Thanksgiving may be over, but …..

 by Pat Laster

 

                It was hard, on the Monday after Thanksgiving, to say/feel or think, ‘OK, it’s over; time to move into Christmas mode.’ Like so many have. Why?

                What follows are some of the reasons.

There were still 5 days of November left. Since I’d made a rule never to begin Christmas (except in my mind—oh, and unless I spot a perfect gift) until December 1, my pumpkins, gourds and leaves, fall table cloths and runners will stay where they are. As long as the trees stay vibrant, it is autumn’s time.

I want to keep the memories of a more-blessed-than-usual holiday weekend-- one that lasted from Wednesday through Saturday—in my mind.

Unusual: A sibling flew in from Virginia on Wednesday. Barb stayed till early Saturday morning when I drove her from west Hot Springs to the Bill and Hillary Clinton National airport in Little Rock. She hadn’t heard of the change of the airport’s name.

Unusual: One of our sisters turned 70 and her daughter-in-law planned a BIG, perfect, surprise celebration.

Unusual: The 50^th anniversary of one of our brothers and his wife was acknowledged and celebrated—by us, if not by them. Celebrated, that is. Both are low key and would not have ever mentioned it. They brought black-eyed peas seasoned as only Janice can do, and some additional dishes—salads and a shrimp soup––prepared by their Mexican friend.

Unusual: Our newlyweds joined the family circle and the family gathered around a computer to view honeymoon pictures taken in the Dominican Republic, a trip made possible by gifts from his parents and an aunt who had time share opportunities.

Unusual: For the first time in my memory, there was no cranberry sauce and no Jell-O salad. But, for the first time in said memory, a brother brought two large pans of “Mom’s and Aunt Erma’s yeast rolls.” They were to fight over. Though no one had to.

                Unusual: The visiting-from-Portland vegetarian prepared collard greens and baked mac-and-cheese. I took a bowl of stewed pears, and my slow-cooked fruit compote was totally forgotten until afterwards. But it was good with ice cream later.

Usual: James (my eldest grandson) drove over from England with slices of pumpkin-chocolate chip loaf, some of which I brought home. Yummy!

Usual: Kid Billy drove up from Arkadelphia, his home away from home. Of course, he needed some moolah. His mother and sister drove over from Benton with a first-time-for-the-Thanksgiving-table dish of au gratin potatoes. Raves ensued. ( a new tradition, perhaps?)

Usual/Unusual: Jenn and family drove down from Conway with her signature dish of sweet potatoes. Grandson Jake, 11, who’d grown a foot since we’d seen him, pronounced this “the best Thanksgiving he could remember.” He plays violin in the middle school orchestra and we saw/heard iPhone videos of part of his first concert. It included “Twinkle, twinkle, little star” (tune by Mozart) and “Ode to Joy” (tune by Beethoven). I did not hear one out-of-tune note in the 80-piece group!

Usual: Our year-after-year hosts, Bev and Judge Buddy Villines, kept the fire going and the dishes in the dishwasher.

Unusual: Their younger daughter and son-in-law announced a future addition to their family.

If all that wasn’t worth crowing about … worth thinking about during the countdown to Christmas …  do you see now why I can’t yet let it go?

 

c 2012 by Pat Laster dba lovepat press, Benton AR

Thanksgiving seemed early this year…

 

 

by Pat Laster

                …but not too early to begin listing, along with every other columnist on the planet (well, on a certain plane) doing the same thing, our Gratitudes.

                Just as I never had to (got to) write an essay on ‘what I did last summer’ I can’t remember ever making a ‘what I am thankful for’ list. Nor do I remember, as a child, making a Santa list, though I probably did verbally. Because my children (as adults) asked, for several years, I did reply to emails about “your list.” But I digress. (I love that phrase.)

                I do remember youthful prayers of ‘God bless…’ lists; even today’s prayers of “God bless…” So here is an alphabetical list, narrative, not poetic. Unless I can’t help making it into blank verse.

                WHAT I AM THANKFUL FOR: written Sunday night after three-and-a-half hour choir and bell rehearsals rescheduled from Thanksgiving eve. With Advent and Christmas programs looming, we couldn’t afford to miss a week of rehearsals.

                A – For the ability to do lots of things—to type, to sing, to write, to read, to read music, to think, to feel, to see, to hear.

                B – For brawn enough to take down cabinet and cupboard doors, remove the hardware, sand them, paint them, then restore the hardware and rehang the doors. But not all in the same day.

                C - For courage enough to flee a stultifying situation, even though it meant breaking a few hearts.

                D – For daughters and daughters-in-law.

                E - For energy and endurance needed to get good things done for the country and the world.

                F – For flashes of insight and ideas leading to great inventions and disease prevention.

                G – For generous folks who give of their time, talent and resources without expecting anything back.

                H – For Habitat for Humanity. (See G.)

                I – For instruments of music and mercy.

                J – For journeys of every kind.

                K – For kinfolk with whom we’ll share the Thanksgiving season.

                L – For lessons that keep us informed and humble.

                M – For mailpersons and their dedication.           

    N – For newspapers—no matter how much they cost.

   O – For obligations that keep our feet to the fire.

   P – For pastimes to keep us from becoming too serious.

   Q – For quiet times.

   R – For restful opportunities. May we take them when they are offered.

   S - For sages and poets who see through to a deeper plane and tell us about what they see.

   T – For times of togetherness—like Thanksgiving.

   U – For urges to be useful.

   V – For voices to proclaim love.

   W – For women friends and colleagues.

   X – For XOXOX, shorthand for hugs and kisses.

               Y – For yesterdays and yonders – the past and the future.

               Z – For zest and zeal in approaching the rest of our lives.

 

c 2012 by Pat Laster, Benton AR USA 

Impressions of a poll worker

by Pat Laster
  [all names below are altered]

 

                At 7 a.m. on Election Day, all precinct workers showed up with a contribution to the “potluck,” and knowledge that it was to be a very l-o-n-g day.

              
               My assigned table served those whose surnames began with A through E included Bo S., who handed out ballots after numbering/tearing off the stubs.

At the front of the table sat D. W. B., whom I knew in high school but hadn’t seen since. She handled the sign-in book.

In the middle, as a newbie, I merely wrote a continuing list of voters, a backup to the official roll, being sure that my numbers and Bo’s stub numbers matched.

Three other tables spread across one-half of the hall handled other sections of the alphabet.

Three banks of tables holding cardboard tri-folds for privacy and pencils for voting filled the other half of the long room.

The ballot box table stood between, with an official always on hand to guide folks on how to insert the ballot. He also gave out “I voted” stickers, even to the children of the voters.

Besides being a civic duty and opportunity, the voting event often became a social, reconnecting time. I saw--for the first time in a long time--my former niece, Andi, and Rob, a former student during the years I had another name; Nell, a neighbor from teenage years, plus one I hadn’t seen since I retired from teaching: Coach B.

We were excited to see the “first-timers,” who came to the table saying. “I don’t know what to do.” One young man, 18, looked to be 12! I heard the ballot monitor say to each, “Don’t let this be your last vote!” Amen to that.

All ages, all classes, many handicapped (two nearly blind); some with babies and children (all well-behaved) came through the lines.

Workers with names and/or company logos on their shirt pockets; be-hatted college students, school-shirted high school students and teachers—all took advantage of their right to vote.  

One youngish Goth (dressed in black) came in to vote and on his way out, he pushed his trousers down, showing his blue shorts. Otherwise, we’d have been mooned!

One woman had to borrow a worker’s reading glasses to see to vote.

One young man took his ball cap off inside; we complimented him (to his delight) on his manners. He gave credit to his parents.

Most were willing to provide ID, though I heard one fellow on the next line saying he thought that was illegal. Folks reckoned they had to provide it everywhere else, so why not at the polls. Some showed drivers licenses and/or voter cards. One young woman handed us her passport.

             Several people could not vote, even though they swore the revenue office told them they were registered. Some hadn’t updated their (changed) names or residences. Even a 10-years-in- Baghdad veteran couldn’t vote though he was told he could. That was heart-breaking.

                Several voters were at the wrong precinct, but it was a quick drive to the other one.

                All four tables of registrations saw—during the 12-hour period—a thousand voters.

    Is this a great country, or what!!!

 

c 2012 by Pat Laster

Writers Colony at Dairy Hollow - guest column

L. to R. Talya, Pat, Tom, Joan, Dorothy before a scrumptious dinner meal at WCDH

 

 Food for the soul

Guest blog

by Talya Tate Boerner

 

For one week, the Writer’s Colony at Dairy Hollow becomes my home. Cocooned within a brilliant autumn forest, I write. There are five of us; each pondering a different project, all with the same objective—to create.    

             Day and night we edit, revise, think, drain our thoughts onto paper, and spend hours wrestling with one phrase, one word…

In need of fresh air, I walk along Spring Street, while mentally rearranging thoughts into paragraphs. A rusty gate inspires a poem. A shop owner becomes the protagonist in a short story. Musings stir among the trees.

In the evenings, we are lured to dinner by kitchen aromas. Chef Jana (pronounced “Yana”) spoils us with gourmet meals worthy of “Bon Appetit.” Stick-to-the-ribs, yet surprisingly healthy and organic. Squash mixed with Gruyere, fresh kale and slivered almonds, pan-seared chicken, tarts made from Pat’s freshly stewed pears (gluten-free for me!).

As writers we can only dream of stringing together book chapters as skillfully as meals are spread night after night. Nurturing, these meals provide a time of relaxation and reflection. Sustenance for writing.

Early in the week, our discussions are sparse “how-do-you-do, nice-to-meet-you, where-are-you-from” chats. Polite and courteous, barely scratching the surface. Exchanges between near (or complete) strangers.

By week’s end, conversations are rich, the laughter familiar as we delve deeper, call each other out, poke fun. Our souls poured onto paper, we’ve come to know one another. Like kids at summer camp, we hate to see our time at Dairy Hollow end.

Dairy Hollow Butternut Squash and Mushroom Tart. This amazing dish was served during our week at Dairy Hollow. I badgered Chef Jana until she gave me the recipe… (modified from “Cooking Light”)

Crust:

1 cup plus 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour * ¼ teaspoon salt * ¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper * ¼ teaspoon baking powder * ¼ cup extra-virgin olive oil * 3 tablespoons ice water * cooking spray.

Filling:

3 cups peeled cubed butternut squash * 2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil, divided * ¾ cup chopped onion * 2.5 ounces aged Gruyere cheese, shredded and divided (about 2/3 cup) * 2 large eggs * ½ teaspoon salt, divided * ½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper, divided * 1 ½ ounces chopped pancetta (or bacon) * 5 ounces white button mushroom caps * ¼ cup dry white wine

Preparation:

    Preheat oven to 425°.

    To prepare crust, weigh or lightly spoon flour into a dry measuring cup and spoons; level with a knife. Combine flour and next 3 ingredients (through baking powder) in a food processor; pulse 2 times or until combined.

       Combine 1/4 cup oil and 3 tablespoons ice water in a small bowl. With processor on, slowly add oil mixture through food chute, and process until dough is crumbly. Sprinkle dough into a 9-inch pie plate coated with cooking spray.

       Quickly press dough into an even layer in bottom and up sides of pie plate. Place crust into preheating oven, and bake for 10 minutes. 

To prepare filling, place squash in food processor (do not clean from dough), and process for 1 minute or until squash is finely chopped

       Heat a large nonstick skillet over medium-high heat. Add 1 tablespoon oil to pan; swirl to coat. Add squash and onion to pan; sauté for 9 minutes, stirring occasionally.

      While squash cooks, combine half of cheese (about 1/3 cup), eggs, 1/4 teaspoon salt, and 1/4 teaspoon pepper in a large bowl; stir in squash mixture. Remove crust from oven; spoon squash mixture over crust, and spread evenly. Return tart to 425° oven; bake 9 minutes.

     Return pan to medium-high heat. Add remaining 1 tablespoon oil to pan; swirl to coat. Add pancetta; cook 1 minute or until beginning to brown. Add mushrooms; cook for 7 minutes or until browned.

     Stir in remaining 1/4 teaspoon salt and 1/4 teaspoon pepper. Add wine; cook 1 minute or until liquid almost evaporates. Remove tart from oven. Arrange the mushroom mixture evenly over top of tart; sprinkle with the remaining 1/3 cup cheese.

     Return tart to 425° oven. Bake 3 to 5 minutes or until cheese melts.

     NOTE: Gruyere cheese has a strong flavor, if you prefer use half Gruyere and half Monterey Jack. Serves 6. Calories=368, Fat=21.8 grams, Protein=11 grams, Fiber=2.8 grams. #

View Talya's blog, gracegrits&gardening.blogspot.com

I never tire of time in the Ozarks

Porch of Spring Garden Suite, Writers Colony at Dairy Hollow,
Eureka Springs Arkansas

by Pat Laster

 

Who but an over-achieving writer would take such pains to bundle up and go outside on a below-freezing Ozark morning? (With coffee, of course, even though a stronger roast than my usual half-caff.)

Answer: For one, a back-packed mountain man walking an ubiquitous incline toward downtown. For another, a dog walker. She looked over. I “Good morning”-ed and in response, she said, “I just saw a red fox go across the road. Beautiful! ”

So I’m in good company here in Eureka Springs, in Spring Garden Suite, my usual stable  at Dairy Hollow. I did ask for a room in the new “505” building next door, but Ms. Director forgot and instead, scheduled a writer who wanted to stay a month. I didn’t mind, especially when I discovered it was Tom S. from New England who was a co-resident several years ago.

MY MUSE

One leaf,
large and tattered, 
followed me inside, like
a cat waiting for the door to
open.

 “Hello
there! Come on in!
You’ll be safe from Jana’s
leaf blower. Here, join the ones I
picked up

as I
crossed the parking
lot yesterday. Right up
here under the lamp where I can
see you."

Behind me, cars and conversation. A writing workshop was scheduled for all day in the main house. If someone parked in front of “my” place, (six feet from the street) I’d have to move inside!  Or complain.

VIEW FROM THE STREET AT THE WRITERS COLONY FROM THE VIEWPOINT OF A DOG WALKER

Would you
 look at that! A
cleverly stuffed strawman
posing as a writer on this
freezing

morning.
No gloves, though. Life-
like hands, even holding
a Razorback pen! It IS a
writer!?!

Vehicles began parking on “our” street. But no one exited an SUV. Might it be a photographer? After all, there were now three papers in this town, though two of them seem to have the same information—written by different folks.

No newspaper photog, alas, but Tom walked by with a basket of breakfast and lunch fixings “so I won’t have to ‘bug them.’” He gestured toward the main house soon-to-be-awash with paying, workshopping writers. “Oh,” he continued. “Mind if I take a picture of you writing? I’ll send it to my wife and email or text you a copy.”

“Oh, no!” I said, followed immediately by, “Okay.” How did he know that at that very moment I was writing about a photographer? Karma?  Indeed, I DID look like an obese straw person!

Later, I went inside to refill my coffee mug—a leaf-motifed one from home. As I turned back to the door, sure enough, there was a vehicle immediately between “my” walk and the street. An older man with a knitted head covering carried his supplies down the stone slab steps to the entrance of the main house. The antique-car license also showed a Vietnam Veteran sticker. I forgave him immediately.

TWENTY SIX DEGREES

Colder,
but the maples
aren’t yet as vibrant as
last year, or hickories quite as
yellow.

 Turns out that the area’s prime color peaked last week. Maple, hickory and cottonwood leaves were now underfoot. Except the ones I brought in to grace my writing space.
 

c 2012 by Pat Laster dba lovepat press, Benton Arkansas