Today will be short. I am taking a break today and tomorrow. Tuesday after uke practice I was walking to my car when I hit the deck, the paved deck. My face hit the ground first. I just laid there not moving because of the injury. People came out and immediately took care of me. They helped me sit up, provided tissues for the wound and called 911. I was checked in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. One of the guys took my picture with my phone for posterity.

While I was being wheeled into the emergency room, every person looked.

My nose has lost a layer of skin and is so red Santa could have me lead his sleigh if Rudolph needs a rest. My upper lip is missing a bit and is still swollen, and there is damage to my teeth. The doctor couldn’t stitch because of the lip. Nothing broke. I was in the hospital until 1.

The first night was tough, but last night was better. I am heading to the dentist today and my doctor tomorrow. My face is still scary, and it hurts. My friends have rallied. One friend stayed with me at the hospital and drove me home. Another brought ice cream, and he and his wife brought my car home. Today my hospital friend is driving me to the dentist. I’m figuring I can drive tomorrow.

My face is still a bit scary looking, but it does feel better each day. I am on the mend.

The morning is drab, cloudy, windy and chilly. Showers are predicted. But despite the ugly weather, I don’t get to stay close to hearth and home today. I have to go out later as it is shot day again, pneumonia and shingles this time, the last of my shots. I also have uke practice tonight. Our first Christmas concert is tomorrow. Tis’ the season!

When I was kid, snow was an opportunity. Lots of snow meant sitting around the kitchen table listening for the fire station horn to blow to announce no school. We didn’t have it streaming on the TV back then. We had the horn. After the celebration for no school, we’d layer to go out into the snow. I wore a shirt, a sweater and my winter coat. I would cram my shoes into my boots. I’d grab a hat and my mittens then I’d haul my sled out of the cellar, but it was easy to carry, not like my bike. I lived on a great hill for sledding. It was tall and steep. About midway down, my sled would gain speed. At the bottom of the hill there was a road, and we’d post lookouts watching for the cars. A good run meant crossing the road onto the field across the street where the sled would stop in a pile of snow. I’d stay sledding until my mittens were caked with snow and my lips were turning blue.

After sledding all day, a cup of cocoa was the best warm-up. My mother used to put the cocoa in the cup, add milk, stir them together then add hot water. On the top she’d put a spoonful of Marshmallow Fluff. I remember it would melt a bit then spread and cover the whole top of the cocoa. It would also cover my upper lip.

My sister and I have discussed our Christmas trees. She is the slave of three cats, two of whom would love the challenge of the tree. I have Nala, enough said! My sister has decided to decorate her tree with only lights. I’m thinking I’ll put baubles, colored round ornaments of little value, on the bottom of my tree. I’m hoping Nala will might leave them alone, but I could be wrong. She is the consummate thief.

Late last night it poured. The wind screamed. Windows shook. I heard a branch fall. Both dogs sat up and listened, their ears cocked to the sound, but hearing nothing else, they settled in and went back to sleep. The dogs are my barometer for things that go bump in the night. If they go back to sleep, all is well.

Today is a delight. It is 54° with a bright sun. The breeze is strong enough to sway the pine branches but not enough to cool the day. The oak trees still have brown dead leaves waiting to fall. The dogs love this weather. They are outside for so long I check the yard just to make sure they haven’t escaped. In my head, I know they are still in the yard as they are not escape artists like Gracie was, but I still need a bit of reassurance so I check.

When I was a kid, the time between Thanksgiving and Christmas seemed interminable. We’d lie on the rug and pour through the Sears catalog circling and uncircling our Christmas wishes. Once the turkey was history, we’d beg for our tree, but my father always said it was too soon after Thanksgiving, but we’d badger him relentlessly, and, under the pressure, he’d finally give in. My father always picked out the tree. I remember him hauling it from the car into the house, putting it in the stand, moving the tree back and forth in the stand until it was straight and then tightening the screws with one hand while holding the tree with the other. The tree always went in the same corner between two windows. To me every tree was beautiful though my father was more interested in price, not so much in full branches. There were always holes, but we didn’t notice. We had our tree.

The tree would stand for a while to let the branches fall. The house smelled of pine. It smelled of Christmas.

Last night was winter, down to the 20’s. Today we are back to fall. It is in the 40’s. There is a strong every now and then wind which blows all the leaves and pine needles across the deck and yard. I can’t even see the driveway. When the dogs run around the backyard, I can hear the leaves crackling.

Today I’m taking you back to Ghana for a bit.

When I first met the principal of my school, Georgina Intsiful, it was during training, after our live-ins, when we were to spend a week at each of our schools meeting our principals, seeing our houses and opening checking accounts. Mrs. Insitful drove a small blue car. She was a bit of an imposing woman, tall and broad. She sat up straight in that little car. When I was sitting outside one morning, she stopped at my house. She asked me if I had brought my Bible. When I was packing, a Bible had never come to mind. I was thinking more of sheets and towels. I told her that I hadn’t, but I had parts of it memorized. She didn’t say a word.

Sundays at my school started with a service in the cafeteria with lines of chairs and the tables removed. My students wore their formal clothes, three piece dresses with a top, bottom and a cloth around their waists. Each class wore a unique pattern made from Ghanaian cloth. The sermons were given by clerics from the different churches in town. I didn’t usually attend. One day, Georgina came and asked me to give the sermon the next Sunday. I said yes which I immediately regretted.

That week before my sermon I couldn’t figure out what to say. I dismissed sin, heaven and hell and everything in between. I figured those belonged to the churches. First, I chose the hymns then finally I figured out a sermon. It was based on an Aesop fable, The Boy Who Cried Wolf. I talked about lying and liars who aren’t believed. I thought I was eloquent, but I suspect my principal wished I had brought a Bible.

Today looks like yesterday, but the bright sun is deceiving. We are in the 30’s where we’ll stay all day. I have no plans for today. I’m thinking a sloth day. I do those sorts of days quite well.

When I was kid, Saturday was my favorite day of the week. The morning was leisurely. I’d wake up sort of early, grab my Rice Krispies, add milk and sugar then plop myself on the rug in front of the TV to watch cartoons, series like Tin Tin Tin and sometimes serials. The serial I remember the best is Gene Autry’s Phantom Empire. I can still picture scenes from it, especially the long elevator which took them deep underground. After a while, it was time for me to hit the road. In warm weather I’d grab my bike and take off for parts unknown. In cooler or snowy weather I’d walk. Sometimes I went ice skating either at Recreation Park, the MDC rink or the swamp. I remember how weird my feet felt in shoes after skating for a while. I wasn’t the best skater, but I did manage backwards. Once the matinees started at the movie theater up town, I’d spend my afternoons there. A cartoon was always first, before the main feature. I remember seeing The Wizard of Oz. I remember getting pelted by candy and watching Al, the owner, running up and down the aisles shining his light trying to find the miscreants. I also remember the very back rows were filled with teen couples making out as we used to call it.

In Ghana, I often shopped in town on Saturdays at the stores and kiosks and in the market if it was market day. The kiosks were three sided with open fronts filled with shelves. I bought my margarine and condensed milk at a kiosk. In the market I bought my fruits, vegetables and meat, live chickens and beef at the butcher shop, the word shop being loosely used here. I bought yams, bananas, pineapple, oranges, pawpaw, mangos, tomatoes and onions. I’d carry my purchases home in my shepherd’s bag, a woven bag which stretched to fit everything and got very heavy. Before I got my moto, I’d walk to and from town. Usually, though, a car would stop and offer me a ride home to my school. I was the only white woman my first year so they all knew who I was.

The dogs are napping on the couch. They lead an easy life. Jack too is napping. It is just that sort of a day.

Today is a quiet day. The weather is lovely with sun, a bit of a breeze and a temperature in the low 50’s. Yesterday’s dinner was wonderful. I even have leftovers. I officially started the Christmas season last night by watching It’s a Wonderful Life. It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve seen that movie. I watch it every year, the same with A Christmas Carol. When watching that last movie, I can say the dialogue along with the characters.

Inside I am young. I am always amazed when I can’t do something I’ve always done like carrying a weight of sorts or even walking a short distance. When I look in the mirror, I wonder who the old lady with the wrinkles is looking back at me. If I were a character in a Stephen King short story, I’d look behind the cabinet for that old lady, and she’d be there lying in wait.

When I was a kid, I knew great-grandparents, one on my father’s side and one on my mother’s. Once in a while we visited my great-grandmother in East Boston. She lived in a narrow house with three floors. She lived with one of her daughters, Aunt Mae. My father’s mother was another of her daughters. Every time we visited, she gave me a fifty cent piece. I always wondered why we didn’t visit more often. My mother’s grandfather, my great-grandfather, was scary. He had dementia, but I was too little to understand that was why he yelled and even spit at me sometimes. He’d sit in the living room on a rocking chair beside the furnace. I used to run by him propelled by fear. I always wondered why we visited so often.

My dance card is empty until next week. I have my usual uke practice and lesson, and we have our first December concert. We’re now playing Christmas music. I love Christmas music and am already listening to it on the car radio. I always sing along.

A friend of mine died yesterday, a funny, sweet guy. It is so very wrong.

Today is a melange of posts from Coffee’s past Thanksgivings. Some posts you might remember, but they are so a part of my Thanksgiving memories they need to be here. I remember and miss dearly my mother and father. These memories keep them close.

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.

I remember the smell of the kitchen while the turkey cooked. I remember being shocked when I was a kid to find out the stuffing was not in the turkey’s head. The kitchen windows were steamed from the heat of the oven, and my mother would open the back door to cool the kitchen. All four stove burners had pots filled with vegetables. I especially remember one pot because I think my mother had it forever. The pot had a dent and a black spot on the side which never disappeared. It usually held the potatoes. 

We watched the Macy’s parade while still in our pajamas. We noshed while we watched. I remember tangerines, M&M’s and mixed nuts in the shell served in a special bowl. The nutcracker was thick silver colored metal and looked a bit like scissors in having two sides. I always thought the walnuts were the hardest to crack. I liked the Brazil nuts but not the almonds. I’m still not a fan of almonds.

Befitting the occasion, we sat in the dining room. The table always looked lovely covered in a holiday tablecloth and set with special dishes. I can see my father at the head of the table. He loved gravy and mashed potatoes. He loved the canned cranberry sauce. He loved asparagus right out of the can. My favorites were creamed onions and a special squash dish, a recipe from my aunt. The table groaned with dishes. Passing those filled dishes around the table took some maneuvering with the table so tightly packed with food.

My father ate quickly so he could get back to his football games. The rest of us sat at the table to finish eating. Soon enough, the table emptied, and my mother and I tag-teamed for the cleanup. I cleared the table, and she loaded the dishwasher, and we both cleaned the kitchen. After everything was cleared, we brought out the pies. The always pies were apple and lemon meringue. Sometimes they’d be blueberry, pumpkin or sweet potato. My father went right for a huge slice of apple pie with cheddar. I had lemon meringue.

I am grateful today for so many things. I love my family and my friends who have become family. I hold my Coffee family close. We have never met but that’s no never mind. You don’t need to be related or even have met to be family. I am so thankful for the life I have been lucky enough to live. Today I’ll miss family and friends. It will be a quiet Thanksgiving. I’ll wear my turkey earrings, and I may even get dressed.

Today is in the low 40’s. There was a crispness in the air when I let the dogs out to the yard. Last night got cold. The sun and the clouds are sharing the sky for now, but rain is predicted for tomorrow so the sun will disappear behind the grey clouds. There is a wind advisory, but nothing is moving.

I officially recognized the change in seasons yesterday. I packed summer away and brought out my fall and winter clothes. I seem to be heavily into flannel.

My father was always a football fan. He and my grandfather used to go to the Thanksgiving Day football game in town although none of us ever attended the local high school, including my parents. It was tradition.

We stayed home on Thanksgiving. My father watched football. My mother worked in the kitchen. Dinner was usually around two. Our kitchen, when I was young, was small. The six of us couldn’t all fit around the table at the same time. I think that was when my mother first started standing and eating at the counter.

When we had a house of our own, we always ate in the dining room. The table was festive. We all could fit around the table.

Thanksgiving dinner seldom varied from year to year. We knew we’d eat turkey, stuffing, canned cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, gravy, peas and maybe corn, kernel corn. My father got asparagus, from the can. It always looked wilted and bent over in the middle. He always ate the turkey leg. I can still see him in the mind’s eye munching on that leg.

After dinner my father would take his piece of pie into the living room where he could watch the football game. He was a loud fan. He’d yell at the TV and complain about a play or a misplay. He was a Giants fan.

I always loved supper on Thanksgiving night. My mother made open turkey sandwiches awash with gravy. I’d add stuffing and cranberry sauce to my plate. That would be our first of many meals of leftover Thanksgiving dinner.

Today is winter. Right now it is 39° with a strong wind which makes it feel even colder. I watched the leaves blown by the wind hopping and skipping across the front lawn and whirling into the air. The sun comes and goes.

When I was a kid, my mother always bought a huge turkey, a giant turkey. She roasted it in the same pan every Thanksgiving. The pan was oval. It was blue with white dots. The turkey just about fit into the pan. She used to have to remove one of the oven racks so the pan with the turkey could fit into the oven. She was up really early Thanksgiving morning to stuff the turkey. Her stuffing was rich with sage. When I woke up, I could always smell the baking turkey. In the kitchen the windows were wet with steam. My mother struggled to get the pan a bit out of the oven so she could baste the turkey. She used a giant plastic syringe to suck up the juice to use to baste the turkey. She’d rub the skin with butter. I remember how golden the skin looked.

Before the big day, my mother baked her pies. Every mother baked pies. My mother made her own buttery crust rolling it out on the floured counter. She’d bake an apple, my father’s favorite, and a lemon meringue, my favorite. If there was a third pie, it was pumpkin or custard. I preferred the custard though I’d eat the pumpkin. My mother put whipped cream on the pumpkin slices. My father put cheddar cheese on the apple. My mother also offered ice cream atop the apple, but I ate my slice plain. I have never fancied ice cream on pies or cakes.

My father’s only responsibilities on Thanksgiving were to take the turkey out of the pan and slice it. My mother did everything else. She’d put the pan across two burners so she could make the gravy. It was always deliciously thick. I used to watch her make it, and I have always made my gravy the same way, the same with the stuffing. Bell’s seasoning was all she used in the stuffing. It has rosemary, oregano, sage, ginger, marjoram, thyme, and pepper and, for me and my sisters, it is the taste of my mother’s stuffing. Before my sister was able to find it in Colorado, we used to have to send Bell’s to her. I have a baster just like my mother had.

Traditions are big and small.

Last night was cold. It got down to the 30’s, but the day has bounced back to the 40’s. The sun is brilliant. The sky is clear of clouds. It is a lovely fall day.

My front yard and back deck are covered in dead, brown oak leaves. Every time the wind blows it rains leaves. The backyard is a wild place with trees and bushes and layers of leaves. It is the dogs’ realm. I only venture into the yard to pick up the stolen goods Nala has sneaked out the dog door. Both dogs love this weather and spend a long time in the yard. Nala suns while Henry sniffs.

When I was a kid, I wanted fall to last forever. It was still warm enough in the morning not to layer warm clothes for the walk to school, and I still didn’t need the dreaded hat and pink longish underwear. I’d walk through the piles of leaves in the gutter on my way to school. The leaves crunched under my feet. They’d whirl and fly into the air. I could ride my bike in the afternoons and on Saturdays, my days for adventure. I never wasted a fall day. Winter was too close.

I remember when the mornings got cold enough so I could see my breath. I’d hold a twig like a cigarette and pretend to smoke. The afternoons usually warmed for the walk home from school, but the nights were cold, blanket cold.

I always liked this week because we had a mini vacation from school: a half day on Wednesday and two days off for Thanksgiving. I remember school on Wednesday was a waste. We usually got out around 10:30. We’d spend the morning coloring or making turkey decorations. I remember my turkeys always had multi-colored, spread out tails made from construction paper. My mother used to put our turkeys on the Thanksgiving table as decorations.

Today is dump day. I need to get dry dog food so I figured I might as well go to the dump while I’m out. I have only uke practice on Tuesday so the rest of my dance card is empty. We’ve started practicing our Christmas music. The other day I practiced Silent Night, just the music, not the lyrics. I was pleased my fingers remembered.