Thanksgiving Hands

From time to time I like to post photographs of children's hands. I love the delicacy with which they reach out and touch objects. Here, these little hands select a holiday treat.

Feral Kitties

 

My brother has three cats taking up residence outside his house. One is a feral Momma, the other two are her kittens. My brother and sister-in-law have been leaving food out for them and they say they are there each morning at 5:00 a.m. Chow’s on!

Today, she put out a dish while we were there and the Mommy and the braver of babies made their way up the steps to eat. I had to take this photo from the porch window because if we opened the door it would have spooked them. They sit and watch and wait to see if it is safe to approach, to eat. They are curious and one of the kitties seems more at ease with human contact. My brother captured them once to get them assessed by a vet. He needs to get the two male kitties neutered. They have three indoor kitties already. These three will remain outdoor cats. It seems to be what they want.

Pilgrim Hat

Legend has it that pugs would warm the laps of royalty in Chinese Palaces. They are bred as lap dogs, to bring pleasure and fun. Some dogs work by herding or guarding, some retrieved or sought out rats. Pugs, perhaps more than any other dogs, were born and bred to be companions to humans. Their work seems to be to make us smile and they seem to take great pleasure in their jobs as well.

Today, my pug, Alfie, elicited smiles once again. My neighbors had people over for Thanksgiving. They pulled up in a truck. I was in the backyard with Alfie taking her Thanksgiving shot, but when she heard the truck she went wild, rushing to the fence and barking. The men in their truck paused to look at her, wide grins spreading across their faces.

“Do you see the dog in the pilgrim hat and everything?” one asked the other. They paused for another few seconds, just happy in the moment, before heading into the house.

Good girl, Alfie, job well done.

Slayers of Loneliness

It is impossible to stay lonely for long with this brood. These are my nieces and nephews. My brother John’s children: Raine, Avery and Tori. My brother Paul’s children: Christian, Adam and Catherine. My brother Mark’s daughter, Ellie. Children are the lifeblood of a family – metaphorically and literally. These children are among my best friends. Raine had a serious conversation with me about my haircut and color, wanting to know if I had gotten it done recently. During a quiet moment Catherine asked what I wanted to do next and offered to play a guessing game with me in which she gave me hints involving fruits and vegetables and I had to guess what they were. Tori let me join her Girl’s Only club. Ellie and I read books and played ball. The adults expressed heartfelt thanks for their families and health, the children got to the heart of things – “My school program,” said Christian. “Cartoons,” said Raine. “Toys,” said Tori. “Pop tarts,” said Avery. “Videogames,” said Adam. Children never shy from the truth. I love them for their honesty, their imaginations, their in-the-moment existence. I am thankful most of all for these children – slayers of loneliness, creatures of joy.

Thanksgiving Landscape

This is where I spent Thanksgiving. It is a view of my brother’s land. My own, undeveloped land sits to the left of this scene. I stood out on my brother’s back steps before dinner and photographed the landscape – the moon hovering over the mountains, the golden trees reflected in the crystal clear water.

My brother’s house formerly belonged to my grandparents. It was once a schoolhouse. To the right of this scene sits the original outhouse, one of the three feral cats, who make their home outside my brother’s, roamed through the grass as I took this shot. It is not my home, but I grew up here. Spending weekends and summers at the schoolhouse, both before it was my grandparent’s full-time home and after. Looking in the pond where we would swim as children is like looking back into a reflecting pool of the past. Memories reach up to grab me, but they do not pull me in, they wash over me like gentle waves lapping at my feet. I love this view. I love my land next door.

Inside the house held family, outside was barren and lonely except for the cat on the hunt. A few minutes later my youngest brother and my nephews will teem out of the house and down the hill to target practice.  Later we will gather around the table and say what we are thankful for – I am thankful for my family, for gathering in this house, for the moon high on the sky, the reflection in the water, the pond in which I swam, my nearby land, my growing nieces and nephews and still, as we go around and each sibling and my parents expresse gratitude for their spouses and their families, I can’t help but feel lonely. There is just me.

Progression of the Day

Happy Thanksgiving! No lengthy post tonight, just a few pictures to tell a story -- A Thanksgiving Day Progression. Enjoy your holiday with family and friends.

Full of Beans

My five-year-old niece Tori was here today. The last time she was over she claimed to have a bellyache and to take her mind off of it I came up with a game. “We have to get the beans out of your belly,” I declared.

“I don’t have beans in my belly,” she said, while snuggling under a blanket on the recliner.

“Yes, you do,” I argued. “And, if you want to feel better we have to get them out or they’ll grow a beanstalk right up through your mouth.”

I went into the kitchen to get my bean removing supplies. First a measuring tape to determine how many beans were inside her belly, a turquoise funnel to suck the beans out, a tea strainer in which to capture the bean once it was removed and finally and most importantly, a few cashew nuts to surreptitiously serve as the beans.

I returned to Tori and measured her belly, blew on the funnel and then showed her the tea strainer in which I had secretly placed a few of the cashews. “Look, here’s the beans!” I declared. She mustered enough interest to look then just shook her head, “No, that’s pretend,” she said.

“No,” I said and proceeded to remove some more beans. I’m not sure if she thought me crazy or just ridiculous, but my antics seemed to take her mind off her bellyache and she began to play.

Today, when I saw her I asked her how she was and if I needed me to remove some more beans. She looked at me and deadpanned, “Not gonna happen!”

I laughed. “What? What did you say? Not going to happen?”

“Yup, it’s not real,” she said, shaking her head again.

We played some games and later when she was sitting in the recliner I came in with my bean inspecting supplies and said “It’s time.”

I went to work again measuring and announcing that there was one bean in her belly. I then took the funnel, this time slipping a cashew into it. I blew on her belly and said, “Look, I got one!” I handed her the funnel for inspection. This time it appeared as if the cashew really had been sucked up from her belly into the funnel. I took the funnel back to her and began to place the bean in the strainer, so it wouldn’t get away. As I did so, I heard her mutter under her breath, “Huh, maybe it can happen.”

I had to laugh inside because she was so accepting, so matter of fact. She wasn’t in awe, but she had opened her mind to possibility and it was this matter-of-fact acceptance that warmed my heart and made me want to embrace her and follow her example. I loved how easy it was for her to adapt to a new point of view, to accept a new reality. Deep down I’m pretty sure she knew we were playing a game, but part of her thought maybe not, maybe it could happen. Maybe a bean could be blown out of her tummy and if so maybe it’s best to keep an open mind. Maybe it’s not that far a stretch from here to there. Maybe, we all can learn something.

Writing Prompt: Details

 

So many moments brush passed us like busy shoppers on a sidewalk. We may register them, but they slip away. Even when they hold simple pleasures that make us smile or small revelations that make us think, we only offer our hats or a nod of our heads as appreciation, then scurry off down our respective paths. Sometimes, if we are lucky we recall them again, perhaps bringing them up later in conversation to a friend or spouse, the way we might say, “hey, I saw so and so today.” But often we just forget.

Something about this seems sad. Photography helps and writing, each offering us a chance to capture these small moments and give them their due. Sometimes a camera is not always ready, so lately I have taken to sketching as well.

The thing about these moments, the reason so many drift away, is that they may not be big or profound, they may lack lasting impact, seem rather ordinary, but like puzzle pieces with strange corners and edges, these are the things that fit together in the end to make up our lives.

So, here are a few of the things I saw this week: a cerulean shadow of trees cast on the hood of my parent’s white Honda and the deeper shadow of me photographing it. Birds nests, everywhere, until I’m left wondering if they are some special sign, secret words whispered by the universe, speaking of home. And, this weekend on Saturday, when I went to drop some photos off at a gallery for an upcoming holiday show, I saw a Fiesta Squirrel.

I was on my cellphone with my brother when I saw it – a big, fat squirrel in a full out run, prize in his hands, galloping for home. When I spotted him he was in mid-leap, jumping like a bionic man off a picnic table someone had decorated with streamers and colored tablecloth in festive colors –“ I just saw a Fiesta Squirrel,” I declared matter-of-factly to my brother and then we both burst into laughter.

“It’s one of those days,” he deadpanned.

I would have forgotten about the squirrel, I think, if I hadn’t found a photo today that I snapped of the table. The photo is blurry as the memory would soon have become. I  decided instead to sketch it tonight. Not a big moment in my life and I could have gone on with it stored in the recesses of memory, but at the time I saw this happy creature, he made me pause in what had been a hectic day. He elicited laughter. He made me feel good, so perhaps I should remember him after all. Perhaps these are the memories I should hold over grudges and worries and big celebratory feats. If God is in the details I would do well to remember cerulean shadows, waiting birds nests, and Fiesta Squirrels.

Also, please don't forget to comment in the Pugs and Petals Greeting Card give-a-way.

Writing Prompt: What details did you pass by today you might like to recall later? Write about them.

Gryffindor

After the concert we go back to Joan’s house. The mountain road climbs through the darkness and stretches through the cold, clear night all the way to the heavens. Bright and defined constellations serve as guiding beacons up the winding driveway because there are no other lights here. We are in God’s country now.

I point the headlights of my car at the door and grab a flashlight, making my way past discarded wood piles and garden stones to the chipped cement steps and long walkway that leads to the front door. The path would be perilous if I had not done it so often and will be more so in the days ahead as water, ice and snow replace the decaying leaves and dirt along the way. I wonder as I often do how Joan does it day in and day out -- pugs underfoot -- without tripping and breaking her neck.

Inside the living room, she has turned on the incandescent lamps and the string of colored Christmas lights that beckon year round. A soft, orange flame smolders in the woodstove. I love this view at night, staring through the long row of glass at the warmth and wonder inside. It is not the stuff of a Norman Rockwell or Thomas Kinkade painting, no rosy cottage glow or rose-colored glasses through which to view this scene. There is stark reality here – sub-zero temperatures each winter, cold brittle hands stacking firewood, a scarcity of creature comforts in true New England fashion, but tonight we are not there yet. It may be mid-November, but the temperatures are cool, not yet cold. And, in spite of the hardships in forging a life here, each time I visit, I view the scene through the lens of love.

Joan putters around inside, surprisingly still in her dress clothes although she arrived back from the concert before us. The downstairs pugs – blind, black Puddleglum and scarred, fawn Soup gather around her. Tonight that is all that are down here, the rest of the brood upstairs in their respective rooms. Joan has already put their food on the stove and laid out the makings for hot cocoa.

I informed her we can’t stay long, but I want to snap a picture of Gryffindor, the puppy she kept out of the last litter. I push my way into the room and am greeted by the smell of wood smoke and dog, a pungent mixture to which I have become accustomed. I move away the clutter of papers that Joan is perpetually sorting and warn Puddleglum in a loud voice and no uncertain terms that he better not try to pee on me tonight – the two of us engaged in an ongoing battle, which usually results in him marking my leg.

Joan motions to the flurry of activity at my feet and I look down to see a living, breathing, bundle of joy. Gryffindor runs and jumps and leaps beneath me, wiggling in between. I am used to puppies at Pugdom and all are precious and sweet. I thought Gryffindor exceptionally handsome from the get-go. Puppies, like all children, seem to possess an extra portion of energy and playfulness, but this is something else. At first I can’t pinpoint it, but then it hits me. Gryff reminds me of my deceased puppy Mira, the pug I claim was the most joyful creature I have ever known, human or dog. Mira, like Gryff, bounded through her short, sweet life with extra verve as if there was an inner fount of happiness energizing each step. I pick up Gryffindor and see this fount reflected in his eyes. There is lightness to his being. I wish I could snatch him up and take him home.

“Joan,” I gush, “He’s special!” He reaches out with his tender tongue and licks my lips in agreement. I will keep my eye on this boy.

For now I turn my attention to the mug of hot cocoa that Joan hands me and the extra large marshmallow that skims it’s surface. These are her special touches that bring warmth to this scene and melt the New England frost. With childlike glee we sip and smile, watching the puppy, reveling in the company.

Music

We ride an old and shaky elevator to the top floor of the Warren Town Hall and step back in time. Suddenly, we are part of the warp and weft of rural life. How many have gathered here before us for entertainment, for politics, to simply come together as a community?

Tonight we are part of a small benefit concert to help feed the hungry over the holiday. My friend Joan, Waffles’ breeder and a former concert pianist, sits at the keyboard playing background music before the show starts. She is one of those people about whom it may be said, “she cleans up well,” because most of her days are spent in her work duds, allowing her to haul wood, mop floors and care for her pugs at the sprawling yellow house she used to share with her husband Charlie before his death. Tonight she is in concert gear – red silk blouse with ruffled collar, black pants and vest with gold trim buttons. In the incandescent light, her hair looks more blonde than gray.

Someone has decorated the stage with white Christmas lights, greenery and electronic candles. Three elegant Celtic harps sit to the side of the stage and a tree-like music stand takes center stage. Dinner tables surround the stage, creating an intimate half-circle for viewers. And, a table of decadent deserts, coffee and cider tempt passersby at the back of the room.

I feel a rush of pride for Joan, she is at her best like this and I never tire of hearing the music flow from her fingers. She is infused with it, giving her hands on the keyboard an added lilt, her body an extra cadence.

On an average day, music bubbles beneath her skin, leaking out in the way she holds an aging dog, her superhuman energy, her sometimes childlike view of the world. A hidden melody tickles the ivories of everyday life and I can’t help but want to sing along.

We listen as harpists and singers, guitarists and violinists make their way across the stage. We hear an anti-war song, the Christmas Bell Medley, Cole Porter, and some original tunes. I feel like crying as I always do when music comes a courting. It is intimate here, close. For centuries, people in small, rural towns have made their way to Town Halls and Churches to gather together and we are doing it once again.