Happy Thanksgiving!

I wish you all a day filled with family and good friends. As you sit around the table enjoying a good meal and each other, think of all your gifts and blessings and give thanks.

The morning is crisp, not yet winter cold. It is a beautiful morning filled with sunshine, a squint your eyes sunshine. The sky is a very dark blue without a cloud in sight. The air is so still nothing is moving. The leaves just sit at the ends of the branches. Their demise delayed. The dogs went out, and I followed. They ran around the yard, and I watched from the deck. I also retrieved my shoe, stolen by Nala, and a hat which came from my bedroom. I did a bit of trash pick-up while I was out.

On Thanksgiving morning when I was a kid, we’d all be sitting still in our pajamas in front of the TV watching the parade. We’d be noshing, as my mother would have said, on tangerines, mixed nuts in the shell and M&M’s. The aroma of the turkey would have already filled the house. My mother woke in the early morning to stuff it and put it in the oven. Every year it was a huge turkey, good for days of leftovers. My mother filled it with sage stuffing, still my favorite. While we watched the parade, my mother stayed in the kitchen peeling vegetables. Potatoes were always first, and there were plenty. My father’s asparagus, canned asparagus, was put in a small pan on the back burner. My mother peeled the small pearl onions for creamed onions, one of my favorite vegetables. Niblet corn and sometimes carrots filled out the menu. I remember the heat and steam when my mother opened the over to baste the turkey with butter and steal a bit of the crusty stuffing, hers by right of being the cook. On the table would be a paper Thanksgiving tablecloth. I remember it was the same very year, covered in turkeys and cornucopias. Even though the table was set with our usual plates, it looked festive and beautiful. Once the food was on the table, it became a groaning board. The pies waited in the kitchen for their turns, apple, maybe pumpkin and definitely lemon meringue. I always chose the lemon meringue.

I am so thankful for these memories filled with family.

Lord, ’tis Thy plenty-dropping hand

Lord, ’tis Thy plenty-dropping hand
That soils my land,
And giv’st me for my bushel sown
Twice ten for one.
All this, and better, Thou dost send
Me, to this end,
That I should render, for my part,
A thankful heart.

Robert Herrick

The morning is windy, cold and grim. The dead leaves at the end of the branches are falling, raining to the ground. The tallest branches of the old pine tree sway against the white grey sky. I didn’t just go out to get the paper. I also loaded trash bags into the trunk and picked-up yesterday’s mail. It was so cold my sweatshirt wasn’t enough. The wind blew right up my sleeves. I even think they billowed.

When Nala was among the missing, I called her from the yard. No Nala. I went outside to look for her. Henry followed. I called her over and over and checked out the yard. No Nala. I went upstairs to see if she was napping on my bed. Still no Nala. I kept calling. My voice gave away my panic. It was then Nala sauntered in through the dog door. I’m not enjoying her hide and seek game.

My dance card has a few events. Tonight is uke practice and tomorrow is my lesson. Tomorrow is also dump day and booster day. I have a chore list for today. I have to unearth my kitchen floor. I’m hoping to find artifacts. One chore is already crossed off the list. I’ve changed the cat litter and put it in the trunk. I’m exhausted.

When I was a kid, I had no chores. My mother made the beds, did the laundry, cooked meals, washed the dishes and cleaned the house. When I got home from school, my rumpled bed was made. The bureau drawers were filled with clean laundry. It was like magic.

On the night before I left for Ghana I called home to say good-bye. My mother told me she had folded the sweatshirt I had left on my bed and she had put it away. It was then my mother started to cry. I hated hearing her cry. She told me she realized that would probably be the last time she did that. It was the first time I had heard her cry about my leaving. It was the last time she folded my clothes.

The morning is grim, rainy and dark, but it is warm, 55˚. Nothing is moving in the stillness of the air. The rain will be with us all day. Already the wet leaves are matted to the ground and cover the deck. They stick to dog paws. I’m not venturing today. I’ll stay cozy and dry at home.

What was most exciting about Thanksgiving week was we only had two and a half days of school. We got out on Wednesday around 10:30. I remember doing no school work on Wednesday; instead, we made Thanksgiving cards or we colored turkeys. My favorite part to color was the feathers on the tail. I was a creative genius in the second grade. I remember using a couple of colors on the tail to soften the brown. Red was one of them. I added green grass at the bottom of the page. I remember clumps which looked like blades of grass. The cards always had a turkey on the front. Inside, the Happy Thanksgiving often slanted down the page. I couldn’t fit the whole message across. My mother always loved the cards and gushed compliments. The cards went on the table. They were works of art too beautiful for the fridge art museum. .

The morning is grim, rainy and dark, but it is warm, 55˚. Nothing is moving in the stillness of the air. The rain will be with us all day. Already the wet leaves are matted to the ground and cover the deck. They stick to dog paws. I’m not venturing today. I’ll stay cozy and dry at home.

When I was a kid, my mother made all the preparations for Thanksgiving. She shopped and bought gigantic turkeys which lasted for days. First was Thanksgiving dinner in the afternoon then a repeat that night. For our Friday dinner, we had open turkey sandwiches covered in gravy with stuffing and cranberry sauce on the side. I used to make my favorite sandwich: toasted bread, turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce and a dollop of mayo. My mother used to put butter on her turkey sandwiches. When the turkey was nearly bare, my father took over. He stripped the turkey of almost all the meat, and my mother made turkey salad. The swan song, so to speak, of the turkey was soup. The bone and the rest of the meat went into the stock pot to boil. Meanwhile my mother chopped carrots, onions and celery. After the carcass was removed and ceremoniously put into the trash, my mother added the vegetables then finally the noodles. My father loved turkey soup. His mother made it with rice, but he was perfectly happy with the noodles. I never got tired of the turkey. It had so many different transformations, all of them wonderfully tasty.

Today is cloudy, even a bit ominous. The sky is getting darker. The white clouds have been replaced by deep gray clouds. The dead leaves still hanging from branches twist and turn, fluttering when the wind blows. Some drop and add to the pile in the backyard. When Nala runs, I can hear the crackling of the leaves beneath her paws. Henry saunters.

When I was a kid, many Sunday afternoons we’d watch a movie. I remember sitting on the rug in front of the TV. Lassie Comes Home was one of those movies. I even think it was the first one. Why I remember I have no idea. Memory drawers can be tricky. Sometimes the simplest memories are saved. I can often close my eyes and see places from long ago but not where I put my glasses just this morning. I remember all the houses on the walk to school, the same walk I took for eight years. It is etched in my memories. Most of those houses are gone now, but I remember each of them. At one house I shoveled a woman’s walk. I was with my friend but she gave up and went home. I finished. The woman gave me money and a cookie. I walked across the tracks. A station house used to sit beside the tracks. It was where they raised and lowered the gate. Another house was where a friend lived. It looked a bit like a cottage and was red and white. There was a trellis. The big house on the corner always had kids’ toys in the yard. I remember a doll carriage. At the stop sign, we all waited. The street was busy on school mornings. From there it was a three minute walk to the school yard.

I like to roam. When I was kid, it was on my bicycle. Now I roam in my car. I just ride for the sake of the ride. The beach calls me on those days. I like to watch the noisy gulls circle and the waves hit the shore. I used to take my dogs to the beach. Shauna hated to get wet, but she would squat and pee at the water’s edge. Maggie, another of my boxers, preferred woods to water. She was the best dog off leash. If she got far ahead of me, she’d patiently wait until I caught up. She loved the path near what is now the dog park in Dennis. Nala needs a leash.

I’m revving up for Christmas. Yesterday I did a bit of shopping, small stocking stuffer toys for the grands. I ordered their Christmas books. All but one arrived today. I shopped at Oshkosh for thermals. My oldest grand, a grand nephew, is fifteen. I shop differently for him. His thermal came from Old Navy. No Christmas book, I bought him The Outsiders. Nothing says Merry Christmas more than The Outsiders!

The morning is chilly, 43˚, but it is a pretty morning. The sun is bright in a deep blue sky peppered with a few white clouds. The dogs stay out long enough for me to worry. Most of the leaves still on the trees are brown, and a bit of a breeze sends them fluttering to the ground. Soon enough the trees will be bare. Winter is impatiently waiting in the wings.

By 8:30 my morning had already been busy. Gwen got her insulin. The vet called with the results of Gwen’s last test. Her glucose is still high. We are upping her dosage. I asked if I am doing something wrong. The vet reassured me I wasn’t. I called the Cape Cod Times as I had received no paper. The on-line page said I had no account. I called and got a woman who spoke her patter so quickly I needed it repeated. She said I had two accounts. I responded by saying neither account got a paper. She assured me I’d get one shortly. That doesn’t happen, and when I told her that she said she was sorry. I wish there were no scripted responses. They sound ingenuous. I don’t expect my paper. My kitchen floor had paw prints but not muddy prints though they were the color of mud. I doubt you need your imagination to figure out the composition of those paw prints. I cleaned the floor.

I’m watching the Thanksgiving parade in Plymouth. It reminded me of my first Memorial Day Parade when I was seven. I marched in my brownie uniform with my troop. When I got home, I told my mother everyone was out of step but me.

In this parade, there are several alumni drum and bugle corps. They are military-like in their marching, and they play the music I remember from my drill team days. Three of my cousins march. I am aching with nostalgia.

Nala is at it again. She destroyed an old papier-mâché puppet I have had for years. I also caught her trying to make off with a Donald Duck puppet. She made it to the yard where she played keep-a-way. I followed and found one of her toys and a fairly large book with the covers torn. I convinced her to drop Donald for her own toy. I foolishly thought the puppets were safe. The bedroom is now off-limits until I figure how to make everything Nala safe.

Today I have a few errands. I’m happy to get out of the house.

Last night it rained. I could hear it on the roof and windows. The warm day disappeared into a colder night, but it didn’t last. The morning is beautiful, a fall morning with sun, a strong breeze and a beautiful blue sky. The high will be 49˚, almost tropical for this time of year.

When I was a kid, I didn’t count the days until Thanksgiving. I reserved my counting for the days before Christmas. Thanksgiving was a half week of school and dinner. My father and grandfather always went to the local high school’s traditional Thanksgiving game though none of us even went to school there. I don’t remember about my grandfather, but my father loved football. He was a Giants fan before the Patriots existed. I remember him watching the game on Sundays on our old black and white TV. The only name I remember is Y.A. Tittle.

Last night, or rather when it had just turned into today, at 12:30, the dogs went out. I watched from the back door, and when I noticed Nala stayed on the deck, I went outside to encourage her. Henry finished and went inside then Nala went through the dog door into the house. I went to follow but the door handle had locked. This has happened before, but I was inside each time it did. I banged the door handle but nothing happened except my frustration grew. The dogs were inside watching and listening. The front door was locked. All the houses around me were dark, no help there. I looked for something to use as a screwdriver so I could get the handle off but had no luck. I tried to take off the dog door but couldn’t. Nala joined me outside and watched, highly entertained I suspect. I banged the handle and screamed in frustration. All I could figure was I’d need to break a window on the cellar door. I screamed again and banged the handle three or four times. I envisioned being stuck outside on a cold night with the dogs inside comfy and warm. I pulled at the bottom of the door knowing it would do no good, but I had to keep trying. My hand hurt from banging the hands over and over, but I banged it again then tried the handle. Give me a halleluia! The door opened. A Thanksgiving miracle! I’m taping the lock.

The morning is a delight. At 62˚, the day has a September feel. A warm wind is blowing. The set of chimes hanging from a low branch are tinkling and sweetening the air. My backyard is covered in pine needles and leaves. When the dogs run, I hear the crunching of dead leaves under their paws. Nala is faster and noisier.

I have sad news. My slippers have gone to their heavenly reward. The holes had gotten bigger, the backs stayed flat, and my big toes were totally exposed. Reluctantly I put the slippers in the basket. They served me well.

Other than a lab test for Gwen tomorrow, my dance card is empty. The usual, laundry and trash, can wait for the meantime. Neither needs attention. I have a couple of books waiting to be read, and I even have bonbons.

When I was a kid, I loved the holidays. We had traditions for each of them. Thanksgiving meant watching the Macy’s parade and snacking on tangerines, mixed nuts and M&M’s. My mother put the turkey in the oven early. Her sage stuffing jutted out at one end. I later learned it was the butt end, not the neck. I thought that was gross at first, but the lure of the stuffing was greater than the butt end. My mother stayed in the kitchen most of the morning. She peeled vegetables and opened the can of asparagus for my father. I remember the aroma of turkey filling the house and the windows in the kitchen steaming. I remember one pot which usually held the potatoes. It had a few dents. I can even remember where the dents were. That pot moved with us.

Thanksgiving, of course, wasn’t celebrated in Ghana, but we celebrated. We even had a turkey, the first one I ever remember seeing in Ghana. The farmer didn’t want to part with it but gave in for the money, a good amount of money. We also had a few chickens. We piled them in a big trough like pan and began to pluck them, a skill I haven’t used since then. I’ll never forget when the chickens, without their heads, jumped out of the trough. It was the adage come to life. I knew it was their nervous systems, but that didn’t make it any less freaky. For the rest of the meal we had fufu pounded by students, whatever veggies we could find in the market and pies. That was the first time I ever made a pie. I made pawpaw pies. They were delicious.

This Thanksgiving I have ordered dinner to be delivered, but I’ll start my day traditionally by watching the parade and eating tangerines and M&M’s.

Last night was cold. This morning is still cold. A strong wind is blowing the dead leaves to the ground. The sky is the deepest blue. The sunlight is sharp, but the lower parts of the trees in the backyard are in shadows. The sun doesn’t quite shine so brightly there. The day is a delight but best seen through the windows of a warm and cozy house.

My cleaning lady came yesterday. She loves Nala, thinks she’s a hoot. While I wasn’t paying attention, Nala stole a variety of items from my bedroom and took them outside. I saved a few but most were in pieces in the yard. She follows Maria and tries to play with the vacuum. Henry barks at first but then ignores her. The house is wonderfully clean, free of dust, tumbleweeds and dog prints. She was here about four hours.

I finished my book last night, State of Terror by Hillary Rodham Clinton and Louise Perry. I thoroughly enjoyed it. Eric Dunn, the president of the previous administration, is Trump not even well disguised. The main character, Ellen Adams, is the Secretary of State. Those are the only teasers I’ll offer.

When I was a kid, I always wrote a letter to Santa. One year we got a telegram from Santa telling us to be good as Christmas was coming. It was a real telegram. I knew it was really Santa who sent it. I still have it in a scrapbook I kept when I was young. When my sister’s boys were little, I sent them a report card. On it was a list of all the good things they needed to do and be before Christmas. If they behaved, a gold star was placed next to the good thing they did, but if they were bad, a black star was placed on the spot. The report card was to be left under the tree for Santa to see on Christmas Eve. My oldest nephew, Ryan, would beg and cry and ask for a second chance to keep those black stars at bay. The report card worked. My sister loved it.

My Thanksgiving dinner is ordered. It will be delivered in the morning of the big day. I’m going to start with shrimp cocktail and dates filled with goat cheese and wrapped in bacon. The rest of the meal is traditional with all the fixin’s. Apple crisp is dessert. Last year I had enough for two meals. I loved the leftovers.

Last night was cold. I was reading in bed when the rain started around 12:30. I fell asleep to the sound of the drops hitting the roof. Henry woke me up early, 6:55, the crack of dawn for me. He wanted out. Nala followed us. I waited to let Henry in then went back to bed. Henry didn’t follow. Nala came to bed but no Henry. It was 7:30 by then so I went downstairs and Henry was at the back door. He drives me crazy picking and choosing when he’ll come in by himself.

The morning is pretty. The day will be sunny and in the 50’s. With no wind, it will feel warm. I did go to the dump yesterday with a filled trunk and a backseat loaded with boxes and papers.

My nephew Justin’s baby boy was born on November 11th. Justin looks so delighted in every picture. One e-mail he sent me said he couldn’t wait to be a dad. He sent pictures from the hospital. Grayson, his son, is adorable.

When I was a kid, we all walked to school. I lived about 3 long blocks away. The school was in an enclave of sorts. Across the street was the convent. On one side was the rectory where the priests lived. Beside that was the church. Later, the parish bought a house which had meeting rooms and a small library. The new school was perpendicular to the rectory in the back. The school yard had a bicycle rack and two baskets. It was the church parking lot on Sundays. I attended that school for eight years.

My school in Ghana had houses for tutors, the name for teachers in Ghana, dorms, outside shower stalls, an outside bathroom, a cafeteria, a huge beehive oven for baking bread, a wooden house, a library and two classroom blocks. The sports field was below the buildings. Track events were held there. There was an outside netball court. Netball is a woman’s game similar in some ways to basketball. The court had small stones or cinders of some sort as a base, and there was blood from scrapes if you fell on the court. That didn’t bother the players. They just kept playing. Volleyball was played under trees in an area cleared for the net. The school buildings were made of concrete and had metal roofs except for one building made of wood, an anomaly in Ghana, too many wood eating bugs. I don’t know anything about the wood house. The school was off the road to Navrongo and down a small dirt road, a rutted road. After all these years, I can still close my eyes and see every part of that school. I remember it bustled each morning and afternoon. It was quiet during the day when classes were held and at night for study hours. Those two+ years have their own memory drawers maybe even some neon lights. That school was home.

The morning is cold. I wanted to stay bundled under the covers, but it was time for Gwen’s shot, and the dogs wanted out. The heat was on the night setting so I turned it up to warm the house. It feels cozy now.

Henry came in the dog door four times yesterday. He banged the door for me to let him inside three times. This morning it’s one and one. I think I’m being used.

When I was a kid, I liked Sunday the least. My bike stayed in the cellar. I had to go to church. Wandering was limited to the fields below my house and the backyard because I needed to be around for dinner, but I didn’t mind too much as Sunday dinner was the nicest meal of the week, and the only meal we called dinner, a fancy name for a fancy meal. The crowning glory of Sunday dinner was the roast. If it was chicken, my mother stuffed it with her sage dressing. If it was roast beef, my mother put cut onions on the top for flavor. I used to try to steal the onions. We always had mashed potatoes and gravy and a couple of vegetables including peas, my favorite. The whole family was always together for dinner.

When I was in Ghana, Sunday dinner was unusual. It was the only day of the week we ate food sent from home. I remember beef stroganoff kits and macaroni and cheese. Other times we’d ride our motos into town and buy dinner from the aunties along the road or from chop bars in the lorry park. From the aunties, we’d buy fried yams and kelewele or fried plantain and whatever meat we’d find. In the lorry park, we’d buy fufu and soup or stew. I remember light soup and okra stew, my two favorites. We’d bring our own pots, fill them with dinner then bungee them to the backs of our motos. We were careful riding home.

Sunday at school was also special. A service was held in the morning. The girls wore their church dresses, three pieces of traditional cloth: a top, a dress skirt and a cloth around the skirt. Each class had its own cloth design. In the afternoons, the girls wore their own fancy dresses. The upper classes could walk to town. Photographers often came in the afternoon so the girls could have their pictures taken. I have a few of those pictures given to mw by the students. They were always in black and white.

Today I am going to the dump. My car is nearly filled with bags and boxes. I might even stop to buy dinner. It is Sunday after all.