Yesterday, at a joyous memorial service, Max and I reminisced about our personal contacts with Ron Jennings, the Sedalia Democrat's most well-known columnist. Ron died last week after finally succumbing to brain cancer, which had dogged him for about 20 years. He was diagnosed shortly after he and I shared the stage in Annie, I as Grace and he as an extra, but really as the proud father of the prepubescent star of the show, who now is a lovely, confident, talented young woman with two children of her own.
Ron was one of those guys who, when first we met, seemed to be comfortable in his own skin, although that skin seemed to be kind of geeky. It wasn't long afterward, though, that I realized that Ron was the real deal - a truly nice guy who had been dealt a hand that would have been difficult for most: he wore a hearing aid and had a slight speech impediment, and his glasses were thicker than mine. I found out yesterday that his situation was more dire than I had thought: he had been diagnosed with Cerebral Palsy after his birth, and his devoted mother had massaged his little legs ceaselessly to help him do what his doctors told him he would never do - walk.
And walk he did. He also, contrary to his doctors' predictions, went to school and to college, even attending the prestigious School of Journalism at the University of Missouri. That is how Max met him, because they were at that school at the same time. Ron went out of his way to be kind to Max when he found out that Max, a fellow BJ, had ended up in Sedalia, where Ron had made his home.
Over the years, our paths crossed often in different ways, but most usually having something to do with theater. When I decided that only I could be Nellie in South Pacific, and the director agreed, Ron came to preview night and gave me a fabulous review as a newcomer to Sedalia Community Theater. He never saw me without asking what play I was going to audition for next. Even after I quit trying because my schedule prevented three hours of rehearsal every night for six weeks, Ron always reminded me that I had talent and the community missed seeing me on the stage.
I will never forget the one time someone other than Ron did a review of the current play for the paper. It was Annie, and the reason Ron didn't review the play was that he was in it! The person who did the review instead didn't quite understand that the review wasn't really a review, but was instead a preview of pleasant things to come for the people in the community who attended the show. This person actually made critcal comments! Everyone, and I mean EVERYONE, was buzzing about how the paper had made a terrible mistake in letting anyone other than Ron tell the community through the paper that the show would be worth seeing.
Ron and I also shared a most interesting night sometime around 1985 or so. I was the coordinator for the State Fair Queen contest, and Ron was the columnist who dug up the story that the very first State Fair Queen had moved back to and was then living in Sedalia. She was a piece of work, as they say, and was basking in the glory of being the most newsworthy item in Sedalia that summer. Ron did a column about her, and I invited her to be a part of the Queen contest by making an appearance and being interviewed as a time killer while the judges were out tabulating their ballots.
She, enamored with both of us for showering her with attention, asked us to bring our spouses to a dinner at her home a couple of weeks after the Fair ended. Max had something else to do that night (or so he said), so I attended without my steady date, and Ron and his wife Pat attended. The evening was a nightmare. We arrived around 7, on time, and The Queen served cocktails while the person who was cooking and serving readied dinner in the kitchen. Unfortunately, the server was not too experienced, and so dinner was not served until around 10, after we all had several cocktails and were a little unsteady on our feet. I left almost immediately after we finished dinner, knowing that my mother would not approve of eating and running, but Ron and Pat showed much better manners than did I, staying at least a little longer.
Ron showed good manners, too, in his writing, which was the highlight of our little newspaper. He, like I, believed that everyone has a story, and he spent time discovering and telling those stories. He had a wonderful sense of humor, evidenced by the loud laughter of the crowd at his memorial service when his words flashed across the video screen, interspersed with pictures of Ron's family and of him growing up in Maryville. I remembered reading some of those columns, wondering how he made the most mundane of human experiences come alive to be not mundane, but instead interesting and exquisite.
When Ron's brain tumor was found and when he was diagnosed with brain cancer, he underwent surgery, coming out on top of the world and cancer-free. He also came out without hair on one side of his head. Just as he had with his prior physical failings, he handled his semi-baldness with good humor and acceptance, all of that lasting for 20 years, during those years when most of us become discouraged about the ravages of time on our bodies and our physical appearances.
All in all, Ron Jennings was a gift to as many people as he knew. He lived life well, had a loving wife and two daughters, and was a light for many people who might otherwise not see that each of us is important in the whole scheme of things. I am thankful that I knew him and that our paths crossed. I wish I had taken the time to tell him so.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Sunday, January 15, 2012
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Rufus Rastus Johnson Brown
When I was growing up in Thayer, our family went to the dentist in West Plains, a mere 30 miles and 45 minutes of bad road away. One particular summer, which one I can't remember, my sister and I had to get lots of fillings or suffer some other such dental torture, and so my mother decided that we should just get it out of the way all at once. So, during one particular week, again, I can't remember which one, we drove to and from West Plains every day, going there dreading, and coming home grumpy and in pain.
On Monday, as we rounded one big curve in the road, we noticed a black dog standing by a fence. He was not inside the fence, but instead just standing beside it, about 15 feet or so from the road. We noticed him and made some kind of comment about how we hoped he wouldn't dart out onto the highway. On the way back, we saw that he was still there, and we were happy that he hadn't been killed by some inattentive driver.
On Tuesday, we rounded the same curve on the way to West Plains, and saw that the dog was still standing by the fence. It looked as if he hadn't moved a muscle from his stance the day before. My mother, my sister, and I kind of made uncomfortable noises, because we knew then that something wasn't right with either the dog or his master. When we saw the dog on the way back, we began to conjecture about what had happened and why the dog was still there. My mother told my dad about the dog when we got home, and he, too, was puzzled.
The next day, when we again saw the dog, we concluded that someone had dropped him off and he was waiting for his master to return - which, by this time, we knew was not going to happen. I can't really remember whether we bought some food in West Plains, or waited until we went back on Thursday to take some food to the dog - because we couldn't let him starve - but the important part of the story is that we put food in the car, pulled the car off the side of the road, and took it to him. He was grateful and ate it.
On Friday, the last day of our marathon dentist visit, we left the house with my father saying to my mother, "Do not bring that dog home." We already had Hildegarde von Clover, the meanest dachshund on the face of the earth (but that is another story), and my father knew the possibility that my mother would stop, pick up the dog, and add him to the family. He thought it best to remind her that doing so would not be such a good idea.
However, when we rolled in, about four hours later, with the dog in the back seat of our four-door sedan, my smart dad had already put out a water bowl and a full food bowl, and had made a bed for him under the car port. He knew that my mother would not be able to leave Rufus Rastus Johnson Brown on the side of the road, and figured "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em." The dog's name came from an old blues/old time country song that wailed, "Rufus Rastus Johnson Brown, what will you do when the rent comes 'round?" Rufus, bless his heart, wasn't ever going to have to worry about rent again.
Rufus became a beloved part of our family for many, many years, giving us much to smile about and bringing with him an early understanding of brain damage - his first visit to Elmer Shaw, DVM, gave us the information that he had survived a puppy illness that had left him somewhat slow. He was gentle - I never heard him growl or even bark - and he did things such as walk into small trees and get lost in the back yard, so he became a house dog who house-trained himself.
The same visit to the vet was for surgery rendering him unable to sire puppies (!), and when we picked him up, Dr. Shaw told us that he had not urinated for the two days that he had been recovering in the kennel. It should have been no surprise to us that on our way home, in the same four-door sedan with black carpet and black interior, Rufus finally felt safe enough to let loose with all the bodily fluid he had stored uncomfortably for the past two days. I heard a noise, and an unfamiliar odor wafted through the car, and I realized that Rufus knew he was with people who loved him, so he could go to the bathroom wherever he needed to. I don't know if we ever got rid of the odor that permeated the car's carpet, especially in southern Missouri's hot summers. I think we eventually got rid of the car!
I wrote poetry about Rufus - Haiku, really - that garnered a good grade in my creative writing class at William Jewell. And when my parents divorced, many years later, Rufus went to live with a friend of my mother's, out on a farm, roaming the countryside, and probably, in his brain haze, forgetting all about the people who cared for him enough to pick him up off the side of the road.
Mother called me when she found out that he had died, at a ripe old age, and I cried. He was the sweetest dog ever.
On Monday, as we rounded one big curve in the road, we noticed a black dog standing by a fence. He was not inside the fence, but instead just standing beside it, about 15 feet or so from the road. We noticed him and made some kind of comment about how we hoped he wouldn't dart out onto the highway. On the way back, we saw that he was still there, and we were happy that he hadn't been killed by some inattentive driver.
On Tuesday, we rounded the same curve on the way to West Plains, and saw that the dog was still standing by the fence. It looked as if he hadn't moved a muscle from his stance the day before. My mother, my sister, and I kind of made uncomfortable noises, because we knew then that something wasn't right with either the dog or his master. When we saw the dog on the way back, we began to conjecture about what had happened and why the dog was still there. My mother told my dad about the dog when we got home, and he, too, was puzzled.
The next day, when we again saw the dog, we concluded that someone had dropped him off and he was waiting for his master to return - which, by this time, we knew was not going to happen. I can't really remember whether we bought some food in West Plains, or waited until we went back on Thursday to take some food to the dog - because we couldn't let him starve - but the important part of the story is that we put food in the car, pulled the car off the side of the road, and took it to him. He was grateful and ate it.
On Friday, the last day of our marathon dentist visit, we left the house with my father saying to my mother, "Do not bring that dog home." We already had Hildegarde von Clover, the meanest dachshund on the face of the earth (but that is another story), and my father knew the possibility that my mother would stop, pick up the dog, and add him to the family. He thought it best to remind her that doing so would not be such a good idea.
However, when we rolled in, about four hours later, with the dog in the back seat of our four-door sedan, my smart dad had already put out a water bowl and a full food bowl, and had made a bed for him under the car port. He knew that my mother would not be able to leave Rufus Rastus Johnson Brown on the side of the road, and figured "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em." The dog's name came from an old blues/old time country song that wailed, "Rufus Rastus Johnson Brown, what will you do when the rent comes 'round?" Rufus, bless his heart, wasn't ever going to have to worry about rent again.
Rufus became a beloved part of our family for many, many years, giving us much to smile about and bringing with him an early understanding of brain damage - his first visit to Elmer Shaw, DVM, gave us the information that he had survived a puppy illness that had left him somewhat slow. He was gentle - I never heard him growl or even bark - and he did things such as walk into small trees and get lost in the back yard, so he became a house dog who house-trained himself.
The same visit to the vet was for surgery rendering him unable to sire puppies (!), and when we picked him up, Dr. Shaw told us that he had not urinated for the two days that he had been recovering in the kennel. It should have been no surprise to us that on our way home, in the same four-door sedan with black carpet and black interior, Rufus finally felt safe enough to let loose with all the bodily fluid he had stored uncomfortably for the past two days. I heard a noise, and an unfamiliar odor wafted through the car, and I realized that Rufus knew he was with people who loved him, so he could go to the bathroom wherever he needed to. I don't know if we ever got rid of the odor that permeated the car's carpet, especially in southern Missouri's hot summers. I think we eventually got rid of the car!
I wrote poetry about Rufus - Haiku, really - that garnered a good grade in my creative writing class at William Jewell. And when my parents divorced, many years later, Rufus went to live with a friend of my mother's, out on a farm, roaming the countryside, and probably, in his brain haze, forgetting all about the people who cared for him enough to pick him up off the side of the road.
Mother called me when she found out that he had died, at a ripe old age, and I cried. He was the sweetest dog ever.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
A Year
364 days ago, Henry Holtzclaw took on a nom de plume: Fluffy's Christmas Angel. I remember so clearly, as if it were yesterday, coming upstairs to get Fluffy to take her for her 10 p.m. outside visit, only to find that she was not in her usual place, not in the chair, not snuggled down in her beach towel. She was gone. And I remember Emily's stark fear, our frantically searching the neighborhood until about 1 in the morning, believing that she was somewhere we could not see, curled up in a little ball, going to sleep, wondering where she was and wondering why we were not there to keep her safe.
Of course, all those things were happening, but not in our neighborhood. Fluffy, in her doggy-Alzheimer's state, had wandered off to the neighbor's house, thinking it was hers, puzzled, I'm sure, when no one let her in. Then she continued to wander until she stumbled down a drainage ditch, underground, safe from the snow that covered the ground, safe from the cold air that penetrated slowly to the bone, safe from predators that might have found a white fluffy dog a delicacy. She wandered for about a mile, until I'm sure she was tired from wandering, lost, confused, and then she curled up in a little ball, and went to sleep.
It was about this time that her Christmas Angel was walking his own dog and saw a little white fluffy ball, curled up on a flat rock, off the water that ran through the drainage ditch, sleeping, and waiting to cross the rainbow. He picked her up, took her home, fed her, gave her water, kept her warm overnight, and then, with special instructions that if no one claimed her, he was to bring her back home, took her to the animal shelter. They thought she might be the white dog that was missing, and on that Wednesday morning, about 36 hours after she eloped, they called us and told us they thought that Fluffy had been found.
Indeed, Fluffy had been found, and then we found her Christmas Angel, and tonight, long after she took her last breath, rightfully in the arms of the people who were obliged to keep her safe for as long as they could, I remember and thank him, who would have loved her well had we not been found.
Angels can be found in many unexpected places, and I am certainly glad we found the one sent to watch over Fluffy.
Of course, all those things were happening, but not in our neighborhood. Fluffy, in her doggy-Alzheimer's state, had wandered off to the neighbor's house, thinking it was hers, puzzled, I'm sure, when no one let her in. Then she continued to wander until she stumbled down a drainage ditch, underground, safe from the snow that covered the ground, safe from the cold air that penetrated slowly to the bone, safe from predators that might have found a white fluffy dog a delicacy. She wandered for about a mile, until I'm sure she was tired from wandering, lost, confused, and then she curled up in a little ball, and went to sleep.
It was about this time that her Christmas Angel was walking his own dog and saw a little white fluffy ball, curled up on a flat rock, off the water that ran through the drainage ditch, sleeping, and waiting to cross the rainbow. He picked her up, took her home, fed her, gave her water, kept her warm overnight, and then, with special instructions that if no one claimed her, he was to bring her back home, took her to the animal shelter. They thought she might be the white dog that was missing, and on that Wednesday morning, about 36 hours after she eloped, they called us and told us they thought that Fluffy had been found.
Indeed, Fluffy had been found, and then we found her Christmas Angel, and tonight, long after she took her last breath, rightfully in the arms of the people who were obliged to keep her safe for as long as they could, I remember and thank him, who would have loved her well had we not been found.
Angels can be found in many unexpected places, and I am certainly glad we found the one sent to watch over Fluffy.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Flip Flop Tiki Bar and Grill, Savannah, Georgia
While trying desperately yesterday to find an Irish Pub that was still in business in downtown Savannah (Max has a Guinness app for the phone - it tells the Guinness lover where the closest pint can be found), we finally gave up and asked Emily for the address of the restaurant where she works. The Flip Flop Tiki Bar and Grill was open for lunch. It has no Guinness on tap, but it does have a nice selection of beers. We sat down at a table next to the open door, and looked over the menu, which is brief - meaning, I believe, that the food would be prepared fresh to order, which is a good thing. Emily suggested the tacos, which Max ordered, and I had the pulled pork sandwich, both of which came with a side order of our choice. Yum.
The pork sandwich was like a barbecued pork sandwich, except that the sauce was more a piquant sauce than a barbecue sauce. It had a kick, and it was vinegar-based, so I'm assuming it contained some jerk spices. The sandwich came with black beans and rice on the side, and I still got to choose one of four side dishes. I chose well, picking homemade sweet potato chips, which tasted even better when dipped in the aforementioned sauce. I did my best NOT to eat all the chips, with or without the sauce, and succeeded somewhat. I couldn't make a dent in the black beans and rice, so I brought those home with me, but I had a few bites and can hardly wait to heat them up and devour them.
Max's tacos were in flour tortillas. He got to choose from four fillings - pork, jerk chicken, grilled shrimp, and grilled fish - and could add one of four toppings - avocado salsa, pico de gallo, mango salsa, or roasted corn salsa. According to Emily's recommendation, he got pork tacos and chose pico de gallo to finish it off. He also got some black beans and rice, but unlike me, the man who never gains weight ate it all.
I had a glass of wine, from the California Flip Flop label, which was fine and only $4. Max had some micro-brewery beer that he pronounced good, but I don't remember its cost. I did notice that 12-oz. frozen drinks, such as margaritas, pina coladas, and other tropical foo-foo drinks are also $4. I think that's a bargain.
As I suspected, the food was made fresh to order, and was delicious. I didn't find anything fried on the menu, which, as far as I'm concerned, is a real plus. The room was decorated in island chic - beadboard, bamboo, umbrellas here and there, and beach photos and art. It was a fun place to be, and I can imagine that it would be a blast around happy hour. Then again, what place ISN'T a blast around happy hour?
We will probably go there again tonight, just so we can watch our daughter at work and maybe give her a big tip (other than buy low, sell high).
The Flip Flop Tiki Bar and Grill is located at 117 Whitaker Street (phone 912/233-5600) and on the web at http://www.savannahflipflop.com/. Enjoy.
The pork sandwich was like a barbecued pork sandwich, except that the sauce was more a piquant sauce than a barbecue sauce. It had a kick, and it was vinegar-based, so I'm assuming it contained some jerk spices. The sandwich came with black beans and rice on the side, and I still got to choose one of four side dishes. I chose well, picking homemade sweet potato chips, which tasted even better when dipped in the aforementioned sauce. I did my best NOT to eat all the chips, with or without the sauce, and succeeded somewhat. I couldn't make a dent in the black beans and rice, so I brought those home with me, but I had a few bites and can hardly wait to heat them up and devour them.
Max's tacos were in flour tortillas. He got to choose from four fillings - pork, jerk chicken, grilled shrimp, and grilled fish - and could add one of four toppings - avocado salsa, pico de gallo, mango salsa, or roasted corn salsa. According to Emily's recommendation, he got pork tacos and chose pico de gallo to finish it off. He also got some black beans and rice, but unlike me, the man who never gains weight ate it all.
I had a glass of wine, from the California Flip Flop label, which was fine and only $4. Max had some micro-brewery beer that he pronounced good, but I don't remember its cost. I did notice that 12-oz. frozen drinks, such as margaritas, pina coladas, and other tropical foo-foo drinks are also $4. I think that's a bargain.
As I suspected, the food was made fresh to order, and was delicious. I didn't find anything fried on the menu, which, as far as I'm concerned, is a real plus. The room was decorated in island chic - beadboard, bamboo, umbrellas here and there, and beach photos and art. It was a fun place to be, and I can imagine that it would be a blast around happy hour. Then again, what place ISN'T a blast around happy hour?
We will probably go there again tonight, just so we can watch our daughter at work and maybe give her a big tip (other than buy low, sell high).
The Flip Flop Tiki Bar and Grill is located at 117 Whitaker Street (phone 912/233-5600) and on the web at http://www.savannahflipflop.com/. Enjoy.
Thanksgiving in June
We are in Savannah for Thanksgiving, except nothing screams, "Thanksgiving!" Yesterday, Max and I strolled the streets of Savannah enjoying 80-degree weather and beautiful sunshine. We basked in the sun's warmth outside the new SCAD art museum and gallery on brand new sod looking at what looked like blow-up white club chairs on the lawn. I even perspired a bit as I waited for Max to get Emily's oil changed.
The grocery stores, however, made me think that something special is up. We went to the Kroger store, about five miles from Emily's apartment, and the aisles were jam packed full of people buying what was on sale - baking ingredients, stuffing mix, and dried, candied fruits. I got the turkey breast at Sam's Club, which was also crowded. It looked, however, as if most people were buying Christmas gifts. Like Nordstrom's, I like to celebrate one holiday at a time.
I think I will watch the Thanksgiving parade on television tomorrow morning, and then I hope we can head for the beach for part of the day. Because I am cooking for only three people, it won't be that elaborate nor will it take that long. I figure that as long as I am in Savannah, the beach can become a part of our Thanksgiving celebration. Why not? But don't worry. I will watch Miracle on 34th Street. Some things simply cannot change.
The grocery stores, however, made me think that something special is up. We went to the Kroger store, about five miles from Emily's apartment, and the aisles were jam packed full of people buying what was on sale - baking ingredients, stuffing mix, and dried, candied fruits. I got the turkey breast at Sam's Club, which was also crowded. It looked, however, as if most people were buying Christmas gifts. Like Nordstrom's, I like to celebrate one holiday at a time.
I think I will watch the Thanksgiving parade on television tomorrow morning, and then I hope we can head for the beach for part of the day. Because I am cooking for only three people, it won't be that elaborate nor will it take that long. I figure that as long as I am in Savannah, the beach can become a part of our Thanksgiving celebration. Why not? But don't worry. I will watch Miracle on 34th Street. Some things simply cannot change.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
My LIttle Duckling
We are preparing to go to see Emily for Thanksgiving, and I am really looking forward to the trip, although it will be a long one. This will be one of the only times since we have lived at 1020 South Barrett that we have not been in our home for Thanksgiving, which is my favorite holiday, and I don't know how that will feel. We plan to take to Savannah the necessities for cooking dinner, because Emily lives in a wonderful apartment with a very modern kitchen, and she has a plethora of cooking vessels and utensils. We should have no trouble brining a turkey breast and making it delectable. However, it will seem strange to cook for just three. I don't know if I can do it.
The largest holiday crowd I ever cooked for was 20, which was a Christmas Day feast combining Don's family and ours, complete with children under the age of reason. Emily, who was under 10 at the time, and I made iced sugar cookie place cards for everyone, and putting together three dining areas exercised our interior architecture creativity, but it was a really fun time, albeit stressful. I remember drinking a lot of wine while I was cooking.
I also remember another holiday dinner; Max was enamored of someone's - maybe Tyler Florence's - method of cooking a turkey with stuffing. The chef suggested shoving the stuffing between the bird and its skin and roasting as usual. Unfortunately, our turkey was one with a pop-up button, and it popped up but wasn't ready. The turkey was pretty much raw on the inside. We have rarely deviated from our tried-and-true turkey cooking since then. What made it worse was that we had guests, and we then had to wait another two hours to eat. By that time, the only thing that looked good was the white wine, and so we drank it all. Who remembers whether the turkey was done after that?
My favorite dish was the butternut squash/parsnip yin and yang side dish. Max made a barrier of cardboard covered with PAM covered foil, curved it in the proper shape, and placed it in a casserole dish. I then filled one side of a casserole with pureed butternut squash and the other side with pureed parsnips. It was beautiful and tasted really good.
Another thing I like is that at the end of Thanksgiving evening, sated and exhausted, I enjoy going into the living room and sitting in front of the fire to watch "Miracle on 34th Street." No matter how many times I see the movie, I tear up when Natalie Wood bounces up and down on her toes as she looks out the door to the back yard and exclaims, "There IS one! There IS one!" And I cry when Santa Claus sings to and talks with the little Dutch girl. What a sap!
So this Thanksgiving will break with a tradition regarding where we eat our turkey, and another tradition of what we do after we eat the turkey, but we will be together, we three, and we will give thanks that we can be together, that we have made it through yet another year of challenges, sadness, joy, and the unexpected, and that we are happy, healthy, and ready for what lies ahead.
Well, I think I will make iced sugar cookie place cards. Surely I can make three.
The largest holiday crowd I ever cooked for was 20, which was a Christmas Day feast combining Don's family and ours, complete with children under the age of reason. Emily, who was under 10 at the time, and I made iced sugar cookie place cards for everyone, and putting together three dining areas exercised our interior architecture creativity, but it was a really fun time, albeit stressful. I remember drinking a lot of wine while I was cooking.
I also remember another holiday dinner; Max was enamored of someone's - maybe Tyler Florence's - method of cooking a turkey with stuffing. The chef suggested shoving the stuffing between the bird and its skin and roasting as usual. Unfortunately, our turkey was one with a pop-up button, and it popped up but wasn't ready. The turkey was pretty much raw on the inside. We have rarely deviated from our tried-and-true turkey cooking since then. What made it worse was that we had guests, and we then had to wait another two hours to eat. By that time, the only thing that looked good was the white wine, and so we drank it all. Who remembers whether the turkey was done after that?
My favorite dish was the butternut squash/parsnip yin and yang side dish. Max made a barrier of cardboard covered with PAM covered foil, curved it in the proper shape, and placed it in a casserole dish. I then filled one side of a casserole with pureed butternut squash and the other side with pureed parsnips. It was beautiful and tasted really good.
Another thing I like is that at the end of Thanksgiving evening, sated and exhausted, I enjoy going into the living room and sitting in front of the fire to watch "Miracle on 34th Street." No matter how many times I see the movie, I tear up when Natalie Wood bounces up and down on her toes as she looks out the door to the back yard and exclaims, "There IS one! There IS one!" And I cry when Santa Claus sings to and talks with the little Dutch girl. What a sap!
So this Thanksgiving will break with a tradition regarding where we eat our turkey, and another tradition of what we do after we eat the turkey, but we will be together, we three, and we will give thanks that we can be together, that we have made it through yet another year of challenges, sadness, joy, and the unexpected, and that we are happy, healthy, and ready for what lies ahead.
Well, I think I will make iced sugar cookie place cards. Surely I can make three.
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