Our Thanksgiving Day Parade

Two turkeys -- one smoked, one deep fried, two stuffings -- one vegetarian, one not, two potatoes -- one sweet and one regular old. The Emeril's macaroni and cheese, the roasted vegetables, the salad, the cranberry mousse, the corn pudding. Butternut squash -- that was new this year. Thank goodness for the appetizers that tided us over, and the desserts to punctuate our annual gluttony.

It's been years since my cousin, Bruce, and I (and Lily, the beautiful golden retriever) met up for our Friday-morning-after-Thanksgiving run. At 71, he still looks as young, to me, as he did when he was the bearded, long-locked hippie on a motorcycle. My relatives, the men in particular,  are blessed with some odd youthful gene. Though I miss the crunch of the leaves on the hilly path, the icy cold November New England air, the weakening sun fully visible through the naked branches, my aching feet and rebellious stomach are thankful for the respite. I am happy to sit by the fire in the hotel eating a bagel and drinking coffee.

It's been years since I spent much of the day entertaining my own babies, hoping they would nap, worried they would interfere with everybody's feast or rub chocolate turkey remnants on my cousins' white couches. The crowd size has remained relatively constant, though with marriages and trips abroad and pregnancies and the occasional illness, attendance has fluctuated. I, for one, have never missed a Thanksgiving meal.

My cousins' home is filled with their grandchildren now, small humans with runny noses and leaky diapers and short attention spans and unfiltered emotions who somehow manage to steal my heart the moment we lock eyes. Each year, it seems, we add a new side dish, and a new person. There's always enough room on our plates for more.

It seems crazy, sometimes, the hoops we jump through to continue to convene somewhere in Connecticut every Thanksgiving, when most of us don't live anywhere near there. For eight hours (give or take, depending on unexpected cooking snafus), we flow from room to room reacquainting, catching up, looking for delicacies that may never have made it to the big table in the living room, cousins we may have ignored. From one year to the next, everyone looks pretty much the same. When I pause, though, and think back on the 24 year tradition, I can't quite reconcile the baby cousins I remember so vaguely with the doting parents they have become. Then there are my babies who are, quite suddenly, adults. My once chubby cheeked son who joins us these days via Facetime from Japan, his hair still matted with sleep and his eyes still bleary. If I close my eyes, I can still hear my father's voice, my aunt's, my uncle's. My mother is still young, still beautiful, can still hear.

We come for the turkeys and the potatoes and the apps and the pies.  Okay, no we don't. But it's nice to know the feast will always be there, to join us.

The New Math

An elderly gentleman walked by the table where I celebrated my birthday with friends, and handed me a two dollar bill. I felt uncomfortable, accepting money from anybody, but I thanked him profusely and tucked the bill in my wallet, right next to the torn half of a twenty dollar bill I've carried around for years.

A two dollar bill is, theoretically and actually, worth two dollars. No more, no less. But it is not the same. Combined into a single greenback, this two dollars will buy me nothing, but it will acquire and retain immeasurable value as it remains, crisp as the day I received it, in my wallet. It will trigger memories of a celebration with friends, of a carefree evening, of a random and unexpected act of generosity by a stranger. It will be, too, a small safety net, always there if I am penniless and desperate, say, for a diet Coke from the McDonald's drive-thru.

My half-twenty is decidedly less valuable, worth nothing unless, of course, it is reunited with its other half. Not bloody likely. Sure, it triggers memories of long ago celebrations with friends and random acts of, if not generosity, recklessness, but I would never presume to pass it off as something of value. It is worth less, certainly, than my new two dollar bill, less even than two -- or ten -- of the crumpled singles buried deep in the pocket of an old coat, or collecting crumbs in the bowels of my purse. It is equivalent to, at best, a lump of coal.

We are living in an age of false equivalencies, a world in which human beings might no longer be viewed as equal but bad behavior is, no matter how egregious or how often repeated, depending on your side of the aisle. Suffice it to say that I think 45's history of sexual assaults, though appalling, are not, by any stretch of the imagination, the reason he should not be president. It is, more broadly, his contempt for norms, his contempt for the law, his contempt for basic decency that make him uniquely unqualified. (Not to mention his ignorance and lack of experience.) This is not to say that I am in favor of forced kisses or uninvited touching in any situation -- be it a frat house or the halls of Congress or any place in between. Not by a long shot.

I hope that the result of the exploding "me too-ism" will be re-education -- of girls, and boys, and employers, and employees, and politicians, and constituents. I hope that the result will not be wasteful side shows and disproportionate punishments and the re-prosecution and re-litigation of past wrong doing. Some lines can never be crossed -- pedophilia and abuse of power spring to mind -- but with the floodgates now thrown open for all sorts of painful revelations, it is time to look forward, and to advocate policies that are color blind, gender blind, economic status blind, and, most importantly, politically blind.

I am about as likely to spend the crisp two dollar bill as I am to attempt to pass the half twenty off as a ten. But I take some comfort in knowing it's there, and that if I really need to, I can. That, to borrow a phrase from The Indigo Girls, is the power of two.

Chase all the ghosts from your head

I'm stronger than the monster beneath your bed

Smarter than the tricks played on your heart

We'll look at them together then we'll take them apart

Adding up the total of a love that's true

Multiply life by the power of two.

Indigo Girls, Power of Two

Global Repositioning Systems

It's not easy being judgmental -- and I omit, here, the handful of adjectives and expletives and other parts of speech that once embellished that description of me. Speaking from years of experience, those of us who tend toward the eye roll simply assume that everyone else is returning the favor -- or lack of favor, as the case may be. Could it be that nobody ever really knows what to do? That we judge just to reassure ourselves we are okay?

Yesterday, I ran into an acquaintance from my yoga days. (I still do yoga, but I have become less convinced that you can breathe your way through pain, physical or psychic; especially when one of the walls in your preferred studio is filled with mirrors.) He is preparing for "chapter two," he told me. I judged immediately -- slow reader or, as the case may be, slow writer. We're about the same age, and I'm already dipping my toe into chapter four.

The last time we spoke, he was in a low key yogic kind of panic because his only son, who had long struggled with social issues, was about to apply to college. I had told him not to worry, that everything would work out. He had looked at me as if I had two heads. That was two years ago.

Yesterday, he had just returned from visiting that same son. For the first time, his grades have slipped -- (so what?), but he is surrounded by friends, and remarkably at ease -- (Hallelujah!). I could almost touch the relief on the guy's face, the botox-y effect of a job well done and a deep breath well-earned. Years of hard work and sleepless nights had paid off, and he was ready to move out of hiatus, continue his own story.  Chapter two. He even has it pretty much mapped out. What a fool. Okay, I am envious.

I suppose I never considered my child rearing years to be a hiatus, as I am far too selfish to have ever taken a complete break from myself. So that was my chapter two, and my chapter three began, I think, as my marriage disintegrated and my youngest child and I were left to navigate our own versions of "tween-dom" together. We are each, now, on the brink, one semester away from a frightening new phase. Without a map.

For the first time in more than two dozen years  -- a little less for her -- life will cease to be measured by academic calendars. The comfort of artificial closures and resets will be gone, and life will no longer be sectioned into manageable pieces. She will have to accustom herself to an existence that is not all that carefree. I will have to accustom myself to an existence that, while not carefree, is certainly less likely to revolve around the needs of others. I wish I could erase her fears, but I know I can't. I know how much she has to look forward to (if all goes the way it should, in life), but I know she has to figure that out for herself. As I need to, on my end.

Only minutes into a stroll down what seemed to be a well-defined path in the woods, the other day,  my friend and I got lost. As the crow flies, we were not far from where we needed to be, and there were plenty hours of sunlight left for us to figure it out, but still, it was a bit disorienting. Felled trees blocked our way in all directions, and muddy streams appeared out of nowhere. We both had different ideas about which way to go. Without judgment, we rejected my idea, then his, and chose what we both assumed was an illogical option. As it turns out, we had both been wrong, which, in my nasty habit of being judge-y, would make us fools and earn us failing grades in the navigation department. Oh, well.

Somehow, with a little leap of faith, we made it out of the woods.

Puttin' On the Pants Suit

I'd love to say my offer to kick in the extra 72 cents for the woman's coffee was motivated solely by a generous spirit, but I'd be lying. It was six-thirty in the morning, and her poor preparation was the only thing that stood between me and my coffee. It could have gotten pretty ugly, and 72 cents was a small price to pay.

Everything worked out. The woman looked relieved, the barista wouldn't let me take on the added expense (she claimed I've done it before, which I don't remember), and within a few moments I was on my way, leash in one hand and a hot off the presses Christmasy cup of caffeine in the other. Better still, I ran into the woman a few minutes later, as we were both pulled toward each other by our dogs. She told me she has been going through a really difficult time, and my kindness had made her day. I gave myself a partial pat on the back, knowing I had at least appeared to be kind and generous. With any luck, the road to heaven is paved with partially good intentions.

A year ago today, I woke up cautiously optimistic, determined to purchase a white pants suit to wear as I watched the election returns later that evening with friends. I had no illusions about Hillary's imperfections, and I was reluctant to count any chickens before they hatched, but in my wildest dreams I could not have imagined that, hours later, she would lose to the most unworthy of opponents. I have comforted myself, all year, with hopes that the nightmare would be short-lived. I have taken comfort, also, in knowing that, had Hillary won, her tenure would have been made miserable. We would never have had such a unique opportunity to learn, as a country, how toxic our brew of arrogance and ignorance and complacency could be.

Despite all my good intentions, I have expended far more energy on hand-wringing than I have on doing something to effect change. I have preached to my own choir, and I have refused to listen to other voices. I have failed to recognize, all too often, that despite a shitload of bad intentions at the highest levels, our road to hell, this year, has been paved by a fair share of equally well-intentioned opposing viewpoints.

Virginia came out yesterday, in the rain, to vote. Bigly. We all need to do the same. With my apologies to Billy Joel, sooner or later it just comes down to a lot more than faith. Time to put our 72 cents in every chance we get, whether its motivated by generosity of spirit or a faint, selfish hope that something good will eventually come of it. Even a random act of impatience can make someones day.

Ghosts of Summer

When we arrived in Sturgeon Bay, Wisconsin, a little before midnight, the streets were deserted. There is something incredibly warm and cozy-- romantic even -- about a summer town in the off season. The crowds are long gone, but you can still hear the lazy rumble of leisurely strolls, taste the sweet satisfaction of ice cream racing down the side of a sugar cone.

It wasn't exactly the quaint bed and breakfast we had planned on, but the Best Western was inviting enough in the dark. At least none of the letters in the lighted sign were missing. The lady behind the desk seemed bored and sleepy, a little surprised to see us. Sue. That's what her name tag said. She didn't look like a "Sue," though, and she didn't seem all that interested in chatting; after a couple of attempts, we gave up -- never even reached the point where it would seem appropriate to call her Sue. Or anything.

Sue seemed the perfect desk clerk for a Best Western, off season, off hours. Her kinky gray hair was pulled into a tight pony tail, her white shirt stained with shadows of a thousand fast food meals. I was able to squeeze in two trips to the bathroom and four to the water fountain while she processed our paperwork, and I returned just in time for the finale -- the programming of the key cards. Swipe. Beep. Click. Swipe. Beep. Click. Her face remained impassive, and she did the same with a second key card. Swipe. Beep. Click. Swipe. Beep. Click. Still expressionless, she put that one aside, and went through the routine again with a third, then a fourth.

"One is fine," I told her. "Don't worry about the second."

"I don't even have one yet," she snapped. Well, snapped is a strong word, but it was the first thing she had uttered with any sort of inflection. She kept going.

"Maybe unplug and replug the machine," one of us suggested.

"Nope." Not an option, apparently, although she did move it over a few inches, which seemed to have a bit of an unplugging effect because now when she swiped there was no beep. After a few tries, she moved it back. Swipe. Beep. Click. Swipe Beep. Click. Hmmm.

She went in back, came out with a large stack of brand new key cards, still wrapped in cellophane. We stood there, staring at our bellybuttons, afraid to look at each other. Swipe. Beep. Click. Swipe. Beep. Click. She tried three or four times.

"Maybe if you try to swipe faster?"

She obliged, looking a bit self-satisfied when nothing happened. I refrained from suggesting she start pulling cards from the middle, fearing she would.

Finally, she let us in with her master key, warning us that if we left we'd pretty much be shit out of luck. We collapsed into our prison, laughing. We half expected to find Sue in the lobby in the morning, buried under a sea of key cards. We did not.

The streets are not quite as deserted here in daylight, if only because it's the day of the big Halloween parade. Stores are open but empty, despite scores of straw-stuffed-pumpkin-headed people sitting like ghoulish welcoming committees on the cold benches outside. Not a lot of tourists, but clusters of local folks of all ages, all in costume. Cows, Disney princesses, a smattering of Harry Potterish wizards, a tiny family of loraxes. Nothing suggestive or in the slightest bit risque. A sleepy, summer town in Wisconsin, in the off season. Except for a few overtired toddlers, everybody seemed very content.

Who knows where we'll land tonight? The only thing we know for certain is it won't be the Best Western with no working keys. And it's a pretty sure bet that, in the off season up north, it will be warm and cozy and even a little bit romantic, no matter where we end up. Fall colors are past peak, and some of the trees are already bare. But the dim rumble and sweet taste of summer still lurks, behind the pumpkins.

Times Always A'Changin

Transformation. 

The regular yoga teacher was absent, and the woman gliding toward the front of the room looked to be the polar opposite of what I had grown accustomed to on Tuesday mornings. It's not that I was disappointed, but I had become a devoted fan of the yoga instructor with the decidedly un-yogic and somewhat voluptuous physique and her uncanny ability to push me toward my edge with her deceptive sweetness. She dresses more modestly than most yoginis, and my guess is she is less chiseled. She is strong and graceful, though, when she demonstrates a pose, and her flawlessly called complicated sequences (not once has she confused left and right) make me sweat like nobody's business.

Looking as if she had just stepped off the cover of Yoga Journal, the sub flashed us a broad smile and suggested we start on our backs. Look up yoga teacher in the dictionary and there she would be, rail thin but in a sinewy kind of way, muscular without bulk, tucked neatly into light-colored print tights without an ounce of love handle in sight. When she pulled back her wild mop of curly hair, her eyes gleamed, her teeth got even whiter. I would have despised her completely, had it not been for the starting on our backs part.

The list of detestable qualities grew as she told us she would be walking around with some sort of magic box, from which we should choose a card. An "intention" card for our practice, so we would not have to come up with one on our own. Seriously? I never have any trouble coming up with an intention. My intention is always survival, with a big lunch to follow. Had I not already rolled comfortably onto my back, I might have fled.

She tapped my toe and I reached into the magic box, drew a card. "Transformation." Transformation? Was this what my goal of the day would be, to change? Into what? A kinder person? Yoga Barbie moved on to the next mat too swiftly for me to grab her ankle and beg for a second chance. I am almost 58 years old, and the only transformation I can hope to experience is the gradual amplification of my most negative traits. I desperately wanted a realistic intention card -- wait until noon for lunch; don't drink before five (ish); do not turn on MSNBC. 

On my oldest daughter's first day of first grade, her teacher taught the class a new word: metamorphosis. I had thought it was an interesting opening vocabulary word for a six year old, but it made me feel good about our move to suburbia. With such an auspicious beginning, my daughter would certainly be elite-college-bound. Our decision to avoid twelve years of private school tuition in the city had been prudent, my fears of a bland suburban upbringing for my children unfounded.

In the years since that first day of first grade, my daughter -- and her younger siblings -- have indeed gone through a zillion metamorphoses, shedding the charms and problems of each childhood stage as they acquired new ones, for better or for worse. I miss their plump cheeks and their wishful eyes and unabashed dreams. I miss the chaos, as much as I miss my own youthfulness -- the absence of wear and tear that helped me deal with it all. As much as I cherish all the transformations, in all of us really, I wouldn't trade where we are now for where we were then. For the most part.

The yoga class was different, as it should have been, no matter what the instructor looks like. Her voice was not quite as clear, and she occasionally mixed up left and right, but still, I felt better at the end than I had before it started.  And not just because lunch was fast approaching. Dare I say, it was even a bit transformative, as every new experience tends to be. She told us we could keep our intention cards, but I unintentionally left mine on the floor. Maybe someone else will read it -- maybe someone less set in her ways.

Sunny with a Chance of Meatballs

If breakfast is the most important meal of the day and I love Italian food and meatballs are an essential part of any Italian meal (as far as I'm concerned, anyway), then the prospect of eating a baseball-sized meatball for breakfast is the obvious explanation for the extra spring in my step today.

There are a lot of reasons for my sunny disposition this morning; the meatball simply iced my cake. I was reminded, yesterday, of how lucky I am: thriving children, great friends who are in it for the long haul -- no matter how nuts I get, a return to town of someone whose brief absence had been surprisingly difficult, and, yes, I sleep with the most handsome dog. The clouds of stress have scattered, at least temporarily.

I even chuckled yesterday when someone told me he couldn't wait to get home and settle in to watch Fox News. All news is leaning toward the ridiculous lately, as pundits puzzle for hours on end over our president's basic incompetence as a human being (as if there was ever a reason to think otherwise) while his extraordinary incompetence as the leader of the free world could very well turn us into an ash heap. Maybe I'll switch over to Fox soon too.

Needless to say, I am not always this chipper. (Who is?) In a moment of uncharacteristic insecurity and neediness the other day, I had asked my good friend to tell me how great I am.  Worse still, I even tossed some adjectives her way, helped her with the script. She obliged, even made the shamelessly begged-for compliments seem heartfelt by adding some examples. It helped, but I'm smart enough to know when a friend is just doing her job.

She added something, though. Something that had not occurred to me to solicit as I desperately sought some stroking of my fragile ego. "Finally," she said, "I’m still upright. Thanks in no small part to you!" My friend, whose world was shattered when she lost her oldest son almost two years ago to some fluky genetic glitch. My friend, whose world remains shattered and always will, while the rest of us are able to tuck the catastrophe away -- in varying degrees -- as we move forward with our lives and our petty and not so petty crises. For me, Adam's death remains raw and unfathomable, but it is not the first thing that pops into my conscious brain when I wake up in the morning. Sometimes it is, but today it was meatballs.

As the months tick by, my friend's new normal becomes, in some ways, better, but in some ways far worse. So, she bakes. Challahs for my daughter's wedding, cookies because she's coming to visit me, cakes that don't look all that pretty but taste spectacular.  Give me a meatball over a cookie any day, but when it comes to my friend's baked goods, I make an exception. When she bakes, she creates order out of chaos, makes sense of a mess, and it moves her forward, keeps her upright more than I ever could.

Sunny with a chance of meatballs for breakfast, maybe some cookies later. Climate change is real, but sometimes it's a guilty pleasure.