And that seems to be especially true this year with Thanksgiving coming so late. Just two days ago we were singing “We Gather Together” over at St. P’s, and tomorrow we’re singing “O,Come, O Come, Emmanuel.” I am barely getting this stuff off the tableand it’s time to put the Advent stuff in the front hall.
That’s my Advent calendar in the frame. Every year Joannie sends me one and gets one just like it for herself, that way we can talk about each day’s surprise when we talk or email every night. For many years, my dear friend Helen Koernig got an Advent calendar for me, and when she died, Joannie took over for her. If there is anything dearer than a sister, I don’t know what it is. We didn’t get to grow up together, so we never miss an opportunity make up for lost time now. Tempus fugit.
In several western states, I am on the most wanted list for murdering house plants. A few years ago when Elizabeth moved from Colorado to Maui, she abandoned her potted plants here. Last year, I cut back her Christmas cactus within an inch of its life, but, ever valiant, it is bursting forth once again. It does not know about Advent but it knows when the days grow shorter, all by itself.
I have become a regular contributor to my local newspaper and they seem to publish my letters every sixty days or so, which is the frequency their guidelines permit. One that I submitted some weeks ago turned up in this morning’s paper. I must admit, I do enjoy being a published writer 🙂
“In response to Dick Hughes’ Nov. 10 “Hughesisms,” I am a 70-year-old, retired English teacher, and I try to keep in mind that I am retired.
After thoughtlessly offending a dear friend, I no longer correct anyone, no matter what, not even my own children.
I admit I sometimes do flinch visibly.
My personal most hated grammar problem today is the failure of understanding that the word “you” is both second-person singular and second-person plural.
Should we need to clarify its inclusiveness when speaking to a group, one could say, for example, “Will all of you please come in?” I have no problem with the use of “you all,” as in, “You all need to hear this.”
My most unfavorite second person plural atrocity is “you guys,” and the plural possessive is an abomination, especially when asked, “How is you guyses’ (I have no idea where that apostrophe should go!) dinner?”
The only response I want to make to that young waiter is, “My dinner is nauseous and I am nauseated.”
In closing, I contend that there is a big difference between grammar errors and typos. Typos are sometimes excusable.
Last night at St. P’s, my dear friend Jack preached. It was a very good sermon. About how thankfulness should be a practice, a thing we do naturally and regularly. Jack begins an intense protocol of radiation on his neck and throat on Monday. My heart was filled with such gratitude to be there, hearing what just might be his last sermon, singing in the choir. That is my practice. My prayer is that all the words I have sung are what God thinks of first when he remembers me.
I remember many Thanksgivings, happily setting my table with my favorite things and serving up favorite food to dear friends and three little girls. I remember delicious meals around my Grandmother Capshaw’s dining room table — and sometimes the table overflowed and I got to sit at the kitchen table with my cousins. At her house, I especially remember light-as-air cloverleaf rolls and delicate cream pies with flaky crusts. At my great-grandmother’s, Ma-ma’s, I remember cobblers and cornbread dressing coming out of her primitive kitchen. Most of these dishes eventually found their way to Mother’s table in much-improved form from her modern kitchen. She always remembered that my favorite pie was egg custard. In all those kitchens, I remember helping to wash all those dishes by hand. I am thankful for dishwashers.
I looked everywhere for pictures of Thanksgivings past. In those days, before flashbulbs, we all moved out to the front steps or yard to take pictures, so there are no shots of our family gathered around the groaning table. The only one I could turn up was this one of me and my best beau dressed up for the 1960 Thanksgiving dance. He came home from college to escort me, a high-school senior. By then, those big flashbulbs had come in to play.
Mother always made sure that I had pretty dresses to wear for every special occasion. Many of them she made for me on her faithful Singer Featherweight. It still runs perfectly. I am thankful for so many things.
I am thankful every morning when I step out of bed and put my feet into my snuggly Uggs slippers and wiggle the various parts of my body and find that most of the parts are working just fine. And I am not a bit embarrassed to admit that today one of the things I am most thankful for is my new garage door opener.
A couple of years ago I chose “a heart full of gratitude” as my annual theme. I actually much prefer the word gratitude to thankfulness. My heart of full of gratitude. Happy Thanksgiving.
My neighbor across the street just sent this picture from her upstairs window, and this is the sky I saw early this morning too looking out my east window.
First thing every morning I open the shutters out this way and I sometimes just have to sing:
Morning has broken, like the first morning.
Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird.
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning.
Praise for the springing fresh from the word.
I have always loved nandina and have one of my own. How I found it in a ditch in Red Bluff, California, is a story for another time. It is not (yet) as incredibly amazing as this one in my neighborhood that Kobe loves to sniff out. Nandinas are always doing something interesting — blooming, leaves turning red, bursting out in red berries. I have never seen one with as many berries as this one.
and it’s time to put the Advent stuff in the front hall.
