Thanksgiving Revisted

As Thanksgiving approaches I am re-sharing an excerpt from an essay I wrote on a Thanksgiving of a few years ago. 

The Thanksgiving holiday is all about the turkey.  Perhaps a football game or two and a little holiday shopping.  Well, actually, for some people the shopping is more of a competitive sport than the all-day football games on TV. 

But here it is Thanksgiving and my turkey is in another town.  No, I am not stranded at the airport due to weather or holiday crowds.  Rather, we were going to drive to my Mom’s house for our turkey dinner and instead have found ourselves quarantined at home, 290 miles from our turkey dinner.

To fully understand the situation I must digress a bit. Actually, all the way back to our childhoods. My husband is an only child and I am an only daughter.  Neither of us learned to cook with a lot of other people “helping” in the kitchen, so we seldom cook meals together.  But on Thanksgiving, after 30 plus years of marriage, my spouse and I have finally reached a truce and choreographed the holiday meal to an art form.  Early in the day, I get the turkey ready, stuffed, and in the oven. 

Early afternoon, my husband begins his elaborate preparations of  side dishes that bake for at least an hour, most courtesy of Shaker recipes or Jeff Smith’s Frugal Gourmet: corn pudding, sweet potatoes baked in maple syrup, and baked apples.  After he has lovingly nestled his gourmet creations in the oven, I then prepare broccoli casserole (also courtesy of a “Shaker” recipe, though I am jarred by the image of the Shakers driving in horse-drawn carriages to market for Velveeta cheese food and Ritz crackers), potatoes, and gravy. 

This year, though, there is no turkey, not a small roasting chicken, or even a Cornish hen in our house.  Since we were not planning on being home for Thanksgiving.  Instead we had planned on driving on Thanksgiving Day to Mom’s home some four and a half hours away.  As a result of those travel plans and Mom’s ill health, for the first time, instead of our usual holiday cooking routine, somewhat reluctantly I had ordered a turkey dinner already fully prepared.  This is likely to be Mom’s last Thanksgiving, so I went a bit overboard and ordered an elaborate, take-out feast which Mom’s care-giver has picked up and planned to heat and serve today.

Mom has had little appetite after completing five weeks of radiation for a tumor discovered several months ago.  Even though Mom is not likely to eat much of the turkey dinner, I had hoped that she would at least enjoy the sight of a plump, baked bird on her dining room table, and that feast, shared by family, would lift her sprits.

Unfortunately, my husband and I aren’t able to be at that table today.  He came down with the old-fashioned stomach flu on Thanksgiving Eve.  A result of a virus, no doubt, but one that seems almost unpatriotic in its timing at the start of shopping and gluttony season.  I, on the other hand, though not (yet) affected by the stomach bug, instead am suffering from a longer term, gastro-intestinal ailment that appears to be tracking Mom’s decline in health.

Thus, the absence of a turkey at our house this year is not a loss we particularly miss except, perhaps, in the abstract. Furthermore, according to the morning newspaper, most Americans gain five pounds over the holiday season.  The risks of over-eating, even in a single meal were laid out like the proverbial buffet: heart attack, stroke, gall stone attacks, not to mention old-fashioned heartburn and gastric distress.  We will count ourselves lucky to be sidestepping these risks as, we pick sedately at scrambled eggs, no toast for me on the chance my tummy upset is gluten sensitivity activated by stress. 

As it turned out that was my Mom’s last Thanksgiving.  She never rebounded after the radiation, but instead lingered for many months as her life spirit and her strength receded.  My brother and I spent much of that time with her.  Only belatedly did we think to play for her some of the music she had so enjoyed.  Nevertheless, I like to think that even in her coma-like state she heard and enjoyed some of the old Nat King Cole songs she had played on the piano in her younger days. 

This year because of schedules no immediate relatives are coming for the holiday, nor are we making the trip.  Instead, we are spending Thanksgiving with our older son’s in-laws, a very generous and welcoming crowd.  We will bring gluten-free corn pudding as well as one of the other “Frugal Gourmet” vegetables. 

During my Mother’s final months I developed celiac, a disease associated with a severe reaction to wheat and gluten. Celiac occurs as a result of a genetic predisposition, and can be activated by physical or mental stress.  Luckily, our son’s in-laws assure me they are happy to serve a gluten- free turkey dinner.  

It has taken me awhile to realize Thanksgiving is not at all about the turkey.  Or even the football and shopping.  Rather, it’s about family, however you might define them, and good friends.  And it’s for giving thanks for them, however far flung or distant they might now be.

Happy Time Savings

I just wanted to say: happy end to Daylight Savings Time. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.

It’s not that I don’t like to save daylight. I do. But changing the clocks doesn’t really give anyone an extra hour of daylight. It just manages to confuse people like me. And I’m not even going to talk about the terrible thing it is to lose an hour under the illusion of springing forward. Well, I guess Daylight Savings Time giveth and then taketh away.

The best thing about Daylight Savings Time is when it ends. I find I have an extra, unscheduled hour.

Having an extra hour today helped a lot. That may even be the reason I found an extra few minutes to write on my blog. And I will let you in on a secret: we still haven’t changed all our clocks. I know, it’s shocking.  All the newscasters, articles and everyone, everywhere, remind you to turn your clocks back. And to do it last night before you went to bed.

But I love the feeling of seeing the old--Daylight Savings Time--on my clocks--and then realizing I have an extra hour because the clocks haven’t been changed yet.

I know. You can only play that game so long. And it's a little strange to not have your clocks at the right time. I even run the risk of being somewhere an hour early. That really would be strange.

I guess nowadays there really is no worry you would be confused about the time unless you unplugged from the internet. Since, of course, your cell phone and computer and anything connected to the Internet refuses to play along with the illusion that the time is anything but the actual time. But you can pretend at least until you look at those devices.

What I wonder is why can’t we do Weekend Savings Time? Every week. They could take away an hour, say on Monday morning. Who really likes Monday mornings anyway? And then get it back Saturday night or Sunday morning.  Wouldn’t that be a great way to save some of the time we really want?

Elvis's Pink Cadillac

Going’ to Graceland

My first time to Graceland. The mansion is modest by today's standards for superstars. And yet, few if any of today's superstars could match the fame and success of Elvis.

How many musicians have been inspired by Elvis's voice in a million? Who can help falling in love with the boy from Tupelo with the looks and moves to go with that voice?

As we drove to Memphis we played Paul Simon "Graceland". We hummed "Walkin' in Memphis" as we strolled downtown. At Graceland we looked for the porcelain monkeys Warren Zevon sings of. There they were in the gaudy jungle room. Lots more Memphis-themed songs rolled through our heads.

I could hear Gillian Welch’s sad tones in “Elvis Presley Blues” in my head as we walked the Graceland Estate. Barely big enough to display all of his gold and platinum records. The voice on the audio tour said Elvis sold more records than any other person, living or dead.

Graceland is frozen in a time when shag rugs, heavy furniture and large TV/stereo combos were the latest styles.

A child's 1960's era swing set preserved on the grounds brings our own childhoods to mind. Lisa Marie Presley, the only daughter of the biggest musical star of all times, played on a swing set a lot like the one down the block from where we grew up. It's obvious this was a simpler time in some ways. Even if Elvis's large plane, named for that same daughter sits just a short distance away. As if ready to whisk her off to the mountains to see snow when the King realized his little girl had never seen snow.

A life of contradictions, cut too short, as have many of the lives of musicians and other celebrities.

We toured Sun Studios where Elvis's recording career began. We heard his first recording. Elvis's distinctive voice and soulful tones, that would soon captivate the world, sell millions of records, and change music, already were present on the record Elvis paid $4 for to give to his Momma for her birthday. Later he gave her the pink Cadillac. That inspired Bruce Springsteen’s song by the same name.

You know, it’s hard to write about Elvis and Graceland without sounding like you are quoting song lyrics. Maybe that’s because so many songs have been written for and about Elvis.

To quote Welch who wrote one of the best songs about Elvis:

“I was thinking that night about Elvis

Day that he died…

Just a country boy that combed his hair

Put on a shirt his mother made and went on the air

And he shook it like a chorus girl

He shook it like a Harlem Queen

He shook it like a midnight rambler, baby

Like he never seen, never seen, like he never seen, never seen.”

I’m going to try to not be sentimental. But you don’t say goodbye to Elvis. You say “until we meet again.” 

An Amazing Musical Experience

I’ve been to a lot of concerts, some amazing. The Leonard Cohen concert in St. Louis when Cohen had just started touring again. The first Jimmy Buffet concert I had ever been to—including the shenanigans of parrotheads.  Or the many Dylan concerts, some with Phil Lesh—where the Dead Heads were the biggest part of the show. If you read my blog you know some of the other amazing musicians I've heard. But I never expected a funeral for a long-time friend’s Mom in the small chapel of an independent, assisted-living facility to be the most remarkable musical event of my life.

The family who had lost it’s matriarch at the age of 89 has a strong musical connection. All three daughters have beautiful voices. And they had arranged for an opera singer to perform solos during the service. Even though I know nothing about opera and did not recognize the songs, I couldn’t help but realize the soloist had a spectacular voice. But there was yet to be a more amazing event.

I had known the deceased as the Mother of my friend. A beautiful woman with good humor and grace. A lovely eulogy was delivered by one of the daughters. She mentioned how many ways her Mom had left the world a better place.

When it came time for the relatively small crowd in the intimate chapel to sing the traditional hymns, I suddenly was overwhelmed with the beautiful voice from the young woman sitting next to me. She had the most amazing voice I have ever heard. Not louder than others singing in the crowd, but of a quality and fullness I’ve never experienced. As she sang “Amazing Grace” you could well imagine an angel had joined the chorus of voices. Through the rest of the hymns I sat as if stupefied with my mouth open, but not making a sound.

I know as little about opera and ballet as any subject. But I once saw Nureyev dance. When he came on stage, all the other ballet dancers immediately looked as if they were wearing lead weights. He appeared to defy the laws of gravity with invisible wings. That’s how different this young woman’s voice was from any I have ever heard. I later learned that Kate, the young woman sitting next to me and a granddaughter of the deceased, is an international opera singer.

I know you don’t go to funerals to hear the music. And I can’t say that I have ever before enjoyed a funeral. But in that little chapel in St. Charles, Missouri I realized in an acoustic revelation that the world really was a better place because the deceased had lived. She had left behind a world of music in her daughters and grandchildren. And she made me wonder if maybe I need to start listening to opera. 

Witty, Wonderful and in a Distinct Blues Style—a Review of Phil deFlume’s New Album

You might think that bloodlines bias my opinion of the most interesting, witty and wonderful musical album just released by my brother under the name Phil DeFlume. Well, here’s what another musician, Astad Dhunjisha, has said about the album.

A total home run!  Just finished my 6th listen. I really enjoyed it. Some awesome guitar solos!  

Music speaks differently to each one of us.  For me there was just so much on the album that I loved, the vocal harmonies, the horn sections, the tabla on newspaper rock, the groove of in water.  For me what stood out most of all was the humor and the witty lyrics.  It took me quite a bit of scanning the album art for me to make the connections and that was rewarding!   A lot of songs stood out - the test of which is that I wake up humming them each morning!    For me Newspaper Rock and the last song of the album spoke a lot to me -  so much good stuff though - Mabel's toes breathlessly inventive and witty, hot donkey love was super entertaining! 

What a great album in a very distinct blues style!

For more info on the album or the singer / songwriter go to www.Phildeflume.com  or to http://krcu.org/post/phil-deflume-unearths-strange-tales-water for an interview with Phil.

Serendipity

As a retiree I try to do a few community activities. Most of the time I make an effort to avoid, at all costs, driving downtown during the day, a commute I made for over twenty years. And since I now do whatever work I do from home, and also have activities such as  water exercise classes or swimming several days out of the week, I enjoy the freedom from wearing make up, doing something with my hair, and putting on professional-appearing, even business casual, clothes on most days.

Ah, the joys of sitting at your computer wearing sweat pants or shorts, or even pj’s. Nothing else can make you appreciate more having given up work, or at least the structure of a formal work environment, except perhaps no longer setting an alarm clock in the morning. Though I've had to do that for various appointments lately more than I like to admit.

But on some days I make the effort to attend in person a meeting for one of the professional or community groups to which I still belong.   Today was one such day. After leisurely reading the newspapers over coffee and attending to a few household chores I realized I was dangerously close to missing a lunch meeting downtown to which I had committed months ago. A quick shower, brief application of make up and a change into business casual clothes left me sweaty, anxious, and running late. And thankful that this was a very occasional occurrence.

I made it to my destination in time, found an on-street parking spot (most amazing), successfully navigated both parallel parking on the left-hand-side of the street and the new “Smart” parking meters, and proceeded to the meeting with about a minute to spare. Only to find the meeting had been cancelled about an hour before my arrival. I calculate this was while I was in the shower—or dashing for the car. The two were so close in time I can’t really be sure.

Needless to say, I should have checked my email before leaving home. Though that might not have saved me from the trip downtown as my email had been running slowly this morning.

The person who had cancelled the meeting was very apologetic for not having gotten the word out sooner. And, of course, most of the attendees who are already downtown would have gotten the email in plenty of time to avoid a pointless trip. But then, as luck or maybe fate would have it, I ran into an old friend, while receiving the news of the cancelled meeting. He graciously insisted on taking me to lunch. We had a delightful chance to catch up on family, friends, professional activities and otherwise make my little journey into downtown well worth the time I had invested in the excursion.

Now I’m home and catching up on other activities I've put off. But I’m left wondering if the best experiences often are the ones we don’t plan. The ones that life just throws at us through serendipity. That’s certainly what happened to me today.