Turkey and Mushiness: A (not really) obligatory Thanksgiving post

It appears we’ve survived another Thanksgiving at the Smith house. There were no tears and only a few screams, so I certainly can’t complain.

Mom fixed turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes and gravy and a pie, and I did the sweet potatoes and green beans. Dad, as tradition seems to dictate, tidied up the yard with his leaf blower and cut the turkey.

Mom, having learned from past Thanksgiving feasts (during one of which my sister found her crying in the garage), asked my dad to carve the turkey BEFORE any guests arrived. I knew why, and I made it a point to finish up my cooking and get the hell out of the way before he got started.

You don’t want to be in the kitchen when my dad comes to cut the turkey. You just don’t.

Indeed, he wasn’t in the kitchen two seconds before I heard him yell “Shit!” He continued to mutter for several minutes and then declared twice (to no one, because Mom was out of earshot and I pretended not to hear him) that this was the last year we were cooking Thanksgiving dinner.

Because it’s such a hassle for him, right?

Anyway, the turkey was done within five minutes and I snuck back into the kitchen to check on my beans and potatoes. Mom cleaned up the mess Dad had made when he dropped a drumstick on the floor (hence the cussing), and I herded my cats up to their room before they could locate the source of the enticing smells that were filling the house.

Soon my aunt and uncle and their kids arrived bearing salad, veggies, pies and Aunt Bev’s famous stuffed mushrooms. Next came another uncle with nothing but his appetite. (And I can’t complain, because that’s what I usually do...of course, my trip used to be a lot longer--1200 miles--so I had an excuse.) Finally my brother arrived with his wife, my nephews and several more pies.

Then we got our binge on.

My sister missed out on the fun this year, as she’s spending the holiday with her fiancé and his family. She spent yesterday wandering all over the state of Texas, stopping in Dallas to retrieve said fiancé from the airport, and then stopping again at the airport in San Antonio to get his luggage, and finally hitting the home stretch to Corpus Christi. That’s how they roll…by the seat of their pants and without a lot of advance planning.

Everyone’s gone home now, and the cats have finally given up on finding any hidden turkey scraps (they still don’t know about the stash Mom has set aside for them). Mom’s snuggled in her recliner with a heating pad on her back, and Dad’s watching TV with the volume ridiculously high, as usual. Grandma Iva is in her room, worrying about whether anyone will remember to turn down her bed before The Lawrence Welk Show comes on.

I’ve snuck upstairs for some quiet time with the kitties, and I guess this is where I reflect on how thankful I am. I certainly have plenty of reasons to be…

• I’m thankful for the hope I have for my future, and for a chance to start over in so many ways.
• I’m thankful for the severance check that allows me to survive on nothing but dreams and a sense of adventure—for a while, at least.
• I’m thankful my parents made room for my cats and me; that they haven’t complained too much about our excessive napping and shedding; and that living here hasn’t made me crazy yet.
• I’m glad I’m not in Philly, where November is far too chilly for my taste and the winters are unbearably cold. (I wore short sleeves today and took out the trash in my bare feet!)
• I’m thankful for my family, because they give me so much to write about, and because they’re the only people in the world who share my particular brand of nuttiness.
• I am grateful for my cats, of course…for wet nose kisses and soft head butts and early morning purrs and loving blinky-eyes and all things feline.
• I’m thankful for a New Guy who makes my heart flutter, and for all the things that make him so fucking cool, like how he loves his cats and surrounds himself with books, music, and art and makes me laugh and makes me breakfast and doesn’t mind if I cuss like a sailor…and how he’s just really damn likeable in general!

Recipe for a Perfect Saturday

On a cozy couch, combine two orange tabbies, liberal quantities of excellent music, and one really great guy.

Add beer to taste.

Laugh frequently, petting cats as needed.

Enjoy!

swatting flies and putting out fires

Monday I watched both of my nephews for a few hours, and we had quite the flurry of activity.

First, we stopped at Quicktrip; Talon had enough money to buy a bag of chips for himself and another one for Charlie. I found it very sweet that he considered his brother without being told, so I agreed to buy whatever drinks they wanted to go with their chips. Five minutes later, I left the store feeling I'd barely escaped with my life.

Talon wanted a 32 oz. fountain drink--he rationalized this by explaining it was the same price as the little drink Charlie wanted, and who am I to argue? So while Charlie chose from Booger Berry and whatever other bizarre flavors his drink came in, Talon filled his giant cup with some kind of red soda.

Charlie finally settled on a flavor, and I grabbed a soda for myself. All was well until Talon went to put the lid on his drink and--bless his heart--spilled the whole thing all over the place. Anxious to finish up and get out before we were kicked out, I asked what was in the cup so I could get him a new drink.

"It's mix of, like, four different things," he said sheepishly.

"Never mind," I said and sent him to ask someone to bring a mop while I sopped up some of the red stuff. Charlie tagged along behind him, dropping his own drink as he ran. Luckily that one was in a sealed plastic bottle, so a second disaster was averted--mostly. Talon made another drink, comprised mostly of Mountain Dew and cherry syrup, and I put the lid on it for him.

By the time we got to the counter, Charlie's drink was leaking on his hands. So the clerk took it away and told us to get another one. We had to go through the whole selecting-a-flavor dilemma one more time, and finally we were headed to the car with strict orders not to open ANYTHING until we got home.

Back at the house, Talon and I had some homework to do. I'd bought him several kinds of rocks & minerals in Hot Springs, and he wanted to label them and take them to school. So we sat at the kitchen table with my laptop and his rocks and started googling.

I knew this would be a bit of a challenge, as three-year-old Charlie is chock full of energy and requires constant conversation. What I didn't expect was for my dad to be the one who couldn't leave us in peace for five minutes!

Alas, my dad turns into 6'3'' child when my nephews are around, and he also happens to be utterly helpless without my mom. Unfortunately, Mom got a phone call and was not available to distract Charlie or Dad while Talon and I tried to get some work done. Within seconds, my dad was at the table with us, broken glasses in hand. He couldn't see to fix them, so he had to have Talon help him find the loose screw and put it back in.

(Pun not intended, but funny nonetheless.)

After several minutes of ridiculous commotion, Dad and Charlie finally went back to the living room. But within minutes, Dad was calling "I need the flyswatter!"

A wasp had come in through the fireplace, and instead of getting up to find the flyswatter like any able-bodied, able-minded adult, Dad sent Charlie after it (likely having first sent Charlie to ask my mom where it was--helpless, I tell you!). I tried to tune them out, but then I looked up to find Charlie coming through the kitchen with a watering can.

"That's not a flyswatter," Dad cried. "Katy, help him find the flyswatter."

"Not water," I explained to Charlie, laughing. "The flyswatter...to swat flies."

"He knows what a flyswatter is," Talon called from the kitchen.

"Oh yeah?" I answered from the pantry. "He's pointing at a bottle of vinegar right now."

Talon giggled.

After an eternity, Mom finished her phone call and found the damn flyswatter. By then I'd given up and told Talon he'd have to the label the other half of his rocks with his teacher's help. Their mom would be arriving any minute to pick them up.

It's a good thing I didn't find the flyswatter myself; I'd have used it on my dad.

shades of purple

It's been 20-25 years since my Grandma Mary moved out of her house at 123 N. Gillette. But I dream of that house so often, and in such vivid detail, that it's hard to believe how much time has passed. In dreams it's new and it's old; it's home but it's not. It's mine for the taking, but I'm almost afraid to claim it.

I dream about the view of the street from the screened-in front porch where I used to play, and I look out past the magnolia tree, hoping I'm safe from whoever may be outside. And though she's not there anymore, Grandma's comfy chair is in the same corner, facing the T.V. The room is otherwise empty but for a hint of stale cigarette smoke and faint echoes of laughter in the corners, sparkling like visions of the costume jewelry she kept hidden in her bedroom.

The dining room is no longer crowded with furniture or piled high with remnants of a depression-era urge to keep everything because "you never know when you might need it." Now it's open and empty, ready for a new purpose, waiting for me to let some light in. I can see through the glass doors of the two bedrooms off the dining room, and they are so full of stuff that I can't even walk in them.

Sometimes I go through her things, unfolding and refolding her clothes, deciding what to keep and what to discard, making room for myself. The colors are vivid, and royal purple is always prevalent.

Sometimes I cook in her kitchen, and everything is as she left it; I always know where to find what I need. I never fail to notice the kitchen door and the steep concrete stairs leading down to a sprawling yard, a stand-alone garage full of more junk, and the vegetable garden beyond. I look out over the garden and think of the wild, unfettered dreams that could grow there...

I wander through the house, taking stock of what's left and treasuring every familiar nook, every alluring doorway, every shade of purple. I've inherited something that can't be quantified by the things, the rooms, or even the memories. It's rightfully mine, to make what I will of it. She's not there, but she's a part of me and my laughter is her laughter.

I never dream of the small apartment she eventually moved into, or the nursing home where she spent her last days. And I never, ever dream about the empty lot left behind after the house burned down some ten years ago. In my dreams the structure stands, but the unanswered questions--the things we don't talk about--linger in the shadowy corners.

And when I'm awake, I remember what remains: the laughter, the wonder, the purple, the sparkles...and the little princess with pretty brown eyes and shiny red hair, who grew up without a castle.

one of my cents' worth

The last few years have been a discouraging and confusing time for me, politically; maybe it goes back to a fear of anger and confrontation. Although I've learned a lot about how healthy it is to disagree constructively, I'm still the ultimate diplomat. I don't mind conflict as much as I used to, but I do cringe when it gets heated. And I've been really disenchanted with the political landscape of the last few years. Call me too sensitive, but at times I've found the viciousness between left and right to be heartbreaking.

The other night I saw some people holding up signs for their candidate at a busy intersection, and I heard a barrage of horns honking in support. And that was when I saw the other side of it all: a belief in something instead of opposition to someone...hope instead of hatred.

Of course, my own struggles pale in light of the decades of racism and ignorance that have scarred our country. And now we've elected a black president! I don't think it ever seemed outside the realm of possibility to me, but when I think of generations before mine who saw times when a black president seemed like nothing but a distant dream...I can't imagine how they must feel today.

Maya Angelou gave me a taste of it on CBS News this morning. "I am so proud," she said. "I am filled, I can hardly talk without weeping. I am so filled with pride for my country. What do you say? We are growing up!"

It's a new day. So can we start healing now?