The Day After

Don't know about you, but I have no intention of venturing anywhere near a store this weekend. Even if I wanted to go shopping, I wouldn't, just as a small protest to the holiday buying frenzy that retailers try so desperatly to hurl us into at this time of year. We took the dogs for a nice long walk in the park (although Jim nearly got frostbite trying to take some pictures), spent some time cataloging a treasure chest full of old coins that belonged to my in laws - a task we've been meaning to do for months now.

Tonight we're having dinner with some friends and then seeing August Rush. I'll let you know how it is.

It will certainly be better than shopping.

Tradition

Holidays are all about traditions, aren't they? Each family develops their own, and, whether they're good or bad, we seem to get stuck on repeating them until some fateful incident forces us to do things differently. Thanksgiving had more traditions for me than most holidays, maybe because it's a food-family centered holiday, rather than a gift/party/event centered holiday. When I was a child, I was always awakened about 7 am by the sounds of my grandmother stirring around in the kitchen, getting the turkey stuffed, whipping up the pies. She insisted on getting the turkey in the electric roaster at least 6 hours ahead of time. She would complain a lot about all the work involved in these holiday meals, yet she'd never let anyone help her.

My grandparents lived with us, and my grandmother was pretty much in charge of the kitchen. My mom was always cooking along beside her, but there was no doubt about who wore the head chef's hat. My grandma's been gone 15 years, and my mom has since revealed to me that it simply drove her crazy, the way my grandma took control of all the meal preparations.

Who knew? I was just a kid, my grandma was a wonderful cook, and I loved to eat. So I have some really happy memories of Thanksgiving - while unbeknowst to me, my mom was quietly having nervous breakdowns.

When I became an adult, married, and with a home of my own, my mother in law became our Thanksgiving chef. It was the only meal I really knew her to cook. She would come to our house (which used to be their house, after all) and prepare the turkey from start to finish - meaning she was around for most of the day. It would take a lot more words than those available in one short post to explain why this was enough to drive Jim and I to drink. Suffice it to say, I too have suffered my share of silent nervous breakdowns on Thanksgiving.

Over the years our Thanksgiving table - while never large - has now dwindled to just three -Jim and I, and my mom, who usually cooks in her kitchen, of which she is now in total control. It's a quiet day, a small meal really, but we still eat too much and the dogs get too many tidbits. That's traditional too, isn't it?

But I give a silent nod to my grandmother, who may be bossing the angels around in heaven's kitchen as we speak, and one to my mother in law too, whose craziness is only too familiar in the Alzheimer's facility she lives in.

They are part of my Thanksgiving canon of memories and traditions, and I'm grateful.

May you all enjoy your Thanksgiving, your traditions, new and old, and good memories of days gone by.

Read Write Poem-American Sentences

Four ancient women, memories gone, sit silently, watching TV.
Inhabitants of their own small world, everyone else is excluded.
I'm just one more smiling stranger, even to the one who birthed me.
These are my American Sentences, a poetic form originated by Allen Ginsberg, which might be considered the western version of haiku. They consist of a single sentence of seventeen syllables, written in a linear fashion.
"The format of American Sentences allows no excuse and serves as a reminder of the conditions, situation, atmosphere and shadow of the moment." writes Paul Nelson, in his article on this interesting poetic form.
My sentences were inspired by a visit to my mother in law, who has Alzheimer's Disease.
You can find more American Sentences at Read Write Poem, and new site for poetry sharing.

My Sunday Night

Every Sunday evening, Jim rehearses with his men's chorus. He leaves at 5:30 and usually doesn't get home until at least 9:30, sometimes later if the guys go across the street for pizza and beer after practice. So, Sunday nights are all mine. Of course, it's not like he bothers me when he's home. After all, he's mostly in our little family room, glued to his new Sony Bravia High Definition TV. And I'm mostly in my little office, glued to my Dell Inspiron 8600. But on Sunday nights, if I wanted to, I could play all my old Eagles and Phil Collins CD's and dance around the living room. I could watch my favorite chick flicks like The Hours, and The Way We Were, and Love Actually, and Somethings Gotta Give. I could eat hummous and grape leaves, which he can't stand the sight or smell of. I usually don't do any of those things, but its kind of fun to know I could - if I wanted to. Here's what I did tonight: I practiced handbell music with real handbells instead of spoons (don't even ask). I taught the dogs to play hide and seek, which involved them getting a lot of treats. I finished my daily word quota on the novel. I had a glass of wine and read my November issue of More magazine. And in five minutes, I'm going to watch Brothers and Sisters on TV. That was my Sunday night. It was fine. I hope yours was too.

Sunday Scribbling-What I Carry

The older you get, the more baggage you carry, and I mean that literally and figuratively. From bags under my eyes, to saddlebags on my thighs, my physical burden can be pretty tough to tote sometimes. Emotionally - well, yeah, that gets heavy too. I think I'm carrying around quite a few "woulda, shoulda, coulda's" in my emotional handbag - I suspect we all are. They're buried pretty deeply down there, along with the loose change, the ATM receipts, and used up chewing gum discarded into wadded up bits of Kleenex. Everything from "shoulda stopped at the grocery store on the way home, 'cuz we're almost out of milk," to "coulda had enough money for a trip to France if we hadn't bought that second house in Florida." They're all there, and they rattle around a lot, particularly on long drives alone in the car and in the wee hours of the morning when everyone else is asleep. But something else I've noticed about getting older - I'm getting better at throwing stuff away, especially stuff I know I've outgrown and won't be using anymore. It doesn't do me any good to keep carrying those regrets around. It's kind of like those size four pants hanging uselessly in the back of my closet - they're just painful to look at, so toss them into the rummage sale bag. Why carry any more burdens than you have to, right? But hand over some excitement, some new dreams, some great plans, and I'll happily fill my emotional carry-all with those. That's the kind of baggage I'm looking for now. for more carry on's go here