Over the River and Through the Woods

The day we call "Thanksgiving" is not far away. One could think that my celebrations of this day would be pretty much the same. I love the traditions of fixing the same foods, having the same conversations around the table, sharing the same feelings of gratitude every year but each designated Thursday gathering in November that I've experienced has memories all its own.

Thanksgiving had that "Over the River and Through the Woods" feel to it for me, as a child. We often had snow. Dad used a horse-drawn sleigh, his team's harness alive with sleigh bells, once snow accumulated. Mother didn't cook turkey, or goose, or duck for the meal. Her's was a simple meal. She cooked what she had--chicken. What I remember most was her pie and the dressing made from scratch using homemade bread, an uncooked egg or two, onion and sage. Once she had broth, made by boiling chicken gizzard, liver, and heart, she chopped the organ meats, then added this and the broth to the dressing, with the exception of the liver. That was hers to eat! She LOVED the chicken liver. She always drank the briny juice from canned olives, too. My sisters-in-law, Evelyn or Carma, made Parker House rolls. Mother made drop biscuits and bread but never rolls so those were a treat. I don't remember eating pumpkin pie or cranberry sauce until I left the farm. Mother's dessert for Thanksgiving was always Butterscotch Pie and sometimes her dad's favorite rag pudding served with a rich, caramel sauce or Evelyn's carrot pudding with hard sauce. Mother always set her table with a set of ruby red drinking glasses and matching water pitcher she'd been given by one of my brother's (I think). For years, I did, too, those very ones.

If Grandma South cooked a turkey, it had to be a fresh one from her favorite butcher. Nothing frozen would do! What she really wanted was a goose. Grandma had a way with potatoes. They were often lumpy but her family loved them. Having lived through war, standing in bread lines and often going hungry in her youth, she was a bit frugal in the amounts she cooked. As the family numbers at the table grew, the potatoes always seemed to run short. Judy and I, the in-laws, offered to help fix the meal but we would be waved off until time for the clean-up. One time, we plotted and got Grandma to let us peel the potatoes. You know what we did, of course. We peeled the entire 10-lb. bag or whatever it was! Grandma said nothing. I'm sure she realized it when her kettle would barely hold the lot of them. She cooked, she smashed, she served them up without a word, to her family and to her two, disobedient and extravagant daughters-in-law. Wouldn't you know that this would be the time when the demand for those white, lumpy mounds wasn't as great as it had historically been. We offered seconds, thirds, and more.

When my son, Todd, was just a baby, Frank and I went to my brother, Sylvan's in Chubbuck, Idaho for Thanksgiving, arriving late the night before. My 8-month-old child hadn't adapted to the change in his schedule so it was late when I got my fresh apple pies--my contribution to the meal--into the oven. As they baked, I fell asleep at the kitchen table, waking up to a cloud of smoke! The pies had bubbled over, creating mountains of black, crusty ash. The oven would have to cool before the mess could be cleaned up so I went to bed, intending to fix my mess before Carma, my brother's wife, started her turkey. Baby was fussy; I tried to keep him quiet; There was no sleep for any of us. I had just dozed off when I heard commotion in the kitchen on Thanksgiving morning. It was 5:00 am.  I was too inexperienced in holiday meal prep to know that the bird had to be started so early!  Carma went to put her turkey in and found an oven that couldn't be used until it was cleaned! After all these years, I still feel bad about that. Can you tell?

One of my favorite Thanksgiving get-to-gethers was probably the first one in our Salt Lake City home. We had no furniture, not even a kitchen table and only a tiny, apartment sized fridge in the basement, an old, old stove and no counter space to speak of. I invited all the nieces and nephews who were in the area attending college, my brother's--Sylvan and Marion--families, Frank's brothers and sister, their families, and the South parents for dinner. With borrowed card tables and chairs, my trousseau linens, dowry dishes and Grandma South's silverware, some guests were seated at tables in the living room, some brave souls juggled china and crystal while sitting on the stairs leading to the basement, others made use of the raised hearth in the 'great' room at the bottom of the stairs. I had such fun playing the part of a grownup!

MerLyn, my sister, and her family came for Thanksgiving our first year I think it must have been, in Sparks, NV. Her husband, Dennis, solved the space problem right away with a big sheet of plywood  set on top of my seats-six-if-you-don't-mind-sitting-cozy kitchen table.

So I was use to being with family for Thanksgiving meals, whether at the farm in Weston, at Marion's home in Preston, traveling to where family members were or gathering together as many as possible in our own home or at the South's on Commonwealth Avenue in Salt Lake City. Grandpa South always went around the table, asking each of us to express what we were most thankful for.  Whenever we came together in his house for a meal, whether it was Thanksgiving or a Sunday roast beef, before we could leave, he insisted on a chorus of hymns, "The Seer" and "A Poor Wayfaring Man", that reminded him of his grandfather, John Taylor.  Prayers were offered before the holiday meal, no matter where we were. Old family stories were repeated every year.    

The first Thanksgiving after the divorce was just plain awful. Frank took Todd and Jenn to Salt Lake City; I ate a TV dinner sometime during the day. I had no family close by. We hadn't lived here long. I had an invitation to join a family at their home but declined. I was so sad, hurt and angry, feeling betrayed and grieving the death of my marriage. I didn't want to put on a face or have to be good company. While my kids were out of the house and not present to witness or be frightened by my behavior, I wanted to wallow as much as I needed to and cry, scream, whatever, to let out what I had not yet been able to release. I embraced all the 'poor me' I could muster. I was not feeling 'Thankful' on that day.

Before another November passed, my neighbor, Dixie, and I had become friends, kind of "You go, girl!" buds. She was raising twins alone. Both of us were trying to regain our footing, keep a roof over our heads and feed our kids. We helped each other out here and there. It seemed a natural thing to create Thanksgiving together. Neither of us had money to buy anything special or extra for the meal. We would have to use what we already had. I volunteered to cook what meat I had. It wasn't turkey, I'm sure. And I had potatoes. She had said she wasn't much of a cook but she'd make gravy. I agreed. "Who can't make gravy?" I thought. Dixie wanted us to eat at her house so I carried my simple offerings across the street and down four houses, with my two kids in tow.  Her TV was blaring. She sat with us at the table long enough to serve her gravy--a clear container about half way filled with flour sludge with grease separated and floating like foam on beer, to fill the rest of the container right up to the rim. In the short time it took for us to eat what little we had to offer in our combined effort, Dixie ran about as much as the players on the screen, going back and forth from TV to table, back to TV and so on. No one said, "Pass the gravy".

Establishing new traditions required some experimenting. Being far away from any family had required some getting use to when we moved to Nevada but the feeling of being a bit stranded was intensified in those first weeks, months, and years of being on our own. The kids and I tried 'eating out' for Thanksgiving dinner one year when 'eating in' was just too hard, too emotional. We went to Harrah's Buffet in downtown Reno. The food was tasty. Once we got there and shook off our blue mood, the kids were well-behaved, people serving and those at other tables were friendly. There was a sort of 'family' feel to it all. An older 'Dear' pointed out the many choices of desserts to my kids. I lost count of how many tiny chocolate eclairs each of them ate. I was just hoping to get us all home before anyone got sick. It was lovely to be fussed over for a little while, and get out from under the ghosts of Thanksgivings past. However, we missed the smell of cooking the meal at home, as we had done when we were a 'family'. We missed having leftovers. We probably missed more than I'm remembering, given that I had spent the month's grocery money, eating out.

Sarah South Fenton, her husband and a whole houseful of kids moved to Reno, early 80's maybe.  Sarah is Frank's first cousin. I didn't know what to expect. I'd imagined that South relatives had crossed me off their list, being naturally supportive of their own kin, as wouldn't have been unusual in circumstances such as ours. I couldn't have been more wrong, where Sarah and Joe were concerned. They were thrilled to be invited to my house for meals and special occasions and they returned the favor. "We don't get many invitations; There are so many of us!" they said. A new chapter began, celebrating together at their house or mine. And so it was...such good times together for two or three years. Then Joe was transferred out of our area. He moved his family. It was Thanksgiving time again. I knew we'd really miss them. A day or so before the holiday, there was a knock on my door.  I opened it and there stood Joe, smiling from ear to ear, holding out a huge turkey to me. "I was just in the neighborhood and wanted to be sure you had one of these!" He had to have driven miles and miles outside his assigned territory to do such a kind thing for us.

"Over the river and through the woods, To Grandmother's house we go..."  This had been the case for lots of Thanksgivings. A few years ago, my grown children said they thought it was time to pass the torch. I got the feeling that they thought I'd put up a fuss about that but we were outgrowing my house and I had more difficulty lifting a 30-plus pound turkey in and out of the oven so my response was more of a "Hallelujah!" As the day of Thanksgiving grew closer, I began getting calls at work from one or the other, asking, "How do you do __?"  "Can I get the recipe for __?"  "So how much (how little, how long...) do I __?" The hosting gig came back to me within a couple of years. I continued for as long as I could but was both relieved and grateful when Jenn assumed that role. She does a great job. Todd, his wife, her sister and family have included all of us in their celebration in recent years, too. My grand-kids know their way around a kitchen. It could be one of them who makes the rolls and pies this year.

Many have shared a similar sentiment about Thanksgiving. "Not what we say about our blessings, but how we use them, is the true measure of our thanksgiving. --WT Purkiser. John F. Kennedy is quoted as saying: "As we express our gratitude, we must never forget that the highest appreciation is not to utter words, but to live by them." I have much to be thankful for, not the least of which are the years of varied experiences in marking Thanksgiving Day. I can't be sure I learned the lesson provided by each one but surely it was there, had I recognized and taken advantage of it. We could agree, that it is about more than a plentiful, even gluttonous meal and yet the meal often serves as the vehicle that brings forward thoughts of gratitude and thankfulness in us, opens us up to opportunities for helping others, and softens us sufficiently to use our blessings in the best ways.

Thanksgivings...68 of them! They are a part of who I am.

I Am, I See, I Feel, I Am...

I am...a woman who has seen sixty-eight November 9's pass by.

I wonder...who the old woman is, looking at me in the mirror, red hair now silvered, face wrinkled, eyes and posture drooping,

I hear...my name spoken when there is no one visible to have said it.  I think it is just to get my attention or renew my focus.

I see...in color when I dream, whether sleeping or awake. Some people see more in a walk around the block than others see in a trip around the world.  I'd like to be one of those.

I want...the best of everything.  That, to me, can be simple and unadorned.  Some of the best things in life are free.

I pretend...to be 'fine', even happy, when asked how I am if it makes someone more comfortable.  A good friend calls this the "Fake it 'til you make it!" approach.  Happiness is an inside job.

I feel...like I'm riding a roller-coaster, given the ups and downs of a disease called Rheumatoid Arthritis and it's cousin, Osteo.  It can be difficult to prevent health-related issues and aging from defining me. I feel blessed to be better than I would be if I were not as good as I am.

I touch...to determine if bread dough or pie crust is just right.  Touching piano keys requires greater effort now.  The ready hugs come easy for some but not for all.

I worry...Favorite worries are hard to give up.  Solving problems that create worry is easy.  It's living with the solutions that is tough.

I am...sometimes silent.  Silence is not only golden; it's seldom misquoted.  I am also tenacious and like the road to success--I'm always under construction.  While unable to leap tall buildings in a single bound, I am a climber of steep mountains, figuratively speaking.

I understand...a little bit of many things.

I say..."That's Gross. Just because you can doesn't mean you should. I'm cold...put on a sweater. Is it hot in here? Don't even think about it! Can't trust the weatherman. Grandma's always right! Unthaw. (all things ending in "S"--WalMartS). It's not movie film"!

I dream...of companionship, dancing, figure skating, and in color with audio. Days of Demerol brought dreams of lacy cobwebs and one-way conversation. Old nightmares invade for no good reason.

I try...each day not to speak of pain, to use good judgement, to be courageous and less afraid, less judgmental, more at peace, more thoughtful and insightful. I try again the next day.

I hope...for more November 9's.

I am...just one person, but I am one.  Everything begins with one, whether it is a step forward or backward.

Every Shade of Autumn

"Every shade of Autumn"...   As I came upon that phrase in my reading, it really struck a cord with me.  Those are my colors--the ones that result, months later, from new spring growth, survive sometimes scorching heat and drought of summers, unveiling themselves once touched in Fall by colder night air, or nipped by a bit of frost.  An Autumn palette is one I am most comfortable with, the hues my eyes and soul relate to beyond surface beauty.

In my memory, my mother dressed me in lots of brown.  She nixed red saying it would clash with the red in my hair.  I've had a strong attraction to particular hues for a long time but I didn't get to indulge myself in that direction until I was an adult.  As a sweet, young thing, working and living in Salt Lake City in the early 60's, I purchased ... did you guess? ... a RED, brushed wool. winter coat.  On layaway!  I remember well the day I made the last payment and put that precious wrap on.  It was finally MINE!  Oh, how I loved that coat.  I loved everything about it.  I'd had so little exposure to shopping.  This was the first time in my life I'd had money to spend on myself.  Without even knowing what I didn't know yet about color and fashion, I picked the perfect shade of red for me--one with warm undertones--and since I had a figure at that time, the slender cut of the coat with its slash side pockets and lapel collar was becoming on me.  I could have fashionably worn that coat in any decade.  That was to become my fashion ID--traditional cuts and styling, Autumn colors.  And I did cloak myself in my red coat until the sleeves and all the edges frayed and the lining literally shredded and fell out!

Remember the 80's, when it was all the rage to have your "colors" done?  I served as a model once for Edna Burt, who owned Edna Skin Care.  Once a Los Angeles cosmetics company, she moved the operation to Sparks and hosted workshops at her studio, instructing woman in the use of her products and how to put their best foot forward with color.  We met at church.  One of Edna's granddaughters was in my Laurel class.  "You are a 'true' Autumn," she said.  "There are few who are naturally so.  It is the tiny, golden flecks in your eyes that determine this."  And so, I agreed to sit on an artist's stool while Edna and her assistant draped fabric over my shoulders and around my face for one of her session groups.  Her philosophy was that of non-restrictive use of color.  "There is no color a person cannot wear," she said, "if used in the right shade and intensity!"  Then she would demonstrate combinations that made color complimentary winners if you were thought to be an Autumn, a Winter, or a Spring or Summer as determined by skin tone, hair and eye color.  I received a jar of foot cream, for my services.  I always found that funny.

Every shade of Autumn.  I take comfort in them.  They reflect my moods, my thoughts, my insights, and have become a part of who I am.

Trick or Treat

When I was a girl, October meant the end of the harvest season.  It also meant there'd be big Hubbard and Banana squash roasting in Mother's wood-stove and pots of soup as the weather cooled.  It wasn't unusual to have the first snow fall sometime during the month.  For Halloween, there were church and school parties.  My mother was always involved, if her health permitted it.

My brothers could probably tell some stories of Halloween tricks and pranks they've been a part of but by the time I came along, the day was more about the treats and the costumes.

Mother liked to re-tell her stories about how she helped my siblings--six of them--get dressed up to go to the Halloween party.  I remember a few ward family affairs.  There was always tons of food, lots of homemade treats, a program, dancing and a spooky alley to pass through.  But before my time, as Mother would tell her story, she made some excuse about not going to the party with her family.  After her kids had left our house, she would rat up her natural curly hair to greatly increase the volume, take out her false teeth, put on her worn-out duds, apply a bit of make-up in all the right places and tune up her best cackle, then slip into the crowd, unannounced.  Sometimes, she'd been ask by the party planners to assume the role of an old witch.  Other times, she would be a fortune teller and work the crowd.  As the party wound down, Mother would slip out silently into the night.  As the family returned home, they'd tell her what a good time she had missed.  Her kids had not recognized their own mother at the party!

Halloween was a fun time when I was a kid.  We didn't give thought to or dwell on its history.  It was a time to get dressed up silly in whatever you could find at home.  We didn't buy costumes or special masks.  We used our mother's lipstick if she had any.  And we weren't afraid of our neighbors.  We could have eaten anything they gave us.  If we had any candy, we could have eaten as much as we wanted without having it X-rayed.  If we made ourselves sick?  Well, there was a remedy for that, too.  And you didn't get to miss school or get out of doing your chores, either!  When Mother and I moved off the farm up into greater downtown Weston, we had kids come to the door.  We didn't buy candy to hand out but she always had a pot of chili or soup or hot chocolate made and maybe homemade donuts or her molasses taffy, popcorn balls or raisin-filled cookies.  Before they could enjoy a treat, Mother insisted on a "trick"!  That to her meant, "Tell me a joke, sing me a song, recite a poem, do a little dance."  Then they got their treat.

Going house to house has never been my thing.  My kids were not allowed to roam neighborhoods with pillow cases to beg or cause a commotion.  We were busy with church and school parties.  Sometimes, a friend would host a home party, as the kids got older.  We did visit homes of close friends or nearby neighbors.  I often went in costume, too.  On one such occasion, I remodeled Todd's old astronaut costume to fit me, attached a couple of pointed ears to my own, donned a bald cap and joined my costumed kids on Bessie Wegman's front porch.  She co-owned Simmy's Flower Shop. Please Don't Send Me Flowers Anymore    We rang the doorbell.  Bessie answered.  As she turned her back to us to retrieve her candy bowl, I could hear her muttering, "I don't mind the little kids but when the BIG kids come to the door.....".  She didn't realize we could hear her every word and this made me laugh.  She whirled around, recognizing my voice.  I had fooled her, big-time, and it was great!

Todd was a showman from day one.  He loved to be costumed.  He loved the make-up.  He loved a little gimmick, if I could come up with one.  He loved magic and had a kid's starter set of props so of course, I made him a magician's costume, complete with a fabulous cape with red lining.  At his elementary school, it was custom to form a parade, starting the lineup in one classroom, adding the next and the next, ending in a parade around the gym before returning to their rooms for class parties.  Todd had perfected one trick, as a first grader, I think it was.  Oh, he worked the room when the parading was done, using his cape, removing his white gloves, one finger at a time, making sure everyone appreciated his top hat and wand.  Then he performed the 'Broken Toothpick Magically Made Whole Again' slight of hand...perfectly!

Jenn was such a charmer that in any costume I created for her, she looked just so cute.  Her witch costume, for example, was made from Mother's quilting scraps--bright yellow with black pock-a-dots and black silky something.  I made her a hat, added springs of real wheat and perched a wee birdie in the bow.  By adding a tiny cape, a little apron and a smaller-than-kid-sized broom, she was Jenn-Jenn, the adorable!  She got to go to all Todd's class parties because I room-mothered, his first few years of  elementary school.  She was quite the crowd-pleaser and often, to her brother's dismay, stole the show.

Frank carved the best pumpkins!  Although he traveled often, if he was at home near Halloween, I could count on a masterpiece.  I kept those until the pumpkin flesh fell in on itself and had grown a whole other Eco system inside--just too artsy to toss sooner.

My grandkids have submitted themselves to years of costuming, too.  That has been great fun, to do them as a group theme, as in Toy Story, Popeye, George of the Jungle, A Bug's Life, King Arthur's Court, The Peanut's Gang, to name a few.  Morgan's Face Book Page costume she made for herself drew lots of attention as did Topher's creepy clown.  He also created quite a stir, as a blond.  Jessi loved being a princess.  Zach, what was your favorite?  Gage loved being a Transformer.  He has loved whatever his costume was, every year, I think.  Max was the cutest elephant when he was little but I hear he has moved on to Captain America, for this year.  

Todd and his wife, Lisa created haunting scenes and alleys at their house that became a tradition in their neighborhood for a time.  The kids had fun acting out roles in these dramas.  It was 'Lights, Cue Sound Effects, Action', for days leading up to Halloween, then food for all who stopped by, once they had been sufficiently scared and dared to come to the themed eats and drink table.

Tom, Jenn's husband, a real pro when it comes to house decoration for holidays, has made such fun for their boys and the rest of us with his special lighting and effects.  And you know if you are at Jenn's, she is gonna feed you well.  As our family outgrew my house, the Bailies hosted our annual 'Halloween Cookie Bake and Decorate', and the 'Great Pumpkin Carving' event.  When you get a dozen or more grownups and kids wielding carving tools, it's quite a party!

Because I hadn't changed my mind about kids out scavenging neighborhoods on Halloween, making pinatas in the weeks before the holiday, to be enjoyed on that day, became an almost annual tradition.  After attending school and church parties, the whole lot of us--parents, steps, grands, aunties and uncs and wannabes--would party at home, the grandkids breaking open the pinatas, the adults hoping to score some of that candy, and everyone enjoying homemade caramel apples and popcorn balls.

Todd and Jenn may remember making pumpkin candles as kids.  I haven't tried that with the grandkids.  Nor have I pulled taffy with them as I did with my mother at this time of the year.   Still, we've had a lot of fun, made lots of memories, continued old traditions, and established new ones.  I love traditions.  They are a big part of who I am. 

Have I Told You the One About Pie...

... Pumpkin Pie made from Halloween pumpkins?  Have I told you that story?  I've told all my stories many times and yet, each time I post something, someone in my immediate family says, "I've never heard that story before!"

Well, back in the days of what I call my Molly Mormon, sweet-young-thing period, I was convinced that in order to belong to the flock and earn my Suzy Homemaker Award, it was necessary to know how to do a little bit of everything and make everything from scratch.  It was okay to purchase pumpkins for Halloween decorating if I hadn't grown my own but a real crime to just toss them once the harvest celebrations were over.  So I baked the pumpkins and made pie with the pulp.

My husband and I and our two kids moved ourselves and our meager belongings from Salt Lake City to Sparks, NV in early fall, 1976.  Arrangements had been made for help to move into a house but the house wasn't available on the day we finally drove off the desert and back into civilization so the plan to have help fell through.  After days of being cooped up in a tiny room at the Holiday Inn, our stuff in a U-Haul in the Inn's parking lot, Frank and I finally got the go-ahead and began moving our rag-tag belongings into the house, ourselves.  Neighbors across the street must have been curious, watching us and came to offer help carrying in such things as bolts of cloth, big commercial-sized canisters of staples like sugar and flour and chocolate chips, quart bottles of home-canned stuff.

When we finished, I asked them to join us for pie in a few days when we got settled a bit.  Liz and Dick came.  My pumpkin pies looked fabulous.  She asked how I made them.  When I explained that I had baked pumpkins to use for the filling, she said she'd never heard of doing that, while exchanging looks with her husband, as though to confirm that indeed, they found us odd and hippie-like.  Frank did have facial hair and longer locks and to satisfy their curiosity about some of the stuff they'd helped carry in that moving day, I'd told them I sewed my family's clothes, made bread routinely, and canned food for storage.  Liz and Dick.  Each of them took a big bite of pie.  There was silence.  I quickly took a bite.  The pie had NO SUGAR in it!

Now, when I serve pumpkin pie, and because I've told them this story, my family always asks, "Does the pie have sugar in it?"  Could this be why I always cut a sliver (sometimes a little bit more) of pie to taste the minute it comes out of the oven?  It could!

I love making pie, even and especially pumpkin pie in fall and winter months.  And I confess.  I left the sugar out one other time but making sugarless pumpkin pie is not a part of me, on a regular basis.  

Who Wants to Know?

Who Wants to Know
     - by Berton Braley

When people ask "How are you?"
  It's just a salutation,
And common sense should bar you
  From lengthy explanation.

It's not the kind of query
  Requesting diagnosis
Of each and every dreary
  Reaction and neurosis.

It doesn't mean devising
  An answer to the question,
In which you're itemizing
  What's wrong with your digestion.

If operations scar you,
  Don't analyze and spell 'em,
And when folks ask "How are you?"
  For heaven's sake don't tell 'em!
-----

These words of wisdom are a reminder to myself...  I had friends I hadn't seen in a long time stop by the house, unannounced, recently.  I had unusually loose lips (for me) that evening, and my response to their asking how I had been was far too long.  Now that I'm not at the office to have that question ask of me many times daily, I'm a bit out of practice with my quick and ready response:  "I am better than I would be if I wasn't as good as I am!"  Doggone frontal lobe deterioration!  I'm losing my grip on long-held inhibitions during face-to-face conversation.  Still an introvert...but evidently, that's only a part of who I am.

A Message For My Grandkids

The Watcher
     - Margaret Widdemer


She always leaned to watch for us,
  Anxious if we were late,
In winter at the window,
  In summer by the gate.

And though we mocked her tenderly,
  Who had such foolish care,
This long way home would seem more safe
  Because she waited there.

Her thoughts were all so full of us--
  She never could forget--
And so I think that where she is
  She must be waiting yet.

Waiting 'till we come home to her,
  Anxious if we are late--
Watching from heaven's window,
  Leaning from heaven's gate.