Before Christmas sets in, one more "thanksgiving" list

                A poet friend in Mountain Home has shared on Facebook all during this month a daily “Gratitude” event/ situation/ epiphany.

I wrote a poem some time ago about being thankful for things beginning with each letter of the alphabet. Let me do the same thing for today’s world/ nation/ state/ county/ community/ home.

A – America, of course, the first word that comes to mind. Even with the recent “-phobias” planted and reaped by the presidential campaign, Americans must act out of a love for country and all who dwell therein.
B – Bees, for without them, experts say, our food supply may dwindle into nothing we’ve even thought about.
C – Coffee and all things related to growing, picking, packing and shipping. I think I need it daily.
D – Dictionaries, one of which I turn to a page per letter skimming until I find something I’m thankful for. I’m thankful to BBF Dot for giving me the one I’m using now.
E – Environment: air, water, earth, climate. May we be thankful enough to guard it wisely.
F – Flowers, easy to grow, pleasing to the eye and to the environment, examples of dying only to live again in another time.
G – Good Samaritans who see needs and attends to them with no thought of recompense.
H – Hope—sometimes the only thing that seems to be left in certain situations of illness, death, destruction, obstruction.
I – Introspection, looking inward, naming emotions, wondering about things.
J – Jocularity—joking; full of fun – A phrase often used by our choir director, as in “Too much jocularity!” when we get off task.
K – kinfolk or kinfolks—cherished family, relatives, special friends--especially during Thanksgiving.
L – Linemen who keep our electricity flowing during stints of bad weather.
M – Microwaves, which save time and effort. I parch raw peanuts in mine, one layer deep, using a Pampered Chef baker (dish) for four minutes and 15 seconds.
N – Nature, in all its meanings, especially the physical universe and its forces.
O – Oxygen, especially bottled oxygen for those with breathing issues, like JaJo and Bill.
P – Police officers, including a grandson. Oh, Lord, keep watch over them during these tumultuous days.
Q – Quests: may we always be on one or another.
R – Renewal—in all ways possible: personal, national, natural resources, recycling.
S – Seasons of the year: spring, summer, fall, winter, each with its own story and glory.
T – Traditions, such as Thanksgiving get-togethers and the first day of Christmas sales.U – Unity—something to strive toward in matters of importance
V – Vision to see beyond our own narrow interests to those of the larger community.
W -- Writers, poets and philosophers who share their experiences with the rest of us.
X – X-rays. They might discover problems that can be treated.
Y – Yesterdays and the thoughts thereof that sometimes force us into something better.
Z – Zinnias, those colorful annuals that defy death until the deadliest freeze.

Happy Thanksgiving. Giving thanks happily. Thanks for giving happily.

               

November and Thanksgiving: always the same; always different

 

 

     My sons, Gordon (r.) and Eric (l.)

November 2015 began at 7:30 on the first day of Central Standard Time with a call time at Bryant UMC. The dozen hand bell ringers were to gather for warm-up before playing “Deep River” as a prelude.

The very next Sunday, the nine Salem UMC women’s bell group––hand chimes instead of hand bells––gathered at 8:15 to warm up for the very impressive Veteran’s Day services––early and late.

As of Saturday afternoon, November 14, the long-awaited and long-planned-for SUMC church bazaar is history. Thanks to co-chairwomen Denise and StefNi, consultant Lydia and go-fer Glenn, the fellowship hall was transformed into a magical Country Christmas. A vintage tablecloth of Mom’s, and a glass milk bottle full of marbles holding live holly and fake poinsettias decorated my table of books.

There was so much to see and buy. So many lookers and buyers. So many folks I hadn’t seen and visited with in ages: Mike, Jim, Sharon, Libby, Ruth, Jan, John and Sarah.

With sales of fourteen books, I turned around and bought a carnival-glass pitcher from Roxie, a gift basket of Jan’s that included her last-available book, and a two-shelf, wooden rolling cart from the yard sale under the arbor.

As if Sundays weren’t full enough, Mondays include trips to the Garland County Library in Hot Springs for a weekly writers group.

A week ago, a group of friends who—for the lack of a better name—call ourselves T5OU (“the five of us”) met at one member’s home for a soup-themed lunch. I took a venison chili, Linda brought taco soup, Annamarie, cheese and crackers, Carolyn, broccoli-cheese and Fran had vegetable soup. Dessert was a plate of apple-butter bars (recipe below) and an apple crisp.

Besides those recipes I printed last week, I had clipped one from The Standard some time ago. I had all the ingredients, so I decided to bake “Apple Butter Bars.” Now, who keeps apple butter on hand, I ask you? I do! I do! Thanks to my uncle John and Aunt Frances, I had a gift jar from them. Here is the recipe. It had no attribution and I failed to date it. But I can attest to its great taste. Perhaps you can whip these up for Christmas.

APPLE BUTTER BARS: 1-1/2 c. all-purpose flour; 1 tsp. baking soda; 1 tsp. salt; 2-1/2 c. uncooked quick oats; 1-1/2 c. sugar; 1 c. butter/margarine, melted, 1-1/2 c. apple butter (or other jam/jelly/preserves/etc.). DIRECTIONS: Preheat oven to 350 degrees. In large mixing bowl, combine the flour, soda & salt. [I sifted them.] Add the oats & sugar. Stir in the melted butter and mix well. Press half of the mixture into a greased 13x9x2 inch pan. Top with apple butter. [I had just one c. of apple butter, so I mixed plum jam of Aunt Frances’s in with the butter] Sprinkle the rest of the crumb mixture on top; press gently with a spoon. [I sprinkled it with my hands since it wasn’t very gooey]. Bake at 350 degrees 55 minutes or till lightly brown. Cool and cut into bars.

Hope you are having a blessed Thanksgiving. Remember the starving children. Clean your plate.

 

 

 

                          

 

 

 

 

Writings of the Masters--Thanksgiving

 

 

                AUTUMN SUNSET – by Henry David Thoreau

                “The sun sets on some retired meadow, where no house is visible, with all the glory and splendour that it lavished on cities, and, perchance, as it has never set before—where there is but a solitary marsh-hawk to have his wings gilded by it, or only a musquash looks out from his cabin, and there is some little black-veined brook in the midst of the marsh, just beginning to meander, winding slowly round a decaying stump. We walked in so pure and bright a light, gilding the withered grass and leaves, so softly and serenely bright, I thought I had never bathed in such a golden flood, without a ripple or a murmur to it. The west side of every wood and rising ground gleamed like a boundary of Elysium, and the sun on our backs seemed like a gentle herdsman driving us home at evening.

“So we saunter toward the Holy Land, till one day the sun shall shine more brightly than ever he has done, shall perchance shine into our minds and hearts, and light up our whole lives with a great awakening light, as warm and serene and golden as on a bank-side in autumn.”

 

A PRAYER – by Max Ehrmann

“Let me do my work each day; and if the darkened hours of despair overcome me, may I not forget the strength that comforted me in the desolation of other times.

“May I still remember the bright hours that found me walking over the silent hills of my childhood, or dreaming on the margin of the quiet river, when a light glowed within me, and I promised my early God to have courage amid the tempests of the changing years. Spare me from bitterness and from the sharp passions of unguarded moments. May I not forget that poverty and riches are of the spirit. Though the world know me not, may my thoughts and actions be such as shall keep me friendly with myself.

“Lift my eyes from the earth, and let me not forget the uses of the stars. Forbid that I should judge others lest I condemn myself. Let me not follow the clamor of the world, but walk calmly in my path.

“Give me a few friends who will love me for what I am; and keep ever burning before my vagrant steps the kindly light of hope. And though age and infirmity overtake me, and I come not within sight of the castle of my dreams, teach me still to be thankful for life, and for time’s olden memories that are good and sweet; and may the evening’s twilight find me gentle still.”

--from One Thousand Beautiful Things, compiled by Marjorie Barrows, published in 1947 for Peoples Book Club, INC. Chicago

My wish is that you and yours enjoyed a day of thanks, family, food, friends, freedom and all other blessings which these readings might have evoked. -- PL

Thanksgiving, part I: from my novel

 

 

                                                                                                                   November 23, 1933

Dear Mother, Yvonne, Juliana and Mr. Ferrel,

                Thank goodness, Thanksgiving with the Courseys is over! And before I fall asleep and forget even one detail, I must tell you about it. You know from my last letter than the newest member of the Coursey family always hosts the next Thanksgiving meal.

                ‘Tradition,’ Frona Lee informed me in a visit shortly after the chivaree. ‘I did it. Alice and Caroline both did, though it won’t bear repeating how pathetic their meals were.’

                ‘But that doesn’t give me much time!’ I said.

                ‘Didn’t Editor Redd give you the rest of November off—as a wedding present? Use it wisely. You’ll manage somehow. Goodbye.’

                She didn’t mention anything else about the tradition, and I was too stunned by her lack of friendliness to ask. Do you suppose she was still smarting over not getting any say in our wedding?

                Heth had paid no attention, he told me, to earlier Thanksgiving preparations. Only that he appeared when and where he was told.

                ‘You don’t remember what you ate?’ I asked.

                ‘Dressing,’ he said, ‘and sometimes a hen from our backyard. But not always. Guess my brothers killed wild turkeys or bought them in Madison. Don’t expect me to cook whatever you get. I’ve never done that and I don’t intend to start now. You’ll have to ask the girls,’ he said, ‘or your mom.’

                Again, I didn’t ask why he never cooked, but I could imagine he was out with friends, or looking for work or on a drummer’s route. He was spoiled rotten. So I called Papa Quinn with my questions.

                ‘I hate for you to be saddled with hosting Thanksgiving so soon, but you might as well get it over with. The three other girls did all right, but they had Sula Mae for instructions. All I heard from her afterwards was how pitiful their knowledge of cookery and presentation was. But I imagine they have all learned enough by now.’

                Then he changed his tone. ‘How about I kill a couple of the biggest hens in the flock. I’ll pluck and cut them, and bring them for you to cook. One big dish of chicken and dressing will fill the bill. I’ll bring Sula Mae’s recipe, too. Do you have a large enough pan? Can you make giblet gravy?’

                ‘Yes,’ I said, and ‘yes.’ When I asked him about the other food, he couldn’t remember who brought what. ‘But even the men provide something. Ask them what they want to bring. Or make suggestions.’

                So I had to call the others. I’d almost rather have done everything myself, but I knew that wouldn’t do. Frona Lee harrumphed when I told her about the hens.

                ‘He didn’t offer to do that for me! My specialty is jam cake. Lloyd usually does something with his green tomatoes—a relish or a mush.’

                On to the next. ‘Alice, what do you usually bring to Thanksgiving?’

                ‘Oh, lord, honey, it’s your time to host, isn’t it? Some dish using sweet potatoes. We grow tons of ‘em. Ozell delights in bringing his mock pumpkin pie.’

                I asked Caroline last. ‘I can’t cook for a big crowd, sweetie, but I can make applesauce since our orchard produced so well. Mac makes a great corn light bread. He’ll bring enough for everyone. And butter. You poor dear, having to do this so soon after marrying. I’ll help you clean up.’

TO BE CONTINUED. Permission for this copy granted by the author—that would be me.

Another November winding down

by Pat Laster

As of November 1, I am no longer employed at any church. As of November 1, I have been away or have chosen not to attend services. Though I haven’t yet written about the new-found freedom from the organ, I did write something that reflected the same situation during the early 1990s. It still fits, except I don’t live close to a park now. Oh, yes, and I don’t power walk any longer.
Here’s the poem called Early Church.
“The park becomes my church this Sabbath day;/ no cloistered walls to keep the sun at bay./ Three robins practice trills to vocalize/ while gurgling brook accompanies with grace./ The grackles try their best to harmonize,/ and peckerwoods show skill with figured bass./ No cloistered walls to keep the sun at bay,/ the park becomes my church this Sabbath day.”
However, I still volunteer as director of the Wednesday Morning Bell Choir. I tried to resign, but if I want to keep my friends’ good will, charity and amity, I will continue leading the group of eight who are dedicated beyond belief—some say they live for Wednesday morning—and who try harder than any child or youth to play their parts well.
Last week, the pastor came by to pray over the group, and he and I exchanged the greatest hug that any two non-blood-or-marriage-related people could. Of course, he’s the same age as my youngest child, so there’s nothing suspect there. “I miss you,” he said. “You’ve got to come back.” I answered, pitifully (I hope), “Please give me a break. Just a little while longer.”
Of course, I’m pleased at his plea. But now that a new choir director and a new organist are in place, they can lead worship and I can take a short vacation.
Thanksgiving looms. As usual, since I don’t have a signature dish (except for the relish tray), I will concoct a dish in honor of our vegetarian who is coming from Portland OR for the holiday.
I found this recipe in the Northwest AR Democrat-Gazette while in Eureka Springs. Stephanie W. Sedgwick of The Washington Post is the source. The title is Warm Lentil and Sweet Potato Salad.
I have arranged the ingredients and the directions together. “Prick one pound of sweet potatoes several time with a skewer or fork, then bake at 375 degrees until soft—45 to 90 minutes. (I will likely microwave the two I purchased--without weighing.) Let cool 25 minutes.
“Meanwhile, place one cup lentils, rinsed and picked clean of any foreign matter, in a 3-to-4-quart pot, adding enough water to cover by one to two inches. Place the pot over medium heat, cover with the lid ajar. When the water begins to boil, adjust the heat so the water stays at a low boil. Cook 25 minutes, until the lentils are tender but not falling apart. Drain.
“Whisk together one-and-one-half tablespoons apple cider vinegar, the same amount of maple syrup, 2 teaspoons Dijon-style mustard, one-fourth teaspoon nutmeg (she says freshly grated, but I will use ground), 2 tablespoons finely chopped chives and salt to taste in a large bowl.
“Slowly add 3 tablespoons olive oil, whisking to incorporate. Add the lentils to the dressing.
“Carefully pull away sweet potato skin. Cut into one-half inch chunks; transfer to the bowl with the lentils. Gently toss to coat evenly with the dressing. Serve warm or at room temperature. Makes 6 servings.”
There will be more than six at our table, but there will be scads of food. I doubt many of the younger folks will even taste the dish, but that’s OK.
I hope you have enjoyed a blessed Thanksgiving.

c 2011 Pat Laster dba lovepat press