It's a Green Thing

 

           Ralph Waldo Emerson once said, “Envy is ignorance.”  And of course, he’s right. 

          We all envy, or tend to covet, that which we are unaware and don’t know a whole heck of a lot about.

            For me, I’ll admit, it can be a daily occurrence.

I smile outwardly at the guy who hops out of his car in the Harris Teeter parking lot, his hands gripping the torn piece of notebook paper like it was a winning lottery ticket on a windy day.  I nod my head as he looks up in intense concentration from trying to memorize his wife’s grocery list, grabs his cart and heads inside.

I think how lucky his wife must be.  How my own husband hasn’t set foot inside a grocery store in the ten years we lived here except on the 17^th of October, 2010 for a gallon of fat free milk and a loaf of Wonder Bread.  I remember the exact day three years later because of the texts, photos and subsequent Facebook posting from friends and family documenting his epic maiden voyage.  I also remember because we ate our peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for a week on rye bread downed with a hearty glass of buttermilk.

I sigh in frustration as my husband…again…leaves his plate exactly three inches from the two contraptions that were built to clean them.  You know, the dishwasher and the kitchen sink.  Not to mention, his half glass of milk is left sweating on the island, his balled up napkin is on the floor and he’s now having fun swimming with the girls while I mop, bleach, bake, sterilize, sanitize and sweep. 

I feel envious; I do, of all those women out there whose significant others lend a helping hand with the day-to- day doldrums.  I know they are out there.  I’ve seen them with me own eyes.  The ones who help clean up after birthday parties, plan cookouts and dish out food they’ve cooked all day with a smile on their faces.

I feel jealous and bad too, most days, about just being a mom.  Surely, there are women out there that can get their kids to school on time, handle deadlines and PTA meetings and remember to bring two dozen water bottles and three bags of pretzels for snack at school.  I know these moms have never been yelled at by their own kids, never told they had “ruined their lives,” or heard a request for adoption with a family of traveling trapeze artists because at least, “their life turn out to be somewhat interesting and a whole lot more fun.”  Yes, I want to be one of these women who can do it all and never feel like a failure.

But then I think:

The man at the grocery store’s wife is terribly sick.  He has no idea how to help her get better or if she ever will get better.  All he knows is this is what he can do right now.  In this moment. He can make her something she probably won’t be able to keep down but it’s the only thing he can think to do.  To show her how much he cares about her, to nourish her, to hang on.

While my husband ignores his plate by the sink and plays in the pool with his daughters, there is a single mom down the street.  She’s worked all day, already cried silently in her car before pick-up, wondering how she is going to do this all by herself.  She washes dishes as her kids play without her in the backyard, already stressing on unanswered work e-mails, backed up laundry and mounting bills.  She knows it’s almost time to call them in for bed, another day gone- just like that.

And as I go to bed, feeling defeated, feeling like a failure as a mom, there is a women not too far from me who turns in for the night wishing her child was still with her.  Even if it were just to tell her she was “ruining his life” because at least she could hold him and hug him-breathe in the smell of him- and tell him she didn’t carry about any of that- never did.  She only loved him with all and every molecule of her being.

Yes, envy is ignorance just as the grass isn’t always greener on the other side.

But as Walt Whitman believed, “a leaf of grass is no less than the journey- work of the stars.” 

It takes just one, single blade of grass- not an acre, forest, slab or crate- to see the magic which is humanity.

We shouldn’t keep count of how much or how little we have. 

            We should only reflect and be grateful for each others’ blessings

Clarity: The View Through My Window

Most of us, if we’re honest, spend a good amount of our precious time searching for a certain level of clearness, or transparency, in the way we hope to one day see the world.  Life, relationships, our tight-roped walked dreams and holding-our-breath hopes rarely emerge crystallized in our heads after a few downward facing dogs or a twelve hour sleep.

   Let’s face it.  More times than not, we only get a glimpse of the “now”, through a murky, muddled mess.  A smoggy, polluted haze of the wish I could of’s and all of the should’ve been's.

   It’s not like the simple easy first few steps of childhood, the wide-eyed innocence of infancy; a small stride, a crooked grin.  For me, my clarity came in the early movements of my youth; a twirl, an extended arm, a warm palm, my own ballet shoes dancing a top my father’s slippered feet. 

   It’s easy to forget sometimes how wonderful it is to be loved like that. No strings, or what ifs, or what could have been.

   My bay window in my study where I write looks out across the porch. I love it; this shell tabby material thing that belongs to just me.  Maybe because it protrudes from the house on its own, with nothing under it, weightless but sound in structure and intent.  Or maybe it’s because I can see my kitchen and breakfast room table on the other side through another bay window... this one, though, firmly planted on a concrete slab and surrounded by shiny teak.

   But see, it doesn’t matter.  Rain, sun, fog, tears; I can always voyeur into part of my life from the past that belongs in my daughters present now.

   I watch my husband make my daughters laugh…hard….their heads thrown back while their bellies shake.  I see them deep in concentration over a math equation, a bad day, or maybe just trying to decide what snack to eat.

   I smile as I see his hand extend, and they dance without music, chest on cheek… and I can’t help but think…..

  How wonderful it is to be loved like that.

  Happy Father’s Day.

Strawberry Pickin' and BBQ Chicken

 

Strawberry Pickin' and BBQ Chicken

 

For most people, picking is just a verb that has a lot of different meanings.  For moms, it's something we do every day; constantly picking up after all those who live with us so we can see the floor in order to sweep it.  For siblings, picking means knowing which buttons to push and how long we can keep on pushing them before getting a major licking.

But for Southerners, it's not just a verb, but an experience, a way of life.  Something generations can, and still do, together as a family.

 For me, growing up, every late spring and early summer, we would go picking in my grandfather, Papa’s, garden outside of Athens, GA.   At the time, his garden seemed as big as Sanford Stadium, but now, if I was to go back, it would be what it is... and was at the time.....just a small slice of space no bigger than the carport behind it that my family all used to sit and rock on and watch the cars go by.  But just as loved.

If I did go back, I would hope to still find all of those luscious, vibrant colored tomatoes, squash, and zucchini growing out from the same tilled up dirt……the ones just like I’d find from my youth that I’d wrestle off of vine and bring into the kitchen with pride and dirty fingers. 

Because I know I will never again find my grandfather there, tending his beloved garden with his generous hands and strong, solid back.  He passed away many years ago, but I still hold out hope that whoever owns that spot of land now, cares as deeply about what can spring forth from it as much as he did. 

I guess I'm a little scared to go back and check.  I don't want to find weeds and dead grass where treasures and childhood memories once grew.

I have two daughters now.  They are 9 and 11.  It saddens me when I think about how they never had the opportunity to see Papa's garden and all of that love.  But we still take them picking every May anyway.  Now, it’s at Barefoot Farms located on St. Helena's Island near my parent’s beach house off Beaufort, SC.  They've been picking now since they could walk, talk, and count on their little, pudgy hands to ten and back again.

My most cherished memories are watching them with empty buckets, toddling up and down the strawberry fields.  Their buckets were bare because every, single strawberry they picked went into their mouths, the juice squirting down their sundresses faster than lightening.

 

It about time for a road trip to Beaufort to visit Barefoot Farms yet again seeing as the strawberries are at peak season during the month of May.   Though they are older, my girls still pick a plump strawberry or two right off the vine and gobble them up from their longer, leaner, yet more grown up fingers.  They also enjoy being in the kitchen and helping create something divine straight from the earth to our table….where they get to see the fruits of their labor born.... and appreciated.

I'll share with y'all now one of our families favorite early summer suppers.  It is all about slow cooked BBQ chicken, sautéed squash and onions, and strawberry short cake for desert.  From our heart and table to yours, I hope you can taste the love in the simple things that can grow from a single vine and into a lasting memory.

 Here goes:

 

My Mom's BBQ Chicken

Sautéed Summer Squash and Vidalia Onions

Strawberry Shortcake

 

Now y'all can't rush this….no matter how bad you want to get into the strawberry shortcake. You'll need to plan at least two and a half hours of loving care for the bird itself.  Not for the faint of heart, you'll need to dissect a whole chicken, skin and all, or pick one already cut up at your grocer or local butcher if you possess a weaker constitution.

 

1 whole chicken

2 cloves minced garlic

3 Tablespoons Olive Oil

Salt and Pepper

 

Set oven to 350 degrees.  Arrange your bird in a baking dish.  Poke the darn thing over and over again with a fork (good aggression therapy at the end of a long day) and then place the minced garlic in the fork holes.  Now, drizzle olive oil over the chicken and add salt and pepper to taste.  Place in oven for 20 minutes uncovered so the skin can brown slightly and hold onto the oil and garlic…basically it’ll get a nice, little beach tan but still stay juicy inside.

 

Next, decrease oven temp to 325 degrees and pour your favorite BBQ sauce (mine is Southern Souls BBQ- Sweet Southern Soul) generously all over the chicken before covering it with foil and sticking it back in the oven.

 

Cook another 2 hours at the reduced temp.  I promise y'all, it's going to fall right off the bone and is so unbelievably delicious.

 

While your bird is slow cooking, pour a glass of wine (for yourself, not the food) and sauté a pan full of fresh, thinly sliced yellow squash and a Vidalia onion in butter over medium low heat until tender.  My secret squash recipe calls for a cup of bottled zesty Italian salad dressing for a little kick, but that's just me.

 

Also, slice your fresh picked strawberries and pull out the Bisquick.  They have THE BEST shortbread recipe on the back of the box, so don't try it from scratch unless you're a pro. It's flaky and buttery with just the right amount of flakiness.  Never, ever, use the packaged sponge cake.  That’s sacrilege, y’all.

 

Let the shortbread cool, then cover with sliced strawberries dashed with a little bit of sugar and a dollop of whip cream and you are good to go!

Staying Still

"Nobody is bored when he is trying to make something that is beautiful or to discover something that is true."- W.R. "Dean" Inge; Anglican Priest and Cambridge Professor (1860-1954)

 I am hardly, if ever, bored.

 I don't know if it it's because I love to read (anything), eat (same answer), nap (anywhere), daydream (all the time) or just plain think.

 I am perfectly comfortable doing nothing- as my motto for these past few decades is time wasted is not wasted time.

 I don't worry if the early bird eats the worm, I miss the midnight train, or the world passes me by.

 I am not really in an all out hurry to get anywhere.

 I have always been comfortable with where I'm at in the moment.

 My children.  Not so much.

When I was their age, when I was bored, I would pick up a volume of my grandfather’s collection of burgundy colored hard-covers-Shakespeare’s As You Like It, was one of the first plays I ever read.  I would look for signs in the clouds during the day; the big dipper and fireflies at night.  I ate crabapples from their backyard and flung the skinny cores over the fence so their neighbor’s goat had something to eat.

I never complained.

My girls are evidently not on the same page; the one mapped out of my childhood.  Theirs is a much different narrative.  I often wonder where I went wrong.   

See, they are bored at the drop of the hat, let down by the shake of the empty cereal box, and dejected at the dreaded depleted power button on their wireless palm held players of DVD’s.

There is no doubt I am doing them a disservice.  If anything, I want them to grow up knowing the world owes you not a damn-excuse my language-thing.  It’s up to them to seek out adventure, fill up their proverbial cup, and let the tides of life soak through them.

I want them drenched and wet.  Not scared to go out into the rain.

So, I am going to change a few things up, shut down the whiny, relentless sleepovers, put the ke-bosh on all the complaining, and will- from this day forward- refuse to be privy to their demands to be entertained 24-7.

I survived.

Didn’t you?

So, for me, I implemented …..  The Bored Jar.

It’s simple, really.  Whenever your dependents complain there isn’t a single thing on God’s green earth to do- have them stick their little hand in this:  A mason jar, tin can, or shoe box (really, anything will do) filled up with the following “random” choices written in stubby crayons on torn-off pieces of scrap paper.  Here’s a quick example:

·         Play Lego’s with Mom for hours, after which she will clean the whole mess up, make you cookie’s and care-less about what time you go to bed.

·         Organize, with absolutely no help from anyone over the legal age of 18, the entire house full of Lego’s into color coordinated bins, labeled to size and description, including all classification and lamentation of said instructions.

·         Two hours with any craft-any time-extra glue-moderate glitter with zero complaining of “remember the last time you did that, it took a good 5 inch chunk out of my Oriental rug.”

·         Two hours of peeling two years of super glue off the table, vacuuming a decade’s worth of sparkles from the carpet, and cleaning all the toilets and litter box to boot.

Even the 12 and under set know that’s a crap shoot-it’s 50/50.  It’s the equivalent of thinking you’re going in to construct a fairy princess or a matchbox hot rod out of a few pipe cleaners, a handful of tooth picks and spun sugar, only to be folding the whites, sifting out your winter socks, and wondering what is Mom (since you had to scrub and wash the fridge) cooking for dinner.

Mine, I shake that Bored Jar and they are out playing ball in the cul-de-sac in a New York minute.

Where they should be.

If I can teach them anything, while I still have them, it’s to: be still but still seeking, be contemplative but never complacent, stay reflective in spirit so they may always shine, and lastly, be spontaneous but wise so they will find what they need and be happy with what they have.

Bored is, like everything else, a word…not a state of mind. Beauty and Truth…words, too…but in their natural stripped down essence.  Well, those are for my girls to find. 

Happy Hunting.

Now, go out and look for them.

Everything's Coming Up Daisies

Spring has sprung.

Then clocks were flung- when some of us realized we’d lost an hour’s worth of sleep.

Where does the time go, really?

 If only I could find it, I’d like to get some of it back, please.  And it’s not like I’m asking for too much.  It’s only time, after all…not carb-free calzones, roomier airplane seats, or world peace.

My oldest daughter, who refuses, like me, to grow up, always seems to have the right answer for questions such as these.

Her: “We need magic beans.  Are magic beans in season?”

Me: “I don’t know.  Let’s Google it.”

See, Livi, because she is so acutely aware of her surroundings, is in no hurry to hurl herself directly into the harm’s way of life.

If you were to tell her- go on, the world is waiting for you- she’d ask if it’s some sort of trap.  You know, a place filled with heartbreak, hunger, unrealistic health care premiums, and 5 dollar gallons of unleaded gasoline.

I get you, sister.

I, like you, want to live in a slice of space where joy is eating Chick-Filet Polynesian sauce with your finger, love is unconditional, and freedom is sleeping in and watching Saturday morning cartoons while eating buckets of Captain Crunch topped with whipped cream.

Sometimes when I watch Livi turning cartwheels barefoot in the grass, her long wavy hair trailing behind her, she reminds me so much of my Aunt Beverly.  I adored her as a child. 

I adore her still. 

As the wife of my mom’s youngest brother, Beverly seemed more of an older cousin to me even though she was 19 years older.  On the weekends we would drive to Colbert, GA, I couldn’t wait to see her making the hour and a half drive seem twice as long.  As soon as you were sprung free from the car, she would chase you around and around the house, tickle you until you were utterly exhausted, and let you brush her lush long, blonde hair for hours on end without complaint.

Beverly was light and air and pixie dust.

She was beautiful.

She loved daisies, too.  I remember them in vases at her house, loosely arranged and lovingly picked.  They embodied her, as well, with their simple elegance and innocent beauty.  Like Beverly, they signify kindness, patience, loyalty, and love.

I still think of her whenever I see a daisy.  And if I were to close my eyes, I can picture her running through the woods, laughing, her long blonde hair flowing behind her, forever young. 

See, I never did get to see her grow old.  She lost her battle with breast cancer at 38 years-old, when I was a freshman at Georgia.

She never got to see her two young kids, Kimberly, 11, and Chris, 9, grow into adulthood, either.

Time, that tick tock span of inevitability, can be cruel, sometimes too. Well, a lot of times…..if we’re honest.

But what if that makes the young at heart, the youthful spirits, the Beverly’s of this world the wisest of us all?

What can we learn from those who have the insight and sensitivity to know the heartaches and pains of life, but instead embrace the joys and small wonders of the world all the same?

Her son, Chris Butler, is getting married here on the island at the King & Prince on the 30^th of March.  It’s hard to believe time has flown by so fast. 

If I could say anything to Chris and his bride-to-be, Erin, it would be to enter into your new lives together with the same wild abandonment, love of life and curiosity as your mother.

I’m reminded of the song Forever Young written by Bob Dylan around the time Beverly was 18.  He wrote this after taking a break from touring and had become a father: 

 

“May God bless you and keep you always

May your wishes all come true

May you always do for others

And let others do for you

May you build a ladder to the stars

And climb on every rung

May you stay forever young.”

 

“May you grow up to be righteous

May you grow up to be true

May you always know the truth

And see the lights surrounding you

May you always be courageous

Stand upright and be strong

May you stay forever young.”

 

“May your hands always be busy

May your feet always be swift

May you have a strong foundation

When the winds of changes shift

May your heart always be joyful

And may your song always be sung

May you stay forever young.”

 

Congratulations, Erin and Chris.  May your song always be sound, honest, pure and full of light and lots of love.

And once you walk the aisle and stand together, ‘building your ladder to the stars’, just know how proud she’d be of the both of you. Together. Always.

 

 

Mamma Mia

 

I finally figured out what I want to be when I grow up.

It only took me four decades, 11 moves, 5 states, 5 years of college, 1 husband, and 2 kids to do it. 

I want to be an Italian grandmother.

I know, I know. No need to state the obvious, since I am not Italian, nor I’m I married to one.  And genealogically speaking, on both sides, I’m as English as English comes; but I still can’t stomach stout filled pints, Prims, or pies with organ meat stuffed into to them.  I don’t like rain, trench coats, royal watching, fog, or those ridiculous fascinator’s English people wear to weddings. 

What I do love are figs, capers, rich cheeses, wine, sundresses and three hour lunches.  I like to move, not with great purpose to get somewhere, but with great curiosity to find the purpose in the commonplace.

            Sometimes, in the evenings, when I am taking a can opener to a 14 ounce of Hunt’s stewed tomatoes and snapping my Winn Dixie brand spaghetti in half so it’ll fit in the pot while listening to the sounds of doors slamming and pre-teen fighting, I can’t help but yearn for the salty taste of paper thin prosciutto, the heady smell of orange blossoms, and the sweet sound of children’s laughter.

            On occasion, I will spend an entire Sunday in the kitchen nurturing my fantasy.  I will simmer my sweated pearl onions in garlic and white wine sauce for an hour before I even toss them into my homemade tomato sauce that’s been slowly bubbling since dawn.  I will cut, with love and military precision, my own tagliolini made from dough of farm fresh eggs, organic flour, and the finest of virgin olive oil. It will not matter when I sit down with family and friends at our outdoor table draped in heirloom linens and lined with tea candles and carafes of Chianti when someone salts the food before they taste it.  I will not be deterred when someone proclaims they hate tomatoes and then asks for ketchup.  And even after one of my angels refuses sauce on top of her pasta then politely declines to eat it because it resembles snot, I will smile over my wine and think of lemon trees, wandering goats, sea salted breezes, and olive groves.

 

I will simply image a time and place where my children will bring their children and their friends and their children over every Sunday.  I will rise early, feed the chickens, pick the tomatoes off the vine, stir my eight hour Ragu and decant the red table wine from an earthen jug outside in the garden.  We will dine for hours under the shade of an old cypress tree on fresh cheeses, mussels, figs and berries.  There will be no iPads, Dsi’s or shouts for extra TV time; only kissed cheeks, salutes, and everyone calling me “Mamma.”  Because we will eat, we will drink, we will tell stories, and we will be grateful for all that we have; the simple pleasures and, of course, each other.

 

An old lady can dream, right? 

           

And it will not bother me aging and weathering in the salty air of the mediterrean sea like an aged grape- nope, not in the slightest, since we cannot all look like Sophia Loren- the deep wrinkles, the course gray hair, the unending aches and the pains of tending to a lifetime of lush gardens because I will have lived la dolce vita- the good life.

            Y’all may be wondering about now why and when I came to this epiphany after all these year?  Why I suddenly figured out what I wanted to be and how I would like to grow old.  Most people fantasize about writing a novel, climbing the world’s largest mountains, traveling to outer space or discovery something unknown and new and life altering- a cure for cancer, the fountain of youth.  But to aspire to become an Italian grandma?  Why in the world-and how, exactly- does someone hope to become that?

            It was simple, really, like any great meal; a few ingredients tended with love.  It just happened to occur one morning over a crock pot where I usually threw them all in and hoped for the best.  And what I got out of this magic post-war invention that saves time, money, and energy, was usually pretty darn good.  And I felt I sense of accomplishment; coming home, removing the lid, and dishing something out. 

But like life, easy isn’t always best.  Simplicity, yes.  But short cuts? No.  Because there is so much you miss in between. 

There is an old saying in Italy that goes something like this: A tavola non si invecchia.  At a table with good friends and family, you do not become old.

Italian grandmother or not, I wholly concur.

Buon Appetito! Let’s all take the time and enjoy the simple pleasures that come from enjoying the meal of life.

The Birds, the Bees and Dr.Pepper

 

Love is in the air.

I can smell it.

The cedar chipped, dry hay pellet, and wet rodent hair odor of ardent affection.

Why, you might want to ask, would I willingly become a landlord to a 2-lb, 12-week-old guinea pig with a bald spot and a serious bladder control issue? 

I’m a sucker for my ten-year-old’s dark lash-lined baby blues.

It’s important to note here, that people have told me they notice I write about my oldest daughter Liv, way more than I do about my youngest, Margot.  There is a very simple and perfectly sane reason for this.  Because Margot would kill me.  Well, not kill me, but I would most certainly never hear the end of it and we spend a lot of time together so I try and stay on her good side.  But for this one time, and one time only, she has given me permission- albeit written and signed by two witnesses and sealed with Super Glue- that I may type her name into my lap top and tell her story.  The story of how she came to love a little cutie named Dr.Pepper.

Here goes:

Margot never asks for anything. When you ask her, let’s say, what she wants for Christmas, she’ll say “nothing” because “I already have everything I need, I have all of you.”  Seriously, y’all.  She is my giver, my dish washer, my clothes folder, my bruised knee kisser.

She just gives and gives and gives without prompt or expectation of reward.

She’s an old soul.

I look up to her.

So, when she came up to me batting those big blue eyes, a fist of dollars in one hand and a flow chart in the other, asking me for a guinea pig, how could I say no?

But what I should have said no to was the guinea pig “sleep-over” the very next Friday.

Talk about a restless night.

Having four pre-teen girls over for a spend the night pales in comparison to the stress, gray hair, panic attacks, and reflux that creeps up while trying to keep two smelly rats from getting down to business, sneaking some nooky, playing chutes and ladders, mixing some Travolta with some Newton-John- you get the picture- while trying to have a glass of wine and catch up on TiVo.

See, as soon as our bald little fur ball came home, pooping and nibbling all the way, Margot promptly dubbed him Dr. Pepper, then picked up my cell and invited her friend Gloria and her guinea, Gucci, over right away for popcorn, kibble, lettuce remnants, carrot shavings, and a marathon movie showing of Eddie Murphy as Dr. Doolittle.

At first, I wasn’t really worried about Gucci.  At all. For one thing, Dr. P was only 3 months old, and from looks of it, a little wet behind the ears.  Meanwhile, Gucci was a well seasoned veteran of rodent life, a Barbara Walters of guinea pigdom, if you will, to our little own Tom Sawyer.  And let’s just say what Gucci lacked in manners and personal hygiene, she made up for in fur, fat, and lethargy -while Pepper, poor thing, was a mere hyper shrimp of a tiny thing.  It would be like Richard Simmons and Roseanne Barr were to take roll in the wood shavings; it just didn’t seem all that likely.

But what have we learned about the re-birth of jelly shoes, pasta makers, and shoulder pads?  Well, absolutely anything is possible.

Now, I don’t know about y’all but I learned about the birds and the bees at the middle school lunch table and watching after-school specials.  These days, we have doctors, nurses, and mental health professionals who start coming to school during 5^th grade PE to explain to our kids all about the birds and the bees.

Me, it doesn’t matter if they were a Harvard grad and a fellow at John-Hopkins, my kids come home and the same thing happens when I try and explain the ins and outs, the ying and the yang’s , the bow-chica-bow-wows of adulthood. They still look at me with a blank stare and say “I just don’t get it.”

So my expectations were not exactly high when I held my breath and entered the guinea pig concubine with a stick of incense and a few printed downloads from National Geographic for Kids.

“Girls,” I gasp for clean air, not finding any. “It’s really important Gucci and Dr. P keep a reasonable- I mean large, really, really large- distance between them.  Separate them with a blanket a pillow, a My Little Pony, a stick of gum.  Just whatever you do, don’t leave them alone, unsupervised…together.  You understand?

“10-4, Ms. Laura,” Gloria tells me, as she pulls Gucci out from under the covers- Dr. P nowhere to be found. “Is it okay though that we already used them to make a guinea pig tower and make  a run for the Gold at the 2013 Guinea Pig Olympics in wrestling?  I think Dr. Pepper won.”

My guess was Dr. P was already burrowed back in his pig pen liar enjoying a good cedar cigar.

I shred up my print outs into teeny tiny pieces and toss them into Gucci’s overnight travel case.   At least the newlyweds will have something to pee on.

Oh well, I tried. 

I called Rachel with the news.  Looks like we have 63 days to wait and see.  At least we both agree we are way too young to be great-grandmothers. 

Looking back, I also learned a whole heck of a lot that night.

I learned knowledge is power.  Ignorance is not always bliss and love means sometimes- well, a lot of times- having to say no.

But for now, old soul or not, I want my baby to hang on tight to these precious moments of childhood where a little, balding pint size fellow can still be a girl’s best friend.

Saying Thanks: Past, Present, and Future

Previously published The Brunswick News/Coastal Illustrated Nov. 19, 2009

 

                Volunteering in my daughter’s first grade class, I get to relearn some things I’ve had to toss out of my brain to make room for the more “important” stuff like my social security number and all my online passwords.  Just the other day, I was reminded that a long time ago, way before man created ESPN and Trivial Pursuit, the first Plymouth colonists gathered with their neighboring Indian friends to celebrate an ample harvest that has now become known as Thanksgiving.

                The main man around town, Governor William Bradford proclaimed to all “ye pilgrims, with your wives, and ye little ones do gather at ye meeting house, on ye hill, between the hours of 9 and 12 in the day time, on Thursday, November 29^th, the year of the lord one thousand six hundred and twenty-three and the third year since ye Pilgrims landed on ye Pilgrim Rock….”

                Trying embossing that place and date on a piece of Crane card stock these days and I can guarantee you won’t be able to afford the 10 pound turkey  or premium liquor.  But if we look on the bright side, we can always say thank goodness for the fruits of technology and the little ole thing called “ye” Evite.  This way we might be able to procure the 47 cups of peanut oil needed to fry the little sucker in the first place, as well as the 5 Brandy Alexanders needed to get through Aunt Shirley’s slide show of Eastern Europe.

                All of this got me thinking; how much have things really changed since that November 400 years ago?

                First, there’s the obvious: when the pilgrims headed up that hill to the meeting place, I’m certain when they arrived there wasn’t a single autumn checked tablecloth from the Martha Stewart Home Collection or a tissue paper turkey accordion in sight.  There was no Scattergories game to cause fighting between family members so vicious that it sends somebody packing for a premature departure.  There weren’t yet the airline tickets to buy that cost as much as college.  No one had the enjoyment of kicked seats and “Are we there, yet?”s for hours on end.  Last, but not least, there wasn’t one single, dirty Pyrex dish to soak and scour.

                We have made positive strides like having Hellman’s Mayonnaise and Ritz Cracker crumbs that we can pour all over our vegetables to our heart’s content.  We can gorge on sweet pecan pies with Tennessee bourbon and chocolate chips while ingesting, like my daughter does, Reddi-Wip straight from the can.  We may have to worry about cholesterol and Type 2 diabetes, but we don’t have to worry about diseases like small pox, polio, or that nasty gangrene.  And not only do we not have to shoot, pluck, and dress our own turkey; we can call the Fourth of May and pick one up the same day.

                There are however, some things that have stayed exactly the same.  Women still do most, if not all of the cooking.  And although we finally have forks, there are plenty of people around our table that still eat with their fingers.  But most importantly, Thanksgiving reminds us, like our predecessors, to focus not on the stuff we don’t have, but on the stuff we do.

                I always say that if you want to see simplicity and goodness, all you have to do is look at the world through the eyes of “ye little ones,” as Governor Bradford liked to call them.  I learned a lot while helping the first grade students write their own Thanksgiving Proclamations.  Here are some of the gems they shared.

Cason, Age 6:

                “I am thankful for my Dad because he takes the time to play with me and build Legos; and my Mom because she gives good hugs and is always nice to me.  I am thankful for my friends because they help me with things I can’t do and are fun to be with.”

 

Mary Ryals, Age 6:

                “I am thankful for my house because if we did not have a house we would have to live on the side of the road.  I am thankful for God because He is my father in Heaven.”

 

Malcolm, Age 7:

“I am thankful for the ocean because it has cool stuff in it.  I am thankful for my brother, Henry, and my sister, Emmie, because they annoy me but keep my life interesting.”

               

Maybe today in our fast paced, recession riddled, panicked world, we can, for a day at least, celebrate like the pilgrims before us the simple things like warmth, good food, health and love.  And as our wise Malcolm, in all the infinite wisdom of his seven years, reminds us: rejoice in family even if they do drive you crazy because, if nothing else, they’ll keep us entertained long after the leftovers (and Brandy Alexanders) are gone.

                Happy Thanksgiving, y’all!