandma two years later. I didn’t get a choice for his, and I think by the time he came along, Grandma’s quilting had slowed a bit as it seems her inventory was short on boy-themed quilts. She gave us a quilt in lilac colors for Liam. I was slightly puzzled by the choice – and I still am today when I see it in the linen chest.

Inside the cocoon was Liam. Not yet dressed, he was managing to unwrap cinnamon rolls and put one on a plate to microwave, all while keeping this quilt tightly wrapped around him. I was in awe of his ability to hold it all together – and that he was getting his own breakfast.

I have no problem with Liam eating sticky cinnamon rolls while rolled in the quilt. We can wash it. The quilters I’ve known over the years would prefer this frequent usage of a handmade quilt rather having it gather dust and permanent wrinkles while tucked away on a high shelf or in a tub in the loft.

I want these handmade gifts out where they can be seen in our house; the quilts remind me of the person who made the quilt. And, in the case of my “heritage quilts,” they remind me of the person who used to wear the clothes that make up the patches and the pieces.

However, all of our quilts can’t be out or displayed. Our house is undergoing a restructuring. With 10- and 13-year-olds, many things from that first decade of their lives need to find another home. Things out of the closets. Out of the bookcases. Out of the drawers. Out of the toy boxes. Out of the storage room. As Will and Liam grow bigger, so many of the toys, books, and quilts look out of place. In their rooms. In our living areas. In our basement storage space.

The want for things to go to a good home hovers over me, as well as many of my friends. We want to make sure the thing is used, not destroyed. If there is life left in it, don’t throw it away. Work to get it up-cycled to a good home. And the same friends can attest to how full our houses are because of this notion.

I’ve worked this fall to solidly identify those things we have outgrown. Will agreed that the 10 tubs of LEGOS that were in the basement last spring and that we hauled to his closet in July could finally go to the loft. But we could NOT get rid of them! I agree. And I’m sad to hear him make this decision.

Also in the summer, we cleared all the toys from the basement living area and stashed them in the basement storage room. In front of the shelves where all the Christmas decorations are. I did it on purpose: I will need to get to those shelves. The toys will need to be dealt with. To a good home, of course. Hopefully, they are on their way to the local thrift shop where the proceeds will benefit adults in town who have special needs.

Will and Liam agreed that the children’s books should go into the Little Free Library on our front lawn. My boys are so brave in this growing-up business. I’m the one attached to “Sheep in a Jeep” and “Kipper.” I can see the sorting of books already: one for the library, one for the loft, one for the library, two for the loft. For the grandkids. I’m that age?!?! I’m putting things in storage for grandkids?!?!

I’ve found tubs with rubber seals around the lids. They seal tightly, safe-keeping the contents inside from the stale loft air, unplanned moisture, and nasty rodents. The tubs are clear so a visit to the loft will mean a poke to the old memory for me. I have one packed already with the oldest of Will and Liam’s baby blankets and small Thomas quilts. I kept three baby quilts out, determined to add sleeves to the backs of them and hang them as artwork somewhere in the house. Or, next summer, to put them in the trunk of the van to use as beach blankets. They are too small for cocoons… and not yet ready for the loft.

Thankful

Do you know I think of you nearly every day? When I throw chopped garlic and onions into a sizzling pan, that glorious sound and smell makes me think of meals we have made and shared together.

Every morning when I curl my eyelashes, do you know that I remember the day you appeared at my door with an eyelash curler after reading about my eyelashes that were growing in straight as an arrow after chemo?

When I open the boys’ closet doors and I see on the top shelf the blanket and sweater you knitted, the multi-color baby quilt you sewed, the blanket you hand-tied… I remember the sweetness of your gift and of bringing our babies home from South Korea.

When I drive by the lake in town, I think of you telling the story about skating across it as a child. And I remember all those days as preschool moms bringing one another support through short or long conversations standing outside the school.

When I see the Cubbies celebrating their World Series win, I remember meeting you at Wrigley and taking a seat among your 40 gray-haired friends that day when one of them couldn’t make the five-hour drive from Iowa to the ballpark.  Surely, you saw the last game of this season from your seat in heaven.

When I see the little sailboats on our little lake, I feel the breeze and hear the laughter from our sailing trips on lakes and oceans.

When it happens that we are together for an hour, a day, or a week… later – for hours, days, and weeks – I’m homesick for those times of unbroken comradery and conversation and just being together.

When I remember eating your chicken noodle soup, tuna and noodles with big thick egg noodles, freshly homemade rolls and kolaches, Christmas cookies, apple crisp from your 7th grade home-ec class, coffee cake with vegetable oil topping, I smile. Those memories are sparked when I see the recipe card in your hand-writing or make your recipe in my kitchen.

When I hear what is happening in your life and realize that the same is happening in mine, I’m more confident. My sanity is re-invigorated. My outlook more chipper. None of us are in this gig alone, and there is power and strength in knowing that.

When I have a PJ morning with no make-up and crazy hair, I think about the trips taken with you and your family and remember that we all woke up and stuck with “that look” for a couple hours – and we were all OK with it.

When we get to go for long walks and have long talks or just run into each other for short chats between appointments, I look forward to hearing your voice and knowing what’s happening in your life.

When I have a quiet cup of coffee alone in the morning, I wish you and I lived on the same cul-de-sac and could have coffee and conversation together more often.

…This week, I watched a video of Maya Angelou talking about “Being a rainbow in somebody’s cloud,” and how she had so many rainbows in her own life. Whenever she was nervous about appearing in front of a crowd or embarking on a new adventure, she called all her rainbows to her side with words to the effect of: “Come on, let’s go. We’re doing this together!” Whether the rainbows were from people who were dead or alive, she bolstered her own self-confidence with them.

Draw those rainbows into your circle and toss out the dark clouds. Collect rainbows. Give rainbows. Be with rainbow people. You’re in my rainbow tribe, and I’m thankful for you every day.

Happy hump day.

The Annual Autumn Dance

Head-banging November 1st, started with my hair dryer shorting out. There was a back-up dryer in the basement that our guests from England and Paris had used in October. With me, there is no direct route from A to B in my house. I stopped to wash dishes in the kitchen on my way to the basement when it happened: a long curl fell over my left eye. I gave my head a bounce and more followed. Earlier, while getting Liam ready for school, it was only 32 degrees. I knew we had a freeze the night before because Bill fell down our deck stairs on the way out the door at 6:30 a.m. I heard a rumbling and crashing noises then silence. I flew outside bare-footed and pranced as the bottoms of my feet hit a thin, cold layer of ice. Bill was standing, stretching his back, and wiggling his wrists. A taxi was in our drive waiting for him to start his bag drag to China. “I’m fine… really, I’m fine.” Afraid of missing his plane, he walked away with a cup of hot coffee all over his shirt and suit coat. Silly string from Halloween antics stuck to his butt and his bag. Yes, it had dipped to 32.

“Why do I have to wear this creepy equipment?” Liam complained as I re-introduced him to said equipment. Winter gloves. With one step outside, he knew. “Whoa! It is cold!” and he snuggled the hood of his winter coat around his ears. The rainbow of silly string all over the drive reminded him of Halloween night. “Last night was so much fun, but I hardly remember any of it!” Often, I take this boy’s statements and superimpose them upon a 17-year-old. And my eyes grow wide at that thought. Liam’s preschool teacher six years ago called him “spicy.” That still applies, plus he has a very funny, twisted command of his vocabulary. In particular, I love his “rainbow auras.” Translation: sunsets.

Back to my hair. It’s about the length of Steven Tyler’s from Aerosmith. And with it bouncing around, I start singing the chorus from “Sweet Child of Mine.” I fall into that lyric after a dose of the spice. I screech it like Tyler but discover that morning that it’s actually a Guns’n’Roses song. This kid has no ballad associated with him. It’s all “Oh, oh, oh, oh sweet child of mine…” screaming and racing up the staff then losing intensity and dropping back down with another “Oh, oh, oh, oh sweet child of mine…” And in my rendition, “nah-nah-nah” makes up all other words in the song.

That morning, I stepped away from my standards – away from country, away from Sinatra – one of Will’s favorite artists, away from the female swooner Adele. I fill up the feed with hard rock. The dishes get done to screeches, confident guitar licks, and songs for which I only know the choruses. I could be singing lyrics about any number of socially unacceptable events, but they are turned innocent with my “nah-nah-nahs.”

I’m letting it all loose dancing around my kitchen when I realize where I am in the year. November 1st. Life in October held an incredible, bursting intensity with good friends visiting from Paris and England, Will’s 13th birthday, our 24th wedding anniversary, a big kick-off event for scouts, yet another 50th birthday celebration for me with gymnastics moms, a weekend away with my quilting friend, and a decked out Halloween. October. I rode it like a roller-coaster, knowing it had a wild start and would come to a calm end. And although I’m a day late, I realize this is a very personal annual celebration for me.

In the shower seven years ago, I washed away stubs of hair from my buzz-cut head. And the intensity of life every October since then reminds me how lucky I am. And every year, I dance… with wildly happy hair.

P.S. Some days, like today, a beautiful liquid muse is most effective.

Do you remember "Dancing on Halloween Morn?"