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!

The Heart of the Matter

previously published in Coastal Illustrated Feb. 8, 2012

“Go to your bosom; knock there, and ask what your heart doth know.” – William Shakespeare

I don’t know about y’all, but I love to read a great love story.  Real, imagined, immortalized, tragic, you name it, and I will immerse myself in one at any given time, especially if it involves a warm bath and a good pinot.  I don’t care if “real” love will ever match up to that of Romeo and Juliet, Catherine and Heathcliff, or Sir Lancelot and Guinevere.  It will not deter me that a modern day love story will hardly play out like the love affairs of Tristan and Isolde, or Anthony and Cleopatra.

I am in love with love in all its tortured forms.  Now, I will tell you it’s not really a good idea to fall on your own sword -if you have one- or have an asp bite you- if you knew where to find one- in case something goes wretchedly wrong.  I just love the notion that there is the kind of love out there that people have abdicate thrones, waged war, and built a seventh wonder of the world for, just to be together in this world or the next. 

I will never give up thinking that true love does exist, even if people tell me it can only be found in fiction and folk lore.  See, I know it is real because of the very real love story of Gordon and Norma and what happens when it comes down to the simple matters of the heart.

Gordon Yeager, 94, and his wife Norma, 90, from Iowa, had been married 72 years last October when they left home in their car for a trip into town.  They had been teenage sweethearts and rarely, if ever, left each other's side since they were married a mere12 hours after Norma graduated high school in 1939.  That fall day was no different, except Gordon accidently pulled out in front of an oncoming car, which resulted in a collision that sent them both to the hospital in critical condition.  When the doctors realized there was nothing they could do, they moved Gordon and Norma into a room together where they held hands across their hospital beds.    

But that day didn’t turn out much differently than all their other days. They were still together till the end. 

When Gordon died at 3:38 PM that afternoon, Norma was still there, holding his hand. But even though he had passed, his heart was still beating through the heart monitor.  Norma’s heart was literally beating through his.

“Dad used to say that a woman is always worth waiting for,” Dennis Yeager, their son said.  “Dad waited an hour for her and held the door for her.”

On that day in October, Norma did not keep him waiting long.  She died at 4:48PM, precisely one hour later.

Since Aristotle and the early Greeks, the heart was believed to be the main organ that controlled all emotions including, and most importantly, love.  Because of this conviction, some of the greatest love stories, sonnets, and plays were written.  The heart wasn’t simply an organ though, but a vessel of expression, passion, heartbreak and pain.  That is why, to this day, we still wear our wedding bands on the fourth finger of our left hands- over the vena amoris.  This vein was believed to be the single one that ran directly to the heart.

We now know that all of our veins in all of fingers lead to the heart, just as we know our brain is in charge of the central nervous system and likes to tell our bodies, including our heart, what to do. 

But the brain, as logical as it may be, has no nerves- it doesn’t feel.  It might send the signals to tell the body what it is experiencing, but our hearts carry the load.

My heart, not my brain, beat faster when I met my husband for the first time.

My heart, just my heart, literally swelled when I stared into both of my children eyes after I gave birth.

My heart felt empty when I lost my friend, Bert, a few months ago.  It still does.

It has constricted and seized and grown every day since it was given to me.

If I had to pick my heart versus my head, I think I would pull for my heart every time.

And I don’t know about y’all, but when it comes to love, I hope mine turns out to be more like the love of Norma and Gordon- that it’s an eternal, flowing kind of love that can only be measured and understood by the beatings of both hearts; together, forever and always.    

Mr. Funny Valentine

Do y’all remember that quote from Rosie O’Donnell’s character in Sleepless in Seattle? After reading a letter she and Meg Ryan assumed came from Mr. Sleepless himself instead of his eight year old son, she reminds us “verbal ability is a highly overrated thing in a guy, and it’s our pathetic need for it that gets us into to so much trouble in the first place.” Touché, Rosie. I couldn’t have said it better myself.
Hence, man created of Valentine’s Day. On this occasion, there’s no need to try and articulate your feelings because someone else out there can do it for you. It’ll cost you, of course, because nothing is free except for unwanted advice, acne, and those flyers some phantom person you’ll never see puts on the windshield of your car.
Having trouble telling your significant other how you really feel about her? All you have to do is give her a box of candy conversation hearts and she’ll know she’s your “One and Only,” your “True Love” and “Baby Girl.” Or for the more modern gal, she’ll feel special knowing she’s “Too Cool,” a “Rock Star,” and just flat out “Huggable.”
You could even buy her a dozen roses and a card like the one I picked out for myself one year that says “Honey, even though there have been times when I’m sure you wanted to . . . Thanks for never strangling me in my sleep.” Not necessarily romantic or particularly arousing, but it does get right to the point.
Please don’t think I’m being too cynical, because if I’m anything (besides a nervous eater and a horrible speller), I’m a realist. I don’t expect my man to shoot off love missives the likes of those written by Byron, Shelley, and Shakespeare. Let’s face it, if your main squeeze sent you a love letter like Keats sent to his amour, Fanny Brawne, in 1819, saying “I could be a martyr for my Religion. You are my religion. I could die for that. I could die for you;” you’d probably take out a restraining order.
Personally, if my husband came home and said, “Sit in my lap, my love, and tell me of your day,” I’d laugh really loudly before asking him if he hit his head on something hard. I guess I’m just wondering what’s wrong with wanting a happy medium concerning verbal expression. I’m afraid my guy falls into the less is more or open mouth insert foot type of partner communication.
Here’s a little medley for you:
“Laaaaaaura,” my husband yells from somewhere inside the house. I finally find him in the kitchen, standing by the fridge in a stained polo and mismatched socks, holding an all almost empty bottle of ketchup. “So, I guess you’ve retired,” he tells me.
Or how about this one:
“You might not want to wear that,” he says 2.2 seconds before we leave the house.
“Why, does it make me look fat?” I ask.
Here’s where most men know better, but like the Terminator after being run over by an eighteen wheeler (or in my husband’s case, being hit over the head with a 12 pound purse), he just keeps right on going: “Well, yeah. It’s kind of tight around your hips,” he’ll say back, real matter of fact like, before strolling out the door.
But my personal favorite goes like this:
“Hey, hon.” I say, finding him in the den after coming home from getting my hair highlighted. “How does it look?”
“Like the two-toned Buick station wagon my mom used to drive in the 80’s,” he answers before turning back to the Golf Channel and a half-eaten bowl of Fruity Pebbles. “Hey Farah, since you’re up can you grab me some more milk and half a banana.”
I’m telling you, my man definitely has a way with words. But as I sit here writing this, I think to myself that I really should cut him some slack. Thanks to MTV, Snoop Dog, and the male cast of Jersey Shore, romance and poetry aren’t really part of a man’s vernacular anymore, so can we really blame them for not thinking in prose or that annoying iambic pentameter?
Besides it’s not what’s in the words but in the heart that really matters, and my husband truly has a heart of gold. But enough about all this sweet talk seeing as it makes him break out in hives. Plus, there is a special on Charmin Ultra at the CVS so I better get going if I want to make carpool.
Oh, speaking of my husband, I just called to see if there’s something he might need. It looks like along with a case of TP, I’ll be picking up a stick of deodorant and my own Valentine’s Day card again since, as my hubby points out, I’m already heading in that direction anyway.
So to my own little Lord Byron, Rodney Dangerfield, and Jerry Lewis, all rolled into one, Happy Valentine’s Day, baby, and I love you! By the way, keep ‘em coming -- I need all the material I can get.

Domestic Revolution

The Fourth of July has always been one of my favorite holidays.

 What’s not to like? The overwhelming swell of pride, the flags secured to porches, the cute little Jell-O molds made out of blue and red gelatin with Cool Whip lovingly smudged in between. It’s the time of year when everyone is reminded of what we all have in common, to preserve what we hold dear: those precious concepts of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

The other morning when I was pursuing the not so happy part of my existence by scraping the crusted toothpaste off my daughter’s sink with a blowtorch and an ice pick, I started thinking about what it might have been like that July back in 1776 at the Hancock household.

John would be coming home from a hard day's work, you know signing the Declaration of Independence and all,* happily swinging open the front door, tossing his papers on the sideboard and yelling, “Honey, I’m home.” He smiles as he takes in the house he’s built for his family, the smells coming from the kitchen . . . all the hard work. He even allows himself to think about a glass of brandy.

“This,” he thinks to himself, “is what freedom’s all about.” As he reaches for the snifter, he hears a loud crash from the kitchen and sees his wife, Dorothy, storming for the door. Before poor John can even say, “Guess what I did today?” she thrusts the baby into his arms, rips her flour splattered apron from her waist, and tells him she’s taking the horse and buggy into town. You know what I‘m thinking? Dorothy had her own idea of freedom.

Now, all you history buffs out there, just allow me my fantasy. I’m sure they had a little help in all things domestic since John was one of the richest men in the thirteen colonies, kind of like a modern day Bill Gates. Not to mention his sweet Dolly probably came with a sweet dowry. Me, I came with an ‘87 Mazda 626 with a bad transmission and an overdue phone bill. But even though we started out poor in riches, I, at least, was rich with the idea of a marriage full of independence and equality and after fourteen years, I still don’t know how I messed that one up.

“The cat threw up again,” my husband says as he steps over a hairball the size of a guinea pig.

"Where’s the Sweet ‘N Low?” he yells from the cupboard, his mouth so close to the pink box he could make out with it if he wanted to.

Truth be told, now that I think about it, my husband has never had our kids by himself overnight . . . ever . . . in the nine years since they entered our lives. There was one night I went on a girls’ trip, but he had his mommy spend the night and invited the boys over for poker.

My mind wanders back to 1776 again and this time I think about Georgia’s own signer of that historic document, Button Gwinnett. I picture him riding his horse back to his adopted home south of Savannah, on St. Catherine’s Island, tears welling up in his eyes. He thinks of his family waiting for him and how he can’t wait to tell them his own signature just sent the ultimate message to his native Britain to take their taxes and tyranny and put it where the sun doesn’t shine.

Meanwhile, his wife Anne curses under her breath as she finds yet another rattler on the imported rug in the middle of the main parlor. Before she can yell at her girls for leaving the front door open again, three hormone-infused corseted teens almost knock her down fighting over a pale pink gown with the orange organza rosettes sewn all over. This is where she gets down on her knees and prays that this will be the last time Button will leave her alone in this humid, hot, godforsaken swamp of a place ever again.

It looks to me like some things will never change, I think as I put down the blowtorch and move on to the girls’ bedrooms with a safety mask and a 30-gallon Hefty bag. This is also about the time I start to ponder the fact that my husband called to say he needed to play another eighteen holes because “it wasn’t that hot out, after all.”

All kidding aside though, what would we have done without these domestic women of the American Revolution? Even when their opinions about politics and war were considered unfounded and unnecessary in the first place, they still endured long separations, were left alone to run their households and raise their children, and were ultimately isolated to face an uncertain and volatile future.

Look at John Adam’s wife, Abigail. She raised three small children all by herself during the Revolutionary War, melted her pewter spoons over the stove for bullets when the ammunition was running low, and provided something to drink and a bed to sleep in for soldiers passing through town.

It seems to me that when we celebrate the Fourth of July and all that it means to us as a nation, we should also think of the great women behind the great men of the Continental Congress who drafted and signed the Declaration of Independence. These women chose fortitude over fear, freedom over tyranny, and independence over oppression just as their husband did.

They’ve left us all a lasting legacy of hope and self-determination, not by writing the very words that have shaped our philosophy of what it means to be an American, but by living it.

So this Fourth of July, while I’m hauling all the American flags from the attic and thawing out the Cool-Whip, as I’m doing thirteen loads of laundry in honor of the thirteen original colonies, I’ll think of these women and all of the ones who came before and after them. The fact that I still have a lot of work to do in achieving my own state of personal domestic independence doesn’t seem quite as important anymore. Just taking the best care of our children, families, and communities is what matters most in the end.

Think about it this way. We all know who really runs the country anyhow, and unlike Abigail, Anne, and Dorothy, we don’t have to wear undergarments up to our armpits while we’re doing it.

Happy Fourth, Y’all!

*In the quest for accuracy, most historians believe the wording of the Declaration of Independence was voted on and approved July 4, 1776. It was actually signed on August 2, 1776.

A Picture Perfect Christmas

I’m not a perfectionist by nature. Except for the last 31 days of the year, when I seem to suddenly morph into one. It’s as if those the first 334 days don’t count. During that time, I don’t seem to mind so much if the day’s events and household chores don’t turn out the way I want them to. So why does Christmas have to be so picture perfect?

Why do I not care if my pots, pans, and Pyrex are stacked neatly in my cabinet next to the stove, but the ornaments hanging from the tree must do so in descending order?

Why do I put off hanging up my clothes until I can’t see the bottom floor of my closet, but every stocking, ribbon, wreath, and holly must be hung carefully and with military precision?

Why do I rush, race, scour, and search with such intensity to find the ideal gift, the exact right size, the perfect scent when the other 334 days I simply walk by something and say, “This will do,” without much thought?

I used to think that during the holidays my home was supposed to be pretty, smell pretty, because Christmas comes around but once a year. If it happened every single day, let’s face it, it would cease to be special. So for one month a year, I try and make my surroundings look as lovely, as homey, as festive, and as warm as I possibly can.

But along the way, I have learned these things that we prop, plump, and place on our mantles, doors, and trees are in themselves the very objects that make our lives special, not just for one month, but actually for all 365 days of the year. It’s just that, for that one month at least, we get to dust them off, lug them from the basement, trim a tree with them, and display them in all of their glittery beauty and pine-scented glory.

They represent the most basic values in our lives. The stockings we hang so meticulously remind us of Saint Nicholas and of charitable giving and compassion for those less fortunate. The lights we drape around our trees remind us of how Christ gave light to the world and the nativity beautifully illustrates the story of his birth. The mistletoe signifies the healing power of love and the Yule log will never let us forget about the importance of hard work and the consequent celebration of it.

Most of us have traditions and symbols of our own that we display at Christmas. Mine is an orange. Yep, as in the fruit. It took me many, many, many years to figure out its significance in my life around this time of the year, but I finally did. Every single Christmas, up until her death eleven years ago, my grandmother gave us an orange as a Christmas present. That would be it.

Well, she always threw some cash in with it, but each and every year she would place a shiny, plump orange in a white box with tissue paper inside it and wrap it in festive paper and top it with a bow. As a kid, I never thought much of it. I’d just push the orange to the side and tuck my twenty dollar bill in my pocket. Sometimes, if we were lucky, she would wrap one of those chocolate oranges, the ones you break open and peel the chocolate pieces off like wedges of a fruit. I still crave those every Christmas now that she’s gone.

One day, not long before she passed, I finally asked her what was up with all the oranges. So she told me her story; a story of growing up one of seven children during the Great Depression in a period of time and space that, along with World War II, would fundamentally shape the rest of her life. She never could understand the plastic toys, the limited edition action figures, the $100 dollar cashmere sweaters; things to be used or worn briefly, then tossed aside, forgotten and unimportant. She knew we were kids and liked toys so she added some money into our orange box, but she never bought us such things. We would have to buy them ourselves.

See, for her and her family, there were no fancy presents or store bought decorations to hang on trees. It was simple. There wasn’t a choice really, but still it never occurred to them. Christmas was about being together. It was about decorating a small pine tree from the woods with pinecones and paper angels. It was about waking up on Christmas and finding an orange and a piece of chocolate under the tree, something rare and wonderful. It was about being together through the toughest of times and celebrating their good fortune to have each other.

So, hearing that, it finally made sense to me, this giving of an orange. I remember my parents putting them in each other’s stockings. My Dad would receive them from his patients who could afford little else but wanted to say thank you at Christmas time. We always had oranges around during my childhood holidays, much like a wreath, or poinsettias or an angel set atop a Christmas tree. To me, this piece of fruit symbolizes the sweetness of the little things, good health, resilience in hard times, and the permanence of family. It’s something I hope to pass along to other generations too, just like my grandmother did.

All year long, we walk right by all sorts of things that should hold a particular meaning to us without even a blink. We are busy after all. But on Christmas, we get to relish them, display them from the rooftops, and rejoice loudly around these tangible things that represent a greater purpose, a greater meaning.

It’s the time of the year when we celebrate together the birth of Jesus and a voice that will forever speak and remind us of forgiveness, compassion, responsibility to humanity, faith, and love. In what sometimes can feel like an imperfect world that sounds pretty perfect to me.

Merry Christmas, everyone!