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Thanksgiving Prep

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Hey, guess what: 

November 2nd was my - wait for it - 13th blogaversary!  

Here's a link to not the very first post, but a post that I remember writing and loving those long years ago. 

The blog was quiet and then shuttered for a year, but I have a little time right now while I wait for the knee replacement surgery.  I can't go trotting off into Manhattan or clean up my garden, but I can read a few books, do some writing, and write a blog entry. 

Today, the birches and the oaks are the last of the trees hanging onto their yellow leaves. My elderly neighbor has an enormous (4 story no joke) weeping tree that I shamefacedly cannot identify. It  has long cascading leaves that are golden and wave like streamers  in the strong winds we are having. There were snow flurries for a awhile this morning. The first true day of early winter downstate.

On Saturday it was 65 degrees when we went to our city's Thanksgiving parade. Mr. Pom was able to drop me off right at the route and I sat in a lawn chair. I have been going to it since I was a girl. This hometown parade tugs at my heartstrings. While we stand in our usual spot in front of the now defunct pizza parlor known as "Cannone's",  I am watching the parade go by and my sight is filtered through so many layers of years past.  

The day reminds me of my Dad, who would take us to the parade. My Uncle Ed who would march as the Grand Something of the Elk Club. Of dating Mr. Pom and going to the parade , which used to be held at night, and then to The Turkey Bowl, the big football game on Thanksgiving Day between our public high school and Iona Prep.  

When we moved back from Memphis, I made all the sisters and their families, and my mom go  to the parade. Mystery Man was in the high school marching band. Julia and her friends were clowns. The turkey float signaled that the parade was almost over. And then Santa on the firetruck was the finale.

We used to have a lovely brunch afterwards at my sister Maria's house. The kids would all play football outside or run around shrieking, depending on age. She'd have up some of her Christmas decorations already, and after waffles and bacon and coffee, you would rush to get a comfy chair and a throw for a nap. 

Kids grow up and move away. Knees wear out.  

And then, a grandson is born!

 

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So when everyone was busy elsewhere this year,  we had the delight of taking Peanut.  You cannot be left untouched while watching the parade through a two-year old's eyes.  He did not want candy. He did not want a toy. He just wanted to stare intently at the police motorcycles and the fire engines and the giant balloons, and best of all, the marching bands and the  bagpipers!

 

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It's a veritable Rockwell painting. (Who did live in our town and painted many scenes of it.)

 The older I get, the more I treasure the holiday traditions  - and the more I am willing to break the ones that do not work anymore.  

Most of them are inherited traditions of beauty and perfectionism:  homemade pies; each component of the meal made from scratch; gourmet dishes; polished sterling silver; ironed table cloths; dishware and crystal that must be handwashed;  5 extra leaves in the dining table and chairs for 18. And all this is after the housecleaning! Bathroom washings! Multiple trips to the grocery stores! Trips to bakeries and wine shops!  The fish market! The florist! 

The sumptuous beauty. 

The exhausted hostess.

The cranky husband.

The squabbling-about-chores children. 

The post-holiday migraine. 

This holiday,  whether I wanted to do all that, I cannot physically do it. You might say that I have been lucky to draw I The Mother Who Cannot Stand For Long  Card. Kinda like winning the holiday lottery, frankly. I can sit back and enjoy? 

And you know what? As long as Mr. Pom barbecues the turkey and I can make the stuffing by sitting on a stool at the counter, I don't think anyone cares. 

Thus,  I bid adieu to the bondage of perfection and control.  Everyone is cooking or bringing some part of the meal.   There will be a lovely cloth - ironed by the dry cleaner.  The rose transferware inherited from my grandmother (dishwasher safe) will be used instead of the china that must be hand washed.  I will, however, use  my mother's sterling silverware because it is made to be used, not wrapped up in cloth bags in it's wooden chest.  I will use the green goblets from Pottery Barn but my great grandmother's crystal will remain in the cabinet.  We will have shrimp cocktail, but in the living room out of a chip and dip bowl instead of glass compotes and that take up the entire kitchen counter before they are handwashed. 

And then - best of all! - we travel two blocks down the hill and go to sister #5 for dessert! 

I can just feel myself relax as we walk into her beautiful home and I am handed a piece of coconut custard pie. 

May Thanksgiving be the day you want it to be, however you spend it, wherever you spend it. 

Love from the Poms, who thank you for your years of readership of my funny, little blog with tales of no more importance than the stories we have to tell. 

 


Dear Folks, Pretend that It's Monday

 

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Gratuitous adorable baby pic to get your attention. 

I plan to post on Mondays - or rather, I plan to  do the following: 

 I am about to launch a newsletter. Isn't that an amazingly 90's concept?? Except I seem to be the only bumpkin under the log regarding this new - err - old - medium of communication.  Seems like during the last few years when work has crushed my soul and ground my creativity into stale crumbs, all the au courant bloggers have switched to this more direct, controllable outlet. It appears it resolves many issues for me, including acting as a  swift kick in the butt to keep me on a regular schedule. 

I'm investigating, organizing, and getting ready. 

WATCH HERE FOR FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS.  

 

 

November All Soul's Month (in my life anyway)

 

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It's All Soul's November all month at my house. I set up an altar on the mantel to honor all our deceased family members. You probably remember the stunning painting Estelle Kline gave us after my mother died. A friend of the youngest's and fellow MICA grad,  the kindness and generosity displayed by Estelle was overwhelming. 

My daughter did a beautiful pencil sketch of my Dad from a sketch he had done while in India during WWII. Unfortunately, I cannot find a photo of it and it has been packed away, awaiting our putting the house on the market and hopefully subsequent downsizing. 

In front of the painting, I placed a shallow plate with three large pomegranates in front of the painting about two weeks ago. Maira Kalman (oh yes I'm a-gonna name drop) told me that if I leave them alone, they will eventually turn brown and dry out, and the seeds will rattle inside. I love the idea of the story seeds concentrating into bits that can be felt and heard. Unfortunately, one has developed a soft spot and is about to be chucked. I think I should not have had them touching each other. So I will try again with new ones. 

I light the votives at night. I have collected tokens of my family from all over the house. There's the house number "2"  and house key to my maternal grandparents's house. Dad's pipe and his photo.  Mother's Day gifts I had given my Mom over the years. A small ceramic car that The Baby painted and gave to Mr. Pom on Father's Day. It reminds me of a VW, which always reminds me of Granny, Mr. Pom's mom.  

 

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The Sicilian pottery vase just to the left out of frame belonged to my grandmother. (It's always the maternal side; I don't have a thing from my father's family.)  It is a gorgeous pattern of large bees and I love the vibrant colors. Apparently it fell to pieces at one point in its life and my grandmother painstakingly glued it all back together. It could not be more precious to me and is a symbol of spirit's endurance despite odds. The clock is just the ticking reminder that life is short but family love exists from one generation to another through the stories we tell. 

 

Soundbreaking

I will have a knee replacement in 16 days. (The other knee had a TKR five years ago and it's the strongest part of my body. ) I don't want to  look back on these weeks as time wasted. My plan has been to write in the morning and paint or draw later in the day and in the evening.  Between doctor appointments and PT, I am just getting into this groove.  Has anyone been following Soundbreaking on PBS? It's a new series showcasing different aspects of the music industry and artists. Last night I watched the first two episodes. The first was about  the role of the music producer in developing the distinctive sound of an artist.   Amazing behind the scenes film of the early Beatles and Elvis, etc, as well as those groups who would not use a producer - such as Sly and The Family Stone and Joni Mitchell. The second episode,  "Painting with Sound",  showed the evolution of Phil Spector and his creation of "the wall of sound", which all contemporary artists adopted thereafter.  Impossible to watch this series without e singing along at the top of your lungs. Perfect accompaniment to  a painting session. 

 

For now, let a melody counterpoint the anxiety that is running through our days.

See you next Monday.