Easter prep – for my memoir

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For a person "edging into eighty" (as I think my memoir will read, unless I wait too long), hosting a family Easter luncheon may--DOES--get in the way of other activities--writing, reading, doing taxes, working in the yard.

But on the positive side, when else does one's home--an old one, at that--get such a good going-over as when company is coming? Fan blades (ooh, the dust, cough, cough) must be cleaned since ventilation might be needed, depending on the weather. (They were.)

Leaves must be added to the pedestaled, oak dining table. Because some of the veneer had come loose, thus peeled off, the surface needed an underskirt, so two tablecloths, long enough to seat nine adults, had to be pulled out of either a buffet drawer or the linen closet. Done: white underneath, pastel-orange overlay. Easter/ spring color, yes?

Then, placemats with oranges, greens, red fruits and leaves. I happened to have a dozen of them, thanks to a long-ago gift which added to those I already had.

Now, for napkins—cloth. If I counted, there would be close to fifty of them. I chose colors that matched something in the mats: green, pink, blue, white, red, maroon, yellow. Each with its own napkin ring--another collection. I mixed them: crystal, metal pears, metal French horns, china and wooden pears.

Next, the silverware. What a china-cabinet drawer full! Mom's, mine, and those a sister gave me--all matching--plus some sterling I'd bought at an estate sale back earlier. First, each piece must be polished, plus serving utensils. Four pieces at each place equaled 48, each place setting matching. Done. All shining.

Dinnerware: white plates added, but inverted till the next day. Clean kitchen towels placed over each setting to keep out any dust or to discourage the cats from climbing on the table during the night.

Extra chairs wiped down and brought in for extra seating; oaken TV trays cleared off and set beside the chairs, laid as the other places and covered. Ready.

Due to the warm temp predicted, I covered the space heater with a gold cloth, then freshened the coffee-table bouquet, cleared off the buffet for desserts and ran the Swiffer over the hardwood floors one last time (forget any more dusting).

Choir call-time was 10:30. What wasn’t done wouldn’t get done. I was off and robed and singing.

I slipped out with two others after the anthem to have time to finish the food: warming those dishes that needed it, baking the chicken, making coffee, hiding dirty dishes in the dishwasher—those last minute things that help make an event smooth.

Sister brought sliders, salad (for the vegans), two kinds of dessert and rolls. Son-in-law contributed gumbo with rice. Sister-in-law brought black-eyed (or purple-hulled) peas, Daughter made deviled eggs (eggs from their chickens), Nephew/family brought chocolate-dipped strawberries and assorted fruit, and with my potato salad, mac-and-cheese, chips/cheese dip, and chicken, we were ready.

 

 

Our family tradition of singing the Wesley Grace might have made the angels smile and nod and perhaps give a thumbs-up on hearing such a great blessing with so much harmony.

 

 

Now, if you wonder why this piece has so much detail, it’ll likely be included in the aforementioned memoir of mine.



St. Patrick's Day blarney, nostalgia, blessings

Here’s a bit of poetic blarney from that spoofer of all things spoofable, Ogden Nash.
 

IT'S A GRAND PARADE IT WILL BE, MODERN DESIGN
 

Saint Patrick was a proper man, a man to be admired;
Of numbering his virtues I am never, never tired.
A handsome man, a holy man, a man of mighty deeds,
He walked the lanes of Erin, a-telling of his beads.
A-telling of his beads, he was, and spreading of the word.
I think that of Saint Patrick’s Day, Saint Patrick hadn’t heard.

The saint was born a subject of the ancient British throne,
But the Irish in their wisdom recognized him as their own.
A raiding party captured him, and carried him away,
And Patrick loved the Irish, and he lived to capture they,
A-walking of the valleys and a-spreading of the word.
I think that of Saint Patrick’s Day, Saint Patrick hadn’t heard.
 

He defied the mighty Druids, he spoke them bold and plain,
And he lit the Easter fire on the lofty hill of Shane.
He lit the Easter fire where the hill and heaven met,
And on every hill in Ireland the fire is burning yet.
He lit the Easter fire, a-spreading of the word.
I think that of Saint Patrick’s Day, Saint Patrick hadn’t heard.

Saint Patrick was a proper man before he was a saint,
He was shaky in his Latin, his orthography was quaint,
But he walked the length of Ireland, her mountains and her lakes,
A-building of his churches and a-driving out the snakes,
A-building of his churches and a-spreading of the word.
I think that of Saint Patrick’s Day, Saint Patrick hadn’t heard.
 

But the radio announcer is ever in the vogue;
He ushers in Saint Patrick with a rolling Broadway brogue,
He oils the vernal air waves with macushlas and colleens,
Begorras, worra-worras, and spurious spalpeens.
If Saint Francis had a sponsor, we would hear him as a thrush,
And Saint George would cackle cockney.
Saint Patrick, here’s my blush.
[from Good Intentions]

And for the truly nostalgic among us––from the ridiculous to the sublime––here’s the most popular of Irish lyrics, written by Frederick Weatherly, an Englishman, who was a significant celebrity in his day. He also—by all accounts––never set foot in Ireland.
I'll bet every one who reads these words will be singing them in their heads OR in their voices.

“Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling
 From glen to glen, and down the mountain side
 The summer’s gone, and all the roses falling
 ‘Tis you, ’tis you must go and I must bide.
But come ye back when summer’s in the meadow
Or when the valley’s hushed and white with snow
‘Tis I’ll be here in sunshine or in shadow
Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so.
 

And if you come, when all the flowers are dying
And I am dead, as dead I well may be
You’ll come and find the place where I am lying
And kneel and say an “Ave” there for me.
And I shall hear, tho’ soft you tread above me
And all my grave will warmer, sweeter be
For you will bend and tell me that you love me
And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me.
 

I’ll simply sleep in peace until you come to me.
And I shall rest in peace until you come to me.
Oh, Danny Boy, Oh, Danny Boy, I love you so."
 

Here’s a short Irish blessing:

“May your blessings outnumber the shamrocks that grow,
And may trouble avoid you wherever you go.”

Responses to Lenten ritual: give up? or give away

 

          Last week’s blog on giving away stuff during Lent instead of giving up something engendered a flood of responses—all positive. One reader gave a thoughtful answer, which he gave me permission to use

.

             “Pat, As I began to read your piece and took note of the things you were giving away, my thought was "And a partridge in a pear tree." It seemed appropriate as you were naming things to give away.

“However, reading on, I was most amused at the reversal of fortune as you began to collect to overcome the void left by your give away pledge.

“I found it most human in more ways than one. Physically, with the thought of diet, I find myself after a short time (especially if I am successful and lose a pound or two) craving outlandish foods. It may even be foods that I don't eat as a rule, but it seems my body is wanting something to fill the void. I usually sate the desire with carrots. (sometimes eating a pound from the little bags we get at Kroger.)

“Spiritually, when we recognize a sin and put it away, we pick up something else to fill the void. Anyway, I find myself doing that.

“Sorry, couldn't help opining when I saw a lesson here. I always enjoy your writings.”

Signed, Dennis Patton, (a friend, who just happens to be the president of Poets’ Roundtable of Arkansas.)
Thanks, Dennis.

 

Many folks give up some favorite food during Lent, but not me. My diets last as long as uninvited company—three days at the most. Then hunger and, as Dennis said, a craving follows. While I have cut celery and smallish carrots (two containers each) in the fridge, some of which I eat daily, it is to ensure I eat veggies along with my (ahem) unhealthy foods. But no kale smoothies, thank you very much, or wheat grass, or blended (by some folks) veggies as a drink. Tomato, V-8, cranberry are my juices of choice, and oranges, apples, grapes and stewed pears are fruits I keep on hand.

Speaking of celery, in one of the books I bought at the Do Drop In in Beebe, “2210 Fascinating Facts,” one of those facts is this:” Celery has negative calories—it takes more calories to eat a piece of celery than the celery has in it to begin with.” That’s worth knowing, right?

Moving away from Lent and food, here is a fact appropriate for this month: “The earth rotates on its axis more slowly in March than in September.”

Oh, wait. Let’s go back to the subject we began with. Under the heading, “Food and Drink,” since that’s what lots of folks consider “giving up” for Lent, I was amazed at these facts. (Some of which might have changed in the 33 years since the book was published.)

 

*Cabbage is 91 percent water.

*Lettuce is (was) the world’s most popular green.

*Milk is heavier than cream.

* The average person ingests (-ed) about a ton of food and drink each year.

* In Wilton, Maine, there is (was) a cannery that imports and cans only dandelion greens.

* A hard-boiled egg will spin. An uncooked or soft-boiled egg will not.

All this writing about food has set my stomach to purring this morning.

See you later.