Inventory

In the kitchen----one Idaho potato, two parsnips, uncooked because they didn't fit in the pots; one slice of pumpkin pie, speckled with spices from teabag; and a box of Rice Krispies.  Shop 'n Save, here we come......

Revelations

    When we moved to the house in Valley Falls, my mother, homeowner now, furnished and decorated as best she could.  On the wall above my parents' bed was hung a holy picture, rather elaborate, gilt frame and all, a large picture, surely not purchased but most likely handed down from the acquisitions of my mother's brother Timothy.  He, as a young teenaged boy, worked to support the family after his father died at the age of 31.  Timmy worked cleaning up the various buildings in Troy that were destroyed by fire, and there were many;  as part of his pay, or in lieu of, he would be given what was left over, whether food from a grocery store fire, or religious artifacts if a church went up in flames.
     We had recently moved and I had just started first grade.  Dorothy was 18 months younger, so she was probably only 4 years old when one day I saw her standing on the bed, looking at the picture, and saying the words: "Angel of God, my guardian dear, to whom God's  love entrusts me here, ever this day be at my side to light and guard, to rule and guide."  I was surprised; she evidently had some store of information that I didn't.    I didn't know how she had learned that prayer because that was not one of the many that my mother had taught us.  I remember after she got down from the bed, climbing up and looking at the picture and seeing the verse written beneath the picture of the angel, a Guardian Angel most likely, because it was equipped with spread wings.  I must have been able to make out the words because I recall being astounded that Dorothy could read, and recite with meaning as well.  I never told anyone nor did Dorothy I'm sure.  Parents were too busy surviving in those days to track their children's intellectual development, or measure their academic prowess. 
     Dorothy had an affinity for angels throughout much of her life.  When the love of her life contracted what was to be a fatal illness, and his health was fading fast, she swore she saw his angel as a sign that death was approaching.  She even wrote a poem about it, which is in my house----someplace.
     When Thanksgiving Grace was said this very evening, her young nephew, enumerating things to be thankful for,  expressed gratitude for  having a Guardian Angel.   Memories live on.
   
   

Hurling Day

   Back in the early 1990's, the TV show "Dinosaurs" celebrated Hurling Day when they shoved those who had reached the ripe old age of 72 off a cliff into a tar pit in recognition that their useful days were over.   Ipso facto, even 20 years ago, I detested that show. 

Tea-bagger

I made 4 pies for T-Day: 2 lemon meringue, 1 mince, and 1 pumpkin.  No one partook of the mince but Barbara and me, and no one ate the pumpkin but me, which is probably just as well because instead of adding the usual combination of spices called for, I used a packet of Trader Joe's "Pumpkin Pie Spice" that was included in our wedding gift bag.  Turns out it was a teabag--tasted good though.  (And, sad to say, the Valley Falls vintage wine was not that well received.)

Recipe

   Whenever I'm reading a recipe and it says to add an ingredient gradually, I pour it in all at once.  It doesn't seem like  a bowlful of ingredients can tell whether something is added gradually or suddenly.  I suppose that could be the reason I lack a master chef reputation.  (And why the emphasis on unsalted butter when the recipe calls for salt anyway?  There is so much I don't understand.)

The Beautiful and the Drab.

 It's a revelation that the women stars on DWTS's look pretty darn ordinary sans makeup.   They owe so much to their hair and makeup artists who transform them into what our concept of a star should look like.  So sad to have to go through life bereft of that expertise.  (And it's a relief that this year's  show has come to an end:  Derek needs to rest his back.)

Turkey Stats

   In 1975, two Butterball turkeys, one for our house, 21.41 lbs.  and a 14.71 lb'er for Ma's; in 1980, a fresh Jaindl turkey, weighing in at 20.89 lbs.; in 1986 a frozen 21.4 lb. Land O'Lakes; in 1984, a Louis Rich 20.5 lb. fresh Tom, in 2001 a fresh 21.13 lb. Perdue; and in 2008, the year of the 3 turkeys: our fresh Shadybrook 20.95 pounder, another which we passed on to relatives, and the "eagle,"  23.5 lbs. from Stonewood Farms Natural Fresh Young Vermont Turkey, a straight-legged variety. 
     Except for the first year or so, when my cookbook was new and I would not violate its pristine condition, I wrote in its pages, scattered in random array, the statistics of each turkey:  Indian Maid, Marval, Grand Union, Jaindl, Shady Brook, Louis Rich, Wamper Longacre, Heartland, Armor's, Perdue, Plainview, Land o' Lakes, and Butterball-----fresh and frozen forms, all in excess of 20 pounds.  A plethora of turkeys.  (And yes, I do know the implication of the word.)
    

Turnip Trauma!

Oh, no!  A Thanksgiving without turnips? At Shop'NSave,  I searched and couldn't find, and the produce manager told me the bad news:  their turnip order, which they did place, had not been filled.  The good news:  a truck is due in at midnight, and if the stars align, there will be turnips.

Turkey to Turkey

  The Thanksgiving turkey is resting in my refrigerator, via Shadybrook Farms. He is a Fresh Natural Young Turkey, weighing in at 22.42 lbs.  He is the 46th  in line, following 45 previous roastees, consecutively since 1968.  I cooked my first Thanksgiving turkey in 1968, as a newlywed in our Schaghticoke apartment.  My in-laws were the official guests and I remember agonizing over the details; I chopped and measured all the ingredients for the stuffing, adjusting upward for the increased size of the bird. The 3/4 cup of chopped celery became 3 1/4 cup and the 3 tbsp. of parsley was 15 tbsp.  I know this because it's recorded in my "Better Homes and Gardens New Cookbook," the one with the red and white checked tablecloth design. 
     My in-laws were the featured guests that day, but as it happened a lot of people  we knew stopped by, including Shirley and Bob, Ruth and Mike, and Dorothy and Gus.  It was fun, being among people who were young and healthy, and who thought nothing of traveling. 
    Those were early married years for many, and we talked of babies, but I hadn't yet revealed my secret, since I'd yet to break the news to Ma, and baby number one was still six or so months away. 
    Other relatives had family commitments: my own mother had her sister and foster children to join in the meal, and we'd connect later.  My father was gone, suddenly and shockingly, but everyone else was hale and hearty, as far as we knew.  People all around us.  The good old days.
   The following Thanksgiving found us living in Valley Falls, with a house and baby, and a new tradition began.  I would cook the turkey and bring it to my mother's house, where she happily would have prepared all the vegetables; the oven was at the bottom in her stove, and she didn't enjoy bending over to cook a turkey.  So it all worked out.  Sometimes Dorothy and Gus would be at dinner, when they weren't at his parents' house.  Good times continued.
    We transported the Thanksgiving turkey down the road every year after that, until 1983, when things changed again.  We invited Helen, alone now, to our house for at least one year, but she was so much more comfortable eating dinner in her own place that we would send down the complete dinner.  She much preferred that practice, which we continued through her last Thanksgiving, in 1994. 
   In 1995, and every year up to 2012, I have cooked and kept the turkey in our house.  Last year, in 2012,the turkey again traveled the familiar  road to the house; with the grandkids getting bigger, as well as us adults getting larger, we were pressed for table space. ( The previous year we had brought the kitchen table into the living room, which was roomier, but kind of a pain in the neck.)   It took about six or seven trips to get everything transported but it worked out. This year, Young Tom from Shady Brook is scheduled to be packed up, with all the vegetables and pies, to travel to Schaghticoke.  It will be the first time I've eaten Thanksgiving Dinner in  Schaghticoke since 1968, 45 years ago, when everything was new.  You should see my cookbook now, ravaged by time. Sic transit Gloria.

What will people think?......

In the early days:
       If you went to school with a hole in your sock; if you raised your hand and gave a wrong answer; if you were caught arguing with a sibling; if you EVER got a failing grade; if you forgot to go to Confession and didn't receive Communion that Sunday; if your library book was late.  There were horrors that awaited you, all in the public eye.  Not because you had an ego, but because judgment awaited, from all the people in your life.
   (When I was in third grade,  Miss Dorr, our teacher, had us address an envelope to ourselves so we could receive discounted passes to the Schaghticoke Fair.  We wrote the envelopes early in the school year, and received them near the end of the year, must have been before the geography   spelling lesson.  I went to the post office to get the mail the day the envelope arrived, and read the address:  my name in my loopy handwriting with  the address Valley Falls, New Yourk.  I was embarrassed, mortified, humiliated.  I was certain everybody in the post office and along whatever route the letter had taken would know how stupid I was, and would report my ignorance to my present and probably next year's teacher as well.  Everybody would know.)
       Later in life:
          If you didn't have anyone to eat lunch with; if you had a run in your stocking; if your hair was too long; if your skirt was too short (and I did wear mini-skirts); if you arrived home too late; if you forgot to get your car inspected; if  your house wasn't properly cleaned; if you were late sending thank-you cards for wedding gifts.  The world was waiting to comment on your  shortcomings.
       (There was a brief period in my life when I was between jobs, and didn't go to work.  I felt like the world was judging and keeping tabs on my shortcomings-no job, living at home, unmarried.  The eye of the public was focused on me.  Shameful, I felt like a pariah.)
     Present status:
        No more judgment, observations, concerns, or cares.  It doesn't matter what I do or fail to do, say or don't say, nobody left to impress, disappoint, or embarrass.  A life, at last, without expectations.
      (Unless there is a threat  to assassinate some high-profile individual, age carries with it the right to be left alone.)
       
  

Those youts' today

   Despite all the potential cultural behavior guides that young people are presently exposed to, it seems many are sorely lacking not only in the area of social graces, but also show little awareness of basic civility.  The presence, or omnipresence, of parental involvement in their children's lives seems to have had little payoff in terms of positivity.  The opposite may even be true:
     Imagine, those who are a generation or so removed, sitting for a TV interview, accompanied by a lawyer, and threatening a lawsuit because the prosecuting official revealed the identity of your daughter.  You as  parents are outraged because your child has been publicly denounced, even though she, with accomplices, has admittedly taunted another child into committing suicide, and then wrote that she didn't care, using obscenities about the dead girl  to make her point.
     Currently, a set of parents are upset about the posting of their daughter's picture, which was a while ago, and to a limited audience.  But they now appear with their daughter, gleaning as much publicity as they can; her face is prominently displayed.  If they and their lawyer are trying to  drum up sympathy for their little murderer, and are testing the waters for support, I think they'll be disappointed.  After all, she's not Tosh.O.

Breakfast is Served

   The visit is to his old golf partner/ friend/acquaintance who has landed in a rehabilitation center after gall bladder surgery gone wrong.  He was initially sent to another rehab center, but when he needed further treatment, there were no beds available there, so he was sent to a different center, not his first choice, so he may have been a little disgruntled to begin with. 
   The patient is a man of once considerable reputation and status, having traveled extensively, and having lived in various parts of the world while engaging in his various professional pursuits.  He is learned and erudite, with a vast array of knowledge, and accustomed to being treated with the deference and respect accorded to a person of his stature.
   The patient relates to his visitor the account of what had happened that morning:  the attendant brings his breakfast into his room, where he is confined to bed because his body is weak.  She slides the food tray onto his table, right under his nose, with only the words, "Here's your breakfast."   Too brusque, and too rude for the patient.  He puts both hands beneath the offered trayful of food, and propels it forward with all his strength, splattering it all over the server and the room.   "And here's YOUR breakfast," he tells her.  She says she is going to report him to the facility's administrator, and he tells her to bring that administrator here to the room.  The visitor left so the outcome is unclear. 
     "Do not go gentle into that good night.  Rage, rage against the dying of the light."

Horse in front of the cart

  I know that language is constantly changing and evolving and words and expressions today don't mean exactly what they did a generation or two ago, but, darn it, in this case, I'm sticking with the original---meaning of course how I first assimilated it:  I refer to the carrot and stick analogy.  Modern interpretation takes it to mean that either a reward--the carrot---is offered or a punishment---the stick.  Not to my mind.  I still see the illustration of a donkey-drawn cart with a carrot dangling from a curved stick just out of reach of the animal's mouth.  So the animal is induced to move ahead with the tempting carrot luring him on, which keeps the donkey moving along in the desired direction.  There is no implied threat that he is going to be hit with the stick:  if perceived as a potential weapon against him, the donkey might balk and try to avoid the stick.  The stick is not being offered; it's merely an appendage to the carrot.  And that's the way it is.
    
    Moreover, I can still see the illustration of the difference between the words garnishee and garnish. A paycheck is lying on a dinner plate with a sprig of parsley next to it, and a big red X is drawn through the picture.  You don't GARNISH wages.  But so many people got it wrong that eventually it became correct that wages can indeed be garnished.  That's what we do-----we build on our mistakes until we obliterate them.
   And....at one time there was a distinction between the words healthy and healthful.  You did not eat a healthy diet, but a healthful one.  Again that text book line illustration of a bunch of celery joined with a carrot and maybe a few beets with its projected "arms" lifting weights.  The word  "Healthy" appears over the picture, but the big X is drawn through the illustration.  A person can be healthy: a diet is healthful.  No longer true, though.  You hardly ever hear the word healthful any more even.  Can Big Brother be closing in?

Sequins

     The jacket is black and covered with sequins, very striking and quite expensive, bought on the shopping channel early in the year, when she had high hopes of attending David's wedding, scheduled at first for the fall.  Her health began to fail in early spring, and she was glad at first that the wedding was re-scheduled for May.  "I should be able to make that date," she said, and so we went shopping for her to get a top to wear under the sequined jacket.  Oblivion, combined no doubt with denial, set in as far as I was concerned, because I really had no thought that day would be our final shopping trip,  not after the hundreds and hundreds of shopping days that had gone before, not even though I'd had to drive her to the mall, and not even when at what was to be our final lunch, she told me she had lost her appetite.  I drove her home that day, after the uneaten lunch, with the three tops that she planned to try on later with the sequined jacket to see which one was the best match.  (I later found those 3 tops still in the bag at the top of the stairs outside her bedroom door, never to have been tried on.)
     Not long after that, on a beautiful and horrible spring day, she told me she would not be going to the wedding in May; she feared she would get sick there, and spoil the occasion.  We decided to video her reading the passage she would have read at the wedding, and send it out to Boston for the wedding day. She agreed and wore the sequined jacket, but with a favorite top she already owned, finding it the most suitable after all, she said.  We have the video, with her standing on her beloved sunlit deck, laughing and joking with Dave, and rendering a flawless reading of the Psalm. 
     Dave gave her a copy of the video.  After the wedding, I asked her if she'd viewed it and she said no, she couldn't.  "Maybe later," she added. 
I have the video in my house, somewhere.  Maybe later I'll look at it again, but I probably won't.  The jacket is in my house, somewhere. I thought of wearing it to Daniel's wedding, in her honor, but I couldn't. Either.

Past Presence

"Don't withhold your approbation
'Til the pastor makes oration,
 And I lie with snowy lilies on my brow.
 If you like me or you love me, tell me now...
 For no matter how you shout it,
 I wouldn't give a damn about it..
 If you like me or you love me...
    Tell me now!"

Toothsome similarities.

  The cat and I now have something in common.  We each have dental procedure plans set up by our dental health care provider.  Mine comes with the option of  a Care Credit healthcare credit card, to help ease the financial pain.  Maybe is on her own.

A Plate Full

  Why is it so  annoying to watch a person who, on  a regular basis, eats a meal using a dessert plate instead of a dinner plate?  There is an equal number of each type of plate,  and they are equally accessible.  Why the person does it is one question, and why watching it is so aggravating is another question.   

Call from Beyond

"Is everybody in for the night?"

Stay offf my bike!

   My sister and I never owned bicycles; this was true throughout our childhood.  My parents bought my brother a bike, a red Rollfast as I recall, I think for his tenth birthday or so.  When he was in eighth grade, he won enough award money to buy a larger-sized and better model.  He didn't like my sister or me to ride his bicycles. Having no bikes of our own, we would borrow his, with his consent at the times we agreed to ride to the store for groceries, and without his consent when he was away from home.  I don't remember how my sister and I learned to ride a bicycle, but we did, at a fairly young age.  The only bikes we had to ride were boys' models with the bars.  We were too small to sit on the raised seat when we rode, so always peddled from a standing position.  This worked out well for us, except for one problem, which may have contributed to the brother's not being crazy about our riding his bike. The problem was stopping:  we were too short to have our feet touch the ground when we braked the bike, so we devised another way to disembark.  It was at a time before my father replaced the barn door with the more modern roll-up door, and the two old barn doors were rather worn, with a lot of  give to them.  Perfect for stopping bicycles.  We would brake as we rode toward the door, and in a perfectly coordinated move, pull our legs up and jump off just before the bike hit the door, a smooth enough landing, even, sometimes, while holding  a bag of groceries.  I don't think our landing style ever harmed the bicycle, but even if it  did, what choice did we have?  We learned from harsh experience that you don't want to be straddling those iron bars of a boy's bicycle. 

A Sunset

    When you look back on your childhood, you tend to think of it as having lasted a long time, like half your life--the half that was your childhood and the half that is your adulthood. That is true for a little while, when you're in your twenties and just beginning to get in touch with your adult self. But even as time goes on, we tend to regard our childhood as an extensive period of our lives, though eventually it becomes a tiny fraction of our days spent on earth. 
     We played marbles every spring we remember, but in reality for how many years?  Probably only three or four, at most.  Hide and seek was a game we played "forever" but at what age did we stop playing-----eleven or twelve?  For how long did we ride our bikes aimlessly around the town, as children do, with no destination in mind, just for the sake of riding around?
     I never owned a bicycle, but when my brother got a new bike, his old one was lying around, as was another old bicycle left in our yard by a boy on our street, who had either outgrown it and abandoned it, or perhaps was kind enough to offer its use for my sister and me, who were both bikeless.
   So I have memories of riding a bike as a child, though how many times is not verifiable, and in actuality most likely much less than it would have seemed.  But among the memories we capture as reflective of our childhood, almost like looking at a snapshot of the time, I see myself riding a bike in the evening, just before sunset. 
     My father is sitting on the front porch, as he did after supper when the weather was nice.  I am alone, circling my bike  in the lot of the vacant garage next door, around the concrete remnants of the island where gas pumps once stood.  The sun is setting, colorful and beautiful, visible between the Valley Inn and the smokestacks of the James Thompson Mill, which are spewing the last smoke of the day.  Jack's (only later to become Sara's) store is open, and as customers pass by, they greet my father, calling him Charlie.  I used to wonder how so many people knew him, since to my mind, my father was at work every day, and went only to church on Sundays.  I ride as far as the parking lot of the Valley Inn before turning back to ride around the pumps again.  I see my father sitting on the porch and as I ride toward home, feeling the warmth of the sun on my back, I suddenly experience a feeling of unrest, kind of a vague ache. I think I want to go somewhere else, though I'm free to ride anywhere in the village that I wish.  I don't know what I want to happen, and nothing does.  Only that the sun finally sets, my father goes inside, and I put the bike away.

So Help Me Pete

  The TV spot for Saint Peter's Health Care Partners shows pictures of  their medical staff providing  the various services they perform for their patients with a voiceover describing the benefits of seeking healthcare at their facilities.  You see the doctors, staff, medical visits, childbirth and surgical centers all illustrating the mission of Saint Peter's, but just as the words "protecting the dignity of our patients" are spoken,  the image is shown of some poor soul suspended in a body harness flailing across the screen, his face distorted in manic determination as he struggles to gain control of his limbs.  A courageous man for sure, but it doesn't seem his dignity is being preserved.   Even with his consent, it seems exploitative and a little grotesque.

Beware the Pronoun!

   A noun is the name of a person, place or thing.  A pronoun takes the place of a noun.  The case forms of pronouns are nominative, objective and possessive:( I, you, he/she/it) and (me, you, him/her/it) and (my/mine, your/yours/, his/her/hers/its) respectively.  The plural forms are (we, you, they) and (us, you, them) and (our/ours, your/yours, their/theirs.)
    Don't worry about the distinctions for the sake of grammatical integrity alone.  What is relevant here is the application of the pronouns to your very self, in real life, real time. The delineating factor is when you fade out of the category of we, us and ours and into the bracket of they, them and theirs.  The shift from 1st person to 3rd person, while gradual, is  also inexorable.  Take note. 

Cranium

   Does the term "pig-headed" apply to a person whose forehead is  narrower across the top of the head than at the bottom of the face?   If you know such a person, do you think he's merely stubborn, or could it be that his brain power is lessened due to lack of space?

Proposition This!

Egad!   Results show gambling wins.   Oops, not gambling, GAMING. 

Channeling A. Godfrey

    With all the singing and talent shows on TV, could we please put a damper on the back stories.  Have the contestants just come out and perform; why are the problems of their lives relevant to their performances?  Maybe after there is a winner, a biographical sketch could be supplied, but why invest time and compassion in those many destined to lose?   All that boring drivel makes me want to scream.  (Or change the channel.)

Poetic Justice

     Perusing my assortment of poetry books, of which there are quite a few, I feel qualified to lay down two rules for poetry: (1) the poem should be hard to understand, and (2) it should make you want to kill yourself.

Better Left Unseen

Breakfast at 5:15 A.M. means turning the whistling tea kettle on, but stifling its alert with an inserted spoon.  No one needs to be warned that early in the morning. Take the milk carton out of the fridge and unscrew the little top, and leave it beside the carton on the counter until breakfast is over, only a matter of 15 minutes or so.  Open the cabinet and take out a bowl for the Rice Krispies, and leave the cabinet door open, again until the end of the meal.  Put 2 slices of bread into the toaster, and then slice exactly one-half of a banana onto the cereal.  When the toast pops up, hold it in your hand while buttering it, leaving a crop circle of small light brown crumbs on the counter, invisible at that hour in the morning, only later to be revealed.  Eat, put away the milk, close the cupboard door.  The time is 5:30. 

So it goes

     November is the bleakest month.  November 1st honors dead and overlooked saints.  November 2nd is dedicated to the souls in Purgatory.  I could never keep those two holydays straight when I was a kid, which was troubling because it seems one day was a Holy Day of Obligation, while the other was optional.  My grandmother died in early November after suffering a fall on October 8; that date I'm sure of for some reason.  The time change just seems to make the days seem shorter and grayer; I don't know why we still undergo that change.  Most farm workers work by artificial light these days; they don't need daylight.  Besides, I don't think the sun even shines in November.
      On the last day of October this year, I planted the tulip bulbs in the giftbag from Danny and Krystal's wedding.  I planted five bulbs by the foundation in the front of my house, in the sunniest and warmest spot I could find.  I'm hoping that when the snow melts in March I will see some bright remembrance of a happy day.  (I saved one bulb to plant in a pot inside to try to force it to bloom early.  Anything to lessen the grayness.)