With Thanksgiving

Dagny Clare in Indian Summer

It was right chilly this morning in the Midlands of South Carolina, but the forecast for Thanksgiving Day is a high of seventy-five, with a good deal of sunshine.

Today's cool temps are an anomaly; it has been remarkably warm up until now.

No-Sleeves November, as it were.

Dagny, at my behest, complete with Audrey-Hepburnesque shades, modeled the current climatic mood for you on a recent Sunday.

I predict that, this Thursday, depending on what time we eat (since it gets dark so early), a few folks may be sitting out by the pool to feast upon everything I am planning on cooking.

TG and I did the Thanksgiving-weekend shopping last night and, working together, accomplished that feat in approximately one hour. Methinks we chose the right time of day to show up at the supermarket.

It took longer than that to plan the menu and compose the shopping list.

And it took nearly as long as the shopping itself, for my knight in shining armor to haul everything inside and for me to put it all away.

(Well; a number of items are sitting out on the counter, because within a few minutes of posting this, I plan to start cooking.)

Everyone -- and I do mean everyone; we will be fourteen in number -- is arriving tomorrow in time for the evening meal.

We are committed to celebrating and enjoying our holidays together this year as we do every year. 

For Christmas, our Stephanie's family goes to Pennsylvania while Andrew's family goes in the other direction, to Florida.

So this is our big holiday gathering and trust me: we will make the most of it.

As for tomorrow evening, we're having my famous (well; much talked-about in our family at least) spicy cranberry meatballs, with soft buns in case someone wants to make a sandwich, and chips, and pineapple-red pepper-mandarin orange-almond cole slaw.

There will be ice cream sandwich cake for dessert.

I'm making the ice cream sandwich cake by lining the bottom of a baking dish with ice cream sandwiches and slathering them with Cool Whip before sprinkling milk chocolate M&Ms on top and drizzling copious amounts of Hershey's chocolate syrup over all, then making a second layer just the same, and shoving the whole thing into the freezer until time to serve.

I saw a video.

How, you may ask, will anyone be able to eat anything on Thursday, after eating all of that for supper on Wednesday?

That remains to be seen but as per usual, the pirate shall faithfully report.

Meanwhile I wish you and yours a happy and peaceful and meaningful holiday, surrounded by those you love and if not surrounded, then at least secure in their hearts.

With thanksgiving.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Thanksgiving

Memories that last

Happiness (and cake) was on the menu

In the early afternoon of last September first, I was hanging out in the living room of my mother's home. She was relaxing in her recliner nearby, looking at her phone.

That morning, she had walked slowly into that room from her bedroom, still in her robe, and had announced her intention to cancel an appointment with her hairdresser.

But we talked and I said I'd carry her to the salon in my car, reasoning that if she didn't get her hair trimmed on that day, then when?

One last exuberant swim of the season

So she pulled on a summer dress and I helped her to my chariot and got her comfortably seated. We drove to the place and I waited outside while her stylist, Judy, did what was needed and then wouldn't let Mom pay her.

Just give me a hug, she said. It was the last time the two women saw one another; Mom would never require Judy's services again.

Back home, after lunch, we'd resumed chiling out in the living room when I announced:

TG: Master of the Weber Grill

Mom, I'm fixing to go shopping. Is there anything you need?

Oh! She said. (Mom loved shopping.)

I need to find a few presents for Stephanie, I said.

Andrea with Cherica

(Our Stephanie had a milestone birthday coming up eight days later.)

As always, we planned to celebrate the event while everyone was gathered for swimming and a cookout, on Labor Day.

Well here. Let me give you some money to get her something from me, Mom said, reaching down beside her chair for the cute polka-dot Betsey Johnson mini-tote she'd been carrying around for a few years.

Birthday greetings were in the air

(The handbag sat beside her chair because Mom liked to delve into it several times each day for her mirror, lipstick, and comb, the better to freshen up for her frequent visitors.)

(The last time I saw that purse, I was rooting around in it to find her Revlon lipstick in Red Revival, to give to the undertaker.)

She produced some bills and I took them, and set off for TJ Maxx at Cherrydale Point, first swinging by to pick up my sister, who wanted to ride along.

Stephanoel with their own firstborn: Melly

Once in the store, I got as far as the jewelry counter. I and my girls all love jewelry and I knew that Stephanie would enjoy just about anything I came up with in that department.

I made several selections, including (on my mother's behalf) an impressive sterling silver chain with oversized quatrefoil stations, that I knew would delight Stephanie. 

It cost a few shekels more than Mom had given me (but just a few) and I knew Stephanie would be all about it, so I didn't mind making up the difference.

Festive from the first moment until the last

Except, when I got back to Mom's and showed it to her, she noticed that it cost a trifle more than she'd given me (I should have removed the tag ahead of time).

She reached for her young-at-heart Betsey Johnson mini-tote beside her chair once more, and produced the balance. I want to pay for all of it, she said.

Mom knew it was one of the last times she'd buy any of her grandchildren a birthday gift. In fact, in the days she had left, only one other grandchild would have a birthday -- eight days after Stephanie's.

Dagny: goofy with goggles

Both my sister's firstborn child (a daughter) and my firstborn child (also a daughter) were born in the month of September, three years apart.

I think I remember hearing Mom say she'd sent Elisabeth a gift card, or some money.

A few days later, I went home to prepare for Labor Day weekend and a houseful of company. I planned the meals and readied the guest rooms and looked forward to getting the party started.

She hadn't seen anything so scrumptious since her last birthday

In a departure from our customary routine, I invited a friend from church who was otherwise unengaged that day. Her name is Andrea and I wish you could know her because she is special.

She's always smiling, always upbeat, always happy to be wherever she is, and best of all, she's a rock-ribbed conservative and a patriotic flag-waving American.

The only ones missing were Andrew, Brittany and Ember; Andrew was at OTS and Brittany spent the holiday with friends. 

Make a wish

At any rate we'd be together with Brittany and Ember a few weeks later, at the beach.

The grandkids were psyched to the moon to have a hot day for one last long, luxurious summer swim.

We ate hamburgers and hot dogs and BBQ baked beans and all of the trimmings, working hard to leave room for birthday cake.

What have we here

When it came time for the birthday party, everyone gathered around the table to watch Stephanie blow out her candles: one for each decade.

It was thrilling.

Then she opened her gifts while we noshed on cake and drank coffee and the kids went outside to swim some more.

Grandma nailed it ... with my help

As I'd predicted, the birthday girl loved her necklace from Grandma. (I've seen her wear it once since then, and it's truly stunning on her.)

When I went back to be with my mom for several days the following week, she ooohed and aaahed over Stephanie's birthday cake. She loved pink and thought that was so pretty, admiring it almost as much as the picture of Stephanie having just blown out her candles, which she also found enchanting.

Mom loved this shot of pretty Stephanie

Stephanie received some other nice things and when it was all over and the families began to depart for home, we felt we'd more than adequately celebrated another year of our firstborn's life.

Oh my dear how these birthdays do pile up! Not just on me or on you, but on everyone.

We will be celebrating Ember's first birthday a few days after Thanksgiving -- not on her actual birthday, which is December third, but close enough. 

I can't wait.

Make those memories good enough to last, my friends. You never know when they will be the last.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Thursday

Tales from the sieve redux

But the stars we could reach were just starfish on the beach

We're enjoying a balmy November here in South Carolina. At least we are as I type this, which is on Saturday for publishing on Monday.

So, this re-post was not inspired by the pirate sloshing over to the window to look outside and, seeing a monsoon, intoning: That's a lot o' waw-uh.

It's just that, reflections on my recent experience at the Hilton Greenville on the day of my mother's funeral happened to dovetail with my scanning today through some old posts on I'm Having A Thought Here, and finding this one.

It seems that an inconveniently waterlogged visit to a three-star hotel is not without precedent for the pirate.

(Although, on account of this happened a decade ago, I remember it only vaguely.)

And you thought I documented all of my ramblings and wanderings and adventures only for you!

No; I blog as a hedge against dementia, if nothing else. Come to think of it, probably for very little else.

I'll thank you not to snicker.

Anyway, here you go: a short read about tropical storms and soggy hotel stays and the sketchy skill sets of certain innkeepers.

The post is from September 30, 2010, when the pirate found herself in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, for an educational convention, during Tropical Storm Nicole.

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OK so the rain has stopped here in Myrtle Beach but the skies are still gray and I haven't left the hotel since yesterday afternoon.

There was storming here last night of draconian proportions. If there was an actual tsunami, however, I slept through it. Or maybe it just didn't reach the ninth floor.

But I did not sleep until I had the following exchange with a man at the front desk, via telephonic device. I'll relay our brief conversation ver-kinda-batim to the best of my memory but your imagination will have to supply my level of animation, and his.*

That should be fun for you.

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ME: Hi. I know it's raining outside but I'm trying to watch CSI New York and every couple of minutes it's nothing but tiling and a message on the bottom of the screen that says the satellite can't be located.

HIM: You're the first one who's said anything.

ME: What do you mean? I'm the first one who's said anything about this? Or I'm the first person who's said anything to you today? Or are you under the mistaken impression that I'm the first person who's ever said anything, ever, at any time and in any place?

(Because, I was thinking, if that is the case I have a lot of catching up to do.)

HIM: I just came on as night manager and my engineers are gone.

ME: I understand that, but this is unacceptable. Gary Sinise and the Greek girl whose name I cannot pronounce, the one with the super curly hair, were just about to get an inkling of who their first suspect might be. Then the tiling started again and their jaws separated from the tops of their heads and I missed the most important dialog of the whole show.

HIM: Ma'am, like I said, you're the first person who's said anything.

ME: OK ... I get that but do you hear me? I am here in this semi-luxury hotel room and the 36-inch LG plasma TV is all but worthless unless I want to watch football, baseball, golf, classic basketball, or hamster drag racing. Also I do believe the inspiration channel is clear as crystal but I've had all the inspiration I can handle for one day. Also, I didn't say anything a while ago when it was literally raining on my arm as I blogged in the business center. Does that mean it didn't happen? Does it, sir?

HIM: We are having a tropical storm.

ME: I know but if that's the reason I can't watch CSI New York, why is it that the sports channels are working? Can you just tell me that? I mean, if the satellite can't get the signal, it can't get the signal. Can the satellite think through which shows people aren't allowed to finish watching?

HIM: You're the first one who's said anything.

ME: WILL YOU PLEASE STOP SAYING THAT? WHAT DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE IF I'M THE FIRST OR LAST OR ONLY PERSON TO EVER SAY ANYTHING? DOES THAT MAKE IT OKAY THAT I CANNOT FINISH WATCHING THE SHOW I STARTED WATCHING? DOES IT? DOES IT?

HIM: [unintelligible]

ME: Because if I'm the only one who's said anything, obviously there is something wrong with the TV set in this room. Please fix it.

HIM: My engineers are gone for the night. We are having a tropical storm.

ME: snick. 

TG: Come to bed, sweetie.

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And that was the best offer I got all day but I still don't know how Gary Sinise and the Greek girl whose name I cannot pronounce, the one with the super curly hair, solved the crime.

I do know that trained monkeys could do a better job of running the night desk at the Sheraton Convention Center in Myrtle Beach, than the folks who actually run it.

You may quote me. Then make sure the monkeys come equipped with mops.

And that is all for now.

*A decade ago, people seemed to understand (at least, more than they seem to today) when something was supposed to be humorous -- having been told in a hyperbolic manner so as to make it ... well, funnier.

Not so much these days, when everyone seems to be sitting on go, waiting to be offended by something. Ergo if you read this and feel moved to upbraid me for verbally abusing the night clerk, please do spare me because I did not do that. Some details have been exaggerated for effect. I'll trust you to figure out which ones.

Having to explain all of the above takes some of the fun out of it, but in 2020, what else is new?

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Happy Monday

The way it all went down

Ember. Photo courtesy Erica Porter.The morning after my mother went to be with the Lord (Don't say that I died, were her unequivocal instructions), Henry and I had a ten o'clock appointment at the church where they had been members for a dozen years, and where her funeral would be held.

Our meeting was with two assistant pastors and the lady who would work closely with me to make our printed program a beautiful reality.

Weeks earlier, Mom had told me that she and I would be planning both the service and said printed program, together.

We assembled on a stormy morning.

She brought out a stack of programs going back ten years, that she'd saved from funerals of her friends, to show me the kind of keepsake her church could produce, and what our options were.

We talked about all aspects of the service, including Scripture passages and who would read them, songs and who would sing them, who would eulogize her, and even the exact placement of each pallbearer.

She was specific about everything. There were only one or two details that needed to be discussed, but given a few choices, she was always definite about the selection she made.

With my baby brother, Shawn. Photo courtesy Audrey Weber.

She'd decided on her burial outfit before I even asked: the flattering turquoise shift dress with matching coat adorned with sparkly buttons, that she'd bought for Erica's 2018 wedding.

Mom wore no jewelry to her grave; she'd already given her wedding rings to my sister Kay, her diamond earrings to me, her right-hand ruby ring to Erica, and other good pieces to other granddaughters.

Audrey loves her Uncle Shawn. Photo courtesy Shawn Plant.

She insisted on a closed casket. There was no guesswork involved there.

As such there was little to do except set it all into motion. 

And yet, the week between her homegoing and her memorial service was packed with activity.

Henry, flanked by three of his daughters and a son in law, sat for some of the visitation.

A full-fig funeral is a lot like a wedding; there are lots of moving parts. A great deal going on leading up the day, and even more going on throughout that day.

We were fortunate that the church's staff members were so committed to being a blessing to our family, that they were available by text and email constantly. We never had to wait more than a minute or two before receiving an answer to any question, or to a cry for help.

Beautiful flowers, back home in my kitchen, sent by my precious friend Mari.

That cry for help part would become a reality on the morning of the funeral. Hurricane Zeta had come ashore in the Gulf of Mexico and made its way up to South Carolina.

I woke in the wee hours of Thursday morning, snug in the Greenville Hilton, to the sound of horizontal rain pelting the windows.

Mom voted absentee.

I got up at about six and looked outside. It was dark as midnight. Trees were thrashing in fifty-mile-an-hour gusts of wind (eighty mature trees would fall in Greenville County that morning). The rain was relentless.

After making coffee and taking a few minutes to wake up, I was preparing to begin getting ready (we'd planned a half-hour open-casket visitation for the family at nine o'clock at the church). I had just enough time.

The start of the service.

And then the power went out.

I froze. The lights flickered once, came back on for five seconds, and went out again.

For good. Power would not be restored in that area for at least sixteen hours.

Andrew, Brittany, Ember, Audrey, and Dagny were at the property also. We were all on different floors.

Stephanie brought me six white roses. I took them home and added my pink rose from Mom's casket spray.

Brittany was the first to text me. With a baby to feed and dress, she had arisen very early and was about halfway done getting herself ready, when everything went dark.

It was even dark in the hallways -- for a while. I mean, so black that it was terrifying. Then what I assume to be backup generators kicked in, and we had light in the hallways. The elevators worked too, as it turned out.

She drank and drank and drank and drank and drank. It served as her final rally.

But there was no light in the rooms, and, although they could move elevators, not enough power to run my curling iron or my makeup mirror.

I texted the assistant pastor who had been so helpful: We are desperate, I said. 

Come to the church, he replied, almost immediately. We are here. Power is on. Plenty of room to get ready.

At seven thirty in the morning, during a tropical storm!

She was borne lovingly out into the suddenly gorgeous day, to the waiting hearse.

I was relieved but still had a few challenges to face. First I let Audrey and Brittany know that we could go to the church where there was light and air conditioning, plus mirrors.

(Despite the storm, it was an unseasonably warm day and excruciatingly humid. The air in the dark hotel rooms was already becoming stale and clammy.)

Safe and secure, in good hands.

It was a happy thing that I had showered and washed my hair just before going to bed the night before. I dressed in my funeral outfit, grabbed all of my makeup and grooming tools, and was escorted by TG to Andrew's waiting Jeep, into which he'd already put his wife and baby, and their belongings.

(They were checking out of the hotel; we planned to stay one more night, but would end up driving home when, by eight o'clock that evening, the Hilton was still dark.)

Arrived.

I went with Andrew and Brittany to the church while TG stayed behind to help Audrey get herself and Dagny loaded into their car with all of their stuff.

TG then faced a dark room and an ice-cold shower in a hotel without enough power to keep the water hot, or even warm.

Carried gently.

Meanwhile, we girls got to the church in time to blow into the lobby, be shown by waiting staff members to the various ladies' restrooms with mirrors and outlets, and begin our application of cosmetics and use of hair styling tools to make ourselves presentable.

My sister, who lives in Greenville and had many of her children and grandchildren staying with her, also lost power and showed up shortly after we did, to primp at the church.

Dagny and I followed. Photo courtesy Erica Porter.

After I stopped trembling and perspiring with anxiety, I calmed myself enough to put the lipstick and mascara in the right places on my face, and to wrestle my hair into submission, and to put on my jewelry.

It felt like preparing my own remains for viewing.

Henry waited with his daughters Rae Ellen, Beth Ann, and Laura, and his son-in-law Steve.

Mother was waiting (having noplace else to be), casket open, in the sanctuary. We had thirty minutes with her before the lid went down for good and guests were allowed to file in and greet us.

The night before, I'd set up two tables at the front, laden with photographs and memorabilia that I'd brought from Mom's house. 

We all smiled through our tears. Chad and Erica a/k/a Cherica.

I displayed one of Mom's small Bibles -- in tatters with age -- with her name printed on the front; her glasses resting in their porcelain holder that sat on the table beside her chair; a navy blue straw pillbox hat she sometimes wore; a tiny white leather clutch that she'd told me was just the right size for holding a comb, a lipstick, and her handkerchief (in fact one of her handkerchiefs was still in it) for church; and various other artifacts of her life.

Folks filed by the tables both before and after greeting our family in the receiving line. That part of the morning went on for nearly ninety minutes.

They came from Texas for Mom and Grandma: Shawn and his daughters, Kelsey and Hannah.

Outside, as the day wore on, the rain slowed considerably, but it was still exceedingly breezy. Many schools and businesses had closed for the day.

Eventually it was eleven o'clock and time to start the funeral. We kinfolk lined up in the hallway and walked in to be seated in the front of the middle section.

Joel and "little" Andrew, our only grandson.

As funerals go, this one was intense. Two of my sister's children gave testimonies of what their grandmother meant to them. Later -- fulfilling an express request of their grandmother's -- twelve of Mom's fifteen grandchildren sang When They Ring Those Golden Bells.

It was one of Mom's favorites, having been sung at her own mother's funeral in 1981.

The kids (all adults) singing that song was a moment. You probably had to be there and know the players, but trust me. And I apologize to my nephew Michael for cutting him off by not panning far enough to the left. I was crying and trying not to drop my phone.

Three grandsons were unable to attend: my sister's son, Marc, and my brother's sons, Kelly and Gabe.

Our Andrew, with Baby Ember in her LBD.

The kids were accompanied by Jacob, husband of my niece Joanna, my sister's youngest.

At any rate Mom would have been speechless except, I'm pretty sure, for a series of loud Amens.

Tobias, eldest son of my nephew Michael, hands out sheet music.

But she would not have shed a tear; throughout her final ordeal (this is a trial, she told me more than once), Mom did not cry. Not one single time.

I asked her a few times if she was sad. She shook her head no. I said, well, I am.

TG opens the graveside service with a few remarks.

She was not the crying type, as you may have gathered; I've seen my mother cry maybe three times in my life. She was not given to morosity in any form, and declined to ever feel sorry for herself.

In writing Mom's obituary, I adhered to that always-timely adage: You've got to accentuate the positive, eliminate the negative, latch on to the affirmative, and don't mess with mister in between.

Still using Mom's Bible, Pastor Minnick brought a message of comfort.

But as the two grandchildren who spoke of their grandmother each pointed out in their own way, Ann Dykstra was not without her faults.

She was too easily critical, often hurting the subject of her criticism. I've been the recipient of her judgments many times; too many times to count.

Two of Mom's oldest and dearest friends. For decades, they met each week to pray together.

To be brutally honest, Mom was sometimes in short supply when it came to the humility, tact, and sensitivity that serves as the oil to cool the friction that inevitably exists in human relationships.

As a consequence, many important relationships did not survive.

She could be difficult. No one who knew her well would deny it.

Closeup of Mom's flowers. The spray was made by a neighbor who was beloved of my mother.

But she had an abundance of qualities so endearing that, if one was committed to honoring their own responsibility to the relationship, those qualities helped it to endure (if not necessarily flourish as it would have, had the circumstances been more ideal).

Nevertheless she touched lives. She had an impact, mostly for good. She will be remembered that way, in the main. I hope that when I am gone, all of my many faults and shortcomings taken to my own grave, a fraction of the number of glowing, loving words are spoken of me, that were (and still are) spoken of my mother.

The great-grandchildren and others begin claiming their keepsake roses.

TG's eulogy, delivered just before the grandchildren sang, was sometimes emotional, sometimes sad, sometimes funny -- because Mom herself was known for cracking people up with her antics and off-the-cuff witticisms. She was a born storyteller, and he had some unforgettable stories to tell about her.

Mom's pastor brought a short message using one of her well-worn and much-marked Bibles. It was excellent and I can't wait to hear it again when we get the DVD.

Andrew's precious family. Photo courtesy Brittany Weber.

By noon, when we emerged from the church behind the pallbearers carrying Mom to the hearse, the weather was beautiful: balmy and breezy, with a blue sky and and huge, fluffy, scudding clouds.

We made our way to the cemetery where the men bore Mom from the hearse to her resting place. Our son, the newly minted Second Lieutenant Andrew Guy Weber, USAF, wearing his dress blues (as Mom had requested) sang Zion's Hill (at my request). 

The pastor brought further remarks from Mom's Bible. We sang a hymn together to conclude the service.

The children and grandchildren led in claiming their keepsake rose from Mom's casket spray.

Watching until there's nothing more to watch: Andrew, TG, my niece Rebecca, and Rebeccas's husband, Rex.

Eventually we made our way back to the church, where we were fed a meal of succulent ham, pecan-encrusted sweet potato casserole, green beans (cooked with more ham), crusty bread, an assortment of refreshing salads, and a dessert buffet that reminded me of a moment we had with Mom near to her death:

She was always so thirsty, begging for water which we'd give to her on a little sponge dipped in ice water. She hadn't sat up to drink for many days.

Our five grandchildren: Melanie (eldest, left) was social distancing.

One evening she became animated, giving instructions that we bring to her the tallest glass in the house, stuffed to the brim with ice, and a bottle of water to pour over it. She told me to elevate the head of her bed and prop her on pillows. Then she drank and drank and drank and drank and drank, like the fulfillment of a fantasy.

All of us. Click to embiggen.

Two of my nieces were present (they'd come to sing to her, which she loved) and when she'd put the glass down for a moment, Mom recited for us:

Shoo Fly Pie and Apple Pan Dowdy

Make your eyes light up and your tummy say howdy.

We convulsed with laughter and asked her for an encore, which she gave. Then she asked for the head of her bed to be put back down, and went to sleep. She'd be in heaven five days later, never to thirst again.

Cherica photograph their rose and their shadow. Photo courtesy Erica Porter.

TG concluded the eulogy to his mother-in-law of nearly forty-two years, thusly:

In closing I’d like to add that Ann was a patriotic American. She loved her country. One of the last things she did in her life, was vote. There are pictures of Ann studying her absentee ballot, which her granddaughters helped her to complete, making sure it was duly signed, witnessed, and placed in the mail.

If anyone did, Ann truly voted ABSENTEE. And if she were here today and the subject arose, Ann would encourage you to vote on Tuesday. God bless America, and God bless the memory of Ann Dykstra.

Indeed.

And that is all for now.

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Happy Tuesday :: Happy Election Day :: God Bless America