It’s the day after Thanksgiving, and the dishes are washed and back in the cabinet. The good tableware has been carefully returned to its drawer. Another Thanksgiving is over…well, almost. There are still leftovers in the refrigerator and linens to launder, but the leftovers taste good, and I find doing laundry comforting.
It is good Thanksgiving was yesterday, for Christmas is just around the corner. There are cards to address, the letter to write and Xerox, the tree to decorate, outdoor lights to hang, cookies to bake, parties and school programs to attend, presents to buy, and laundry to do—all in four short weeks. Wow, I’m already tired, and I haven’t even thought about wrapping the presents.
My prayer is that I will remain calm and remember the reason for the season is to celebrate the birth of Jesus—not to see how much I can accomplish during the next four weeks. I pray, too, that I will not be sharp with John, that I will spread Christmas joy and not discord, and that I get through the season without restarting my blood pressure medicine.
Thank you for reading my blog. Although I don’t reply to your comments, I do appreciate the likes, comments, and sharing of the blog. I asked my husband if he thought between us we could come up with enough blunders, unusual events, mistakes, happy times, etc. that I could do one piece a week. He wasn’t sure he could do twenty-six stupid things a year, but he was confident in my ability to publish each week. Later I realized, he thought I might do more than my share of stupid or silly things. Hmmm.
Fortunately, or unfortunately, as I age, it is easier to do stupid things. Just the other day I almost placed dirty dishes in the oven rather than the dishwasher. In my defense, I was deeply involved in a news commentator’s review of the previous night’s presidential debate. After that near mishap, I vowed to watch only Hallmark Christmas movies.
Then the Paris attacks happened, and like after September 11, I was drawn to around-the-clock news reports. This Thanksgiving I am thankful for my family and friends, and for all those who work or serve in any manner to keep us safe. I pray they are successful.
As Thanksgiving approaches, thoughts of pie enter my mind. I like to eat pies. I even enjoy conversations about pies. I once heard my grandmother and mother discuss the difference in taste between a day-old pie and a freshly-baked pie. One particular uncle refused to eat day-old pie. Grandma maintained it didn’t matter to her if Uncle ate pie or not. It doesn’t matter to me if the pie is a day old either. What does matter to me is whether or not I bake the pie.
As a newlywed I found a pie recipe which called for lots of brown sugar, eggs, and oatmeal. I double checked the recipe, but there was no mention of a crust. I thought perhaps the oatmeal would somehow form a crust–it didn’t. It did form a gooey, sticky, burned mess in the bottom of the pie pan.
Another lesson learned through trial and error was to both thaw and bake a store-bought frozen pie before serving. Thanksgiving dinner was late that year. I know, too, the embarrassment of my pie selling for $2.50 while my friend’s pie brought $100 at the school’s pie auction.
Oh no, I don’t say “I’ll bring the pie.”
I peered under my van. “Thunder, get out from under there,” I shouted. Other shoppers walked by and pointed. Mothers shielded their children’s eyes. It was odd behavior, even for me.
A couple of days earlier my cat, Lightning, had jumped into the passenger’s seat as I pulled into the store’s parking lot. So naturally, when I saw a gray cat under my van in the store’s parking lot, I figured Lightning had told her sister cat, Thunder, of the great adventures found “away from home.”
“Here Thunder, Thunder, Thunder,” I called from my crouched, half-way under my van position. Passersby shook their heads– unable to see the cat hiding between the wheels of my van. Finally, a curious shopper bent down and saw the cat. “Lady, you won’t catch that cat. It belongs to the people who live in that house over there.”
Okay, perhaps I should have just called “Kittie, Kittie, Kittie.” The next time I go shopping, though, I’m counting my cats before I leave home.