Reflection, Celebration, Good Food and Gratitude

Thanksgiving, 2009. This is my favorite holiday, always. It’s meant for everyone. But most of all, it’s meant for reflection, celebration, good food, and gratitude. That’s how life should be summed up- reflection, celebration, good food and gratitude.

There is a quote from Jean Baptiste Massieu, Gratitude is the memory of the heart. The memories I hold about Thanksgiving are the dearest to me because they involve the people I love. Yesterday, when Lindsay and Scott were out looking at a house, Scott went to check out the backyard. He encountered something quite unexpected- a rooster and a turkey walking around. They were quite surprised. His first impression was that these were unusual pets. Then he realized the obvious. “They must be planning on using these birds for Thanksgiving,” he whispered to Lindsay. When they told me about it, I told them to call my mom and have her tell them about the time when she was a little girl in Scranton, Pennsylvania and they had a pet turkey that they grew very fond of. They named him “Tommy”. When Thanksgiving came, Tommy became the “guest of honor” and not in the good sense; he was the main course. Well, my mother and her six brothers, sister and whatever cousins were living there at the time protested. They sat at the table and refused to eat Tommy. In tribute to Tommy, I have named every bird I cooked personally on Thanksgiving after him.

My collage of Thanksgiving memories are like snapshots in my mind… my dad expertly carving the turkey, the time when I went to pick Kimberly up at pre-Kindergarten and on the bulletin board was her turkey, that said “I am thankful…that I don’t have to sit in the corner all the time like I did last year in nursery school”, the time when the four of us decided to do Thanksgiving with just us and we cooked all day and had the most amazing time being together. I remember, as a kid and young adult, spending every Thanksgiving with my Aunt Dorothy’s family, my cousins, Regina, Gary, Liz and Matthew. That harvest table we ate at when Thanksgiving was at Regina’s house on Schenectady Avenue became my table, eventually, and then was passed on to my friend, Roselee. It held and continues to hold many Thanksgiving feasts and many memories.

I recall when we stopped having Thanksgiving with Regina’s family. It was when we were all getting married and there were in-laws and other extended families now to spend Thanksgiving with. That is the dichotomy of family and holidays. We branch off. It’s happening today as Lindsay and Scott will spend Thanksgiving dinner with Scott’s family and Mark, Kim and I will be at Mark’s cousin’s Caryn’s home. I won’t even be with my mom this year. Although, look at how our branches have multiplied. Now that’s cause for celebration. There are marriages and births and Thanksgiving tables are surrounded with new faces to join us. It cancels out the loss of the ones who carved the Turkeys so perfectly, the ones who baked the sweetest cakes, the ones who told the funniest jokes. They are gone, not forgotten. It’s bittersweet how the ones who have passed continue to be here in one way or another. Lindsay has inherited my grandma Fannie’s talent for baking from scratch. She makes the most delicious rainbow cookies. Last night, their sweet aroma filled my kitchen as she prepared them to bring for dessert at cousin Caryn’s house when she and Scott will join us later on.

Today we will sit around the table and dine together with our loved ones. There will be laughter and wedding talk this year, for us. That has happened many times before; however, this year, it will be my oldest daughter that the wedding talk will be about. I have so much to be grateful for, memories to hold onto, memories to treasure at the moment and memories that we dare to dream for the future….

(Thanksgiving, 2010.) Lindsay and Scott hope to make Thanksgiving in their home next year. My mom bought them a carving set for their engagement. Lindsay wrote in the thank you card how she will always think of her poppy when she uses that carving set. And next Thanksgiving my family will officially include Scott. Scott will probably be the one carving Tommy, the turkey, next year…

Blue Skies and Black and Blue Eyes

Yesterday began with a beautiful blue sky and ended with my mom with a black and blue eye.

I noticed the sky as I walked down 17^th Street to the “M” train on 4^th Avenue. I had just gotten my coffee and as I took my first sip, I thought of my cousin Sarah’s quote- You may only ever get one first kiss. But you can have a first sip of coffee every day. And that might even be better. I sighed as the hot liquid warmed my throat and appreciated, at that moment, precisely what Sarah meant. Then I saw the sky and immediately recalled my father’s eyes. Once when I remarked that the sky was the exact color of my father’s eyes to my insightful friend, Rebeca, she responded “ How wonderful that you’ll always have the sky to remember your dad.” So, in tribute to his memory, I found the song “Embraceable You” on my ipod, which was the last song I sang to him before he died. As I listened to the words, I said, silently, Give me a sign, Dad, that you’re watching over me- cause I miss you. I considered how inane it is when we ask for signs from the people who aren’t with us any longer. Even if there is some sort of sign, is it something we conjure up because we never really accept they are gone and we choose to make things appear like they are still around, somehow, from a force that is beyond the cold grip of reality?

My moments of reflection were halted by the hustle of commuters and the cacophony of the subway. I was so immersed in my work that the day went by all too quickly and soon enough, I was traveling home with my daughters in the car when I got a call from my sister. She never calls me, so I knew something must be wrong. My mother had fallen. They were taking her to the hospital. I tried not to panic. What kind of sign is this, dad, if it is, in fact, a sign? The next two hours were spent in Belt Parkway traffic while we tried to find out which hospital she was taken to. Nobody could agree on the hospital the ambulance was taking her to. The lady at the front desk of the assisted living my mother lives in told us one hospital, while my sister and my cousin, Janie, whose mom shares a suite with my mom, told us another hospital. We phoned both hospitals’ emergency rooms and she wasn’t at either. Of course we ended up at the wrong hospital at first. All along, my worst fears were that my mom was so hurt that she wouldn’t be at Lindsay’s wedding. I didn’t express this to Lindsay who was busy arguing with everyone she could on her cell phone about her “missing” grandmother. When we finally got to the right hospital we began going through doors and halls looking for my mom; it was like a nightmare going down long corridors in slow motion. At last I spotted an aide wheeling a white-haired woman in a wheelchair, which seemed like miles away. In my heart, I knew it was my mom and thankfully, I was right. She sighed in relief when she saw the three of us. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said. And then I saw her face. It was hard to miss. “You look like you were in a fist fight,” I said, trying to allay my concern. A large bulge protruded on the side of her right eye; about the size of an egg, black and blue, or rather like a purplish color. As a matter of fact, I told her it was the color of the mother of the bride dress that I tried on and loved- purple haze. We laughed. Mom seemed fine; upset because of all the fuss, but still, herself. While we were waiting to talk to the doctor, she began telling us about her day, before she fell. She read Teammates, a book about Jackie Robinson, to the class of first grade students she visits every Wednesday. She told them how Jackie Robinson used to live around the corner from her. We were relieved that she knew what she did that day and was able to remember something from her past. Good signs. We just had to wait for the results from her CAT scan and x-ray on her knee. The doctor was a pretty girl, about Lindsay’s age, with fuchsia pink strands of hair sticking out of her black bob. She looked more like a rock star. I thought to myself how I keep getting older and older and the doctors keep getting younger and younger. Dr. “Pinky” (I named her) came over to tell us that everything was fine and mom can go home. While she was writing out the discharge papers, Lindsay noticed Dr. Pinky’s engagement ring and so the “wedding talk” began. “So, how are your wedding plans going?” Dr. Pinky asked. They started to compare; the doctor was getting married in August and hadn’t even gotten her wedding dress yet. Lindsay recommended the store she got her dress in. The focus shifted from my mom to the bride(s) to be. It certainly eased the tension.

My daughter, Kim, spent the night with mom to keep her company and to make sure she didn’t fall again. We visited her today and picked Kim up. The swelling went down, but the bruise spread and now not only has black and blue and the purple haze shade, but is beginning to include Dr. Pinky’s fuchsia pink hair color as well. They gave her a cane when she left the hospital; she’s using it to practice her “Charlie Chaplan” imitation. Yep, she’s okay, my mom.

As for the sign from my dad- nothing palpable. I’ll never give up hope, though, as long as skies are blue.

House Hunting

There’s nothing more fitting during the fall than to go house hunting. There’s something about tree-lined streets with fallen leaves scattered on lawns and leftover Halloween decorations that makes any house, no matter how horrid it is inside, appear charming outside. This is also a very good economic climate to be a house-buyer. Nonetheless, with a small budget, there’s no limit to how horrid the inside of a house for sale can look.

Scott and Lindsay have been looking at houses for about a month now. It’s so much easier to look at halls and DJs and photographers. The initial investment costs about the same; but compare the day you begin your life together to the days you will spend your life together. Walking down the aisle are the small steps you take, while stepping over the threshold into your newly bought house is one of the biggest steps of your lives. As a matter of fact, sometimes walking into your house can be equated to walking into quicksand. You can sink further and further into debt and uncertainty for as long as you live there. Sounds pretty ominous, right? Well, anyone who owns a home right now is probably nodding in agreement. Sure, it’s exciting and filled with promise. You can envision yourself waking up in the morning and going straight to your kitchen to make yourself coffee and toast. And when you finally are living there, reality sinks in and you begin to despise the cabinets that you considered not so bad the first day you saw them. You think to yourself, ‘How much longer can I live with these?” as you open one of the draws that continues to fall off the track.” You start thinking about the cabinets in the other house you liked, except the bathroom there was way too small and there was only one. At least you have two bathrooms in this house, even though there’s a serious leak under the sink in one of them that’s corroding the bottom of that cabinet. That’s one of the things on the “To Do” list that keeps growing longer and longer every day.

The first house I owned, I remember trotting happily down the stairs in my pajamas to put up my first load of laundry. I was giddy with excitement. I could actually stay in my own house, rather than get in the car and sit in a laundromat for four hours. It was liberating… until I turned on the machine. There was an odd sound that gave me the first clue that something wasn’t right. I turned the knob again, while holding my breath and praying. Nothing. That was the point when I heard the k’ching, k’ching of my bank account. That was the point when I realized that the most useful and used book in my house was the Yellow Pages, specifically, the page for “Repairmen”. That first year in my house, I met more repairmen than I had in my whole life. It put new meaning to the memory of when my brother was a little boy and he used to play “Fix It” Man with my mom. He would go outside with his play tools and ring the bell and my mother would call loudly, “Who’s there?” “It’s the Fix It Man,” he would answer. “Come in, I need you to look at the refrigerator.” Little did I know that my mother and brother were reenacting reality.

Still, looking at houses in the fall is fun. It’s lovely being the one not buying the house, too. As our feet crunch through leaves walking towards the front doors, I picture Scott and Lindsay beginning their married life. I can see them putting away the contents of the piles of boxes of engagement gifts that are taking up space in my house. I picture Lindsay’s room becoming my retreat, where I will become a bona fide author. I imagine decorating it with inspirational knick- knacks, a bookcase filled with books, a desk with a holder for all my pens, a chair. I’m getting carried away with the imagery, while we walk through another house that has endless flaws in their price-range. I say, “Don’t look at the flaws, look at the possibilities.” This is the difference between Lindsay and Scott. Scott sees the structural flaws, whereas, Lindsay sees the aesthetic ones. He sees the lawn that has a little slope to it and winces, while she sees pink backsplashes in the kitchen and grimaces.

It’s going to be a long process. They fear they won’t find a house by the time the wedding comes. “Can we live with you for a few months, if that happens, Mom?” my daughter asks me. I try not to wince or grimace, but inside, my heart sinks, although, how can I say “no”? And I wonder, will I ever get my retreat? That’s when I remember that sometimes, traveling for my job has some benefits and hotel rooms in cities far away can offer you the peace and identity that’s hard to find in a house full of people. And while I’m in the Crowne Plaza in Philadelphia, that week, pretending it’s my apartment, I get a phone call from my husband. “Remember that piece we noticed flapping around on the side of the house. Well, the roofer came by today”…..k’ching, k’ching.