Thanksgiving is always a special time in our house. Whether we have a table set for 25, or it’s just the two of us, we spend a wonderful day appreciating all the blessings that we have.  Family, friends, pets, food, shelter, and abounding nature. 

               Some Thanksgivings have given us special memories.  There was the year my roaster pan finally quit working.  Interestingly, the red light indicating it was “on” did not stop working, but the pan didn’t heat up.  With the giblets simmering softly on the stove, there was an aroma of turkey in the air, albeit a rather faint one.  We readied all the other dishes to eat at 4 p.m.

Everything was either in pots and pans or in the oven and the table was set.  Matt prepared the carving set and pulled off the roaster pan lid.  We stared in horror at the completely uncooked, raw turkey. The butter hadn’t even melted!

Quickly, we put all the food away and placed the turkey in the oven.  The assembled loved ones got out the Uno deck and we enjoyed more time together, laughing, playing and munching on olives and pickles. Three and a half hours later, we prepared our Thanksgiving feast again – and this time, the bird was cooked!

Last year, our son and his family had Covid.  Matt and I ate the traditional dinner alone, then prepared several trays to deliver to porches.  Our son said he actually could taste the cranberry and the gravy, but that was about it.  Fortunately, they all recovered from Covid and that was plenty for which we were grateful.

This year, there were five adults and a toddler at our table.  I managed to forget to buy onions, so my traditional stuffing had chopped up radishes instead.  No one seemed to notice, but then gravy hides a multitude of sins.  My husband makes a mean pumpkin pie and he was assigned that duty this year.

Not only did I forget onions, but I forgot evaporated milk.  This is a pretty important ingredient for the pie, so I made a “quick” trip to the grocery on Wednesday night.  It was a nightmare.  Who (besides me?) waits until the night before to shop for Thanksgiving?  Apparently, several hundred people.

So I fought the crowds and found that the shelves on which evaporated milk were housed were all completely empty.  I scoured everywhere and finally looked up substitutes on my phone.  Purchasing the half-and-half recommended, I made it to a check-out counter and returned home – again forgetting to buy any onions.

The pie turned out pretty well, though it was not quite the same as usual.  In fact, everyone raved about everything and had seconds and even thirds. 

Because really, it’s not about the food.  It’s about the people we love and getting to spend time with them.  We played with the baby, watched a few Andy Griffith’s on TV, and laughed and talked all day.  After everyone went home, we took the dog for a walk and then watched a funny movie. It was a great day.

Truly, we are blessed. (But I’ll never forget onions again!)

February 5, 2014.

               It was cold that winter.  The night before February 5^th, we got a huge snowfall.

               Our dog, Forest, was a little crazed the night of February 4^th.  He went outside, as usual, and began sniffing and barking at our garbage cans out by the garage.  We didn’t think much of it, and probably got a little tiny bit annoyed that he didn’t come right away (I mean, he was an obedience school graduate!), but he finally came into the house.

               It snowed some more, and the temperatures dipped very low.  It was February in Ohio.  Cold, snowy, and nasty out.

               The next morning, our large pup went outside as usual and once his business was done, he again began worrying at the garbage cans.  Matt and I put on coats and boots and trudged out to the garage.  Matt pulled aside one of our large trash cans and we both looked down, expecting to see a raccoon or some other critter underneath.

               It was a critter, alright.  It was a tiny, shivering, nearly frozen ball of gray furry kitten.  We were shocked for a moment or two, and then scooped her up and took her inside.

               Once there, we realized she was badly frostbitten.  All four paws were frozen, her ears had no hair on the outside, her left eye was ulcerated, and she was coughing and sneezing. She weighed about three pounds. We warmed her up with an old beach towel and drove her to our vet to have her put to sleep. 

               The doctor looked her over and agreed she was in bad shape.  She loaded her up with antibiotic and sent her home with us.  I think all four of us (Matt, the vet, me, and the poor little cat) expected her to die that night.

               But she didn’t.  She lived in the barn with our horse where we made her a warm nest.  The two of them became fast friends.  Every day when we went up to clean the barn and feed the horse, the cat was there, sitting on the stall with her large pal.           

               She not only didn’t die, she rallied.  She gained weight and began to climb the ladder in and out of the barn window. 

               We named her Effie, the “F” being short for “Frostbite.” Effie was soon all over our place – climbing trees and ladders, following us into the woods for walks, and kissing our dog hello every morning.  We swore she thought she was a dog, sometimes, but then it was Forest who had saved her life.

               Her eye never healed, and she bore the frostbite scars on every paw pad.  Her nose and sinuses were never quite right, but Effie never complained.  She eventually became a house cat, and would find every warm place to sleep – even in the summer.  Over registers, next to the furnace, or in a patch of sunlight. She, understandably, always wanted to be warm.

               No matter where she was in the house, two things could always summon her.  If I sat down to play the piano, she would come into the living room, jump up on the bench, and stay with me – purring – while I hammered out any number of tunes.  Weeknights, when the Jeopardy! music came on the television, she would emerge from wherever she had been to sit on my lap and purr while we played along. 

               Nothing made her happier than a warm blanket or bed, especially if her humans were in it with her.  She needed warmth so much that she’d even sit on the edge of the hot tub when we were in it – letting her tail dip into the hot water.

               This week, Effie’s damaged body finally gave out.  I wish I knew what sad excuse for a person tossed her out on our property that frigid February night.  Sometimes I think I’d do something mean if I knew.  But then again, as Matt is quick to tell me, I’d first thank them for giving me a wonderful friend, who stayed with us for almost eight years, and loved my awful piano playing.    

               R.I.P, Effie Marie. We love you.

• 

Having known my husband for over four decades, and married to him for nearly 37 years, I thought we were completely in sync on many things.  The things in which we are not in sync are typically well known to us and not an issue.  For example, we are only partially in sync about watching college football on Saturdays. I will watch, avidly, the Ohio State game.  Then, I will move out of sync with my dearest and allow him to watch a number of other games.  Meanwhile, I read, work jigsaw puzzles, or shop. None of these activities wow my hubby, so we are delightfully in sync about being out of sync.

               Now what I mean by “in sync” is that we almost always understand exactly what the other person wants or needs. We’ve just had so much practice that he knows when I ask “what do you want to do for dinner tonight?” in a certain tone of voice, that what I’m really saying is “please take me out.”

               I know when he says, “Can you help me for five minutes?” that I need to clear at least a half hour from my schedule.  When he says he’d like me to help on a project for a “couple hours,” I clear the entire day.

               When we go to a play or movie, we always take the car.  When we go antiquing, we always take the truck.  If it’s time to winterize our home or prepare garden beds, we rarely have to confer about when to do it.

               That’s why yesterday caused us to laugh so hard at ourselves we were nearly late.  We were so convulsed in hysterics that neither of us could move for many minutes.

               You see, we were supposed to go to a meeting at our church at 8:30 a.m.  I had promised to babysit our grandson at 10:45.  When we looked at the calendar together about a week ago, I said, “Oh we might as well drive separately.  Then I can leave if I need to and you can stay until the end.”

               The plan was firmly cemented in both our minds.  Then two days ago, my grandson’s mom texted me to say she had misspoken about the date of her dentist appointment.  It wasn’t on the day of our meeting, so there was no time frame, but could I still come over afterwards and play?  Of course, I agreed, and it was nice not to have a time limit.

               So yesterday, we gathered our keys, phones, masks, and my purse and headed out to the garage.  I had to move several items off my front passenger seat, and two boxes of things out of the back seat that needed to go into the house. As I was doing that, and not really paying attention, Matt went over to his truck.

               Finally, I got everything squared away, opened my garage door, and slipped into the front passenger seat.  Meanwhile, Matt had opened his garage door, and had his truck fired up.  He began to back out and looked over at me, sitting calmly in the front passenger side of the car.

               I looked over at him, and immediately had a puzzled look on my face.  “What are you doing?” I mouthed.

               He put down his passenger window, and called, “What are you doing?”

               In his head, the plan to drive separately hadn’t changed. But in my head, there seemed no point in driving separately when I didn’t have to rush out.  So there we sat, in separate vehicles, staring stupidly at each other.

               That’s when the absurdity hit us and we laughed so hard and so long that we were very nearly late for the meeting. 

               Occasional out-of-step behavior does make for a good belly laugh.

My phone and I are engaged in a war, one that has been raging for several years now.  While this is (at this point), a non-violent conflict, I consistently lose every battle.

               First there’s the health app.  This came with my phone and keeps track of my daily activity. It will record my steps, the number of flights of stairs I climb, and tell me if my gait is fast, symmetrical, and evenly paced.  All this information is available to me completely free!  All I have to do is carry the phone with me, on my person, to get an accurate reading.

               It can’t be in my purse or in the cart at the grocery store.  It has to be either in my hand or in a pocket on my clothing.  Since I need my hands for a variety of other tasks, I usually slip the phone into a back pocket.

               Not a great idea.  Either my phone hates me (and this is the choice that I really believe), or my body is designed so that my derrière is able to open the phone, make calls, and send text messages.  Hence, when I’m walking up the stairs, I’m often calling people or texting them strange symbols.

               This is embarrassing enough when it’s my husband or son, but when it’s people I know only through work or church, it’s downright humiliating.  Then I have to text or call them back to explain that, well, I’m an idiot.  Because I am sure they will not believe the truth – my phone hates me.

               The other day (and this has happened numerous times), my hubby and I were driving home from dinner and I kept saying “What’s that noise?”  We thought it was the car behind us, or that there was something malfunctioning in his radio.  Then he suggested I check my phone – the phone I had carefully placed into my purse without touching any part of the little switches.

               Naturally, the phone had turned on the Instagram app, and was playing something called “reels.” While I have noticed “reels” as an option, I’ve never deliberately selected any to watch. 

               So, without me poking any icons or buttons, the phone just opened up Instragram and selected reels.  Last night, the reel it selected had strange music and showed scary, dangerous roads and people speeding around them.  So I’m trying to figure out what the sounds are in the truck – and it’s me! (well, my phone).

                Speaking of going to dinner, we went to a place we often frequent.  We go there so often that I scanned their bar code a few months back to earn points toward free food.  It seemed relatively simple, but of course, since I added that app, we’ve gone there three times and I’ve forgotten to scan the bar code on the receipt.

               So the last time we went, I was intent on getting our points onto the app.  When we got our check, I whipped out my phone and took a picture of the barcode.  Nothing.

               So, I read the little paragraph on the receipt.  Ah!  You have to open the app and scan the bar code.  I opened the app and saw that it gave me several options.   Locations, menu, rewards, redeem, and info were those options.  Nowhere did it give me the option to “scan.” 

I took another picture, but that didn’t do anything.

               I took a video of the bar code.  Nothing.

               Finally, I took my receipt up to the desk and paid, asking the lady to show me how to scan the bar code.  She said, “Oh, just give me your phone number,” which I did.  She entered it and the points popped up on my app.  But that didn’t exactly help me understand how to scan myself.

               It wasn’t until I was in the car when I realized that if I had swiped up, I would have seen a little icon that said “scan.”  Geez.  Funny, phone, you got me.  Swipe up, eh?  I’ll swipe you, allright!  I’ll take you out and….

               Sorry.  I’m just not a good loser.  But I live in hope that one day I will outsmart my phone.  Or at least know how to use it correctly.