Thanksgiving Eve

Any minute I should hear the thunder of turkeys warbling on my backporch as it is almost midnight on Thanksgiving Eve. I am on my my second dirty shirt and if I had started the day off smarter my second or third dirty martini. As it is I am caked in flour, butter, squash trimmings, and I noticed I had a bit of sage in my eyebrows that was a little dashing- almost avant garde- if you kinda squint your eyes just right. I am probably what Paula Deen looks like without a mob of people to keep her from looking the way I do right now. Worse still- the state of my kitchen is light years from clean- maybe light centuries.

On the up side, I am a pecan pie, a dozen and a half of apricot fried pies, one apple pie, some cranberry relish, a terrine full of dressing (we do cornbread in these parts), and five pounds of mashed potatoes all to the good. I have some squash too, but I don't much care for it. What are you gonna do? I should mention that there will only be seven of us tomorrow, but I am still hoping to run into some linebackers on the way to lunch. I am unaccustomed, and some would say unable, to cook for fewer than 20.

I have come to that time in my life where I have begun to cook the Thanksgiving Memorial Feast- Papaw's Pecan Pie, Mom's Dressing, Norman's Asparagus, ( I haven't gotten to that yet, but maybe the elves will cobble it together while I sleep.) Granny Pies, PawPaw's Fat Salad, and like I said squash.

The making of Granny Pies, these little pocket sized, heavenly apricot pies was the biggest challenge. I took the better part of two hours whomping out 19, and I called my 92 year-old grandmother twice during this almost forgotten tradition. For the record, I suck at it. My grandmother and my darlin's grandmother could whip out five dozen, fry a chicken, and probably iron in the time it took me to make these little gems. No doubt, theirs were better, too. However, they had 20 years of practice by the time they were my age.

So for now, I'll cut myself some slack and get back to that squash. It ain't gonna casserole itself.

Happy Thanksgiving, Y'all!

OMG!

You know, I'm pretty much a child of the previous century and it shows the most when I am confronted with the likes of this:
You also have to know I spent an hour trying to put the actual picture in, but alas...
OMG!

I M Speechless! I haven't seen the likes of those vinyl boots, since Rent was touring!
http://omg.yahoo.com/photos/what-were-they-thinking/2468#

Jo the plumber?

Being sick, being off work, being- simply being- resting gently in the palm of God's hand is something I suck at. That lesson is what I am learning on this sabbatical/sick leave journey. But today, I had a breakthrough!

The kids had been saying that the bathtub in their bathroom had been draining slowly. Well, truthfully, I had forgotten. They had mentioned it several times, but after the final foo_ball game the girlchild said that the water was standing in the tub.

I planned to call the plumber. I wasn't going to call "Joe the plumber", although I probably couldn't depend on calling a democrat- what with this being Texas and all. I decided to give the porcelain a look. Fortunately, the water had drained overnight. The tub was coated evenly with grit and sports boy residue. I pulled the metal stopper thingy out of the drain and discovered a little bit of hair. As I began to pull out the soapy wad, there was a little more hair and the cover to a razor, then a little more hair and a long strip of plastic off a shampoo bottle. Once everything was out of the drain, it looked like a hair hamster drowning in Head & Shoulders had crawled up out of the drain and died in the tub. I buried him in the wastebasket and replaced the metal stopper thingy. Now, I just have to practice hitching up my britches. I'm a plumber! I only have to hope this doesn't foul up my sick leave.

Everyone makes mistakes

Sure, everyone makes mistakes. I have been known to say- okay perhaps over and over- we are not defined by the mistakes we make, but by the efforts we make to fix them. I thought that little maxim was kind of snappy- maybe even pithy. That was before.

You may have noticed the change. I had not. Those of you who know me ( pretend audience) know that I have a bit of a sweet tooth. I am a big fan of cookies and pie. I believe that cake is merely a method of keeping frosting from sticking to the plate. When I am dining in public, I limit myself to two- okay three- packets of Equal in a glass of tea. The difference of which I speak is something the manufacturers of Equal are inordinately proud.

In an age when peanut butter is infused with extra vitamins, Coke has vitamins, probably Crisco, lard and Twinkies are sporting extra B-12 so you feel extra good about eating them. The makers of my Equal have added fiber to that little yellow packet. Now for regular human beings that is probably a great thing, but for me, an unsuspecting person who inadvertently consumed approximately 20-25 packets of fiber yesterday. Imagine my shock and dismay- I am a person who happily subsists on Goldfish crackers and Rice Krispie Treats.

Please Equal people stop the insanity! If I wanted to ingest 25 grams of fiber I'd be a hamster. Even those crazy vegans don't eat that much fiber in a day. For God's sake, I haven't experienced this much parastolic movement since the millenium changed. Can't you be satisfied with keeping the best part of sugar and getting rid of the calorie part? Must you include parts of the actual cane? The horror...

The Difference Between Prophets and Profits

It's the $$$ signs, silly! I can't believe you fell for that one! Prophets call out of the clear blue sky and say that God has been talking with them and saying that they don't know why they are the emissary, but God has been talking to them about you and God thinks that as long as you are lollygagging on sick leave and stuff- you should write a book.

Really, I think the part about lollygagging was the emissary talking. 'Could be the whole thing was the emissary, but who knows? So far this month I have purchased vitamins out of the skirts of Jesus and I have received a phone call from a prophet. What do they have in common? Neither is particularly profitable- in fact, I might have purchased a Shaklee franchise without noticing. I was distracted by Jesus looking down at me. If I didn't mention it before, the dermatologist who talked at somewhere close to the speed of sound. If I had heard a boom, it would either have been the dermatologist surpassing herself or Jesus getting miffed at the price of the vitamins. Dear reader did you know that vitamins are going somewhere between a kidney and an oil well, whichever is costlier. Of course, at this point this blog is more like a diary than anything else, so...

What next, but a book tour!

Just One More Thing...

If you think it is almost Thanksgiving and you aren't thankful- not filled with gratitude, then you are exactly entirely normal. If the pilgrims had only known that they would be starting a tradition of self-loathing, stuffing and gluttony, they might have thought twice before popping that corn and placing those fish around the kernels of corn. They might have continued on in their own traditions of prudence, temperance, and hostility toward tolerance.

Now that their are stores that begin the Christmas sales in October, Christmas sales on Thanksgiving Day, and the after Christmas sales on Christmas Eve. Then I would sound like those same pilgrims by trying to remind anyone to focus on any single moment without first giving some sort of calendar and liturgical coordinates. These are the difficult days- too early to send Christmas cards and too late to carve pumpkins. It is the moment to be grateful for the days of autumn, of harvest, of bounty- even family- pray hard.

Foo_ball, you bet!

I was awakened by the ringing phone this morning at some few minutes after nine. My sweetheart was calling to say that my son was in the nurse's office at school, and I should probably call and check on him. I could hardly focus on the message for the drool streaming off my chin and the enormous sleep rocks in my eyes. Somewhere in the karma of it all there should be a rule that says only one person in a household can be sick at a time, but alas the nurse said that the children in my son's class had requested that he be sent to the office, so that they need not put up with his honking and sniffing and whining. I guess that makes it my job, just because of the genetic relationship and stuff.

I tried to make myself as presentable as necessary for picking up someone from the nurse at an elementary school. A career in education has taught me nothing if not: Never linger in the most germ laden place in God's creation. I washed my face, dug the sleep death crystals out of the corners of my eyes, and pulled my hair back in a 30 second ponytail. I was a bit concerned that I would back out of the driveway directly into the house, but Emmanuel, God was with me and I managed to make the street without taking out the corner of the laundry room.

My son has the ability to look like a nauseated great dane. He is between sizes right now- all feet and toe nails, elbows, and at least for the moment a big wet nose. I knew something was terribly wrong when he walked past the refrigerator opting instead for the Kleenex box. I fell back to sleep, and we shared the couch companionably for a couple of hours.
Finally, he said he wasn't hungry at lunch time.

I considered an ambulance for a moment, but threatened him with a nap and missing football practice. My first thought was that he would rather do anything than miss a meal or a practice, but I was surprised again. He went to bed with a book and fell asleep within 15 minutes. I woke him after 3 hours and he talked to me, but fell back to sleep before I could get him out of bed. I gave him another 45 minutes and then made him get up. His breath smelled of great dane, and there were tears in his eyes when I told him he had to call his coach if he wasn't going to practice.

Now, his coach is the stereotypical Texas coach- loud, scary, disciplined, rough, but I have insisted to my son that he is scared of the wrong person. Coaches may come and go, but moms pick you up from school when you're sick or something like that. He went to put on his gear. I didn't exactly make him go to practice; I just wanted to make sure he was alive. It takes 20 minutes or so to get to the practice field and the longer we rode the more he chattered. He may be sick, but I know him. He's my great dane. Play football:Don't play football: I don't care, but don't scare me like that. When he starts skipping lunch, well- that makes me worry, but not now. I've settled him in with chicken noodle soup, hot chocolate, and crackers. That's my boy- he can do anything, he notices everything, and he doesn't miss a meal.

Just Another Doctor

Okay, so now I am also on sick leave from the school district. I have a staph infection and a little bronchitis- nothing much really. I've certainly felt worse, but I've never had more appointments with more doctors. I have a neuro, a derma, a cardio, but the kicker is I have an Infectious Disease doctor. When I started telling people I had to run 'cause I had an appt. with the "Infectious Disease Doctor", I learned that of all my appointments that particular appointment makes people just a wee bit nervous... and they vanish. Staph infection and Infectious Disease Doctor must be this millenium's answer to ringing a bell outside the city walls and calling "unclean" to all who pass.

Treatments for this new age leprosy include something my ID doc eupemistically called a "lift". Now I have been warned that one must be careful to lift with one's knees to avoid back injury. I have also read a few novels from across the pond that refer to an elevator as a lift, but dear reader, beware. I cannot overstate this. When a doctor, or at least my doctor says this needs a lift, she uses a scalpel. P.S. without the courtesy of a little anesthetic or a matching tuck to go with it. Yes, indeedy, she removed, again a euphemism, the tissue that was not viable.

Now, I am Pro Choice. I believe that Roe v. Wade is an important part of our nation's system of justice. Let's face it- regardless of how you feel about conception and the humanity buried therein, wealthy and even moderately wealthy folks have more choices than poor folks do. I can be Pro Life or Pro Choice or completely undecided, but if my almost 14 year old daughter finds herself in a situation whereby her future will be changed forever I have the fiscal means to take her somewhere to have an unwanted pregnancy terminated. Is such a decision tragic? Yes, always, but if we are honest we know that is true. However, 14 year old girls whose primary source of nutrition is the Free or Reduced lunch they receive from the school cafeteria will not have as many options, so they may choose to try to terminate an unexpected pregnancy in an unsafe manner compounding tragedy exponentially. I am not Anti Life I am Anti Tragedy. For centuries women have tried to hide and/or end pregnancies, sometimes in the most tragic ways- drowning, coat hangers, potions and pills. I am Anti Tragedy.

But we were talking about a tiny piece of flesh that was not going to grow up dunk a basketball or solve a quadratic equation. Still, I wasn't finished with it. With small flashes of her silver scalpel, the doctor separated the wheat from the tares, the viable from the dead, the......well, you get the picture. What I'm opposed to is the point of delineation. "When you wince really hard I'll stop." Great. Isn't a small wince an indication of discomfort? and we didn't discuss this, you just decided I didn't need it. Thanks, I am a little dishevelled. Probably from all of that wincing. Maybe my friends are right- having an Infectious Disease Doctor is good enough reason to run!

Suddenly Sabbatical...

I find myself on sabbatical. After seven years of ministry in a church, I am suddenly on sabbatical. I don't quite know what to do with myself. Surely reading is what I am supposed to be doing, maybe cleaning the garage, alphabetizing the bookshelves, teaching the cat to fetch. Whaddaya do whe you're "off"?
The only kind of "off" I'm accustomed to is the kind of "off" the lady two houses away used to be when I was growing up. She used to pick imaginary lint off her sweaters and call her dogs that had been dead at least as long as my brother had been alive. Last night when I sneaked a sip of milk out of the jug, I found to my dismay that it was "off". Certainly, lights can be off, TVs, radios, and such, but some things are never off.

Refrigerators need to be on. That kind of "on" is different than the Henny Youngman kind of "on". Ministry and motherhood is the first kind. When someone is dying or barfing, it has been my experience that I am not surrounded by throngs of folks rushing to render aid. Lots of folks want to help and even more folks want you to feel better, but few are called to the side of those engaged in the bodily processes.

So, I am supposed to be "off". More difficult still, people are still puking and dying. How then do I measure out my days? Like the children of Israel, I am wandering in the wilderness relieved of the burden of stomping out bricks, but concerned by the immense flatness that stretches out before me. What shall I do? God willing- I will remember that the soul longs for God and emptiness begets longing. So, I will read and rest and remember that there were unexpected springs in the barren places.

Potato Chip Lit and so much more!

Potato Chip Lit and So Much More!

I'm a preacher, teacher, temporarily on sabbatical learning to do the whole blog thing, and I am certain I will make my stepson shake his head in despair when he sees this effort, but here I go...
Sure, I have more education than I know what to do with, but what I really love to do is read. With a couple of Master's degrees behind me and a student loan I am still paying off, I decided that I would try to blog instead of going back to school, which is what I have done in the past.

I have a hard time believing that there are folks out there who really care about anything that I have to say, and I am completely perplexed by the people who use the internet as their diary. I know you can still buy a diary because my daughter still receives four or five of them every Christmas. She is at that difficult age and difficult ilk of child who prefers to have her nose in a book or her face glued to the television or computer screen, rather than out playing like her younger brother. Her typical response to any question is a roll of the eye, a shrug of the shoulder and the all too familiar answer, "Whatever!" I realize now that I am the mother of a 13-year-old that the reason this is such a difficult age is because it is difficult to avoid being throttled by your mother, but- you know- whatever.

She is beautiful in an exotic way, and she is so ready to be an adult, but her body betrays her. She is spindly, stick thin with almond shaped eyes the color of dusk. My heart aches when I watch her move with the overly aware way that girls move when they are accustomed to bumping every doorframe and shelf corner. Soon she will know how to make the joints of her hips and knees and ankles move in a rhythm that sets boys' hearts in rhythm with her walk, but not yet. These are the awkward days.

On the other hand, my son plays every sport and does his homework without being prompted. At this point in my life, I give thanks for the moments in my life that don't require me to do anything but enjoy the people in my family. My son makes me laugh. He is goofy and a joy to be around. I am sure that he will join the ranks of the moody, the difficult, the teenaged, but not yet.

So what would I have to contribute to the internet world? Well, my nightstand has been known to groan under the weight of the books I have enjoy. I thought perhaps we might share some of those here. Now I guess I will share some other confessions, as well. I will read just about anything, if I can find a well-written sentence in it, and I'll read just about anything. Now about those other confessions, I said I'll read just about anything. I don't read much science fiction and I don't read bodice rippers. I have no interest in how Carmelita's flesh trembled beneath the captain's bold embrace. Good for Carmelita! I don't even feel remotely bad about it because the last time I checked Danielle Steele wasn't looking for an unknown schoolteacher's endorsement.

So here are some of my favorites. They are old and new, little known and well known, and we can talk about them again later. Please note: Silas Marner is not among 'em!

I don't do Dewey.

Religion/Religious

Traveling Mercies: Some Thoughts on Faith by Anne Lamott

A Stone for a Pillow: Journeys with Jacob by Madeleine L'Engle

Leaving Church: A Memoir of Faith by Barbara Brown Taylor

Letters to a Young Doubter- William Sloan Coffin


Young Readers

Al Capone Does My Shirts

The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian- Sherman Alexie

Each Little Bird That Sings- Deborah Wiles

All of the Junie B. Jones Books are a hoot!

Picture Books

The Chicken Chasing Queen of Lamar County- Janice N. Harrington

Crossing Bok Chitto:A Choctaw Tale of Friendship and Freedom by Tim Tingle and Jeanne Rorex Bridges

Non-Fiction

The Wild Trees: A Story of Passion and Daring by Richard Preston
The Colony:The Harrowing True Story of the Exile of Molokai by John Tayman
The Hot Zone- Richard Preston
A Walk in the Woods-Bill Bryson
The Sex Lives of Cannibals by J. Maarten Troost

We'll talk more. I have to taxi my children to their various extracurricular activities. I'm sure I'll be thinking of all the books I've left off.......


Essays/Humor
Naked- David Sedaris

Fiction

To Kill A Mockingbird- Harper Lee
The Red Tent-Anita Diamant
The Bridge of Sighs- Richard Russo