Giving Thanks

My mother was an excellent, from-scratch cook, able to single-handedly and seemingly effortlessly, put together a festive feast for a dozen or more people.

"Seemingly effortlessly" …of course upon reflection, I now realize the tremendous amount of work she put into her repasts, no matter how easy she seemed to make it look. There was never a cookbook in sight. Like a chef de cuisine, the menu and preparation was solely her responsibility. She measured by eye, adjusting seasonings after taking small tastes, or because she was less-than-satisfied with the touch, smell or look of whatever she was working on at the moment.

"Single-handedly" ...I had three brothers and three sisters, and although Mom would put them to task polishing, cleaning or setting the table, I was the only child who assisted her in the kitchen. It was as if I began as her chef de partie and worked my way up to sous chef status.

As young as three or four, I'd shown a keen interest in food preparation. While my siblings would be off playing or watching television, I'd be hanging out asking questions:

"Why are you only cutting some of the fruit?"

"The berries will cook faster. They don't need to be cut. This way all the fruit will be fully cooked at the same time."

"Why do I have to dry the spoon before I stir the melted chocolate?"

"Because even even the tiniest drop of water, or any liquid really, will cause the chocolate to seize."

It was by her side that I learned many a helpful hint that I use today:

- "After you separate the egg whites, let them sit at room temperature for an hour or so. They'll whip up much better that way."

- "Save the cooking water from those potatoes, you're draining. We'll use it to enhance the broth for the gravy we're making."

- "Remember, don't boil the eggs, you are hard-cooking them, not hard-boiling them. And those are super fresh, so add a bit of baking soda. They'll be easier to peel."

"Pillsbury ready-made"? Never! Mom even rendered her own lard for use in her light, deliciously flaky pie crusts. Cool Whip? Absolutely not! At the age of nine I was a whiz at whipping cream, pre-chilling the beaters and bowl in the freezer to assure the best outcome. At first I'd give Mom a spoonful and she'd let me know if more sugar or extract was needed, but soon enough I was entrusted to make those determinations myself.

And yeah, I get that some well-to-do urban folk can order up a full organic "homemade" feast from the likes of, oh I don't know, let's say Whole Foods, but I'm grateful for my self-reliance when it comes to food prep. Thanks, Mom!

Mostly I smile as I recall my childhood Thanksgivings. But, I retain one memory, try though I may to obliterate it, that haunts me...

Mom was a faithful Roman Catholic. And, though it might have stretched the ever-waning budget of a large family with a single income, she sent us to private Catholic schools.

Mom seemed to accept unquestioningly the tenets of faith as prescribed by the Church. As a child some of that escaped me. Our religion instructors would preach the importance of sharing with those less fortunate. And okay, I understood that. I mean, I willingly donated some of my allowance to UNICEF. My problem was my empathy stopped at my front door.

Each year my mother would find some down-on-his-luck individual and invite them to dine with us on thanksgiving day. Seated in a place of honor, would be a man, it was usually a man, a man who looked like he'd been around one too many of life's rough corners. He'd be wearing his Sunday best, which usually consisted of well worn, shiny-in-spots slacks and a tattered shirt, which was topped off with a wrinkled, threadbare sports coat, missing one or two buttons. Mom always treated these guests like they were the pope himself come to visit. "Would you care for some more, (Most Reverend) William?" she'd ask reverently, then direct one of us to bring some platter of food over to him and serve him. (She didn't really say "Most Reverend" but from her tone and inflection it was, to me, as if she had)  Yet, somehow it remained a stretch for me. I was pretty sure all the popes, in the pictures I'd seen, had all of their teeth intact.

And you'd think I'd grow accustomed to this benevolence of hers over the years, but instead it festered with me. By the time I was in my late teens and wanting to invite a boy over, it had become a point of embarrassment for me. And so one day, I broached the subject, "Mom, can we puh-lease have just one Thanksgiving where there aren't any needy homeless people at the table?"

With her hand in a fist and that fist pointed at her mouth, as she leaned forward at the kitchen table, her elbow taking the weight, her mouth covered so I couldn't see if it had formed any expression, she looked off in the distance. I didn't notice any difference in her eyes and her forehead remained un-furrowed. She stared fixedly for some time and I remember turning to look out of the window to see what the heck she was staring at. Finally she rose and headed to her bedroom, said, "I'm going to do some reading. Will you wake me at five o'clock, if I fall asleep?"

"She's probably going to pray a rosary for my soul," and "Oh, well nothing ventured, nothing gained," were among my flippant, self-absorbed teenaged musings.

She never spoke a word to me about it after that, but I remember well that there was never again a needy person at our house for Thanksgiving or any other time.

Some are thankful for all of the blessings and joys bestowed upon them and happily share that gratitude with loved ones and friends. Some willingly donate to the food pantry, or even go out and deliver food baskets directly to those in need. But, it takes a very special person to invite someone in need into your home and treat that someone like royalty.

Under Mom's tutelage I became pretty accomplished when it comes to planning and putting a large feast together. But, when it comes to true thankfulness, I'm neither fit to scrub her pots and pans nor shine her shoes.

"Not what we say about our blessings, but how we use them, is the true measure of our thanksgiving." ~W. T. Purkiser

For the Birds (part two)

Okay, where was I? “Birds of a Feather?” No, wait, I think it was “For the Birds.” It had something to do with neighbors... I could swear I was going somewhere with this... oh yes! I remember- a dyed in the wool introvert.

From the moment my teacher peeled me from my mother’s leg on the first day of kindergarten, I have been pressed into a life of socializing.

Psychologists tell us that no one is totally an introvert nor totally an extrovert. The term for that in-between area is “ambivert.” So, more accurately, I’m probably more of an ambivert with introverted tendencies. Kind of like my bi-gay friend, who identifies himself as vaginal-friendly, with strong gay tendencies… but, I digress.

Anyway, if you aren’t up on the latest in pop psych, here is my ultra-simple introvert/extrovert explanation in a nutshell:

*cough* Ahem, *cough* When one studies the positron emission tomography scans of the anterior cingulate gyrus, the frontal and temporal lobes and the anterior and posterior thalamus, one will observe the neuronal activity of the premotor cortex process and while taking into consideration the cerebral blood flow, neurotransmitters and the uptake of the dopamine levels as related to...

Just kidding, here it is plain and simple:

Extroverts derive their energy from being around people, then expend such energy when by themselves (think of a battery being recharged and discharged.)

Introverts derive their energy from being alone, then expend such energy being around people.

Don’t get me wrong, I love people as much as the next person, but I prefer them in smaller, more manageable doses.

Without that push in kindergarten, right now I’d probably be curled up in a fetal position somewhere, my thumb planted firmly in my mouth, and twirling a lock of my hair with my other hand. But, having recognized the importance of socialization to one’s well-being, I pushed myself at some point to meet and become friends with a handful of trusted folks. 

My husband and I attend a monthly potluck gathering out here, in our new community, that attracts anywhere from 30-60 people. It begins promptly at 6 p.m. and is over at 8 p.m. Two hours tops, and those two hours include drinks, socializing, dinner, and the cleanup and stacking and putting away of chairs and tables. Now that's my kind of socializing. At the end of two hours if I find myself bereft of the energy expended bantering with my 6 to 8 tablemates, I am happy to return home with my husband and recharge.

Living in a residential recreation area, our community swells to include, too numerous for me to count, part-time residents along with tons of additional family and friends, who descend like locusts... who take up residence or visit during the summer months . So at this time of year, when half of the 200+ remaining full-time households migrate south, I actually look forward to some sequestration for my husband and me.

I never gave my propensity toward introversion a second thought while living in a teeming city. But for some reason, in this small town-like setting, it’s become obvious to me that I’m different from the extroverted flock.

Extroverts enjoy having scads of people around them. And to fill this need will start any number of clubs and groups to serve that purpose. Our small community features a fishing club, a travel group, numerous golf leagues, two book discussion groups, an ATV trail group, a bowling league, a quilting club, euchre, bridge, mahjongg and domino groups, line dancing classes, water fitness, yoga, a ski club, waterski club, an equestrian club and a women's club whose leadership is large enough to be divided into three sub-committees. Oh and my favorite, "the yacht club," which has little to do with yachts or boats, but is a nice excuse for meeting, partying and socializing with others. A profusion of such activity well suits extroverts, who are at their best at busy raucous events chatting up every single person in the room. Good, great, I’m happy for you. It’s just not me. Let me repeat: Good! Great! I am happy for you! And I mean those words.

Not really what I think but I thought this was hilarious!

I, however, prefer fewer, more profound friendships, and in lieu of small talk, I prefer meaningful exchanges. It doesn’t mean I can’t blather, because trust me, I can babble endlessly about the weather, television shows and hobbies with the best of them, but the behavior experts are correct, I find the experience tiring.

Before we moved out here we used to visit as guests of my sister & brother-in-law, both extroverts (excuse me, I mean ambiverts with strong extroverted tendencies). Before we would arrive they would have already mapped out the entire weekend with non-stop social activities keeping us flitting about from sunrise to well after sunset. After two days with them it would take us an entire day of complete rest to recoup. One weekend we were visiting when a sudden, somewhat fierce thunderstorm took them by surprise. Power was out locally, we couldn’t go to the clubhouse, the bowling alley was too far to travel in iffy weather, out were the usual options of golf, followed by waterskiing, and the tethering together of a string of boats, filled to capacity with people, for the purpose of bringing socialization to the water… Anyway, that day we manually opened the garage overhead door and put four lawn chairs near the apron. There we sat talking, laughing, reminiscing and idly watching in awe as the storm rolled by. To this day it remains one of my favorite memories of time spent with them.

I love people and find them to be the most fascinating of all creations… just a few at a time.

…For the Birds

“I hope they have cute teenage girls,” were the words from our younger son as I sat reading in the living room. I looked up to see a large moving van in front of the empty house across the street from our city home.

I smiled, understanding his thought process. There is indeed a bit of anticipatory excitement when it comes to new neighbors. But, what you hope for and what you get don’t always jibe.

I always hope for the well-grounded ones—warm, good-humored, quiet people with no pets would be on my list. You know the kind you can share a glass of wine with on their expansive deck at sunset, not the “collectible” hoarders, who store old rusting appliances in the backyard. Maybe a kindly major sports ticket office manager, who just happens to have occasional gratis tickets, not the guy who grows medical marijuana so he’ll have the jump on legalization. Perhaps a nurturing nurse practitioner with whom to discuss my latest hypochondriacal malady, not the owner of an untrained snarling dog, oh wait, that was us.

Out here in the country I hope for a literary expert with an abundant library of rare foreign translations and an equally abundant desire to share them with me. And speaking of rare and foreign, how about a retired 5-star Michelin chef with a kitchen filled with such herbs and spices? That might be nice. Not some guy who cuts the sleeves off of every single shirt he owns and tells me he can get me a deal on all the smoked meat I want.

Seriously, we have always been blessed with great neighbors both in the city and here in our new home (knock on wood.) But it’s the time of year where many of our neighbors, if they haven’t already, leave for warmer climes. “Flew the coop” is the  expression that comes to mind. One moment they are here dashing about in golf carts, zipping around on the lake, like the barn swallows that arc and dive on the golf course. Mowing their lawns, tending their gardens, like the robins that build homes only to abandon them come the cooler weather. Or like the summer tanager, my California-bound next door neighbors offer a short but dazzling flash of color to our lives. One day I'll look up and they’re all gone and I know I won’t see them again until spring or summer.

I’m a dyed-in-the-wool introvert...

But, more about this later. I'll finish this post in a day or so… I hope…

Three Kids from the Mean Streets

Two weeks ago, on a Wednesday, I published a post titled "Carpools or Do Extroverts Really Have More Fun?" The next morning I immediately deleted it, but not before five of my faithful readers had an opportunity to hear me at my whiniest and most self-aggrandizing. I'd broken my rule of never posting after you've had a glass or two of wine, a lesson I learned when reading a friend's blog, that she posted under the influence of pain killers she'd taken after dental work. I copied and saved that particular blog of hers and keep it safely in my files. You can't make stuff up like she penned that day and it's there for posterity.

Anyway, kudos to my faithful five. And to the rest of you?  See what you miss when you don't check my blog site frequently?

***

Some of the old grammar schools in Chicago had little park districts attached. This consisted of the usual park playground equipment, swing set, slide, monkey bars, etc. and an adjacent small park building which had pingpong and bumper pool tables, as well as a meeting room and kitchenette. Back in the 50s and 60s, during the school year they would offer after-school arts and craft classes, music lessons or such, and when it was cold enough they'd put an ice rink out and the building became a warming center, offering hot chocolate and cheap skate rental.

The schools that didn't have the park districts offered after-school classes as well, staffed by park district employees or senior volunteers. There was even the rare grammar school that had a swimming pool and offered swimming lessons. Sometimes the full-service park district was a mile or more away, so the schools provided a nearby place for kids to hang out. It was a different era. One where Chicago municipal departments seemed to cooperate in an effort to keep children occupied in safe alternatives to the mean streets of the city. But, then came the "cutbacks…"

***

It was a warm summer afternoon. Nothing to do. Just hanging out around the swing set, waiting for the park building to open so we could play bumper pool.  Of the group of 6 or 7 of us there were two Francis's present.

Frankie had the thickest head of blond hair and bluest eyes you ever saw. He combed his hair in an Elvis-style pompadour. I had an unrequited crush on him. He came from a Irish family of 8 or 9 kids who were in and out of the local Catholic orphanage, Angel Guardian. Local authorities would find Frankie's parents derelict in some form and remove the children, only to have the court system return them when the parents had complied to whatever qualifications were imposed.

That day Frankie sat astride one of the swings, fidgeting, looking at the cheap watch he wore, given to him by one of the orphanage nuns. He'd occasionally reach out to pluck a strand of quack grass and form a whistle by placing the grass between his thumbs and impelling air from his mouth to make a piercing, haunting sound.

Frank was the tallest of our group that day. His parents had divorced, his mom remarried, but his stepfather hadn't wanted to adopt Frank, so his mother and he had different last names. It's hard to believe that kind of crap made a difference back then, but it did. At the moment, Frank was standing on the support bar, near the top of the swing set, towering over all of us. Frank was the kind of kid who moved slowly, deliberately. He didn't talk much, but when he did you could tell he'd given some thought to his words. Frank broke our silence, "Do you guys ever wonder where we'll all be in ten years? I mean, seriously, do you ever think about things like that?" Frankie looked up at him in bewilderment. Here was a kid who never knew day to day where he would sleep. "Who the heck thinks about such stuff?" Frankie's expression seemed to say. "We should make a pledge, right here and now, for each of us to meet here on this date in 10 years," Frank continued. We all agreed. But I knew, even then, that if I found my way out of this hardscrabble life, I sure as heck wasn't coming back. 

***

"I'm hungry. Let's head over to Beefy 19." Manny was behind the wheel of his 2 year-old Olds Hurst 442. It was a beautiful car he'd purchased with the money he saved working in his Greek father's meatpacking business. The car was full with three guys in the backseat and Frankie riding shotgun, with his back pressed to the front passenger door, his left arm slung over the seat back. Joking, laughing, kibitzing in the same manner he did at those all-night poker games he hosted.

"Hey, take the Bowmanville shortcut, I'm starving!" As Manny zigged across Western Avenue a truck t-boned Manny's hurst. Frankie was practically decapitated, they say.

***

When Frank was 21 and an employed high school dropout, he began dating Mary, an outgoing 17 year-old senior, with long flowing blonde locks. A classmate of mine, Mary was the oldest in a family controlled by a strict, domineering father and a devoted Catholic mother. Mary's father detested Frank from the moment he laid eyes on him. And there was that problem with Frank's surname... Her father had plans for his eldest daughter and those plans didn't include Frank, so he forbade Mary from seeing him. One day Mary came to school with her hair cut in a Twiggy-like pixie. "My father chopped it off when he found out I'd seen Frank on the sly. Oh, but you should have seen it before my mom took me to the salon to have it styled," she laughed. She had a way of finding humor in practically anything. Until it turned out that her father was too late in his ban. Mary was pregnant. I can't remember exactly how it all came about, legal rights of teens were different back then, but despite her desperate pleas, her parents arranged to have the baby given up for adoption.

Mary was never the same. Her humor must have been attached somehow to that baby girl, because you never saw her smile or laugh much after that. Frank moved out-of-town. Mary moved on with her life, graduated from high school, got a decent job. She met Charlie. They married. Charlie wanted a large family, as did Mary. But, life has it's ironies. Mary couldn't seem to get pregnant. Her fertility no longer at it's optimum, she and Charlie had to visit a specialist.

First came David. Mary adored David, but it wasn't the girl she'd been aching to replace. Back to the specialist. This time it was triplets, two more boys and her longed for baby girl. But, over time the kids were a handful, Charlie's work took him away a good deal of time. She still couldn't get over the loss of her first child. She and Charlie divorced when the triplets were nine.

I lost contact with Mary, only to connect again briefly via Facebook. After 40 years she had reconnected with Frank. They married, moved south, enjoyed visits from her brood of grandchildren. The last post I saw before I quit Facebook included a memorial to now deceased Frank, "the love of my life," was her direct quote.

***

Me? I'm retired and working on my bucket list:

1. Retire and move to the country
2. Write numerous short stories (work in progress.)
3. Begin to sew again (did some this week)
4. Refinish the head and foot boards of my husband's childhood twin beds
5. Buy local only and avoid all big box stores
6. Hike at least part of the Appalachian Trail
7. Have High Tea at the Drake Hotel in Chicago with my granddaughter
8. Purchase only the finest bourbon, wine and tequila
9. Take my grandchildren to Yellowstone in the middle of winter
10. Re-institute monthly potluck suppers with a few good friends (note the words "few" and "good")
12. Be able, again, to do some of those yoga poses that now seem just beyond my reach
13. Learn to play guitar
14. Visit Thich Naht Hahn's Plum Village in France
15. Learn how to perfect a chip shot in golf
16. Let my hair go totally gray
17. Own some chickens
18. Meditate daily
19. Take Fred to the tiny town where I was born
20. Visit Africa and/or New Zealand
21. Have a pet dog  (tried that, didn't work out so well for us and Cujo ;)
22. Remember my friend Consuelo's birthday, like she does mine every year
23. Read 52 books a year
24. Walk/run 1,000 miles a year (made 800+ this year, so far)
25. Scan and organize all of my photos

My apologies to those who read this before my edit… it was Frankie that was nearly decapitated.

The Saboteur

I had planned to write and post a scary halloween-type story to celebrate my one-year-old blog. But, the story sits unfinished… Apparently when I am busy with the logistics of my life, planning, making lists, catching up on chores and other duties, my left-brain dominates and I am clear and linear in my thinking. But, though my brain may work like a well-oiled machine, I’m basically a drag to be around.

Now, if I permit my right brain to take command, I become like a puppy off-leash. I'm more creative and able to write effortlessly. In fact, I'm so ready to "go with the flow" that I tend to space out and thus become a danger behind the wheel. Anyway, the best I can manage right now is to paste together some stuff I wrote back in my Facebook days:

***

For 12 years we lived without much bother from the squirrels in the city where we resided, as we had a dog who had a way of baring her teeth in a manner that reminded one of Stephen King's Cujo. One day the alarm system on our house was tripped. The security company alerted me of a possible break-in and being but a few minutes from home, they arranged for me to meet reps from the Chicago police department there.

When I arrived, regular patrol officers, as well as two detectives, were standing in wait on my front porch. It seems our crazed-looking dog, now clawing, drooling and barking in a demonic frenzy at the front door, was enough to hold at bay police, who are accustomed to urban violence that ranks, near or at the top among the nation.

But, I digress… I remember now, fondly, that when I baked in the fall, I could open a window and place a pie or bowl of ganache-topped cookies out on the sill to cool. No squirrel would dare come forth. But, outside the confines of our fenced backyard the squirrels were a menace. They would chew holes in the tops of our city-provided garbage containers, find and remove a choice bit of leftover apple core or
avocado skin, eat tiny bits of it and ceremoniously dump the refuse in our yard. They would gnaw their 
way through the pumpkins I put out as part of our halloween decorations. Hours were spent perfecting the perfect jack-o-lanterns, which were demolished in minutes. An affront, I felt, not unlike one to an artist whose work is senselessly destroyed by vandals (wink).

Some people say that squirrels are calculating saboteurs. And squirrels do exhibit unusual behavior. Like their kamikaze-like propensity to chew through live electric wires, thus causing power outages, as if they wished to plunge the entire country into darkness. But are they really sinister? I must admit to actually wondering this, as I'd watch a particular red squirrel torment my grandchildren's dear dog, Maya. Maya was one of those otherwise sweet dogs who, for whatever reason, fixates on squirrels. When I would tend to the children I'd notice that the squirrel would sit outside the back door, with seemingly no objective in life, but to brazenly and mercilessly taunt and menace poor Maya. 

I'd often wonder why we'd easily have a dozen or more squirrels living within 30 square feet of our city dwelling, yet I'd rarely see a squirrel within 400 square feet of our country home. Wouldn’t I, as a squirrel, prefer the open fields and stands of timber found in our idyllic country setting, I reasoned? But no, though I occasionally see a squirrel quickly, oh and I mean ever so quickly, darting from tree to tree, my carved country pumpkins sit undisturbed, even though I no longer have a dog to scare away the squirrel vandals.

I ponder that again today, a cup of coffee in hand, sipping slowly and taking in the beauty of fall's magnificent colors. My eyes are taken skyward as I see a beautiful red tail hawk soaring above. Aren't they a sight with their wings majestically extended in an almost complete plane? The hawk gracefully and effortlessly pirouettes, takes a dive, plucks a squirrel from the ground and carries it away…