Feasting

I have always loved Thanksgiving.  But, lately, it seems as if right after Labor Day, when the school supply shelves are emptied, we see Halloween décor....quickly followed by Christmas trees and Santa Claus.

Some people still celebrate Thanksgiving.  I know that many families gather, as mine did in the above picture, at home or at the homes of friends and family to pass around the turkey and ham and sweet potatoes.

I have spent Thanksgiving in many different places and remember some of them with fondness.

The first year that we had our farm in the Wilderness, Andy and I drove down from Illinois after work and arrived at our place in the middle of the night.  We had no cabin to stay in.  We had no tent to put up.  So we spread out our tarp on the frozen ground, laid our sleeping bag on top of it and crawled in.  Early that morning I awoke to snow filtering down on my head.  We were covered with about an inch of snow that had fallen in the night.  We jumped up, brushed off the snow and made a fire of sorts.  As I remember we had fried Spam and applesauce for dinner that day.

I really loved to go to my Aunt Taty's for Thanksgiving when I was small.  My cousins and I would help out in the kitchen, peeling potatoes and doing other chores that would help get the meal started.  The men would be in the living room talking about work or how their harvest went that fall.  Rolls were baking in the oven and the turkey would be browning up nicely.  Since we were suppose to be seen but not heard, we would run outside and see who could make it up and down the slide the fastest.  Finally we would be called in to the table.  After we said grace we would dive into all that glorious food.  And we always left room for my aunt's famous chocolate pie.  She made two or three of them because one piece was not enough.  After dinner we would visit and catch up on all the news.  Invariably, someone would sneak into the kitchen and help themselves to just a little more turkey and ham.  Such good food.

These days it seems as if Thanksgiving dinner is served either before, after, or during the football games that have taken over the day.  And if you really want to be smart, you bundle up and go out to the nearest mall to wait for the late night opening to get that "must have" item for Christmas.

This year I will celebrate Thanksgiving.  I may not have a feast.  I may not be with family.  But I will be truly thankful for what I have.  Thanksgiving lives on.  And I hope it lives on for you.  Happy Thanksgiving.

 

Sometimes in early mid-November....

Sometimes in early mid-November I see leaves blowing through the blue-blue sky.  Stripping the brown limbs bare, they are piled in windrows, willy-nilly across the road and pasture.

Sometimes in early mid-November I see the buck with antlers swaying as he ambles across the field.  He is so proud and wanting to look good for all the does who linger just outside my sight, down there in the woods, dark and deep and full of shadows.

Sometimes in early mid-November I watch the eagle pair flying nearer to me and then suddenly turning, banking in mid-flight and soaring high above the river.  Sunlight glints off their white heads and tail feathers as they disappear from sight.

Sometimes in early mid-November on frosty moonless nights, I wait to count the stars as they appear from east to west.  The smudge that is the Seven Sisters appears on the upper horizon.  Cassiopeia in her chair nearby.  And stretching from northeast to southwest the immense ribbon of the Milky Way.

Sometimes in early mid-November I gather wood and kindling and make a roaring fire in my wood stove.  I pull my rocking chair near enough to feel the heat and sit and read in comfortable solitude.

Sometimes in early mid-November I am reminded that all things need a time of rest.  The earth is settling in for a long nap.  And we too can find a space to think and reflect on what the year has brought us.

Sometimes in early mid-November. 

Speaking of cats.....

I am not a cat person per se.  But a cat owned me at one time.  And here she is, probably stalking a bird of some kind from the comfort of our back porch in New Hampshire. 

Spooky came to us when she was a kitten.  We didn't have a dog and my brothers decided they wanted a pet.  Someone had found this black kitten, called her Midnight, or some other generic name, and promptly passed her on to us.  My brothers and I decided that her name didn't fit her, so we called her Spooky.  However, as things go with kids, once we heard her mew in her plaintive high-pitched voice, we gave her a nickname---Moo Moo.  She didn't really sound like a calf but she certainly did not have a cat voice either.  And she loved milk.

One fall evening Moo Moo didn't come home.  We waited up for her until our bedtime.  My mom said that she would probably be waiting to be let in when we got up in the morning.  Sure enough, there she was.  But there was something horribly wrong with her.  She was stretched out on the porch step, crying loudly, because she couldn't move her back legs.  We scooped her up and took her to the vet.  He said that her pelvis had been broken, probably by a car that side-swiped her as she crossed the highway that ran in front of our house.  He said it would heal with time, but that she would probably never have kittens. 

And he had that wrong!

A few months later I went out on the back porch to feed Moo Moo. I was excited to see something moving around in her bed with her.  At first I thought they were baby mice.  On closer inspection I could see they were tiny little newborn kittens.  What a wonderful surprise that was.  As the kittens grew we canvased the neighborhood and found several friends and neighbors who wanted a kitten.  They were very pretty.  None of them were solid black like their mother.  Most of them were some variation of black and white.  And she was a mama cat to end all mama cats.  Before we called it quits on the kitten patrol she produced at least four or five litters of kittens.  The last ones were delivered in a closet at camp.  The head counselor appointed herself midwife and gave a running commentary on number, size and color, much to our delight.

Moo Moo traveled everywhere with us.  When we went east for the summer she would tuck herself under the driver's seat and stay there, in a state of suspended animation, for the duration of the trip.  She didn't come out until we arrived at our summer place, three days later.  Don't ask me why.  I guess she just decided she could go into hibernation and wait until she made it to a "civilized" place.

She was a good hunter.  Every morning during the summer she would present me with 8 to 10 chipmunk tails, all neatly lined up on the front stoop.  We finally tied a bell around her neck when we moved to Kenosha because one of the my mom's fellow teachers loved birds and kept a feeder in the backyard of the faculty residence.  It took just one pile of feathers and a contented looking cat, licking her chops, to convince us that she really needed to be curtailed in her hunting during the school year.

Moo Moo lived a long and full life.  When I left home for college she became my mom's constant companion.  Coming home for vacation or a visit was always a treat because Moo Moo never forgot me.

She finally passed away when she was close to nineteen years old...a remarkable age for a cat who was trundled around all over the country and had so many adventures.

Mom buried her under the lilac bush at her friend Donnie's house in our hometown.  It was her favorite place to rest in the heat of the summer day.

I can see her twitching her tail and thinking about going after that fat robin who was sitting innocently too close to her, there in the dappled sunshine.

I am a one cat person.  And that cat was Moo Moo.