Ch...ch...ch...changes

 Over the last few years (basically since Himself died, and then meeting Capt) I have seen/experienced significant changes, of a personal nature. I've become more aware of how my actions affect others, and am more conscious (ok, try to be, anyway) of what I say, facial expressions, etc...so I can be more tactful. I can't say I always succeed, as it's a lifelong habit that needs changing. I am about as tactless as a...um...something tactless. (It's afternoon and I'm working on the brain-fog-eliminating coffee). I'm not very good at it but I'm trying. 

I've also changed a lot physically. A LOT. My body has shrunk from a 210 pound size 20 to a 145 pound size 8/10. HOW? I quit eating. No seriously. No fancy diet plan, no nutritionist or calorie counting. I just...cut everything down by about 2/3 and eliminated (well, mostly. Some things, like tomato sandwiches, I can't and WON'T give up entirely) wheat. I am not deprived of the really good things like excellent french fries or high dollar ice cream. I still eat chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes, and gravy. I just... quit eating as much of all those things. Except for the occasional mood-induced consumption of an entire pint of Talenti caramel gelato. I mean...sometimes a woman's gotta just do it. Especially while binge-watching Yellowstone. C'mon. What Would Beth Do? 

The problem with the physical change is that the mental acceptance of said change is having trouble catching up. I go to buy clothes, and head straight for the size 12. I mean, when I was a size 20, 12 seemed like the Ultimate. It was the End Goal, the Dream I Didn't Think I'd Achieve. But, putting it on and it's huge. Way too big. Ok, so try a 10. That's better but still a little loose but the ol' brain that still thinks I'm in the late upper half of the 100's balks at anything smaller, screaming DON'T KID YOURSELF, GRANNY. YOU HAVEN'T BEEN AN 8 SINCE 1989. So I console the brain by figuring out how to alter the item to make it fit. (Just buy the 8 you dingus) (no, I can't. I am not an 8. Only slender people are an 8, You know, people that aren't me.)

Now and then I'll actually take time to look in the mirror. It's always startling. I have long hair now, down to the middle of my back, and it's wavy, blond, with streaks of silver. Where the heck did that come from? I don't have that hair. I have short mousy colored hair, in an unflattering-yet-practical cut of the sort busy moms (who don't have time to care for themselves) wear. The blond is a result of the sun, working outside, and not wearing a hat. There's a tan on the skin there too. Also a result of working outside. And I am very uncomfortable talking about liking what I see in the mirror. It smacks of vanity, self-absorption, several other self-pejorative qualities I was raised to abhor.  Phrases I heard growing up come to mind. 

"It's a good thing you're smart because you'll never be pretty" (A family member)

"Why are you here? No one wants to see your face." (High school)

"Go get a bag to put over your head" (High school)

"You're fat. Go away." (Middle school)

and...(here's the big one. It's what makes this post so awkward and uncomfortable...)

"Nobody cares what you have to say."

Those voices are loud in my head. I try to ignore them, but you know how it is. For some reason your brain gloms onto the negatives and ignores the positives. Those negatives, I don't know why they're so much louder than the good things. Especially since I haven't heard those things since the early 1980's. 40 years. Words are so incredibly powerful. That "sticks and stones" thing? It's bullshit. They do so hurt.

But now I am trying. I am, right now, in the midst of getting new things in my wardrobe. Things that FIT. That fit and suit my kind of oddball sense of style. I like skirts that float round my legs, that have embroidery or beading on them and look good with a fitted t-shirt and a pair of comfortable sneakers. But dammit I will NOT PAY FULL PRICE. No. no no no no no. Thrift store thankyouverymuch. And Ebay. and now there's this new (to me) place called ThredUp. Oh lord what a rabbit hole that has been. The past couple of days, and continuing into next week, there has (and will be) a steady flow of packages with clothes I sucked in my psyche and punched the Size 8 option (gosh that was scary. I can't even tell you how much but woah...) and hit send. And...they fit. Not tight, not loose, and I'm not even planning on the "but I might gain back my weight" in that same corner of the brain that had me getting clothes for the kids a bit big so they could grow into them. 

Now, Capt looks at what I get and says things like "that's definitely You." He's gotten me some nice things that fit well, but are a little scary because they aren't the sorts of things I'd gravitate toward, and yet, they're comfortable and I like them! A Lot! I'm not sure if the "that's definitely You." is necessarily a compliment, but I like these smile-inducing skirts with the beads and embroidery and floaty style. 

Oh! 2 of them (this is SO COOL!) are made from recycled Indian saris....you know, that long long piece of beautiful silk fabric Indian women wrap around themselves as a garment? That have amazing prints and borders on them? Yeah those! Long hippie floaty wrap skirts that are so cool and comfortable and colorful and I don't even care that it's an odd concept for a skirt because they make me smile. I can braid my hair (that's LONG! What the heck!) and wear a peasant blouse from the 1970's and some Jesus sandals and look like my aunt who was a bona fide hippie in the early 70's. 

I'm hoping before too long my brain will catch up with my phyz, and I'll accept what the mirror says, relax, and enjoy it. I'm 57 now, and will never be mistaken for a supermodel. And that's ok. At this age, it's not something I aspire to (never have really...remember the "good thing you're smart..." comment?) but being able to accept the words of the person who loves me best, and whom I love best (Hi, Capt!) as reality, instead of "oh he's just being nice because he has to" is kind of a new thing, and strange, yet wonderful. Buying clothes that are smaller than I ever thought possible, and not having to return them because of size, is also a strange, yet wonderful, thing. Learning to love without self-condemnation and silent internal accusations of Vanity and Pride is...difficult. But it all goes together. Wearing the right size clothes. Looking in the mirror. Allowing love into the brain. Recognizing personal worth as a human isn't based in what someone told you when you were 12, but rather based in the knowledge that you are Loved and Valued by Someone who saw fit to create you and put you on this planet, fearfully and wonderfully made. Psalm 139:14 says "I praise You because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; Your works are wonderful, I know that full well.

Now, I know my value as a person isn't based on how I look, what size I am today, or anything other than being a child of God, fearfully and wonderfully made. But wow, it is a peculiar feeling to have a body that is of a sort I never thought would happen, to be able to find clothes that fit both my style and my body. To be able to get up off the floor without help, climb stairs without getting winded, even accept a compliment as genuine and not some sort of relational obligation. 

Ch...ch...changes (Turn and face the strange)

 2 gold stars to the person who knows the origin of the title.

(I'm going to make the text bigger)

There. That's better. Old people problems, starting with eyesight. What happens? What are the changes? Dry hair and skin (I'm going to start at the top and work my way down). Gray hair (not a problem, mine's silver and I like it). Dry skin means no more acne (YAY!). Eyesight changes. I was so offended when the optometrist told me I needed bifocals. 

 Skin that, shall we say, sags on my face. As a seamstress I understand how to fix that with assorted tucks and alterations. However, as Not a Doctor, I won't do it on myself. Occasionally I'll look in the mirror and pull back a bit right at my ears, and temporarily lose 10 years from the look of my face. As a frugal (some say cheap) person, I will not spend the money to do something so frivolous as get a facelift. Nor will I do other things to youngify (I just verbed an adverb!) my body, especially if it's purely cosmetic. Other things sag as well, but since I'm not a Ford Model, or a Bunny, or anyone else with a Sugar Daddy W/Deep Pockets, those procedures will remain undone.

It is an odd feeling, is it not, to have the same brain as I had when I was 16 or 20, only with 56 years worth of experiences. To have children older than I was when I gave birth to them. My youngest is nearing 23 (on the 31st). My mental image of him is from a series of photographs I took when he was 4. He was wearing blue overalls and a bright red shirt, playing in the back yard with his Tonka trucks. I am sure he would resent me thinking of him this way. One surprising lesson I learned with having 4 kids was this: Each child remained a baby until the next one came along. I have no trouble seeing the other 3 as adults in their 30's. Even if they don't act like it. (another story that shall remain untold here). But #4...sigh. Capt has been instrumental in me treating #4 like an adult. 

I remember, as a child, having Nuclear Bomb Drills. Those involved crouching under my desk at school. As if those desks were All Powerful Protection against a weapon only God could contain. Now kids do Active Shooter drills. With the way things are going at the moment (March 16, 2022), it may not be too long before Nuclear Bomb Drills are reinstated. I hate (grieve, worry) that the world seems to be headed that direction. Our current administration is as weak as it's ever been, and the rest of the world knows that. 

Which brings me to the other changes.  Capt and I are dreamers. We've worked hard to facilitate dreams we've both had for a very long time. Scuba diving, fishing charter, an RV to live in while running fishing charters. A place in Florida to park the RV. All things we've done to further a life we have both wanted. Now? Fuel costs mean it would cost more to go to Florida than the price of a charter. The boat and truck are parked. Hell, it costs $10 in fuel just to go to town and back. So we drive the little one, it's gas instead of diesel so it's only $4 for a run to town. We are doing work on the Alabama property now, getting it functional in the event we actually have to live here full time and grow our own food. We can do it and I am thankful we have the option. Not everyone does. But getting all ready and excited then having it yanked out from underneath by an event over which we have no control is...well...offensive. Yes. I'm offended. And angry. And resentful. I'm also pissed that my family doesn't understand what I'm feeling. They all think I should be perfectly content to stay right here (like they are) and simply don't understand why I would ever want to do something so frivolous as, y'know...have a dream and want to follow it. Pisses me right the hell off. All of it. 

All I really want to do now, since I can't go to Florida (or the Caribbean, thank you COVID You Asshole) is sit on the couch and read books. Let the house go to pot (Eventually pride and bipolar mania will set in and I'll clean things up), eat salad from a bag and cheetoes, and occasionally walk the property and wish.

But, thanks to ch...ch...changes and all the strange I have to face, thanks to inflation and fuel costs and other things I have to complain about, I am forced to sit here and reconsider it all. I am being made to face my own selfish sense of entitlement because I've got a nice roof over my head, no one is throwing bombs at my children, or blowing up the grocery store....in which there is ample food (even if there's no hashbrown patties and limited selection of Ore-Ida frozen potatoes). I have a way to plant a garden that I know won't get run over by army tanks, and plenty of seeds. If it came down to it, there's a pond full of fish and a backyard full of healthy squirrels and an occasional deer. I can make a mean Brunswick stew with a couple of squirrels and some leftover pork. I've got dependable electricity, and the ability/know-how for preserving food if electricity fails. So really, in the grand scheme of things and in spite of all my griping, I've got it good. Sometimes I need to remind myself.

Sunday, Sunday

I love a Sunday morning. It has a certain vibe to it, probably from 56 years of conditioning that Sunday is a Day Apart.

I remember when we lived in Illinois. We moved there when I was 5, and then to Georgia when I was 9. Sundays involved Mom insisting I wear a dress (BLEH!), and church was close enough that, weather permitting, we'd ride our bikes instead of driving. I never thought anything of it. The place we attended, a Presbyterian church, had a very contemporary style sanctuary. After the service I would go up with a couple of other kids, and blow out the candles, then dip my fingers in the hot melted wax to make fingerprints.  Sunday Dinner afterwards was always something Mom had put together to slow cook in the electric skillet, or whatever that thing was called that was a precursor to a crock pot. Usually it was chicken and rice. That's still my favorite meal although I make it a little different from the way she did.

After we moved to Georgia, we started out at the little church near our house, up on the top of the hill. Something Happened, and we changed to another small church in town. It's the one where I took Confirmation Classes and had my First Communion. I was able to convince the (whoever...pastor? Elders? I don't know) that we should be allowed to keep the little cup from that Communion. I still have it somewhere.  Then Something Happened, and we changed to a large church in the big town nearby. I don't know what happened, but I have learned over time and maturity that someone would do or say something that my parents disagreed with, and we'd move.

Same pattern after we moved to Alabama when I was 17. Start out at a church, get pissed, move churches. Eventually I married and moved away. I wasn't as diligent about attending church then. Sundays involved a certain "do I feel like it today?" until the kids were old enough to need Sunday School, and we began attending regularly again. There were still days of "do I feel like it?" or perhaps, with so many children, someone had a cold or something. But I enjoyed the fellowship and was a regular participant in Bible/book studies, handbell choir, and the like. 

When I had a mental breakdown (another story for another time) I found I'd have serious panic attacks when I was in the worship service. I discussed with the pastor, who, fortuitously, also had a PhD in clinical psychology. He suggested I skip the main service, and do what I could. Perhaps attend the smaller evening services held in the little chapel. Those were much easier. Then we moved. For some reason the panic attacks stopped (Thank goodness!) and we began attending main services again. Until we had to stop, again.

My second son had some serious allergies, and being around people wearing perfumes would give him terrible headaches. We tried sitting in different parts of the sanctuary, even up in the balcony, but there was always someone wearing too much scent. So we quit attending services, just going to Sunday School, and I attended weekday Bible/book studies and handbell choir. 

Then we moved. The kids were in middle/high school by then. For 5 years we didn't go to church at all. I didn't want to go alone (we let the kids make their own decisions about church when they started high school), as my husband worked 7 days a week. I thought it would make him look bad if I went and he didn't. Until one day, a friend called me a White American Heathen (She's a Black Ethiopian African) and said I Needed Church. Ok, fine, so we (one of Himself's rare days off) visited her church (A Presbyterian one) and I was instantly hooked, and started attending regularly again. I went whether Himself could or not. The youngest (4th grade by this time) came with, and made friends. After a year we put Son4 into the small private school associated with the church. I made friends, attended Bible/book studies, and joined a weekly Prayer Group. I learned what a Real Church feels like, with family, accountability, help in a time of need. 

Himself died, church helped immediately after, kids fell all apart and I heard things like "Oh dear!". A few men stepped in to try and help with Son4 (16 by this time)...but not much was done to help with the older kids (in their 20's) and I was struggling mentally and spiritually. I met Capt, and because of reasons, left the church and we moved here.

Now, we've tried to find a church, having visited a few. We started regularly attending one, and I did some Bible studies and helped with the Children's Program a bit. But, because of really logical reasons, and a strong feeling of betrayal by the leadership (not my story to tell but it's ugly), we left. We had never formally joined but...anyway. We left.

Now, we don't have a church. Sunday mornings are spent drinking coffee, catching up on the whatever, maybe one of us will go back to bed for a bit. I spend time thinking about life, and philosophizing. 

I kind of miss Church, the fellowship, the dressing up a little, maybe having lunch with someone afterwards. I miss all that. We are at a turning point in our lives right now. Maybe moving soon, so getting involved with something is kind of pointless, at least until we know what we're doing. I haven't left God...Oh no. He's done too many good things in my life for me to want to do that. I have too much gratitude to wander away. That said, the man-made institution of organized religion had an unpleasant taste in my mouth right now. There's a lot I do miss but there's a lot I don't. I have seen some of my good friends hurt and betrayed by the institution into which they put their entire trust. I want to be very careful in how we choose one. There is no perfect church. They are all made of flawed human beings, but somewhere there is one that will minister to our particular needs, and in which we can also serve effectively and help someone else who needs it. 

In the mean time, I maintain this feeling that Sunday is somehow a Different Day from all the others. It's a day of rest and reflection, of remembering where I came from and to Whom I should be grateful for what I have. 

Problems? What problems?

 I don't have no stinkin' problems!

I woke up this morning to the horrific(1) news of a massive tornado tearing through the heartland. When I was laying in bed, waking up slowly, my constitutionally cynical mind was worrying about a bunch of little things, blowing them out of proportion and fretting all over the place. Once the sun was up (do you worry more in the dark? I do. Every monster is scary and huge in the dark), Capt informed me of the monstrous storms and I was thrown into an immediate mix of gratitude and shame for having worried over now mouse sized inconveniences.

Here's what I do have: A solid house that's all in one piece, warm and dry. Food in the pantry and refrigerator. Clean running water, dependable electricity, and a reliable car that can get me where I need to go. My children are all safe and housed/fed. I have the medication I need to keep my body and brain  working properly.  

I don't know why there are tragedies that hit so hard. I now that we live in an imperfect world where weather does whatever it does and while there is a demographic that likes to blame Mankind of All Bad Things(2), ultimately We are not the ones in control. What a big ol' ball of arrogance to think We are. Weather will do what weather will do. I am right now waiting for the climate change folks to point to the tornados and shout "SEE! Worse weather!" when really, the only difference between now and like 300 years ago is that we have cameras and internet to tell everyone about it. We have dense population points, and fancier possessions that make the damage costlier. 

So yeah. Right now my heart hurts for all those people who've been so severely affected by these storms. All my problems are not problems. I do not have problems. I have a few minor inconveniences. I am not having to deal with the uncertainty of not knowing if a loved one is alive or not. One of the first things I did was shoot out a text to my sons to check on them (no, none of them were in the path of these storms, but it's a Mom thing.). 2 of them answered, the 3rd is probably at work and can't.

I don't know why I forget about gratitude, and why I let little things balloon into big things. I don't know why bad things happen to good people, and good things happen to bad people, other than life isn't fair. I am sure some of the people who's lives have been blown up by a tornado are good people who, in the estimation of humans, didn't deserve what happened. 

I live near an area that was devastated by a tornado a couple of years ago. Lots of people died. The community rallied around the families affected and houses are being rebuilt, families are healing, but there's still a nervousness about big storms. One of my sons lives in that town, and he said a lot of people were nervous last night. 

Pray for the people. Pray for the first responders in those small towns, answering calls involving their own family and friends. Pray for the search and rescue people, hospital systems being overwhelmed by mass casualties, infrastructure workers repairing power lines, people who need heat, all of them. Pray that people who will try to take advantage of the situation will by stymied, thieves and grifters will be foiled. It is such a long-term and complicated situation.

Ok, there. Writing it all down is a necessary catharsis. Here is a pretty picture:

1.horrific is a word about which I have very strong feelings. It is vastly overused, and for events that are....welp...NOT horrific. I was told once of a person who was "subjected to a horrific search at an airport, because they were Brown.". I asked "Oh mercy! Were they hurt? Were police and hospitals involved? How long were they handcuffed to the hospital bed and pistol whipped??" I was truly concerned. Nope, they were pulled out of the line and patted down, and their luggage was opened up and searched. That was all. Hardly horrific. That happens to me every single time I am in an airport because I Look Like a Potential Threat. Horrific is the accident that put my son in the hospital for months, the one where his car was approached by medics with a body bag because they didn't think anyone could have survived it. Horrific is a wedge tornado that rips across 200 miles of the heartland and kills possibly 100 people. Horrific is a completely avoidable famine in Afghanistan. It is not a word I use lightly.

2. I suppose in the grand scheme Biblically, it *is* Man's fault going back to Adam and Eve opening the box of Sin and disobedience to God, thus having God throw Man out of Eden and letting us suffer consequences, but that's a whole 'nother post for a whole 'nother day,

'Tis the Season

 Here we are, Early December (the 6th, of 2021) and I'm feeling, I dunno, procrastinative (if that wasn't a word, it is now. I just adverbed a verb. and verbed adverb. Nothing like grammatical gymnastics to get the mind juices flowing).  It's a cool, but not cold, day. It's cloudy but not raining (yet). I'm up, but not productive. The dog is staring through the front door window, sucking in his cheeks and wanting to be fed. I'm sitting on the couch, alternating between looking at the dog, whining about wanting to sit in the hot tub yet doing nothing to facilitate that, pondering which leftover to eat for lunch, and wondering if I will finish one or two of about 297 projects waiting in the sewing room. They're mostly short little ones and if I got a few knocked out at least something productive will have been accomplished. 

The most likely scenario for the day will be couched in optimistic words like "planning" and "research" and "design work" but from the outside looking in, will look more like "sitting on the couch with the TV on low and occasionally getting up for a beverage".

With the exception of the sewing room and, to a lesser degree, Capt's office, the house is pretty much in good order. Friends were here for a couple of days and a Panic Cleaning 3 hours before they arrived means things are put away and surfaces are clean. God invented doors so we'd have a place to shove shit out of view, but I have been (somewhat) diligently been trying (in my own limited way) to put some sense of order to the place. I'm still struggling with the trials of combining 2 large households into one small one, and my inherent sense of "don't get rid of anything that might be useful one day, even if I know I'll probably never use it" causes useful-yet-not containers and jars and boxes to accumulate, then the psychological pain of throwing them away happens and causes double mental quandaries. 

Just the other day Kroger had pineapples for 50 cents (about to be too ripe) so I bought 4 with the intention of making some delicious pineapple jam. I have jars, Sure-Jell, sugar, all the things, and...plenty enough other things to do that I do NOT need to be making jam, especially since WE DON'T EAT JAM. And yet, soon (possibly even today) I shall prepare and can 10 (approximately) pints of jam. CHRISTMAS GIFTS! You say! Yes. right there with the 20 pints of berry jam, 4 gallons of assorted jalapeno preparations, not to mention the shipping costs of heavy glass jars containing sticky stuff upon which the post office and UPS frown. Clearly I didn't think this through very well. Oh! I know! I'll make 1/2 the pineapples into jams and the other half into dehydrated! I love dehydrated pineapple! Problem solved.

Speaking of Christmas gifts, that reminds me I need to box up stuff for an assortment of relatives and get them mailed off. Goodness knows I have boxes and I've saved all the bubble wrap from a year's worth of online shopping. (refer to previous statement about saving stuff that might be useful) I'm recycling, which is Virtuous and Cost Effective.

So yeah. Christmas Spirit is off to a sputtering start, like a lawnmower that hasn't been cranked in 9 months. The cat approved of the decorated tree, the intended gifts have accumulated on the back porch along with the boxes and all those square plastic nut containers that make amazing storage for the RV (and give Mom something to save for me). Also jars both purchased and acquired (also from Mom), and liquor bottles that are pretty enough to put honey in, should we ever get around to harvesting it from the beehive. I promise you, every time I save a thing it's because I KNOW it's going to be eventually useful. In the back of my head I also know one day my sons, who by virtue of being men, will not be interested in going through my shit after I die and will probably just sell the house fully loaded to the highest bidder. 

Also, I realize this post is a little bit rambling, but it's one of those days where everything in my body is hurting and I just want to sit here and wish the hot tub would come to me instead of me having to heave myself off the couch and walk the 10 yards outside to get to it. I know that sitting in it, amongst the blooming hibiscus and steam, will be restorative and gift me with a few hours of pain relief and productivity (possibly even involving pineapples and sugar). There. I talked myself into it. Y'all have a good day. 

Post Thanksgiving Pre Christmas or something

 Alright, Thanksgiving has been done. Several days of time spent with Capt's family and some friends, and a lot of food. I am hoping, for her sake, his mother decides to pass the tradition on to someone else. She works hard and deserves, at her age, to not do it. Not that I don't appreciate it, she's a lovely woman and does a phenomenal job, but....it's time to let someone else do it. Capt, possibly, fried his last turkeys and will be, hopefully, be passing those responsibilities on to a younger person.  If he's relieved of the turkey job then we may do our own thing elsewhere for Thanksgiving. 

So now it's on to Christmas.  I dug out a couple of red sweaters that need to be washed and dried to get 11 months of packed-away wrinkles out, and with a couple of red plaid skirts and some boots, will serve as a panoply of Holiday Accoutrement. Recently I acquired a nice women's fedora, and perhaps something festive will go on that as well. Who knows. All this is mood-dependent.

As for household decor, also mood-dependent. A long long time ago, when household income was fairly tight, I had the idea that our young children could pick out a mug, one of those shaped like a Santa Claus head, to give me as a Christmas gift. Those mugs are cheerful, ubiquitous, and just the sort of thing a young child would choose for a parent. It became an annual thing and now I've got a collection of about 40 of them, ranging from Dollar Tree finds to vintage ones from Ebay, to a couple of super fancy Fitz and Floyd offerings. All are precious to me because of the meaning behind them. They get scattered throughout the house, and with the exception of the very old ones, are available for hot chocolate or coffee to whomever wants to use one. If one gets broken, it gets glued back together and relegated to the top of the bathroom cabinets, or for use holding measuring spoons. 

Capt, having been in the wood products industry for many years, prefers not to use a live tree, so we have a pretty good fake one that may or may not see the light of day. Between the 2 of us we have some cute ocean and travel themed ornaments, all with memories attached from assorted travels. When the kids were all gone, and it was just me, I retired all the ornaments from the years past. Eventually when they have their own families, I will let them go through and choose what they want, and the rest will go back into storage for descendants to find and use. Starting over with a new life also means starting over with a new Christmas tree, and new traditions. I don't mind, it feels like the right thing to do.

Our house is set way back off the road, and no one sees it but us. Because of this, I don't mess with lights on the roof or garlands on the porch rails. I suppose if we traveled during the holiday, and had the camper parked somewhere public like an RV park, I'd decorate in a fun way, but we haven't done that thus far. Maybe one day. Not today.

One of the ways I handle the whole gift-thing is to make stuff. We have 3 grandkids who are young enough to still get a big kick out of opening gifts on Christmas morning, so they'll get something, but everyone else is going to get a box of handmade yummies that I've been working on since July. A few boxes of Mason jars, and a lot of work in front of a stove or a dehydrator has resulted in a bunch of goodies to load into boxes and deliver to people who can get their own sweaters and socks if they need them. I have no expectations of anything more than a hug and a phone call, and perhaps a tasty meal fixed by Capt. Hopefully involving something beefy.

Anyway, that's all I've got to say about that right now.

Thanksgiving cometh

 I realize there is a Movement in this country to eliminate Thanksgiving. Apparently it is indicative of the White Man's take-over of this country, stealing it from the indigenous folk who were here first. Ok, I can kind of see that. However, as a solidly white person with a dribble of Native American from a multi-great grandmother who had a relationship with a white man, I embrace Thanksgiving. There were a bunch of white folks who were helped out by a bunch of Natives way back in the day, and Thanksgiving is a recognition of that, and has morphed into the current incarnation, where we give thanks for what we have...whatever that may be.

As for me, I have much for which to be thankful this year. Some I won't go into, some I will. 

Without giving details that aren't mine to give, I am thankful for the way situations have worked out with family members. Stuff was bad, now it's not. Healing seems to be happening in certain arenas. For that, I am thankful. I say seems...because I can only go by what I see and while I know sometimes (often times) things aren't exactly what they look like on the surface, currently I am giving thanks for what I see. Every morning. 

The first thing I do upon waking up is to thank God that I woke up, and that I didn't get a middle-of-the-night phone call from a hospital, saying I needed to get there immediately because of some dire circumstance involving one of my family members. Then I go down the list of people I love, and give thanks for the improved circumstances in their lives. I figure a good way to start the day is to give thanks, rather than ask for stuff.  

I guess in that way, every day is Thanksgiving. Every day is Easter as well....giving thanks for Christ's resurrection and all that means. 

Then there's the...sort of...Day of Thanksgiving. You know, that last Thursday in November where people eat too much and maybe get up with their cousins or something. One of the delightful parts of being with Capt's family is that Thanksgiving is a Big Deal. It's not just one day. Oh no. It gets stretched out into 4 days of gluttony, excess, and hooting about football. People start coming in on Wednesday, so there's a giant Low Country Boil (look it up) and Cousin Drew brings a sack of oysters as well. Then Thursday everyone meets at a different house and eats too much. Capt fries turkeys and everyone else brings everything else and there's food enough for 1000 even though usually there's 40-50 including screaming children and Aunt Ann who's a lovely person but can't remember anything, nonetheless is as gracious and wonderful as an Old South Matriarch could possibly be.  I am particularly charmed and grateful that they accept and welcome my children even though we're new to the mix. 

On Friday, people lay around and groan and eat leftovers, gearing up and recovering to get ready for Saturday. That's the day of The Iron Bowl...the biggest and fiercest rivalry in the entire country. Auburn versus Alabama. This year it's being played in Auburn. There are 2 of us who went to Auburn, the rest are Alabama alumni and there's some bit of the Alabama School of Business with a family name attached so the loyalty is absolute. The party starts early, and there's a plurality of TVs showing every angle and announcer, a beer fridge, snacks for 100, and Capt's father graciously put an Auburn magnet on his Alabama beer fridge.

True story: I met Capt's family for the first time Thanksgiving 2017. Now, generally is it expected Alabama will win. They're like that. As for Auburn, I am always surprised with they win anything. Well. That year, Auburn beat Alabama at the Iron Bowl. And I was sitting there, surrounded by dedicated Alabama people, the lone Auburn person in my orange shirt, sucking it in so hard because I'd just met these people and wanted to make a good impression. Capt was begging me to not gloat, and I was closing my watering eyes, trying so hard. Hopefully I managed to be calm about it. I know that his parents (father especially) took it hard but he was gracious. I told him I was sorry his team had lost, because it meant ever so much more to him than it did to me.  

Anyway, the whole point of this is that, Thanksgiving is a big deal, probably the biggest deal of the year. Christmas isn't much anymore. The kids are grown and off elsewhere. Even though I've spent the last 2 months prepping gifts for them, there won't be much in the way of festivities or decorations happening. With no youngun's I don't see the point. There's a few grandkids, but only one is local and his other set of grandparents do Christmas so over-the-top I figure that covers what we don't go.

It really is my favorite holiday, and has been for many, many years. Even when there were kids at home and Christmas meant something. I've preferred Thanksgiving since...I don't know...the late 1980's. There's no obligations to be fancy( Easter or Halloween) or give presents (Easter or Christmas) or blow stuff up (like Independence Day). It's just...food, and gratitude. I have so very much to be grateful for and while I try to keep that in mind every day, the once-a-year mandated reminder kicks it into high gear, and I get to eat fried turkey, pineapple casserole, and lady peas. 

And I am so very thankful for those things, as well as the roof over my head, the freedom to gripe about my government, fresh water, and that my kids are all provided for. Those are all things that should never be taken for granted.