A Thanksgiving Story

Ray wrestled with sleep – just like every other night for the last ten months. Watching the digital alarm inch through the darkness added to his frustration. Finally, the clock reached 5:00 AM: not optimal, but a reasonable time to rise, wrap himself in a tattered black terrycloth robe, and shuffle into his therapeutic slippers (the heel on the left slipper chewed partially away by a long-passed Cocker Spaniel named Hobo).

In short order, a measure of Folgers was in the percolator, and a rasher was scenting the small house. “Millie loves her bacon,” mused Ray as he set out unmatched place settings and a couple of mugs for the coffee. Spits of grease shot out from eggs in a cast iron fry pan that was the first wedding gift he and Millie opened fifty years ago this week.

He sometimes lucked out and their anniversary would fall on Thanksgiving – the kids and (eventually) grand kids would gather and he didn’t have to take Millie out to dinner. Ray wasn’t particularly cheap, but he loved Millie’s cooking more than anything found at the few restaurants still open in their middle-Tennessee town.

The farm, in its heyday, sent 70-90 cattle to market annually and was located just east of the Hickman County seat: Centerville. Their land backed up to the Duck River and the bottom land would reliably flood every third or fourth winter. Ray and the boys would spend the late spring repairing fences while the herd was pastured on the upper ground.

It was a good living and it sent four children through college, allowed Ray and Millie a week’s vacation in Destin, Florida each year, and paid off the mortgage 10 years early. Millie’s acre garden supplemented the meat he raised or hunted for their family and Millie’s autumn canning ritual would easily carry them to spring.

He had almost forgotten that today was Thanksgiving. Closing his eyes, he recounted fifty years of Thanksgivings. The first time the two of them hosted his and her parents for the holiday – and Millie cooking the Butterball with the package of giblets still inside; the year their oldest was in the hospital with bacterial meningitis and they brought turkey, dressing, yams, cranberries, and chess pie to the ward and fed the entire second-floor nursing staff and most of the hospital residents; the year their youngest daughter’s soon-to-be fiancée followed Ray to the barn to ask if he could marry her (this brought an audible chuckle as the rest of the story included the boy slipping on a cow pie and having to borrow clothes before Millie would allow him to join the family at dinner); the year that their oldest grandson didn’t come back from Iraq.

There were plenty of ups and downs over five decades. On balance, however, Ray was truly thankful for and proud of his children, thankful for the joy and the laughter that defined their years on the farm and, especially, he was thankful for Millie. Oh, they didn’t have a perfect marriage, but he’d still fight anyone who said anything critical about his beloved. It wasn’t a perfect marriage; it was a perfect love.

Ray finished his breakfast and noticed that he once again set the table for two despite Millie being gone for ten months. Today, his daughter was picking him up to celebrate the day in Murfreesboro at their family home. It was his first Thanksgiving without Millie and his daughter promised she’d make chess pie just like her mom’s. Ray just hoped she would remember to take the giblets out of the turkey.

Happy Thanksgiving.






Image reported to be in the public domain and available here:  
http://blogs.cdc.gov/publichealthmatters/files/2012/09/ElderlyEmergency_Banner.jpg

A smaller sphere

Sean Lee during the Detroit/Dallas game 10/27/13

The idea of “six degrees of separation” is familiar: that we are connected to anyone else on the planet by no more than six different relationships. There is even a tongue-in-cheek axiom: “six degrees of Kevin Bacon” where it is asserted that any actor can be connected to a movie in which Bacon appeared through six instances of various actors and their co-stars.

I can’t vouch for the reliability of “six degrees” – I suspect that there are farmers in North Korea with whom I have no connection. Conversely, I can easily trace short steps to Presidents, Celebrities, Serial Killers, CEOs, Popes, and Royalty from my little splash of Lima Township.

It’s likely more productive to consider a simpler degree: with whom are we personally connected and what do those connections mean?

This last weekend, I got to reunite with enatic cousins and watch one of them excel at the highest of gridiron levels, the NFL. Cousin Sean Lee and the Dallas Cowboys came to town for a match-up against the Detroit Lions. Sean had two interceptions (he’s a linebacker) and some key tackles in a game where the Lions managed to squeak out a victory with 12 seconds left. While I can only imagine Sean’s disappointment, I was very proud to have this connection to such a successful and gifted athlete.

I’m also proud to be connected to a number of others: to my nephew who served in Afghanistan; to a good friend who, after losing his wife, re-energized his life and became a chef; to friend who is a firefighter and another who is a police officer; to the friend who is a State Senator; to several friends who are committed to keeping the Constitution alive in our Republic; to a brother who faces life’s challenges with enviable faith and optimism; to my mother who inspires me and makes me laugh. There are also cancer survivors, activists, caregivers, artists, actors, moms, dads, plumbers, educators, farmers, restaurant workers, lawyers, judges, entrepreneurs, scalawags, bandits, and many others who comprise my life’s tapestry.

I guess that may be tonight’s reflection: we are enriched by those friends and family who nurture and support us and we are educated by those who disappoint and betray. Each, in his or her way, contributes. And we too, in turn, contribute.





Photo credit: Shannon DeVilbiss Gallup

Ducks, Apples, Gravlox, Update

It isn’t often that events affirm life choices – this week has afforded me such an affirmation.

Nearly fifteen years ago, I “bought the farm.” In this case, however, the literal rather than the dreaded figurative applies to that phrase. When I moved back from Tennessee, I ended up on this property and it’s helped provide too many blessings to share.

Saturday morning three of us eased through the morning fog toward the “big pond” (the western most impoundment of “Black Dog Bog”). I stalked the south side while Bruce and Laurie slipped to their post on the north end. Within 30 minutes, we had a full limit of ducks, wet asses, and that happy adrenalin of success. We retrieved our quarry and slogged back up to the house for hot coffee, dry clothes, and to handle the post hunt duties.

Fast forward about five hours. Twenty-five friends aged 4 – 64 gathered on the farm to press some 35+ gallons of apple cider. Our happy gang picked apples from my tree to mingle with apples from the others’ trees; we washed, sorted, chopped and pressed a cider that is as sweet as laughter. I got a couple of chances to look up and see so many happy hands contributing and knew that all the work the farm demands is balanced by the joy from days like this.

I got the chance to tell Howard about the day – yes, I’ve not mentioned him for a few months because I’ve not had the chance to catch him at home. I think I missed him six or eight times but did see him at a restaurant now and then. He’s doing ok. Still living alone, cooking, driving, going to market and sometimes out for a glass of wine. And still cranky.

He had a new pacemaker implanted but reports that his doctor wants to replace it with a device called an Implantable Cardioverter Defibrillator (ICD) as he is at significant risk of sudden cardiac arrest (SCA). 

“I don’t like it,” bemoaned my friend. “They just spent $5,800 on a brand new pacemaker and this damn thing is probably $7,000. I told that doctor it was a waste of money.” Howard further railed that the doctor dismissed his objection because “that’s what insurance is for.”

“Those damn doctors have no sense of money and spend other peoples’ money too freely.” It was at this point I wondered if Howard was available to run the Department of Health and Human Services; I digress.

We talked about his family (his grandson just finished top in his class as a state trooper), classical music, how much we cherish our homes, and he shared his recipe for gravlax.

He and I discussed his financial situation and his living options. “I screwed up,” he began, but then quickly corrected himself. “I didn’t screw up – I wouldn’t do anything different – but meeting Lloyd C. Douglas changed my life.” (see Lloyd C. Douglas )

For those familiar with Ann Arbor, at the corner of Hill and South State there was a coffee and doughnut joint called The Chatterbox. Howard recounted going there as a young man and the place was packed. An older gentleman beckoned Howard to his table – Lloyd C. Douglas. Douglas was an ordained minister and, for a time, was at the First Congregational Church in Ann Arbor. He was also the prolific author who penned The Robe. “He told me to give to others less fortunate and I’ve done that my entire life. Sure, I was well off when I retired, but I need a little bit now to get through.” And it is being provided.

The timer for his dinner was buzzing and I knew it was time to leave. We’ll gather again soon.