Thanksgiving Leftovers

Thanksgiving dinners take eighteen hours to prepare. They are consumed in twelve minutes. Half-times take twelve minutes. This is not coincidence.  ~~ Erma Bombeck 

I have no Thanksgiving leftovers in the traditional sense.  Hit the road with Buster and enjoyed a feast with the Amazon Grandchild. She is growing and glowing and I realize that time slides quickly holiday by holiday when you are watching a young child grow. I didn't have seconds, resisted the multiple pies in my quest to be rid of pants with elastic waistlines, and arrived home safely. No rain, no bad road conditions, just the low hanging post-full moon golden on the horizon to guide me and Buster down the yellow brick road.  There's no place like home.

No, my leftovers are the mental residue, the crumbs that linger and must be shaken out before they stake a claim on real estate in my brain.  After living well over five decades, I am now at capacity and only capable of infill development.  Grow up, not out.

Holidays have not been the same now that I'm solo.  They signal the end of the year, another birthday and a time to try to keep looking forward.  Still, I'm finding things to be thankful for - reconnections, a President who is intelligent and not prone to Palinesque outbursts, sufficiency,  digital cameras, a challenging job, and a faithful furry companion.  For now, that's enough.   Sufficiency and simplicity.

The aroma of spice and cinnamon fills the house, the lights are about to go up, the tree about to be assembled.  All's well in this little corner of the world.  Time to buckle up and brave the shopping madness.  

What I wouldn't give to happen upon a random act of culture like this one while shopping.  It takes me back to a simpler time.  A glorious complex choral piece, memories of practices starting in college through my various incarnations and life seasons - a gentle thread.  The pleasure of lifting a voice as part of something larger.  Unplugged and each a contributor.  The sounds of the season.  Giving thanks.

Goodnight, Tim - Wherever You Are

November 16 - Tim's birthday. 


My poem for his birthday on our old blog platform - it turned out to be his last birthday in 2006 - his 52nd.  He was, like his hero JFK, a fatalist who raged against the dimming of the light.  He always believed he would die young.  He did.

When you rob the cradle in your 40's
There's no need to worry about teething biscuits
There's lots to chew on with a political scientist
Who knows a thing or two
About philosopher kings and steppenwolves
And tenderness and mating the queen
And Yes and streetlights that go out
And synchronicity abounding all around
Impressionism met realism with a cubist twist.
He anticipates every hidden eddy of the river
And knows all my undercurrents too
My full moons are reserved for a lifetime
Happily.
 
Happy birthday, my Tim.

When I watch this YouTube I made as some kind of therapeutic exercise, I think of being on the other side of so many of the pictures in this video - I am thankful for the miracle of digital photography - both for its instant gratification and its not insignificant role in my delight in chronicling all our adventures.  I see now what I saw then through the lens.

It's still difficult to write about him.  I've tried.  It's still very raw.  But with pictures and music, I am soothed and remember through a sampler of our moments together how much I still love him.