Rally For Thanksgiving: The Dept. Of Nance Thanksgiving FAQ

Whether you like it or not, turkey is synonymous with Thanksgiving, and so much so that Butterball, Foremost Turkey Purveyor, has had a Turkey Hotline for more than thirty years. They have even taken to the Interwebs with this service, and in addition to calling their team of Turkey Experts at 1-800-BUTTERBALL, you can now live chat with them or email them via their website, here.

Not to be outdone, The Washington Post, journalistic bastion of all Beltway News and winner of forty-seven Pulitzer Prizes, has announced that, from now until Thanksgiving, it will be answering "some of the most commonly asked holiday meal questions." You can "E-mail [them]or join [their] weekly live Web chat on Wednesdays from noon to 1 p.m. For complete Turkey Day coverage, visit [their] Thanksgiving Central page."

Well, hell. I feel as if I have a ton of Thanksgiving Expertise to offer, but I don't have an 800 number or a newspaper. I do have this website; however, I don't want to wait around for people to submit questions or possibly ask things I don't want to talk about. So, I'm going to do it the Nance Way. Here, then, is

The Dept. Of Nanceswers, Thanksgiving Edition

Question: Must I serve an organic turkey at my Thanksgiving meal?
Nanceswer: Of course not. If you have a guest who insists upon a free-range, organic, fresh, or bilingual turkey, then politely request that he or she bring it so that it is correctly purchased, stored, and prepared. The same goes for any other special dietary request. Cheerily offer to provide the necessary serving pieces, and say that you look forward to tasting such a wonderful treat.

Q: Is it okay not to include kale, quinoa, or chia seeds in my Thanksgiving menu?
N: Absolutely. These trendy foods will welcome the respite, and butter will be glad for the work.

Q: How long do we have to wait for late guests? Is there a fifteen-minute rule, like for professors?
N: Just as no Fifteen Minute Rule For A Full Professor actually exists, no hard and fast rule for tardy dinner guests does either. But perpetually late guests are always Rude, and this behaviour should not be rewarded year after year. Call their bluff and sit down to a hot dinner. They will catch up and, hopefully, catch on. After all, microwaves were invented so that we could warm plates of food quickly and efficiently. Late guests can do this when they arrive. Greet them warmly, but without fanfare and judgment.

Q: How do you feel about The Kids' Table?
N: I am largely against it. Children should sit at the table with adults and learn about conversation; they should try new foods, observe and practice table manners, and be supervised by their parents. Thanksgiving is a great time for kids to sit down and learn how to eat a full meal in a relaxed setting and enjoy company.

Q: What wine do you suggest for Thanksgiving?
N: I've had lots of different wines with turkey, from a dry rose to Beaujolais Nouveau to a rich, oaky Chardonnay. All of them have been lovely. I think you should open a couple of wines that you truly enjoy and do just that, enjoy them. I would stay away from any sweet wine, like a riesling or the simply terrible white zinfandel or the dessert-y moscato. On principle, I'd stay away from those last two entirely, forever. But that's just me.

Q: Should I brine, deep fry, or otherwise do something worky to my turkey?
N: Only if you have nothing else to keep you busy and active. Have you tried crossword puzzles, knitting, or building low-cost housing for feral cats in your area? How about reformatting your laptop? Did you ever put all of your old super8 movies into a digital format? Just checking.

Q: How have you decorated your home for Thanksgiving?
N: I have two bags of cranberries in my freezer.

Q: Can you suggest some creative alternatives for pumpkin pie?
N: Listen. If you don't want pumpkin flavour, then make anything else you want. Make a chocolate cake. Make a pecan pie. Make a huge trifle with raspberries and hunks of pound cake. But if you like pumpkin spice flavour, stick with the pumpkin pie. Why mess with it? Let's face it: pumpkin roll, pumpkin cheesecake, pumpkin bread, pumpkin muffins--all that stuff tastes like pumpkin pie and that's why people love it. So, either do the pie or do a 180 and make something else.

Q: Are you a Brussels Sprout Person?
N: Oh, my, yes. I am crazy about them. One of the finest drinks nibblies ever is an appetizer made by the chef at Nemo's restaurant in Avon, a little town near me here in NEO. It's sliced, fried Brussels sprouts with a little bit of bacon, balsamic reduction, and toasted pistachios. Those with a dirty vodka martini...perfection. But I'll take them straight up, steamed with a little butter and salt and pepper, too, and have them fresh on Thanksgiving.

Q: Is it acceptable to have plain vegetables rather than candied, casseroled, au gratined, escalloped or the like?
N: Yes, and I always do. With the abundance of food and gravy and starch like dressing, mashed potatoes, and rolls, I like to have plain vegetables with real butter, seasoned with salt and pepper only.

Q: What should be done regarding cell phones at the Thanksgiving table?
N: Unless someone is a medical doctor, has an aged parent in a Home or hospital, or will be Skyping in a distant relative (such as a member of the armed services overseas or a married child who is giving the in-laws their turn), the cell phones should be put away and silenced. This may be akin to Social Suicide for some tweens and stunted adults, but they will get over it. Slapping offenders is, of course, forbidden; instead, fix them with a stern yet sad look and say, "Why don't you go ahead and take care of your very important business in the other room? We'll make sure that a nice plate is left for you in the fridge." It does no good to force anyone to be someplace he does not want to be. But the rest of the table should not have to be subjected to someone's bowed head attending to an absent third party all during dinner.

Q: What about the crushing guilt if I don't use real whipped cream?
N: Get over it. I know that Cool Whip is a whole bunch of chemicals and grease. I also know that I use it only about twice a year and that it's way easier than making and storing real whipped cream. If your guilt is so strong, buy ReddiWip. It's made with real cream. Wow. Are you Catholic?

Q: What do you suggest regarding the attire for Thanksgiving?
N: Some families like to dress in their Sunday Best for this holiday and make it a very festive, special event. It makes for a lovely scene and, if you are This Type Of Family, some pretty photos. For the Dept., we dress quite casually, and I often consider having Jammies Thanksgiving. For us, it is a holiday of extreme relaxation and togetherness and joy. I think it's a matter of family style and preference. Ideally, generous and stretchy waistbands would be a given.

Q: Do you have any suggestions for all the leftover turkey?
N: Is this really a problem, honestly? Do people A) not know how to figure out how big of a turkey to buy; B) not have a love of turkey sandwiches; C) not have the Interwebs? I rarely have any leftover turkey, and it's a little irritating. When I have a little leftover turkey (or chicken), I like to make a big pot pie, which also uses up any other leftovers like potatoes, veg, and even dressing, which can be cubed up or sliced up and put on the bottom. It all gets mixed up with the leftover gravy, which can be supplemented with some good jarred or canned gravy. I use the turkey carcass and wings for soup, or at least stock.

Q: What about leftover cranberry sauce?
N: Why don't we make this terrific condiment more often? It's delicious with roasted pork, and it's wonderful on buttered toast or a bagel. You can use it with apples in a crisp. Warm it and spoon it over brie, then serve it with baguette or apple and pear slices. If you want to get terrifically worky, buy those little phyllo cups and spoon a little bit of the cranberry sauce in the bottom of each one; add a chunk of brie or a white farmer's cheese, then a walnut half; bake in a 350 oven for about 8 minutes, til the cup is golden, and the cheese is melty. Lovely!

Q: What should we do if we have any more questions?
N: Ask them in Comments.

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Rally For Thanksgiving: Can I See A Menu, Please?

A great deal of American Thanksgiving lore exists, and I did my part in perpetuating much of it, dutifully wearing a construction paper hat or headband in the primary grades as I learned all about how the Indians and Pilgrims sat down together and shared a feast. I crayoned any number of smiling Pilgrim women holding platters bearing huge roasted turkeys at the heads of outdoor tables, around which were seated Indian men and women, also smiling. Imagine my astonishment when I found out--so very much later--that the First Thanksgiving was a far, far different affair than what I had been led to believe.

Basically, though, the sentiments of the Thanksgiving holiday remain the same, regardless of their iteration: Gratitude and Food. Let us give thanks and celebrate the bounty of our harvest/season. I don't have a single quarrel with either one of those, in principle. But let's do talk about The Food.

Thanksgiving Dinner's menu is, at least in my family, Untouchable and Fraught With Tradition. One year, I happened to think out loud about trying my sister Patti's recipe for turkey dressing (stuffing) which calls for sausage and apples. Things got Dark in a hurry, and I thought Jared would have to be placed in restraints. As a result, I don't mess with the main menu, but I've streamlined it and eschewed quite a few things thought of as Traditional and almost Required.

Spurred on by Dear Reader fauxprof, who suggested this sort of Food Topic, I've asked Jared to team up with me for this post about

Thanksgiving Foods That Need To Go

Jared

Not all Thanksgiving foods are created equally. Here are some that I am done with forever because they are stupid and terrible and not great or good. Also, Thanksgiving should not be referred to as “Turkey Day”. Ever. Unless you are some sort of child, hillbilly, vagrant, or pervert.

1. Cranberry Jelly Thing – The hell do we need this for? It wiggles, it jiggles, it sort of…melts(?) in your mouth in an unpleasant way. Cranberry relish is the Elite Thanksgiving Fruit Related Dish. If you want to ruin something, add some of this stuff to it. Brutal.

2. In-The-Bird Stuffing – Turkey, and sometimes a roasting chicken, are literally the only times in our culture where it is acceptable to stuff stale bread into the ass end of something and then eat it A WHOLE DAY LATER. You guys, say that out loud. Go on. I’ll wait. See? Just make “dressing” (which is an awful name for that). Nice, neat, delicious little hunks of glory. Line them up in a pan, slap them in the oven. Better yet? They’re delicious cold the next day. “I’m going to eat this cold buttstuffing for a snack. What’s that? No. No. I put this in the turkey’s rear about 36 hours ago.” 36 hour old buttstuffing? Uh…Pass.

3. Green Bean Casserole – “BUT JARED MY FAMILY LOVES THIS!” I’m positive that they do. Hell, I enjoy it just as much as the next guy. “BUT JARED IT'S SO EASY TO MAKE!” All right. My thing here is this: you can basically make it in 15 minutes any of the other 364 days of the year. I feel like Thanksgiving should be reserved for Elite Level Occasional Foods. I know that not everyone is a gourmet or whatever, but I think that anything that can be made in two steps with ingredients that can exclusively come from cans needs to be eliminated from the equation. I don’t know. Just seems sort of…generic. It is not an indictment on the folks that make, serve, or love this dish. It is an indictment – nay, a condemnation - of this dish’s presence at otherwise decadent food affairs such as holidays.

Nance

1. Casseroles. I understand that, in many cases, people are bringing food to large gatherings. It's easy to toss together a broccoli-rice-cheese thing or a scalloped corn thing. But casseroles are usually heavy and full of filler stuff like breadcrumbs and condensed soup and starches. They are also great at drying out, looking ugly, and sometimes being The Dreaded Green Bean Casserole or, worse,...

2. Candied Sweet Potatoes. I have to second fauxprof on this one. What sad, thwarted Inner Child invented the marshmallow-topped sweet potato casserole? It is called a SWEET potato already. (And please, restrain yourselves from delivering the sweet potato vs. yam lesson. It simply is not germane here.) It is a neverending source of bewilderment to me that restaurants all over the USA serve brown sugar with sweet potatoes as it is. Or cinnamon, even!   What on earth is next? Will there be a sweet potato bar with butterscotch chips and caramel sauce? Maple syrup and toffee pieces? This has to stop. Good heavens, if you even dare, look at this. My teeth hurt.

3. Jello. You know, I've just about eliminated all Jello from my life, and I have not missed it one bit. It hasn't been a part of my personal Thanksgiving, but it's often a part of big family Thanksgivings. When I was a little kid, I had several aunts who brought Jello dishes: one rather nice cranberry walnut sort and another not-so-nice orange one with shreds of lettuce and carrots in it that I still cannot understand to this day. Every once in a while, I get a craving for a lime Jello concoction that has cream cheese and pineapple in it, but I wait for it to pass since I am the only one who likes it.

4. Pies Other Than Pumpkin.   My love of pie is well known, but Truth be told, I do not like pumpkin pie. I make two of them, however, because when else do you make/eat pumpkin pie? Plus, everyone else likes it, so I just don't eat pie at Thanksgiving. There is no reason to make a lot of other pies and desserts and slave away. If no one liked pumpkin pie, then okay, I'd make something else. Sometimes, I just grab the whipped cream and have that with a little chocolate syrup. Or I eat someone's crust. "Nance, why not make pumpkin cheesecake?" you may ask. I don't like cheesecake, and Jared would hurt himself if there were no pie.

Basically, I'm fine as long as there is turkey (dark meat), plenty of gravy, and mashed potatoes. I'd even give up rolls--actually, I have, even when I haven't forgotten them--even though they are a great vehicle for two fine Thanksgiving accoutrements, butter and gravy.

Let's hear from the rest of you, Dear Readers.  What about all that food?

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Rally For Thanksgiving: Dream Home Thanksgiving Planner

By now, so many of you are thinking, 'Nance, your series is not so aptly named. It should be titled Rally For November since you have yet to bring us any valuable Tips For Thanksgiving or truly Thanksgiving-themed posts.' Probably there are some of you nervously wringing your hands and downing anxiety medications, wondering when I'm going to start helping you manage your Thanksgiving preparations. For those of you in the latter group, I sincerely hope that you have not, in your jangled state, stumbled upon this frightening article provided by PBS Food. Innocently headed Thanksgiving Planning Checklist, it instead sets an agenda that assumes all of us are hosting a Thanksgiving dinner which will not only be featured in Gracious Living magazine, but televised on the Martha Stewart Network and attended by Heads of State, The Royal Family, and quite possibly, The Cleavers.

According to this article, I am already too late by several days to help you with some preparations, for we should have already at three weeks out:
1. Invited guests
2. Ordered our organic turkey
3. Set our budget
4. Started checking our local grocery ads
5. Planned our menu
6. Pulled out our decorations
7. Purchased additional decorations

Allow me to make all of you feel better when I tell you that I have done Exactly Zero of these things. Furthermore, I can tell you that I will do Exactly Zero of these things. Not only is the menu the same every year, but so are the guest list and the decorations, the latter being nonexistent. Once all of the food is on the table, there is no room for decoration. Besides, the boys would probably try to eat it.

At two weeks out, we must:
1. Check our linens
2. Plan our centerpiece and table decor
3. Buy our frozen turkey (if we are doing so to save money)
4. Check our kitchen supplies and tools
5. Finalize what dishes our guests will bring
6. If deep frying a turkey, double-check the fire extinguisher

We are safely within Two Week Territory, so I'm sure we can all zip into our Linen Closets to do an inspection. I have not yet purchased a turkey, but I have thought about it several times. And my kitchen tools are in a constant state of inventory because I cook all year. Period. Number Five continues to make me chuckle because the day that Jared and Sam and Kait bring something to my home for dinner is going to be a fascinating day indeed. This year, it may well be Blue Buffalo dog food, and it won't be for the table.

At one week out, we rent Downton Abbey (the actual place, not the series), and proceed to:
1. Order flowers
2. Polish the silver
3. Buy wine
4. Plan activities for the children
5. Check our seating
6. Finalize our shopping plan

I think someone is on a whole different Plane Of Existence when she can advise this about polishing silver: "It's probably the least enjoyable task to prepare for any holiday. (Suggestion: Turn it into a game or competition for your kids.) We recommend doing it leisurely with a glass of wine over a night or two the week before Thanksgiving, as opposed to fitting it in to the stress of Thanksgiving week." (Italics are mine. I also had to add the apostrophe in It's.) By the way, I have a silver casserole dish that I got as a wedding present thirty-three years ago. It's still in its original wrapping. Free to a good home, except for shipping costs.

From there the checklist moves to chores that should be done on Saturday/Sunday, then on each day leading up to Thanksgiving. Most notable are three more shopping trips including one to a farmer's market to "swing by to pick up perishable items you need." Also interesting is the quite bossy and judgy observation that the weekend before Thanksgiving is the "perfect time to thoroughly clean your house for entertaining. If you take care of the deep cleaning now, you will only need to tidy up a bit next week. (Unless of course you have small children, in which case you probably basically clean the house every single day.)" And, one last Suzy Homemaker salvo: "Prep your pies on Monday, bake them on Wednesday and warm them on Thursday. Some prefer to bake an apple pie during dinner, but really you just need to warm it." Don't you love the implied wink wink, nudge nudge, only we girls will know?

This article is enough to make me stop donating money to PBS. Is everyone over there crazy, insanely wealthy, drunk, or somehow lost in another decade? Did some poor peon find an old scan of a page from Godey's Lady's Book and retype it?  Did Miss Piggy stage a coup?

What a fantastic lot of bullshit.  If I submitted to you My Thanksgiving Checklist, it would start at One Week Out.  Actually, it can start Right Now:
1.  I have two bags of cranberries.
2.  They are in my freezer from last year.

And how are your preparations going?

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Rally For Thanksgiving: Something Romantic

In college I studied the great British writers. My area of specialization was Nineteenth Century, and I took a wonderful class in Romantic poetry from delightful Dr. Wolfe, whom I have written about here before. It wasn't long before I fell madly and profoundly in love with John Keats, both the man and his works.

Dr. Wolfe was sympathetically tolerant of my disdain for Wordsworth and my impatience with Byron. I was oddly singular in my staunch defense of Keats, and I'm not entirely certain that it wasn't with me in mind that my professor engaged a certain talented speaker for class one day, a young actor who was performing a one-man show as John Keats over the weekend in nearby Toledo.

The day John Keats arrived in class, I was transfixed. Dr. Wolfe had not said a word about the visit beforehand, so we were all taken completely by surprise. Of course, his dress and his accent were authentic, and he was in command of the finer details of Keats' life and sad death. He gave the class what was likely a relatively practiced lecture/show, an abbreviated but more academic version of his stage play. But one of the things I remembered so well was his voice, especially as he recited for us Keats' Ode to Autumn.

It was a golden, bright day in November, and our classroom had a whole back wall of windows overlooking the courtyard. Every time a breeze blew, a cascade of yellow leaves fluttered down. The dry leaves on the walkways skittered and rustled, and the soft brown smell of Fall was in the air. As John Keats recited the poem, his voice was like a purring cat on a warm lap. "Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,/Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun...". I was lost; for the remainder of the class, I was in the nineteenth century, and John Keats was my companion.

When the time was over, I was incredibly sad. Hoping to prolong it somehow, I stayed behind for a little while, and I walked with the actor, asking a few more questions and getting the name of a great Keats biographer. He was enthusiastic, friendly, and very nice.

Stepping out into the glorious November day, I lifted my face to the obliging sun. Romantic Poetry was my favourite class of the day, and it was such a gorgeous day! I pulled my textbook out of my backpack and sat down on the steps to read, once more, while that voice was still strong in my mind.


Ode To Autumn

1.
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

2.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

3.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

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Rally For Thanksgiving: The Best Medicine

Today, November tried its hardest to give me a Melville Day. (See yesterday's post for a full explanation.) The sun had apparently worn itself out after its extended engagement earlier in the week, and we also had rain, that cold, ugly rain that greys up the sky, the day, and the soul. Had I not had a quick morning checkup with My Hero, the neurologist, I probably would have spent the whole day trying to justify remaining in my jammies and fleece robe, doing just enough Domestic Goddessing to stave off Guilt while intermittently chatting and playing Words With Friends via the Interwebs (on my phone, as I said I would never, ever do, for those of you scoring at home).

Instead, I got dressed and coaxed my short short hair (still growing out) into yet another new iteration and grabbed a bottle of dry riesling and headed out to see my doctor.

Yes, I took wine to my doctor's appointment. Dr. B. is another reason I like November.

My original neurologist, whose name I don't remember, was a Filipino gentleman and was kindly and sweet. He was tiny and smiled all the time, and he was quite thorough and methodical. When he decided to retire, his practice was referred to Dr. B., a Cleveland Clinic neurologist whose examining rooms were outfitted with laptops. My first appointment was memorable in that he complimented me on not misspelling "mycin" when I wrote that I was allergic to mycin drugs. "Most people spell it with an a, as in myacin," he said brusquely. "I find that very irritating." I looked up at him and smiled. "I teach English," I said. "I'm very careful about spelling."

From that moment on, we had a great deal to talk about, and sometimes now it is difficult to squeeze in my migraine condition. We have discussed literature, education, language, oh, all sorts of things. And because it is a migraine trigger for me as well as our shared passion, we often discuss wine. As it happens, Dr. B. is a former resident of Toronto, so he is quite familiar with my favourite wine regions. "I'm bringing you a bottle of a truly extraordinary dry riesling," I said to him last May. "It's from the Bench region, and you will love it. It's an award winner; it's balanced and not too sweet, but there's not a lot of minerality." He looked at me out of the corners of his eyes as he poked savagely at the keyboard, summarizing my office visit. "I like the German style. I need a little sweetness. I can barely go off-dry. Did we try magnesium, once a day, 250 milligrams?"

Today, I set the bottle of Vineland 2009 Dry Riesling, (Gold Medal Winner) right in front of that poor keyboard and waited for him to sweep into the room. (Truth be told, I feel equally sorry for the hinges on the doors.) "So," he said, with emphasis. "How have you been? How many headaches?" He looked up from the folder to me, then noticed the bottle on the computer table. "Is this for me?" He smiled, then looked at the label. "Vineland? Is that...New Jersey?" I shook my head and laughed. "No, Dr. B.! Canada, remember?" He rolled his eyes. "Of course," he said. "Niagara. But, you do know about Vineland in New Jersey, don't you? It's the largest city in New Jersey by area. It's huge, but there's nothing there. It has only about sixty thousand people." And that's all it took. From there, we talked about New Jersey being the Garden State, his attendance at a German dinner at a local restaurant, raising his kids to speak Ukrainian in the home, ESL instruction, wine, weather, and about a dozen other things, including my migraines. When it was time for me to leave, I had thoroughly enjoyed my visit, and so had he. He thanked me again for the wine, walked me to the front desk, chatted some more, then put on and zipped up his jacket. "I'll be back at two," he said and sauntered out the back door.

"Was I his last appointment of the morning?" I asked. The receptionist smiled. "Yep! He was actually supposed to have been gone about twenty minutes ago."

On my way home I noticed how, because of the rain, the tree trunks were black, providing a dramatic contrast for the remaining autumn leaves. The crimson, gold, and cinnamon foliage looked even more brilliant against this darkness and the steely sky.  My windshield wipers swept across to clear away the raindrops every now and then.

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Rally For Thanksgiving: I Need A November Attitude Adjustment

When October blazes away in a brilliance of red maples, I greet the arrival of November with dread. November, as my son Jared would say, is the start of "some serious shit." It's obvious that I need to Adjust My November Attitude in order for my Rally/Rescue Mission to be successful. What, exactly, is my November Problem? It's made up of several parts.

I. Weather. November in NEO represents the messy end of Autumn and the beginning of Winter. There are tons of days in November when I feel...I feel...well, here; let me quote Herman Melville: --"myself growing grim about the mouth;... a damp, drizzly November in my soul;... myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially... my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off...". But there are lots of days--like yesterday's 64-degree and sunny one!--where November is gorgeous and Autumnal with no hint of the winter to come. November is a little schizophrenic in NEO, and because I know that winter means less freedom for me, I make November pay for that.

II. The Holidays. In October when the Christmas stuff starts appearing in stores and even on television, I can still merely grouse and be outraged. "Walgreens has its giftwrap out already, and it's only October 14th," I can huffnpuff to Rick over a glass of Chardonnay while he watches Dr. Phil and pretends to commiserate. But in November, I have to reckon with the fact that while it's irritating and pushy, it's not so far out of the realm of retail etiquette. After all, it is November! Even I have to think about ordering my turkey and come to terms with figuring out how we will accommodate Zydrunas (the granddog) this year with regard to all of the holidays. As all Women Out There know, once November hits, the Holiday Juggernaut is launched, and our Management Hormones go into overdrive.

III. The End Of Farmstand Produce. This one is probably making you laugh, but honestly, I really do actively mourn the closing of my favourite farmstands and the availability of fresh, homegrown tomatoes, corn, peppers, berries, and all of the other summer and early fall crops. Not a single place is open now. No more yellow squash! Not even butternut or acorn! Just apples, apples, apples, and soon, those will be gone, too, except for bin apples. No rhubarb, either! Why didn't I freeze a bunch of this stuff? Sigh. Thankfully, the Amish stand is open near the lakehouse, and I can still grab a few lingering goodies there along with my free-range eggs and home-churned butter.

IV. Time Change. Can we chuck the whole Daylight Saving Time construct entirely and be done with this once and for all? It seems silly and archaic, and there are still enormous parts of the population who can't even say it correctly, adding an S to Saving. How insane that we all move clocks forward and backward twice a year. All I know is that when Jared and Sam were little, it played hell with bedtime and awakening. With Piper and Marlowe, it means I get nagged way early for cat food. And I want my jammies by four PM. Wait...that's not so different.

You know, I need to Get Over It. November needs me! And it can be beautiful in its Own Way. So:

I. Adjustment: Weather. It was 64 yesterday and it is 50 today. The sun is shining warmly, and my little Japanese maples are fiery red. I had windows opened up yesterday for a good airing-out, and my furnace was turned off, yet the house still registered a toasty 73. I live in NEO, for heaven's sake, and November usually delivers precious little snow.

II. Adjustment: The Holidays. I can do this, and I have done this. Hell, last November, I wrote every day about how To Do This. I'm no cupcake and this ain't my first rodeo, mixed metaphor notwithstanding. Besides, my wine cellar is well-stocked. That can get all of us through anything.

III. Adjustment: The End Of Farmstand Produce. In the words of my friend Leanne, who can find for every occasion a quote by Agador from the film The Birdcage, "It's gonna pass." Besides, I went out to my herb garden and found this:

My photography was hampered by the presence of workmen next door, but I have two jalapeno plants, and they are both full of jazzy red  and green peppers and showing no ill effects from the fluctuating temperatures.  And see that parsley on the right?  It actually looks more like this:

That stuff is Out Of Control.  It's about three feet around and about fifteen inches high.  And yes, I'll have fresh sage for my turkey, barring any November Nastiness:

(I see you, Oregano and Chives!  Thanks for sticking around; hang in there.)

IV.  Adjustment:  Time Change.  Who am I kidding?  No one loves cocooning more than I do.  And getting up earlier in the morning means fewer crowds at the grocery store or wherever I need to be.  Big deal.  I'm affected very little, really. And the S Thing?  Please.  How long have I endured the Plural Apostrophe?  The mangled saying, "I could care less"?  The rampant misuse of your, you're, its, it's, their, they're and their?  It's a nothing.

Gosh, I feel better.  And as I was poking around the Interwebs looking for that Melville quote, I came across a favourite song of mine in a particularly lovely version.  September Song, despite its title, always makes me think of November.  Here is the only recording I could find of it, which is sad because it is entirely stupid.  Just close your eyes, however, and listen, or go here and read the lyrics as it plays.  Here's to twenty-five more days of a Beautiful November.  (Yes, twenty-five.  Remember:  "Thirty days hath September, April, June, and November.  All the rest have thirty-one....")

I Need Your Help To Save November

Holy crap, it's November already! Of course, all of you knew this because as soon as Halloween candy began showing up on the shelves, Christmas doodads also insinuated themselves, their tinseled tentacles surreptitiously slithering along behind the fun-sized Snickers and the M&M Share-Paks. Now they've grabbed a bright and shiny hold and exploded into full-blown displays of giftwrap, Santas, tree-trimming shoppes, and Heaven Help Us, my Plain Dealer had The Toys R Us Big Toybook inserted into itself this past Sunday.

November has lost its personality. It is a month with an Identity Crisis. Think about it: September is still associated with the beginning of Autumn, the start of the school year, Labor Day, and the end of white shoes (no matter what the New Fashion Mavens may say). October is all about the orange and golden side of Fall, the gladiators on the gridirons, apple cider and cinnamon spice, and Halloween with its attendant ghosts and ghouls. We all know about December's personality: it's defined by Christmas or Hanukkah for most of us; it's festive and full of holiday spirit. It means decoration and colour and sparkle and snowy scenes and indulgence. It means, too, shopping and gifts and ribbons and wrapping. In a less commercial way, it can also mean music and family and togetherness and travels.

When I was a little gradeschooler, we always had a huge chartpaper calendar for every month, and every month had a picture or two on it that the teacher had cut out of construction paper. September had an apple and a ruler for back-to-school and maybe our county's bumper autumn crop. October had a jack-o-lantern. I loved February, which had a big red heart, and two silhouettes in cameo of Presidents Washington and Lincoln. (I think I was in love with President Lincoln even then.) For November the chartpaper calendar had a cutout of a big brown turkey. And we all made those construction paper turkeys by tracing our hands and then adding colored paper feathers with that crummy school paste that never held once it dried. (I never knew any paste-eaters, for the record. I wonder if that's an Urban Legend.)

But back to my point, and I do have one.

We need to Rally For Thanksgiving. This is a Holiday that has become lost along the way, obliterated by The Christmas Deathstar. And in that wake, November has become lost as well, also destroyed by The Politics, because aside from Thanksgiving (aka "That Day We Can Start Christmas Shopping For Reals!"), the only thing poor November is known for is dark money ads and Two-Party System Mudslinging.

I want to metaphorically paste a big ol' brown turkey back onto November and I want to save Thanksgiving. Will you help me? Will you Do Your Part? Because this is a Big Mission, and it will take All Of Us.

If you will, if you agree, Step One is to Take The Vow:

VOW: I will Honour Thanksgiving and keep it pure for all the month, not pushing it aside for Christmastime or Christmas Things.
(You can affirm your Vow in Comments.)

Step Two: You can join me in supporting the following retail establishments who will not be open for business on Thanksgiving Day:

1. DSW
2. Costco
3. Nordstrom
4. Dillard's
5. BJ's Wholesale Club
6. REI
7. Burlington Coat Factory
8. American Girl
9. Crate & Barrel
10. Jo-Ann Fabrics & Crafts
11. TJ Maxx
12. Marshalls
13. Pier 1 Imports
14. Publix
15. Sierra Trading Post
16. Radio Shack
17. Barnes & Noble
18. Home Depot
19. Sam's Club
20. Patagonia
21. GameStop

If you know of others, please let me know. I will add them to this list. As you know, I don't have The TwitFace, but many of you do. Use that account for The Purpose Of Goodness and thank these establishments for Honouring Thanksgiving and all it represents. I'll be pegging away in the Olde Fashionde Waye (emaile) to let them know my thoughts. There's nothing like a little slacktivism to satisfy the soul. When it finally comes time to shop for gifts, I'll happily shop at many of these places first.

Step Three: Revel in the Pure Joy Of Thanksgiving. How lovely a holiday is when it commemorates things for which we are grateful! It asks for nothing other than that we celebrate our blessings, no matter if they are great or small. We can do it in our own homes or gather at the homes of loved ones, whether they are friends, family, or both. If the table is bountiful, so much the better! And let's not forget the fact that there is no gift shopping or gift giving or gift wrapping or gift angst. And there is gravy, beautiful turkey gravy, which is the Pinnacle Of Gravy Achievement.

Step Four: This step is primarily mine. I'm going to try my darndest to write something Novembery/Thanksgivingy here every day. I'm not entirely certain what it will be, and don't worry--it won't be an endless month of Syrupy Happy Thankful For Puffy Clouds And Cute Kitties And Look! Here Is A Pretty Leaf! If you have a topic or a request, certainly speak right up.

I think that's it. Four steps. Let's Rally For Thanksgiving! Slow this bullet train called The Holidays right the hell down. November deserves its due, and Thanksgiving certainly does. Oh. I thought of one more thing. Please, out of deference to President Lincoln, who set Thanksgiving as an Official American Holiday in 1863, can we please stop referring to it as the so much less dignified "Turkey Day"? Thank You.

In Which I Am Impressed By The Level Of Some People's Commitment To The Holiday

Winner!  It's hard to top this yard for its authenticity, scope, and overall design. It's too bad that realty company Berkshire Hathaway had to destroy sight-line continuity with its sign, but hey--that's business. And you know what President Calvin Coolidge (famous dead guy said), "The business of America is business."

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Fear Factor

Today on my walk I played a little game in honor of all of the Halloween decorations. I called it "Which Yard Is The Scariest 2014?" (It was a long walk because not only did I need to oust a Severe Case Of The Crabbies, but I also needed to go to the drugstore. I took, therefore, a circuitous route which gave me a nice three miler or so.)

Anyway, I took some photos, and here are the two Finalists.




Number One:

I'm impressed.  That thing is like fifteen feet tall.  Along with the inflatable Christmas Eeyore, it may be the only yard inflatable I will ever sanction in my neighborhood.  It's scary, yo.  But get ready; here is Entry 

Number Two:

Holy crap.  Do you see what I see?  That's about thirty bags of mulch that need to be spread!  Talk about Scary!  The chills that went up my spine when I saw that...brrrrr.  Not to mention the sick feeling in my gut just thinking about the smell and the stains on my hands, my socks, my arms, and whatever else came in contact with that stuff.  We won't even talk about what it would do to Rick's back.

Yikes.  I think we have a winner.


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Oddments And Doodads And Road, Oh My!

In lieu of a lobotomy, let's see if an offload of brain litter might help me get rid of some of the Distraction and Scatter that I feel in my head lately. Honestly, I can't even read a book anymore, and it is with Great Sadness and Terrible Alarm that I confide that to you. Naturally, I'm going to pin all of it on that handy Scapegoat, The Menopause, even though technically, I'm probably done with it. But humour me and let's Go With It, shall we?

Oh, thank you.

~*~THERE'S A DISTURBANCE IN THE FORCE. Rick and I were on the way to our Dinner Date (!), and my omnipresent GPS suddenly displayed, ever so helpfully, this:

O-Kay,  I am grateful, however, that this selfsame GPS never had a bout of The Menopause like this as it navigated me past Washington, D.C. (ugh, the Capital Beltway!) or through The Traveler's Oasis (how I hate the Breezewood exchange on the PA Turnpike!). Or any other routes I have driven, so I will forgive it this minor Episode.  (For the record, Road had a name, and we were, in fact actually ON it, not askew between the river and ... whatever.)  Yikes.

~*~HOW SOON WE FORGET. So, I chopped all of my hair off in a fit of boredom and faux bravado. Oh, yes I did--all of it. I have one of those spiky pixy dos and I am now thoroughly disenchanted with it, but oh well. It's not that I dislike it, exactly, but it's a case of "Okay, I did that, so...can it be over now?" Why I didn't read all of my old posts from the last time I cut off my hair, I really don't know. What I should have done is asked my mother, who came right out and told me just a few months ago, when I cut my hair like this

that she didn't like it. I think her exact words were, "Nance! You cut your hair! Why? I guess I just liked it better the other way." For the record, this time, with the pixy, she keeps staring at it and saying, "It's very attractive." I think word got back to her about the last time.
(P.S. Mariska is still on My List.)

~*~WHAT'S IN A NAME? Oh, everything when it comes to my Fantasy Basketball Team. Previously, it has been named the West Egg Gatsbys and then, after a tragically mediocre draft, I renamed it the Puppycats. This year, I'm in mourning after losing Paul George of the Indiana Pacers to a horrific injury (Seriously, don't even watch it when you Google it unless you have a very strong stomach.) during the summer league. I'm trying to decide whether to go back to the original name, keep Puppycats, or get a new name. Last year, I named one of Sam's fantasy football teams The Fluffy Bunnies. He went on to be the most fearsome, most dominant team in the league and won the championship. Imagine the men sitting at home, setting their lineups and saying, "Damn, the Fluffy Bunnies are kicking ass, and I have to play them this week" or "You got the Fluffy Bunnies this week, Craig? Good Luck!" or "I hate those effing Fluffy Bunnies!"

~*~HEY, GREAT JOB! My Maryland buddy Leanne, fabric hoarder and quilter extraordinaire, recently received this confirmation of her shipment of fabric from the Missouri Star Quilt Company. I don't sew at all, but I might drop them a line just to express my admiration for their Wonderfulness. Or to ask for a job. Here, read:

Thanks for your order at the Missouri Star Quilt Company!

We just want to let you know that your quilting supplies have been meticulously gathered, placed on a red velvet pillow, and delicately escorted by 25 of our finest employees to our shipping department. Our master shipper has dutifully performed his craft, lovingly packing your order in the finest materials known to man.

Our team gathered to give your package the proper send-off it deserved. Tears of joy were shed, speeches were given, and there was even a farewell cake. Following the festivities, the whole group, led by our local high school marching band playing the song Leaving on a Jet Plane, ushered your order through downtown Hamilton, Missouri. No, we don't own a Jet Plane, but your package was placed in the care of a roguishly handsome man who is riding in a majestic horse-drawn carriage which is on its way to your home as you read this.

Although the products you've ordered will be sorely missed here at MSQC, we are overjoyed that they have found a good home. Take care of them, treasure them, and when you make something beautiful with them, make sure you share it with us on facebook, twitter, or just send us an email; we love to see what you make!

*Note: the above is a slight dramatization of what actually happened with your order, but seriously, we did ship it, and here is the tracking info:

Holy crap. I want so much to meet that person, that one employee who is making his/her job so much more awesome than it has to be. That person right there is A Difference Maker.

~*~FOLLOW THAT CAR. I'm not a bumper sticker person; I wouldn't put one on my car unless it was an election year and I wanted to make a very specific statement politically. I do enjoy, however, other people's statements on the back of their cars, and I'm entertained by so many of them. Today I was actually moved by one that I saw. I had been listening to NPR's guest, who was giving a very dismal assessment of things in the Middle East, and suddenly, this car pulled ahead of me in the next lane.

I wanted very, very much to believe it, but at the very least, it reminded me that while there are chaos and ugliness in the world, and violence and brutality, so, too are there paintings and literature, sculpture and architecture, poetry and music.  I took a deep breath and changed the station to something lighter and poppier, feeling a twinge of gratitude for the woman in the black Honda Accord.  (Coincidentally, 90.3 is NEO's NPR affiliate station.)  She was, for me, A Difference Maker.

Brainwash

Mariska
thanks to Leanne for the shipment email

In Which I Am Tired Of Being Inundated By Pharmaceuticals Which Want Me To Ask My Doctor About Them

For quite some time now, the Dept. has been without cable television. Aside from the occasional jonesing for MSNBC or CNN every now and then, (and okay, maybe some Top Chef or Project Runway, but only if it's Old School), we honestly Do Not Miss It. We are very content Cord Cutters, the growing breed without cable and satellite television services who watch network TV, stream select shows from our computers using an HDMI hookup, and, in our case, have a Roku box and Jared's Netflix password.

One of the things I'm continually amused by is the carefully selected advertising on some of the over-the-air networks. It's clear that they have studied their audience demographics, and that they are targeting them like the bullseye on a dart board. My favourite example of this is a network called MeTV, one which shows reruns of old popular shows that were huge faves in their day. Here's a typical lineup of their primetime: MASH, The Andy Griffith Show, Hogan's Heroes, Gilligan's Island, Welcome Back Kotter, Perry Mason. (Rick and I watch MASH during dinner every night. It replaces Seinfeld, which was our choice during the Heydays Of Cable.)

During MASH Rick and I are offered a variety of medications, information on life insurance and reverse mortgages, and several medical devices including catheters, back braces, and of course the medical alert system for when we've fallen and can't get up. Oh, and the walk-in bathtub. But the amount of prescription medications we are urged to "talk to (y)our doctor about" is ridiculous. And lately, I've noticed that it's not just on The Old People's Network. It's all over the networks, and it's all over primetime.

Obviously, the pharmaceutical companies wouldn't advertise on television unless such advertising worked. It's like negative political campaign ads: people say they hate them, but their effectiveness is undeniable; they work. And so do prescription drug ads. That's why they are so ubiquitous. The US federal ban on direct to consumer (DTC) advertising for prescription medications was lifted in 1997. But do you remember there being so many ads on television in, say, 2005 as there are now for medicines?

And the names of these meds are fascinating. Januvia, Latuda--I think I may have had them in class. Eliquis--wasn't that the name of a car not too terribly long ago, maybe the Mercury Eliquis? And Linzess--sounds more like a chocolate or maybe a fabric, or even a feminine hygiene product. But I digress.

I'm irritated by so many facets of this: Advertising, in many ways, creates demand. One health writer noted in her article this February that "70 percent of adults and 25 percent of children are on at least one prescription drug" in this country. For adults the most-prescribed medication is an antidepressant. For children, an ADHD med. (It's noteworthy--and a relief--that I've yet to see any adverts for ADHD meds on TV, at least in my area; the vast majority of commercials seem to be for male sexual performance drugs. I'm struggling to think of any ads for children's prescription medications at all.)

A second feature that irritates me is that we, the health consumers, end up paying in time and money for these slick little commercials in which men sidle up to their wives and get feely, or the grey-faced woman looks disinterested and hopeless. It drives up the cost of a pill which the drug companies are already providing samples of--along with free lunches, doodads, and other perks--to our doctors while we sit idly out in the waiting rooms as the reps take up a patient time slot. And I'm sure I'm not alone in having had to wait as long as an hour to see one of my doctors. (Back when I used to go and see them. Don't start.)

Oh, and one more: stop telling me to "ask my doctor about" this pill when I don't have Erectile Dysfunction, Low Testosterone, Irritable Bowel Syndrome, Clinical Depression, or Overactive Bladder, or really, any of the conditions treated by the medicines being hawked at me. So much of this advertising has absolutely nothing to do with me, period.  It's interesting that there are few to no commercials for drugs that battle hypertension, diabetes, or heart-related conditions. (I don't have those, either, but I'm willing to bet that more people do.) Probably the majority of those drugs are now available in generic form, and don't generate much profit for drug companies anymore.

Pharmaceutical companies spend good money in Research and Development, and I've benefited immensely in the area of migraine therapies. I don't expect any business to do business for free. I know it costs a staggering amount to get a new drug to market: according to Forbes, it's 5 billion dollars. It's hardly a dilemma--cut the advertising budget and save a bit by not putting the commercials on television, but sacrifice that revenue stream (Every $1.00 spent advertising prescription drugs is estimated to increase their retail sales by $4.20.). It is, however, quite telling that the US and only one other country--New Zealand--allow DTC pharmaceutical advertising.  Are we getting it wrong?

Geeze. I sound old and curmudgeonly talking about this, don't I? Am I going to start bitching about Kids Today or That Rap Music or Being On A Fixed Income? Should I take back the cute new boots I just got?

(I don't think so either. There's a zipper.  In the back.)

Do let's chat all this up in Comments.  Am I just having an Old Lady Moment?

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Somewhere, An Amish Lady Knows Victoria's Secret

Last weekend was the fall garage sale held at my brother's lakehouse. Thankfully, the weather was sunny and delightful as we hawked our strange collection of stuff. I was still basking in the blisses of my previous triumphs: my two bought breadmakers, my purchased punchbowl, that set of bedroom drapes and bedskirt, finally gone after five sales! Bobby and I decided we were in a Giving Mood, a Blowout Mentality. Our patrons didn't know it, but no offer would be rejected. We were getting rid of everything, and everything could be had for a song.

"I've got plenty of bags, too," my brother informed me, showing me an impressive array, including many pink striped Victoria's Secret shopping bags. His daughter is a devoted client, and he is a fanatic Reducer, Reuser, and Recycler. Immediately, a plan--no, A Plan--hatched in my brain. "I love those," I said, "and I say we reserve them for the Amish women only."

"Absolutely we will," he said, serious and resolute. "Without a doubt."

I cannot express to you the Joy that I felt each time I tucked away the Amish women's little purchases into those gaudy bags and watched them walk away with them over their arms. Most of the ladies, I swear, moved with a little jauntier step, making the pink bag swing or bounce against their skirts. The contrasts were overwhelming. Not only were the colours startling--that brilliant hot pink against the black, navy, or strange washed-out purply black, but the very idea of one of The Plain People, in muslin bonnet and heavy black shoes, carrying a sexy lingerie bag...the irony was gorgeous. And that's without considering the contents, which varied from several pairs of dark socks to a softball to a wallet. Oh, and cans of Pepsi.

Bobby sells cold beverages to supplement his garage sale...sales...from a small dorm refrigerator, and he makes a tidy profit.  Sales of bottled water, cans of Pepsi, Diet Pepsi, and the occasional pouch of Capri Sun fruit punch are usually brisk, especially in the spring.  For some reason, the Amish, usually the women, are big fans of The Pepsi.

One small, hawknosed woman, her back humpish and her overall appearance dumpy, spent quite some time among our tables while her husband sat in the buggy parked out front. It was pulled by a gallant-looking black horse that would have been far more suited to a romance novel cover than standing there shitting all over the road in Ashland County, Ohio, at a garage sale. After holding up several items from the men's table to her husband for his consideration, she finally got a brief nod. She hurried over to us with her purchase.

My brother immediately drew out a pink striped bag while I shook out the teeshirt she had chosen, preparing to fold it. We exchanged glances and fought our involuntary smiles. It was a Blue Moon beer teeshirt. "And one Pepsi. I almost forgot," the woman said, her voice heavily accented in their Pennsylvania Dutch/German dialect. She carefully counted out four quarters for the entire sale, and I handed her the bag. As she walked away, I desperately tried to discreetly take a photograph, but was thwarted yet again. After holding it closely in front of her, she stowed the bag in the back of the buggy, and as her husband flicked the reins, she trudged alongside while he rode on to the next sale. I couldn't even grab a picture of the bag in the back of the buggy; it's inappropriate to take a picture of the Amish without their consent, and they eschew photographs. It is Vanity; it is not Plain.

"Do you see that? He's making her walk alongside!" St. Patsy could not contain her irritation nor her fascination with the scene we were witnessing. Bobby and I were generally philosophical. "Mom," I said, "he's probably not making her. The next sale is right next door. What's the point of getting up in the buggy only to get right down again? Besides, it's the culture. It's only a big deal to you, not to her."

"He's taking her shopping. He's even driving! What more do you want?" my brother joked. Oblivious to his intended humour, my mother shot him a look that conveyed equal parts disappointment and disgust, and packed enough disdain to curl upper lips across the entire Midwest. Thankfully, the couple rounded the bend and we could all, all of us, move on.

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Bus Stop

For the past few weeks, I've been watching the same sad drama unfold outside my living room window every morning at about 8:30 AM. It's not that I sit and wait for it; I'm already in my big armchair, reading the newspaper and having my second cup of coffee. Or, if Piper has decided it's Time, I'm having a Snuggle with a huge orange marmalade cat, rendering any movement at all completely impossible. (More than once, I've mistakenly played an Unintentional Word in Words With Friends; it doesn't always work out advantageously.)

But I digress.

At 8:30 in the morning on Mondays through Fridays, a school bus pulls up to the house two doors down, and the sound of a child crying and wailing begins. Soon, a little boy of about six appears, backpack on his back. Sometimes his mother carries him; other times he slowly walks, rubbing his eyes or his head with one hand while holding his mom's hand with the other. It's crying only--no words, no complaints--just a steady bawling which reaches a higher pitch as soon as the doors whoosh open. Each day, the little boy and his mom have been greeted by a cheery, merry bus aide. She calls out his name--it sounds like it might be Charlie? Marty? Barney?--and asks how he's doing. Is he ready for school today? She carefully takes his hand and helps him to walk up the steps to the bus. She won't carry him; he has to walk himself. The doors close, and the bus lumbers away.

The first time this drama unfolded, I initially focused on the little one, naturally. My heart broke for him. He clutched at his mother; he looked so tiny and his backpack looked so large. He's so afraid! I thought. And he has to go on that big huge bus! That poor baby. What if he cries the whole way there? What if someone is mean to him? Then I looked at his mother, who lingered at the end of the driveway, watching and waving, then standing there, hands clasped at her chest. How awful for her! To know that her baby is so sad and so upset, and to be unable to do anything but watch. I remembered my own guilt: I couldn't take my own kids to school on their first day because it was always the first day of school for me, too. I would always spend odd moments of the day wondering. So much of raising children is Heartbreak!

In the ensuing days, the tears have not subsided when the bus comes. Each day, the mother brings the little boy to the bus, still crying. The bubbly aide tries her hardest to jolly him up, but nothing has worked thus far. "He's a little crabby today," said the mother yesterday through the wailing. I wondered why she bothered to say anything. Maybe, though, he does stop crying on the bus at some point. Certainly he would at school. I'm not entirely certain, however; today as I was gathering my mail, the bus dropped him off. He was crying.

All of this is in stark contrast to the other little boy three doors down from me the other way who used to get picked up by a van for his school. A happy-go-lucky sort of kid, he was very hyperactive and didn't seem to have any sort of concerns about going off to school at all. As a matter of fact, one morning as he was leaving, he yelled loudly, "So long, suckas!"

A performance that was never, at least to my knowledge, repeated.

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Nine Story

Nine is a number I am not fond of, to be honest. 

When I was earning my living as a bank teller, the only good thing about Nine was that if I did not balance at the end of the day, and the amount I was off was divisible by Nine, I could start looking for a transposition. Transposition errors are always divisible by nine. Try it; it works.

When I was Nine, I got really sick. After I didn't get any better, my parents took me to the emergency room where they eventually learned that my appendix was ready to rupture, possibly minutes away from spreading poison throughout my entire body. My father, a normally very swarthy Croatian man with a barrel chest and strong arms, turned white right in front of me as I watched the doctors explain to him and my mother in the busy hallway that I needed surgery immediately.

The surgeon told my parents that my appendix burst as soon as he touched it. Consequently, I have two scars: a long, ugly gash for the appendectomy, and then a small one directly below it for the drains that pulled out the ugly greenish-brown fluid that I watched fill up a receptacle on the side of my bed. I hated those tubes. They kept me in bed and they meant that for the first few days of my seemingly endless stay, I was NPO, or allowed nothing by mouth. I was constantly thirsty and constantly hungry.  To this day I cannot stand the smell of A & D Ointment because that's what they kept putting on my lips to keep them from cracking while I was NPO.

The year was 1969, and it was April. The children's ward was full of Hong Kong flu cases, and there was also a girl with a full-body cast from her neck to her knees. She had been a hit-and-run victim, and she was my first roommate. She went home two days after I got there. Then I got Rosemary Jake.

I really have no idea why Rosemary was in the hospital, and I don't remember anything being wrong with her. That is, I don't recall any IVs or a cast or anything. But Rosemary was my roommate--I think--for pretty much the rest of my stay, and I was in there for about two weeks.

Rosemary was about the same age as me, but she was teeny tiny with thin arms and legs and a head full of braids. Her skin was the color of coffee, and her face was all eyes. Those eyes were so wide and so dark and they looked as if they could not possibly wait to understand every single thing you were saying. She was very devout--a Catholic--and her mother listened to her prayers sometimes when she visited.

Mrs. Jake braided Rosemary's hair almost every day. My mother did the same to me, except that I had only two braids, one on each side. If my mother brought ribbon, she made sure to tie a few bows onto Rosemary's braids. As the days began to wear on, I began to get gifts from people, and I shared them with Rosemary. One gift was a set of rub-on tattoos called "Funny Freckles." She was charmed by the little pink flowers and red strawberries that appeared on her skin with just a few strokes of a tongue depressor over the transfer.

We watched the movie "King of Kings" together, and we hoped we would be home for Easter. Sometimes, late in the evening, she would get a visitor who made her so happy. I can't remember if it was her uncle or her brother, but he was definitely a character. Named Buster, he wore a long, sweeping duster-type coat and a fedora-style hat. He would walk in on pointed-toe shoes and call her "Rosie." She would smile brilliantly, sit up in bed, and talk and talk. She would promise to rest, but keep up with her schoolwork. It was clear to me that they loved each other.

Rosemary and I were still in our room at Easter, and it was a terrible day. We each got a little basket with a token toy, but we weren't home. Worse, I had spiked a fever; my incisions had not been attended to according to doctor's orders and I was again full of infection. My stay had just gotten longer.

I did finally go home, of course, and not too much longer after that it was my birthday. I was to have a party, and I asked if we could invite Rosemary. I have no idea how my parents contacted Mrs. Jake, but they did and if we could provide transportation, Rosemary was allowed to come.

There are only a couple of things I remember about her house. One was that she lived in a very different part of town than we did, and in a brick house that was big but old and tired-looking. The second one is that it had a sagging trellis on one side with a climbing rosebush on it. Much later, I went down that street again, and those roses were a deep, blood red.

I remember presenting Rosemary--who was dressed in a red plaid dress with red bows all over her braids--as if she were a celebrity to the rest of my friends at my party. Because, to me, she was. She had been my comrade-in-arms, my fellow in suffering, my hospital friend and now, here she was! Here! I have no idea--no recollection--how she was received at my party or if she had a good time. It was such a long time ago.

In the intervening years, life was a challenge for Rosemary, who not only had several of her own children to raise, but because of the sudden death of her sister, was raising several nieces and nephews as well. All this, plus working and trying to take college classes, stretched her resources. Our family often put together some boxes of clothes and things to help out.

That birthday party in 1969 was the last time I saw Rosemary until my father's funeral in the summer of 2000. My brother, who had been the liaison with Rosemary's burgeoning family through his job with the city, took me over to her. "Oh, Rosemary," I said as I hugged her once again, "how wonderful that you're here."

Rosemary didn't look teeny tiny and awestruck anymore. Mostly, she looked tired and...experienced. Like she had seen way too much of life and would like to close her eyes for a while. But she also looked compassionate and kind. I would have loved to have spent some time with Rosemary, but not that day. And she had other commitments as well. And again, our lives have diverged into the years ahead. I have not seen her since, and it's been fourteen years.

To be honest, I have not thought of Rosemary very often, and I'm sure she has not thought of me.  Our lives always were very different.  We lived on the other side of town, but it may as well have been the other side of the world.

Sometimes a person can cross the stage, play her scene, and exit again without changing significantly the course of the play, even if her performance is memorable.  In a life this can happen over and over again.  In the playbill of Memory, during a very difficult year, Rosemary's name is gilded.

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Sometimes, Whilst Driving, One Has To Turn Around, Find A Nearby Parking Lot, And Take That Picture To Share With Everyone

Wow.  That Jesus.  Talk about a Personal Saviour.

I'm Back And Listing A Little, Now That I'm Nine

All of you will be glad to know that Maryland--home of Patriotic Gore That Flecked The Streets Of Baltimore--is still alive and well and right where it belongs. I just returned from yet another Extended Jaunt, during which I luxuriated and slothed and spent more time surrounded by Leanne's fabric hoard while I drank wine and Cosmopolitans and conferred Sainthood upon her long-suffering husband, Jim.

Did any of the rest of you know that there are gloves just for quilting? I'd like to know how the Hetsler sisters, my grandmother Ethel and her siblings Bertha and Grace, managed such an impressive output without them. Who knows what they'd have accomplished had they been suitably gauntleted.

But I digress.

Now that I am back, we can celebrate the Ninth Anniversary of the Dept. of Nance. Nine years ago this month, I staked my claim on this little spot of the cyberverse and began my blog. Who knew that I had such stick-to-it-iveness?

Normally, I choose a Numerical Theme and go from there, but Nine is not a favourite number of mine, so let's just, as the rappers do, "freestyle." (I'm so G.) Do your own Hoodrat Stuff in Comments!

9 Random Material Things That Make Me Happy

1. My GPS
2. My Bench Scraper
3. Effen Cucumber Vodka
4. Words With Friends
5. My Window Bird Feeder
6. Butter
7. Daisies
8. The Internet
9. Pasta

Could I get along without any of those? Maybe. But I would rather not. Are there other things that should be on that list? Oh, sure! But things like books, wine, avocados--those are becoming cliche with me. Besides, I'm freestylin', remember? Off we go.

9 Random Other Things That Make Me Happy

1. My grocery store guy who sings with the Muzak
2. Getting pictures of my granddog via text message
3. Forgetting what day it is
4. Laughing with St. Patsy
5. Reading long, long, long emails from friends
6. Wine on the porch or patio with Rick
7. Dinner with the boys
8. A clean house
9. Travel

I love my grocery store, which is full of genuinely nice and helpful staff. One guy who works there sings along with almost all of the songs on the Muzak, whether it is Cher's "Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves" (which it was yesterday) or Five Man Electrical Band's "Signs" (which seems to play every Tuesday that I shop). He sings enthusiastically and accurately as he stocks shelves, replaces signage, and tidies areas. He only stops to inquire of everyone in his sphere whether or not he can help them. He's wonderful.

And who wouldn't love getting pictures like this?

So I'm celebrating Being 9! Nine Years is a long time to be an Internet Sensation Personality ...Presence. Sigh.

But I owe you all a huge Thank You for reading me. So many of you have been my Steadfast Readers, my Dearest Readers and Friends throughout. And some of you have jumped in at different points along the way, getting to know The Me of that moment on. It is the Conversations with all of You that I so enjoy. Thank You.

Now, won't you have some dessert while I rustle up the champagne? And do share a List Of Your Own Nines (or whatever) in Comments.

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