Which I may or may not post on Thanksgiving per se, contrarian that I am.
My kids, notwithstanding my loathing of Mother’s Day. I love them, and I love being their mother.
Their father, because I couldn’t have gotten them here all by myself, and because not all of their good qualities come from me. The first five years of that marriage were pretty amazing.
My poor, patient first hubby, now again my friend for the past ten years. Blessings upon him and his wife; both of them are dealing with cancer, his slow-growing and hers undetermined the last I heard. Note to self: drop them a line to see how it’s going.
Not having to put my hand up a turkey’s butt. One promise to myself that I have happily kept ever since I divorced the children’s father.
Knitting. So many mottos. I knit so I will not kill people. Knitting, not stabbing. (I should wear that to the family dinner today). Keep calm, and carry yarn. Don’t you wish your girlfriend could knit like me? (Ditto.)
Chocolate, every way but with peanut butter. Especially dark chocolate.
A quiet house. I can barely hear the hum of the computer’s fan, the clock ticking on the wall in front of me, the click of my fingers on the keys, and no @#$%^&* TV. Beloved is either reading his paper out in the living room, or snoozing in his chair.
Keys brings me to keyboards, as opposed to Underwood manual typewriters, on which I learned to type. Which is why if you were sitting on the bed behind me, you would hear emphatic clicking on the keyboard, and not a gentle tappity-tapping. Sometimes I do miss the lever I had to hit at the end of a line, and the little bell, but not all that much.
Pumpkin pie. Any time of the year. And I am not fussy over whether it is topped with Cool Whip or real whipped cream or spray cream out of a can. Or gloriously naked on the plate. One of my best memories? Thanksgiving at my folks’ house with a three week old Secondborn and a two year old Firstborn, and her going for thirds on the pie as my parents watched in disbelief.
The something in Beloved’s head that is causing his headaches, is not cancer. We are not sure what it is, and won’t be until the local oncologist gets a missing record from MD Anderson for comparison, but at least it’s not a fourth metastasis of his cancer. Woohoos all around!
Sleep. A miracle, every blessed night. I can go to bed wound up tighter than a tick, and when I wake up in the morning, stuff has generally sorted itself out. Although I was having anxiety dreams about some minor paperwork for Primary.
The kindness of strangers. (Scoot over, Blanche DuBois!) While I was waiting for Beloved and the wrecker to show up yesterday, there were several cars that stopped to see if they could help. What a pleasure to tell them that my hubby and a wrecker were on the way, and to thank them and bless them. Also the ones who maybe just thought about stopping to ask, but went on because you never know who’s safe to talk to these days, and I might just be a grandmotherly serial killer.
Beloved. Well, you all have a pretty good idea how I feel about that particular miracle in my life. And I am hearing kitchen noises, so time for me to mosey on out and see if I can help, or lick a bowl, or something.
Happy Thanksgiving, y’all. Be safe, be warm, and know that I appreciate your love and friendship and support.
- Four years into widowhood, after one year of incredible happiness and nearly 14 years of single blessedness. Have given up perfect manicures and pretty hands in order to resume playing the soprano recorder and to see if I can figure out how to play bluegrass banjo. Singing in the shower. Still really, *really* love to knit!