You Can't Rush Your Healing (Trevor Hall) / Akaal (Ajeet Kaur, featuring Trevor Hall)

We drove through the night Tuesday to arrive Wednesday morning... napped a few hours... then put on our aprons to kick *ss in the kitchen, preparing carmelized Carnival squash, creamed onions, Stuffin' Muffins (mini-ones this year, which will be a new tradition), Thai chili sauce/pistachio Brussels sprouts, etc. etc. etc.

Bedtime, then up again for Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade, at which point Colin came downstairs, threw his arms in the air, and exclaimed:  "Today's the Day!", which became our holiday weekend mantra... 🎉

A multi-generational revolving door of Venn-diagrammed families (24 total!) enjoyed appetizers and beverages until our 3 p.m. dinnertime, followed by massive amounts of dessert, and they all drifted out again.  We belatedly remembered to re-enact a MossFam tradition... 😛

Friday brings leftovers for breakfast, CodeNames, a park/playground visit, and home movies (which are laughter- as well as tear-inducing).  A leisurely departure Saturday morning, back in Pembroke Pines by midnight-ish.

And some of us tested positive for COVID.  Ugh.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My belated e-mail this morning:

Gratitude Abounds! (Re: Thanksgiving EXTRAVANGA - Over the River and Through the Woods to the Carroll House!

Dear All:  

My short-and-sweet blessing/toast:  "Thank you for this food, and this day, thank you for friends who are family, and family who are friends, and the love we share."

Well, if that doesn't just sum it up perfectly in twenty-five-words-or-less, not my modus operandi at all (ha!).

First of all, boundless thanks to Mari and John for agreeing to *host* the Thanksgiving Extravaganza for multiple branches of the Driskell/Carroll/Hilton/Moss/Vo Families.  The house was beautiful and organized and welcoming... 💗

We are grateful to everyone for coming and contributing and conversing and convivializing (I thought I made up that word, but it actually exists!

Thursday was lovely on so many levels... from MVP Rob (and his Kinky Boots apron) for gently but firmly assigning kitchen duties... to Julia's mimosa stations... to Duyen joining us again... to Lee-Lee's dinner rolls (which didn't get burned!)... to Dot!... to the marriage of napkin rings... to darling Stella... to Joy's Piecaken... to Chico's turkey carving... to inspiring and thoughtful conversations... to Brad's orchids... to Debbie's chocoholic eclair dessert... to Colin's blessing (and I know I've left out many other delights, so please feel free to add them... 🤗

Each deliciosity, joke, endearment was greater than the one previous... and, although my cheekbones (and sciatic nerves - it's a long drive!) still ache, my heart is full.  We made it through the first First (to Eric!).  Thanks and love to all, always... 💖

Sue

I am grateful to my sister Mari for providing this most perfect image.  We are indeed a family of Scrabble players but, regrettably, we never did manage to make time to play!

Happy post-Thanksgiving, sweet peas.  DEAR SUGAR, The Rumpus Advice Column #90: Ninety-Four Ways of Saying Thank You, November 24, 2011

SONG:  You Can't Rush Your Healing by Trevor Hall (thanks to Sarah for sharing this song with me a few months ago... 💖) / Akaal by Ajeet Kaur (featuring Trevor Hall)

BOOK:  Ghost Rider: Travels on the Healing Road by Neil Peart

POEM:  Forgotten Gravy by Donna Ashworth

I love imperfect, mismatched rooms, homemade decorations,

and trinkets,

that tell stories of the past.

I treasure impromptu gatherings with food rustled up from nowhere – it’s always just enough.

I see the beauty in gifts handed over

with words of oh it’s nothing;

for that simply means the giver

cannot begin to convey

how they really feel about you.

I value both the quiet moments when the lights twinkle privately, and the raucous occasions when laughter fills the room.

And I can’t get enough of burnt carrots,

forgotten gravy,

and failed attempts at dessert.

Because that’s where the love lives

— in the imperfect,

in the messy,

in the real.

Love lives in the forgotten gravy.  Look for it.

Fifteen Bean Soup by Barbara Crooker

I want to thank this pot for its art

of containment, the stove for its gentle

heat.  Thank you to the beans, all fifteen

of you, for your transformation from stony

pebbles into nuggets of deliciousness, regaining

your original forms:  large & small limas, lentils,

navy beans, pintos, yellow-eyed beans, red & white

kidneys, black beans, garbanzos, cranberry beans,

small white & pink beans, green & yellow split peas.

And thank you to the onions, for your bite and snap;

tomatoes, chili powder, garlic, lemon juice—what

you add is undetectable, but if you’re omitted,

all is lost.  A word of applause, gnarly ham hocks,

for coming apart in the bubble and boil,

for lending your parts for the good of the whole.

And thank you, thank you, stoneware bowls—

without your help, this dinner wouldn’t be possible.

Have I forgotten anyone?  The farmer who sowed

the crops, the rancher who raised the pigs, the grocery

store that carried their wares.  Finally—and yes, I hear

the orchestra music, know my time is coming to a close—

let me thank the housewife, lost in history, who figured

out this recipe, the proportions, who added in the harmony,

the way the notes combined, the blend, the music, the mastery.

QUOTE:  "It was November - the month of crimson sunsets, parting birds, deep, sad hymns of the sea, passionate wind-songs in the pines. Anne roamed through the pineland alleys in the park and let that great sweeping wind blow the fogs out of her soul.” ~ L. M. Montgomery

You Can Do This Hard Thing (Carrie Newcomer)

Thanksgiving 2021

Email I sent to my sister Mari last Thursday (October 19, 2023, 12:26 p.m.):

"SUBJ:  Thanksgiving 2023: scathingly brilliant idea... or crazy as f*ck?

Dear Mari - 

This is going to be stream-of-consciousness, but hear me out.  Also, no need to decide anything now.  Ponder and let me know your thoughts... 🤷

You know Chico and I have always hosted Thanksgiving at our place with the usual cast of characters:  The MossFam6, Buck and Kathy, Nancy and Mark, and Duyen the last two years.  Even though Eric had moved to Atlanta, he and Duyen were definitely planning to come down to South Florida to participate again (she loved Thanksgiving at our house but, given that her parents are Vietnamese, they didn't really celebrate).

So, after Brad's wedding, which none of our kids were able to attend due to work obligations, Sarah posited (to me only) that maybe we could all go up to Atlanta for Thanksgiving, to get the extended family together again (this was two weeks before E died; little did she know, right?).

Would you be up for everyone descending on you (we could certainly *stay* elsewhere) and you and John hosting a Thanksgiving extravaganza? (I am not in any way suggesting this become an annual tradition; only thinking about 2023).  Not sure what traditions Joy's family has but she might be willing to make an exception; we can ask, right?  I would absolutely want to invite Duyen too!

We would all certainly help in whatever way needed:  cleaning, cooking, set-up, breakdown, washing dishes, etc.  Rob makes killer Stuffin' Muffins, using Mom's cornbread dressing recipe.

All that to say... Just. Think. About. It.  There is no wrong answer!

Love you so much, and I remain grateful for your continued love and support... 💗"

Mari and John's (her husband) response a short time later:  "Fuck Yeah!".

I was ridiculously excited that they were so excited!  The more we discussed, the more it sounds like *a lot*... but, again, I promised we will BOOA (Bring Our Own Aprons) as well as our helping hands and willing spirits.  The MossFam has always made a good team; why stop now, right?... 🎆

SONG:  You Can Do This Hard Thing by Carrie Newcomer

BOOK:  Empty Chair, The: Handling Grief on Holidays and Special Occasions by Susan J. Zonnebelt-Smeenge Ed.D., Robert C. De Vries (Contributor)

POEM:  Tumbling by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

When everything’s falling,

when everything’s broken,

when all is ravel and rubble

and ransacked and ruin

and the world is a stuttering,

guttering blunder,

a plundered and ravaged thing,

that is when wonder arrives on the wings

of forgiving, and living arrives

on the wings of the dead, and

devotion arrives in the wreckage

of loss. And if to love

is to risk being tumbled

and fumbled and wrung out

and sprawled, to love

is also to trust there are hands

that will raise us,

amaze us with kindness,

calm hands that will lift up

our hurt-heavy hearts

as if it they’re as light  

as red leaves in the fall.

QUOTE:  "We are blowing out candles on third birthdays. We are falling off a bike into a rose bush or a gutter. We are watching wide-eyed and terrified at our dad coming home drunk. We are taking the trash out and having it spill on our feet. We are breaking our favorite coffee mug. We are the adrenaline rush of crashing a car. We are our first kiss. We are not getting to kiss who we want. We are making art or food or mistakes or love. We are screaming angry grief when someone goes before their time. We are a shitty diagnosis. We are putting a pet down. We are watching a bomb drop. We are eating cake. We are eating no cake. We are waiting for the summer sunshine. We are hunkering down for winter. We are getting married or getting divorced or never finding that one person to believe in. We are birth and death and the cosmic wheel of life. We are mending all the broken hearts or breaking them.  We are so so much more than political parties. We are made of stardust." ~ Raina Rose

Thankful (The Juicebox Jukebox)

A bazillion years ago, when my then-boyfriend-now-husband and I were at West Georgia College, he went on a road trip to Florida with his two roommates and one of the roommates' girlfriend Jana (pronounced Yanna; she was Scandanivian, of course).  On the way home, the guys were tired, it was 3 a.m., there were very few cars on the highway, and they decided to let Jana drive.  A short while later, they felt a series of jolting bumps, and woke up to find that she had driven them off the road, narrowly missing a culvert, which could have meant damage to the car, not to mention injuries to its occupants.  When questioned as to what happened, Jana replied:  "I lost my concentration".  What?!?... 👀

Whenever I use the above excuse/justification, not often but sometimes, I conjure the backstory, which I am doing right now, envisioning Jana's beautiful face, her eyes wide and unapologetic.  Hey, it happens.  And that's how I feel about the last eleven days; all is fine here and there are no undercurrents nor real reasons I haven't posted.  I just lost my concentration... 😥

Back in focus now, mainly because Thanksgiving is tomorrow and, despite the crazy pandemic times we are in, we do have much to be thankful for.  For the last several years, I have participated in the 30-Day Gratitude Challenge but, since I'm not on Facebook (nor Instagram) anymore, it's fallen by the proverbial wayside, at least on social media, although not in my head and heart.  Counting my blessings remains a coping mechanism, and not just for the month of November... 💞

We normally have a houseful of people for the always-my-favorite-since-there-is-no-actual-*agenda* holiday, and we'll be missing our usual cast of characters immensely... but this year it's just the MossFam6.  Our family has brainstormed an all-vegan, finger-food brunch:  vegan cheese ball rolled in nuts and parsley with crackers; sliders with Gardein stuffed turk'y on mini-rolls with cranberry mayo (vegan); stuffin' muffins; phyllo cups with vegan sausage, pears, and walnuts; spinach/cheeZe/"egg" bites; roast potatoes; green bean casserole and, for dessert: avocado chocolate mousse, apple palm pies, pumpkin pie bites, homemade vegan cookies mailed across county lines from Melanie and Nick... plus champagne with cider... served outdoor picnic-style in our grassy area downstairs.  

In the meantime, I have issued the following challenge, discussed in last Friday's New York Times Daily Briefing, to my family and friends and hoping some of you might chime in below with your own.  Happy Thanksgiving, already looking forward to when we can have a face-to-face again, and here's my six-word gratitude contribution: 

"Around the table in spirit.  Cheers!"

"At a Thanksgiving dinner more than a decade ago, a magazine editor named Larry Smith made a suggestion to his relatives seated at the table: They should each tell a story about themselves — in only six words. It was a twist on a challenge that somebody apparently once issued to Ernest Hemingway.

For Thanksgiving, I want to invite the readers of this newsletter to do a version of the exercise. In this year of pandemic, politics and so much else, tell us what makes you grateful, in just six words.

“The constraint of the six-word form helps us get to the essence of what matters most,” Smith says, “and I can’t think of a time when expressing gratitude has been more important.” 

P.S.  I love Love LOVE the poem below, written by one of my favorite poets and people.  When I was still working, I kept my car radio on WLRN, the local NPR station, where I received my news as well as my culture (book and music reviews).  On the way home one afternoon, an interview with Ross Gay aired (about his just-published volume of essays, The Book of Delights) and I could not wait to get home and order it.  Imagine my pleasure when he was on a panel at the 2019 Miami Book Fair, and my validation that he was just as delightful in person.  I brought my book from home, which he autographed for me:  "To Susan - In Joy Together!".  I will never forget his open face, and his warm demeanor.  

" and you, again you, for hanging tight, dear friend.

I know I can be long-winded sometimes.

I want so badly to rub the sponge of gratitude

over every last thing"... 💓

NR:  The Girl with the Louding Voice by Abi Dare'

SONG:  Thankful by The Juicebox Jukebox

BOOK:  Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude by Ross Gay

POEM:  Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude by Ross Gay

Friends, will you bear with me today,

for I have awakened

from a dream in which a robin

made with its shabby wings a kind of veil

behind which it shimmied and stomped something from the south

of Spain, its breast aflare,

looking me dead in the eye

from the branch that grew into my window,

coochie-cooing my chin,

the bird shuffling its little talons left, then right,

while the leaves bristled

against the plaster wall, two of them drifting

onto my blanket while the bird

opened and closed its wings like a matador

giving up on murder,

jutting its beak, turning a circle,

and flashing, again,

the ruddy bombast of its breast 

by which I knew upon waking

it was telling me

in no uncertain terms

to bellow forth the tubas and sousaphones,

the whole rusty brass band of gratitude

not quite dormant in my belly—

it said so in a human voice,

“Bellow forth”—

and who among us could ignore such odd

and precise counsel?

Hear ye! hear ye! I am here

to holler that I have hauled tons—by which I don’t mean lots,

I mean tons — of cowshit

and stood ankle deep in swales of maggots

swirling the spent beer grains

the brewery man was good enough to dump off

holding his nose, for they smell very bad,

but make the compost writhe giddy and lick its lips,

twirling dung with my pitchfork

again and again

with hundreds and hundreds of other people,

we dreamt an orchard this way,

furrowing our brows,

and hauling our wheelbarrows,

and sweating through our shirts,

and two years later there was a party

at which trees were sunk into the well-fed earth,

one of which, a liberty apple, after being watered in

was tamped by a baby barefoot

with a bow hanging in her hair

biting her lip in her joyous work

and friends this is the realest place I know,

it makes me squirm like a worm I am so grateful,

you could ride your bike there

or roller skate or catch the bus

there is a fence and a gate twisted by hand,

there is a fig tree taller than you in Indiana,

it will make you gasp.

It might make you want to stay alive even, thank you;

and thank you

for not taking my pal when the engine

of his mind dragged him

to swig fistfuls of Xanax and a bottle or two of booze,

and thank you for taking my father

a few years after his own father went down thank you

mercy, mercy, thank you

for not smoking meth with your mother

oh thank you thank you

for leaving and for coming back,

and thank you for what inside my friends’

love bursts like a throng of roadside goldenrod

gleaming into the world,

likely hauling a shovel with her

like one named Aralee ought,

with hands big as a horse’s,

and who, like one named Aralee ought,

will laugh time to time til the juice

runs from her nose; oh

thank you

for the way a small thing’s wail makes

the milk or what once was milk

in us gather into horses

huckle-buckling across a field;

and thank you, friends, when last spring

the hyacinth bells rang

and the crocuses flaunted

their upturned skirts, and a quiet roved

the beehive which when I entered

were snugged two or three dead

fist-sized clutches of bees between the frames,

almost clinging to one another,

this one’s tiny head pushed

into another’s tiny wing,

one’s forelegs resting on another’s face,

the translucent paper of their wings fluttering

beneath my breath and when

a few dropped to the frames beneath:

honey; and after falling down to cry,

everything’s glacial shine.

And thank you, too. And thanks

for the corduroy couch I have put you on.

Put your feet up. Here’s a light blanket,

a pillow, dear one,

for I can feel this is going to be long.

I can’t stop

my gratitude, which includes, dear reader,

you, for staying here with me,

for moving your lips just so as I speak.

Here is a cup of tea. I have spooned honey into it.

And thank you the tiny bee’s shadow

perusing these words as I write them.

And the way my love talks quietly

when in the hive,

so quietly, in fact, you cannot hear her

but only notice barely her lips moving

in conversation. Thank you what does not scare her

in me, but makes her reach my way. Thank you the love

she is which hurts sometimes. And the time

she misremembered elephants

in one of my poems which, oh, here

they come, garlanded with morning glory and wisteria

blooms, trombones all the way down to the river.

Thank you the quiet

in which the river bends around the elephant’s

solemn trunk, polishing stones, floating

on its gentle back

the flock of geese flying overhead.

And to the quick and gentle flocking

of men to the old lady falling down

on the corner of Fairmount and 18th, holding patiently

with the softest parts of their hands

her cane and purple hat,

gathering for her the contents of her purse

and touching her shoulder and elbow;

thank you the cockeyed court

on which in a half-court 3 vs. 3 we oldheads

made of some runny-nosed kids

a shambles, and the 61-year-old

after flipping a reverse lay-up off a back door cut

from my no-look pass to seal the game

ripped off his shirt and threw punches at the gods

and hollered at the kids to admire the pacemaker’s scar

grinning across his chest; thank you

the glad accordion’s wheeze

in the chest; thank you the bagpipes.

Thank you to the woman barefoot in a gaudy dress

for stopping her car in the middle of the road

and the tractor trailer behind her, and the van behind it,

whisking a turtle off the road.

Thank you god of gaudy.

Thank you paisley panties.

Thank you the organ up my dress.

Thank you the sheer dress you wore kneeling in my dream

at the creek’s edge and the light

swimming through it. The koi kissing

halos into the glassy air.

The room in my mind with the blinds drawn

where we nearly injure each other

crawling into the shawl of the other’s body.

Thank you for saying it plain:

fuck each other dumb.

And you, again, you, for the true kindness

it has been for you to remain awake

with me like this, nodding time to time

and making that noise which I take to mean

yes, or, I understand, or, please go on

but not too long, or, why are you spitting

so much, or, easy Tiger

hands to yourself. I am excitable.

I am sorry. I am grateful.

I just want us to be friends now, forever.

Take this bowl of blackberries from the garden.

The sun has made them warm.

I picked them just for you. I promise

I will try to stay on my side of the couch.

And thank you the baggie of dreadlocks I found in a drawer

while washing and folding the clothes of our murdered friend;

the photo in which his arm slung

around the sign to “the trail of silences”; thank you

the way before he died he held

his hands open to us; for coming back

in a waft of incense or in the shape of a boy

in another city looking

from between his mother’s legs,

or disappearing into the stacks after brushing by;

for moseying back in dreams where,

seeing us lost and scared

he put his hand on our shoulders

and pointed us to the temple across town;

and thank you to the man all night long

hosing a mist on his early-bloomed

peach tree so that the hard frost

not waste the crop, the ice

in his beard and the ghosts

lifting from him when the warming sun

told him sleep now; thank you

the ancestor who loved you

before she knew you

by smuggling seeds into her braid for the long

journey, who loved you

before he knew you by putting

a walnut tree in the ground, who loved you

before she knew you by not slaughtering

the land; thank you

who did not bulldoze the ancient grove

of dates and olives,

who sailed his keys into the ocean

and walked softly home; who did not fire, who did not

plunge the head into the toilet, who said stop,

don’t do that; who lifted some broken

someone up; who volunteered

the way a plant birthed of the reseeding plant

is called a volunteer, like the plum tree

that marched beside the raised bed

in my garden, like the arugula that marched

itself between the blueberries,

nary a bayonet, nary an army, nary a nation,

which usage of the word volunteer

familiar to gardeners the wide world

made my pal shout “Oh!” and dance

and plunge his knuckles

into the lush soil before gobbling two strawberries

and digging a song from his guitar

made of wood from a tree someone planted, thank you;

thank you zinnia, and gooseberry, rudbeckia

and pawpaw, Ashmead’s kernel, cockscomb

and scarlet runner, feverfew and lemonbalm;

thank you knitbone and sweetgrass and sunchoke

and false indigo whose petals stammered apart

by bumblebees good lord please give me a minute...

and moonglow and catkin and crookneck

and painted tongue and seedpod and johnny jump-up;

thank you what in us rackets glad

what gladrackets us;

and thank you, too, this knuckleheaded heart, this pelican heart,

this gap-toothed heart flinging open its gaudy maw

to the sky, oh clumsy, oh bumblefucked,

oh giddy, oh dumbstruck,

oh rickshaw, oh goat twisting

its head at me from my peach tree’s highest branch,

balanced impossibly gobbling the last fruit,

its tongue working like an engine,

a lone sweet drop tumbling by some miracle

into my mouth like the smell of someone I’ve loved;

heart like an elephant screaming

at the bones of its dead;

heart like the lady on the bus

dressed head to toe in gold, the sun

shivering her shiny boots, singing

Erykah Badu to herself

leaning her head against the window;

and thank you the way my father one time came back in a dream

by plucking the two cables beneath my chin

like a bass fiddle’s strings

and played me until I woke singing,

no kidding, singing, smiling,

thank you, thank you,

stumbling into the garden where

the Juneberry’s flowers had burst open

like the bells of French horns, the lily

my mother and I planted oozed into the air,

the bazillion ants labored in their earthen workshops

below, the collard greens waved in the wind

like the sails of ships, and the wasps

swam in the mint bloom’s viscous swill;

and you, again you, for hanging tight, dear friend.

I know I can be long-winded sometimes.

I want so badly to rub the sponge of gratitude

over every last thing, including you, which, yes, awkward,

the suds in your ear and armpit, the little sparkling gems

slipping into your eye. Soon it will be over,

which is precisely what the child in my dream said,

holding my hand, pointing at the roiling sea and the sky

hurtling our way like so many buffalo,

who said it’s much worse than we think,

and sooner; to whom I said

no duh child in my dreams, what do you think

this singing and shuddering is,

what this screaming and reaching and dancing

and crying is, other than loving

what every second goes away?

Goodbye, I mean to say.

And thank you. Every day.

QUOTE:  "Make the invisible dark force beautiful. Create a song out of your moans.  Brag about your wounds. Dance reverently on the graves of your enemies.  Sneak a gift to your bad self. Dissolve the ties that bind you to hollow intelligence.  Train yourself in the art of unpredictability. Play forever in time's blessing. Lift up your heart unto the wild sun. Distribute your favors to the little ones who can never pay you back. Fall out of love with fear. Make beautiful messes in the midst of ugly messes." ~ Rob Brezsny

The First Thanksgiving (David Stoddard)

From The Writer's Almanac:

Today is Thanksgiving Day. When we talk about the first Thanksgiving, we're referring to an event that happened in 1621 in Plymouth, Massachusetts. But there were actually Thanksgiving ceremonies in the United States much earlier — in 1565, 600 Spanish settlers arrived in what is now St. Augustine, Florida, and had a Mass of Thanksgiving to celebrate their safe arrival, and followed it up with a feast. Other Thanksgiving celebrations occurred in El Paso, Texas, and in the Virginia Colony.

But the most famous is the Thanksgiving in the fall of 1621, when the Plymouth colonists celebrated with the Wampanoag Indians. It was the colonists' first harvest, so it was a joyful occasion. The Pilgrims had barely survived the last winter and had lost about half their population. But since then, they had built seven houses, a meeting place, and three storehouses for food. Now they actually had food to store.

They invited the Wampanoag Indians to feast with them. The Wampanoag people and their chief, Massasoit, were friendly toward the Pilgrims and helped teach them how to live on different land and with new food sources. A man known as Squanto, a Patuxet living with the Wampanoag tribe, knew English because he had been a slave in England. He taught the settlers how to plant corn, beans, and squash and how to catch eel and shellfish. And he was their interpreter.

So the Pilgrims asked the Native Americans to share in their first harvest. Harvest festivals were nothing new; both the English and the Wampanoag had similar traditions in their culture.

At the first Thanksgiving, they didn't eat mashed potatoes and pumpkin pie, and they probably didn't even eat turkey. The only two foods that are actually named in the primary accounts are wild fowl and venison. The meal was mostly meat and seafood, but probably included squash, cabbage, corn, and onions, and spices like cinnamon, ginger, nutmeg, and pepper.

Unlike our modern Thanksgiving, this event wasn't just one day. Many of the Wampanoag had to walk two days to get to the Plymouth settlement. There were about 50 English people and 90 Wampanoag, and since there wasn't enough room in the seven houses for the guests, they went ahead and built themselves temporary shelters. In between eating, they played games and sports, danced and sang.

The most detailed account of the first Thanksgiving comes from one of the Pilgrims, Edward Winslow. He wrote:

Our harvest being gotten in, our governor sent four men on fowling, that so we might after a special manner rejoice together after we had gathered the fruits of our labor. […] At which time, amongst other recreations, we exercised our arms, many of the Indians coming amongst us, and among the rest their greatest king Massasoit, with some ninety men, whom for three days we entertained and feasted.

Thanksgiving has been celebrated as a national holiday on different dates, in different months, and one year it was even celebrated twice. It wasn't standardized until 1941, when President Roosevelt signed a bill declaring that the fourth Thursday in November would be Thanksgiving Day.


Happy Thanksgiving to all - the house is already redolent with the aromas of various food offerings... and we're expecting a full table of loving family and special friends. Of course it's a bittersweet day, this being the first major holiday without mom - I'm making her Southern cornbread dressing, and Sarah's preparing her pecan pie recipe, in remembrance...

I thought I was going to be okay with this holiday, because we didn't normally celebrate it with mom, but I've had some rough patches these last few days - the memories transcend calendar boxes and timelines and, bittersweet as it may be, we will honor the grief mixed with the gratitude...

It was interesting to go back and read last year's post, not too much different than this year's sentiment - wishing you and yours a most wonderful Thanksgiving...

SONG: The First Thanksgiving by David Stoddard

BOOK: Bless This Food: Ancient and Contemporary Graces from Around the World by Adrian Butash

POEM: Cranberry-Orange Relish by John Engels

A pound of ripe cranberries, for two days
macerate in a dark rum, then do not
treat them gently, but bruise,
mash, pulp, squash
with a wooden pestle
to an abundance of juices, in fact
until the juices seem on the verge

of overswelling the bowl, then drop in
two fistsful, maybe three, of fine-
chopped orange with rind, two golden
blobs of it, and crush
it in, and then add sugar, no thin
sprinkling, but a cupful dumped
and awakened with a wooden spoon

to a thick suffusion, drench of sourness, bite of color,
then for two days let conjoin
the lonely taste of cranberry,
the joyous orange, the rum, in some
warm corner of the kitchen, until
the bowl faintly becomes
audible, a scarce wash of sound, a tiny
bubbling, and then
in a glass bowl set it out
and let it be eaten last, to offset
gravied breast and thigh
of the heavy fowl, liverish
stuffing, the effete
potato, lethargy of pumpkins

gone leaden in their crusts, let it be eaten
so that our hearts may be together overrun
with comparable sweetnesses,
tart gratitudes, until finally,
dawdling and groaning, we bear them
to the various hungerings
of our beds, lightened
of their desolations.

QUOTE: "As we express our gratitude, we must never forget that the highest appreciation is not to utter words, but to live by them." ~ John Fitzgerald Kennedy

Thanksgiving Song (Mary Chapin Carpenter)

It is 12:40 a.m. Thanksgiving Day as I begin to type this - I spent much of Wednesday straightening and then cleaning the house in anticipation of the holiday. After I publish this post, I intend to lay out my linens, serving dishes and pantry items so as to get a jump on the day organizationally - then... I'll soak in the jacuzzi before I crawl between the sheets, with plans to wake at 8 a.m. to put the turkey in the oven. Then... back to bed... or not? - usually not... as this is my favorite holiday and I want to make the most of it.

A few minutes ago, I read last year's Thanksgiving posts, as I devoted almost a full week to this special time of gratitude, family and love - ah, that we should feel/behave this way year-round, eh? I love the no-agenda, non-commercial-ness of the day, as it's not really one Hallmark has tagged and therefore sullied - it's all about connection and gathering and thankfulness, widening our circles as well as circling our wagons.

I cook pretty much the same menu each year - our friends Kathy and Buck *always* bring the sweet potato casserole (as that's one of the few things I don't eat... so therefore don't cook) and a raspberry cheesecake. This time around, Sarah and her boyfriend Ryan are making green bean casserole and a chocolate chip banana nut bread - when I read the menu to my boys last night, they insisted that was nowhere near enough chocolate... so I made a dark chocolate caramel walnut pie (2, actually) tonight from a recipe I saw in Good Housekeeping magazine while I was waiting for my friend in the doctor's office - can't wait to finally take a bite and see if it's worth the calories!

As always, so much to be grateful for: my mom, whose health seems to be declining more slowly as she realizes her limitations and therefore asks for more help and doesn't try to do everything herself; my sister and brother, wonderful people in their own right, but absolute godsends in cities of close proximity to Mom, to visit, take her to doctor's appointments, etc.; a husband who loves and supports me, especially in my dark days; my three children who are bright, funny, compassionate; friends, near and far, who lift me up and make me feel valued; my sweet Rockstermuffin who, as soon as I lace up my New Balances, follows me all around the house until I take him walking after *my* walk; music, books and good conversation that keep me inspired, learning and growing; my renewed dedication to a healthier lifestyle; my ongoing spiritual journey to be the best me I can be; a change in national leadership such that I feel represented, rather than disenfranchised, for the first time in eight years; ikigai, a Japanese word that means "that which makes one's life worth living" (i.e., a sense of purpose) - so much more... but I have tables to set, a dishwasher to unload and wine to chill... :-)

Happy Thanksgiving to all - may grace surround and enfold you... on this day, and always...

P.S. SMM...

SONG: Thanksgiving Song by Mary Chapin Carpenter

BOOK: The Book Of Thanksgiving: Stories, Poems, and Recipes for Sharing One of America's Greatest Holidays by Jessica Faust

POEM: This Amazing Day by e. e. cummings

i thank You God for most this amazing

day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees

and a blue true dream of sky;and for everything

which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,

and this is the sun's birthday;this is the birth

day of life and love and wings:and of the gay

great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing

breathing any-lifted from the no

of all nothing-human merely being

doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and

now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

QUOTE: "Thanksgiving Day comes, by statute, once a year; to the honest man it comes as frequently as the heart of gratitude will allow." ~ Edward Sandford Martin

These Four Walls (Shawn Colvin)

Thanks so much to Melanie for passing on this video - how perfectly-timed for Thanksgiving!

My postings will be sporadic over the next five days - my son Eric came home from college tonight (instead of tomorrow when I expected him!)... tomorrow will be housecleaning/prep day, Thursday is obvious (we'll have 8 here for dinner)... and there are plans for Friday and Saturday as well. Lots of family, food and festivity - bring it on... :-)

P.S. SMM...

SONG: These Four Walls by Shawn Colvin

BOOK: Wisdom: 50 Unique and Original Portraits by Andrew Zuckerman

POEM: What's In The Temple? by Tom Barrett

In the quiet spaces of my mind a thought lies still, but ready to

spring.

It begs me to open the door so it can walk about.

The poets speak in obscure terms pointing madly at the unsayable.

The sages say nothing, but walk ahead patting their thigh calling for

us to follow.

The monk sits pen in hand poised to explain the cloud of unknowing.

The seeker seeks, just around the corner from the truth.

If she stands still it will catch up with her.

Pause with us here a while.

Put your ear to the wall of your heart.

Listen for the whisper of knowing there.

Love will touch you if you are very still.

If I say the word God, people run away.

They've been frightened--sat on 'till the spirit cried "uncle."

Now they play hide and seek with somebody they can't name.

They know he's out there looking for them, and they want to be

found,

But there is all this stuff in the way.

I can't talk about God and make any sense,

And I can't not talk about God and make any sense.

So we talk about the weather, and we are talking about God.

I miss the old temples where you could hang out with God.

Still, we have pet pounds where you can feel love draped in warm

fur,

And sense the whole tragedy of life and death.

You see there the consequences of carelessness,

And you feel there the yapping urgency of life that wants to be lived.

The only things lacking are the frankincense and myrrh.

We don't build many temples anymore.

Maybe we learned that the sacred can't be contained.

Or maybe it can't be sustained inside a building.

Buildings crumble.

It's the spirit that lives on.

If you had a temple in the secret spaces of your heart,

What would you worship there?

What would you bring to sacrifice?

What would be behind the curtain in the holy of holies?

Go there now.

QUOTE: "As we practice forgiveness we discover more and more that forgiveness and healing are one." ~ Agnes Sanford

Alice's Restaurant (Arlo Guthrie)

The Lumpy Sue Acoustic Musicfest is a free concert in North Miami's Greynolds Park the day after Thanksgiving. It provides a relaxed and mellow alternative to the frenzy of Christmas commercialism. However, if money is burning a hole in your pocket, you can buy raffle tickets to support Habitat for Humanity. Prizes are generally gift certificates from local merchants (restaurants, music stores, baskets, coffee houses, even vacations, that sort of thing).

The LSAM had its origin in 1992 when a small group of locals decided that the Miami area was in need of a family-oriented acoustic folk music festival. Recalling that Greynolds Park in North Miami Beach in the 1960's was a haven for folk music groupies, the locals decided that that would be their venue. The date for the event would be a tradition… Friday, the day after thanksgiving, in honor of Alice's Restaurant. This founding group remains today as the executive committee of LSAM, and the planning committee has expanded over the years.

All the talent appears gratis in respect for our second addition... Habitat for Humanity. There is a raffle and prizes are supplied by restaurants and many other local merchants with 100% of the proceeds going to Habitat. In our 12-year relationship with Habitat we have helped over 500 families obtain affordable housing.

The festival has developed into everything the founders hoped for: great music performed by respected artists, a family gathering, in a beautiful environment, creating a traditional event to attract a substantial audience-about 2000 of the mellowest people you want to meet and spend a day with.

This will be my tenth year attending this amazing gathering - I always buy raffle tickets... sometimes winning something and, since 2001 when I started my house concerts and continuing to the present with our UU concert series, I've donated many pairs of tickets as well. It's all delightful, spending time with friends, snacking on food/drinking mimosas and listening to wonderful music on an always-perfect weather day - the piece de resistance for me is the very last act at sundown, when Romo, a local musician, performs the full-length version of Alice's Restaurant... and we all sing the chorus, with four-part harmony and feeling, of course!

Here's a YouTube video, with clips from the movie and Arlo performing "Alice" in the same Church 40 years later.

SONG: Alice's Restaurant by Arlo Guthrie

BOOK: Attitudes of Gratitude: How to Give and Receive Joy Every Day of Your Life by M. J. Ryan

POEM: A Gardener's Thanksgiving by Reverend Max Coots

Let us give thanks for a bounty of people:

For children who are our second planting, and though they grow like weeds and the wind too soon blows them away, may they forgive us our cultivation and fondly remember where their roots are....

For generous friends with hearts as big as hubbards and smiles as bright as their blossoms;

For feisty friends as tart as apples;

For continuous friends, who, like scallions and cucumbers, keep reminding us that we've had them;

For crotchety friends, as sour as rhubarb and as indestructible;

For handsome friends, who are as gorgeous as eggplants and as elegant as a row of corn, and the other, plain as potatoes and as good for you;

For funny friends, who are as silly as Brussels Sprouts and as amusing as Jerusalem Artichokes, and serious friends, as complex as cauliflowers and as intricate as onions;

For friends as unpretentious as cabbages, as subtle as summer squash, as persistent as parsley, as delightful as dill, as endless as zucchini, and who, like parsnips, can be counted on to see you through the winter;

For old friends, nodding like sunflowers in the evening-time, and young friends coming on as fast as radishes;

For loving friends, who wind around us like tendrils and hold us, despite our blights, wilts and witherings;

And finally, for those friends now gone, like gardens past that have been harvested, and who fed us in their times that we might have life thereafter;

For all these we give thanks.

QUOTE: "Thanksgiving is the holiday of peace, the celebration of work and the simple life... a true folk-festival that speaks the poetry of the turn of the seasons, the beauty of seedtime and harvest, the ripe product of the year - and the deep, deep connection of all these things with God." ~ Ray Stannard Baker

May the Light of Love (David Roth)

Happy Thanksgiving!... both lower case and capital - the turkey is in the oven, the rest of the food is bought and soon to be prepared, the house is clean and the dinner table is ready to be set. I look forward to continuing old traditions - we always kick off the holiday season with George Winston's December as the background music to our mid-day meal.

My husband and kids will help with peeling potatoes, snapping beans and grating cheese - there will be various football games going on before and after dinner... and we will take a walk in the neighborhood because we ate too much.

I will spend 73 minutes in the kitchen (the length of my traditional clean-up music, Joni Mitchell's Miles of Aisles CD) doing leftover storage, dishwasher loading and pots and pans scrubbing... and then sit down, alone, to enjoy a cup of coffee spiked with Kahlua and topped with whipped cream.

Friday has its own tradition too, as I make a sh*tpot (old Southern expression) of turkey soup, with spinach fettucine noodles, onions, lots of carrots and assorted herbs and spices - then we just have to turn the air conditioning colder to make it feel like soup weather!

Gratitude abounds - may we all appreciate what we have and help others get what they need...

SONG: May the Light of Love by David Roth

BOOK: A Grateful Heart: Daily Blessings for the Evening Meal from Buddha to the Beatles by M. J. Ryan (Editor)

POEM: A Blessing by John O'Donohue

May you awaken to the mystery of being here and enter the quiet immensity of your own presence.

May you have joy and peace in the temple of your senses.

May you receive great encouragement when new frontiers beckon.

May you respond to the call of your gift and find the courage to follow its path.

May the flame of anger free you from falsity.

May warmth of heart keep your presence aflame and may anxiety never linger about you.

May your outer dignity mirror an inner dignity of soul.

May you take time to celebrate the quiet miracles that seek no attention.

May you be consoled in the secret symmetry of your soul.

May you experience each day as a sacred gift woven around the heart of wonder.

QUOTE: "Hem your blessings with thankfulness so they don't unravel." ~ Author Unknown

Thanksgiving Eve (Bob Franke)

On the fourth Thursday in November, Thanksgiving Day, Americans express gratitude for their good fortune. The American Thanksgiving tradition originated with the Pilgrims. As early as 1621, the Puritan colonists of Plymouth, Massachusetts set aside a day of thanks for a bountiful harvest. On October 3, 1789, President George Washington proclaimed the 26th of that November the first national Thanksgiving Day under the Constitution.

On October 3, 1863, in the wake of victory at Gettysburg, President Abraham Lincoln decided to issue a Thanksgiving Proclamation declaring the last Thursday in November national Thanksgiving Day. In 1941 Congress made it official.

On Thanksgiving Day in 1876, The American Intercollegiate Football Association held its first championship game. The sport resembled something of a cross between rugby and modern-day football, but the tradition of playing football on Thanksgiving Day developed with the evolution of the sport itself.

The first Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade was in 1924. In the 1920's many of Macy's department store employees were first-generation immigrants. Proud of their new American heritage, they wanted to celebrate the holiday with the type of festival they loved in Europe. The employees marched from 145 Street down to 34th Street dressed as clowns, sheiks, knights and cowboys. There were floats, professional bands and 25 live animals borrowed from the Central Park Zoo. With an audience of over a quarter of a million people, the parade was a success.

Large helium balloons first appeared in 1927 with Felix the Cat. It became tradition to release the balloons after the parade. The balloons would float for days and the lucky finder could claim a reward at Macy's. In 1933, a student pilot stalled her engine over Jamaica Bay trying to snag a cat balloon, and two tugboats in the East River tore apart a dachshund balloon. After a few more close calls, the practice of releasing the balloons came to an end.

SONG: Thanksgiving Eve by Bob Franke

BOOK: The Thanksgiving Ceremony: New Traditions for America's Family Feast by Edward Bleier

POEM: Thanksgiving by Lynn Ungar

I have been trying to read
the script cut in these hills—
a language carved in the shimmer of stubble
and the solid lines of soil, spoken
in the thud of apples falling
and the rasp of corn stalks finally bare.

The pheasants shout it with a rusty creak
as they gather in the fallen grain,
the blackbirds sing it
over their shoulders in parting,
and gold leaf illuminates the manuscript
where it is written in the trees.

Transcribed onto my human tongue
I believe it might sound like a lullaby,
or the simplest grace at table.
Across the gathering stillness
simply this: "For all that we have received,
dear God, make us truly grateful."

QUOTE: "We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures." ~ Thornton Wilder

Uncle Dave's Grace (Lou and Peter Berryman)

A bit of levity for the upcoming holiday... :-)

SONG: Uncle Dave's Grace (Lou and Peter Berryman)

BOOK: We Gather Together... Now Please Get Lost! by Diane deGroat

POEM: A Turkey Speaks ~ Author Unknown

I have never understood

why anyone would

roast the turkey

and shuck the clams

and crisp the croutons

and shell the peas

and candy the sweets

and compote the cranberries

and bake the pies

and clear the table

and wash the dishes

and fall into bed

when they could sit back

and enjoy a hamburger.

QUOTE(S): "Thanksgiving dinners take eighteen hours to prepare. They are consumed in twelve minutes. Half-times take twelve minutes. This is not coincidence." ~ Erma Bombeck

"Coexistence: what the farmer does with the turkey - until Thanksgiving." ~ Mike Connolly

An Attitude of Gratitude (Jimmy Buffett)

Thanksgiving is almost upon us (zippity!) - it is my favorite holiday, for the sheer non-commerciality/no-agenda-ness of it. As much as I love Christmas, the retail industry has pushed it up so far as to completely overwhelm the month of November and all its lovely attributes and offerings - let's enjoy the present, the here-and-now, before we rush right through to the next holiday, month or celebration.

I always make the turkey, gravy, mashed potatoes (one year I made wild rice instead and, to hear my family tell it, you would have thought I'd ordered them to take off their clothes at the dinner table and worship Satan!), green bean casserole (yes, with mushroom soup/onion rings), creamed onions (my mom's recipe), corn, squash casserole, baby carrots with dill, crescent rolls, a pumpkin pie, an apple pie, chocolate cake... and of course massive amounts of wine, red and white. Our friends Buck and Kathy are coming for dinner - they've been assigned the sweet potato casserole, a dish my husband loves but, since I don't, I never make it...

I adore bringing out the Thanksgiving tablecloth in shades of rust, forest green and brown, and the cloth napkins (with assorted napkin holders) that blend with the color scheme - my silk fall leaves in an earthenware pitcher, along with cinnamon candles in the fruit candle rings, will make a lovely holiday table. One of the best parts of this celebration to me is that before we actually lift our forks, we hold hands and, going around the table, everyone is encouraged to share what they are thankful for - as much as my family professes to be embarrassed by this tradition, they always come up with something wonderful to say, and it is a heartwarming and teary moment.

So... I got all of my laundry done today, will do my food shopping tomorrow and clean house on Wednesday - Thursday is reserved for cooking, eating and bonding (did I say I love Thanksgiving?... :-)

SONG: An Attitude of Gratitude by Jimmy Buffett

BOOK: Thanks & Giving: All Year Long by Marlo Thomas, Christopher Cerf

POEM: Grace by Rafael Jesus Gonzalez

Thanks & blessings be

to the Sun & the Earth

for this bread & this wine,

this fruit, this meat, this salt,

this food;

thanks be & blessing to them

who prepare it, who serve it;

thanks & blessings to them

who share it

(& also the absent & the dead).

Thanks & Blessing to them who bring it

(may they not want),

to them who plant & tend it,

harvest & gather it

(may they not want);

thanks & blessing to them who work

& blessing to them who cannot;

may they not want - for their hunger

sours the wine & robs

the taste from the salt.

Thanks be for the sustenance & strength

for our dance & work of justice, of peace.

QUOTE: "Grace isn't a little prayer you chant before receiving a meal. It's a way to live." ~ Jackie Windspear