Happy Thanksgiving

I do love Thanksgiving. I love to cook. I love Thanksgiving food. I love it when our house is clean and ready for company. I love to sit and talk over coffee and pie and play games in the afternoon.

But it is one of those tricky holidays for me (like Mother's Day) -- I need to be happy and festive for my own children, but I still want to be the kid going back to my parents' house for the holiday.

So, we make dishes my mom and dad would make in their honor: oyster dressing, pickled herring and cranberry relish.

I think I gave myself a concussion Monday, knocking myself out on the door frame of my car -- I woke on on the sidewalk. (I have a very long history of bonking my head, starting with a typewriter sophomore year of college, but that's another story . . . )

(I sort of feel like this)

Peace

Some Things Bugging Me Today

- Condoleezza Rice said that the US was willing to send $2.1 million to Bangladesh if they asked.
The massive cyclone last week killed over 3,000; 1,000 are missing and thousands are homeless.
Did they really need to ask?

- Did the Iraqis ask? This really bugs me, but don't visit the site unless you want your head to explode.

- Wal-Mart is open Thanksgiving Day. They are closed Christmas Day, but open on Easter. I am not too logical, but I had some logic in a graduate course once. Let's work this out:
A - almost everyone celebrates Thanksgiving
B - not everyone celebrates Christmas
C - Christmas is a Christian holiday
D - Easter is a Christian holiday (most of us Christian types consider this a bigger holiday -- indeed, the biggest)
Therefore, if Wal-Mart is closed on Christmas, they should be closed on Easter. And if they are closed on a day that only part of the population celebrates, shouldn't they be closed on a Federal holiday that people of all faiths celebrate?
I can't do it. In fact, it makes my head hurt.

- Today at the grocery store (not Wal-Mart), you can buy 2 half gallons of milk for $3.00, but a gallon is $3.88. I asked the cashier why. She shrugged. I asked the customer service rep. She said, "That's just how it is." I asked to speak to the manager, but he was busy. (I think saw me coming and went into hiding.)

- The Patriots. 56-10. As if people outside of Boston didn't hate them enough . . .

Off to sweep, dust and find a little peace.

. . . thanks be to God (and St. Sebastian)

When I told my sister that Will would be wrestling varsity, she said, "Ooo, I hope he doesn't have to wrestle some spunky senior."

That, my friends, is exactly what happened.

We picked up the bracket sheet, and there it was: Will, a freshman, seeded #8 against a senior from Perry Meridian, seeded #1. On the back of his t-shirt, in big bold numbers, was his record from last year: 48-1. (After a little Internet research last night, we found out that his one loss was in the state finals.)

Will held his own for 36 seconds. (He did score his first varsity point when the senior let him escape, only to slam him down again for the pin.)

In the wrestleback round, Will wrestled a junior from Warren Central -- the round went a little longer, but he was pinned in the first period again.

Finally, for 7th place, he wrestled a sophomore from Bloomington North -- he lasted all three rounds, but lost on a decision. (He will probably wrestle that kid again on Tuesday night at the dual meet at BNHS.)

So, in his first varsity tournament, he was 8th out of 8. But no broken bones or separated shoulders, and he only had one nosebleed in the last seconds of his final round.

And every time I looked across the gym, he seemed to be having a good time with his teammates.

And I only cried a tiny little bit.

(Not such a great day for the team, either -- no 1sts or 2nds, 3 3rds and a lot of 8ths. 8th place for the team. But the best thing about that is that it can only get better from here.)

Now I need to track down the patron saint of achy backs and fannies-- 8 hours sitting in high school gym bleacher seats is about 7 hours too many.

peace

Saint Sebastian, Pray for Wrestlers (and their moms)

There is an amazing statue of St. Sebastian in the courtyard of the parish named for him in Akron; we drive by it every time we go to visit. The statue shows him in great agony, with many arrows piercing his flesh (the icon here is a much

more peaceful representation of the saint). But all those arrows didn't kill him, because of his strong athletic body -- he was found, still tied to a pillar and still alive. Upon his recovery, he went to see the Roman Emperor again, but this time was beaten to death . (Reason #27 why I am not qualified for sainthood: try to kill me once, fine, but I wouldn't stick around for seconds.)

So, St. Sebastian is the patron saint of athletes, and who I have been talking to this week in preparation for Will's first high school wrestling meet tomorrow. It will be a long day -- 8 teams and lots of wrestlers. I'm packing Gatorade, beef jerky and ice packs for Will; some knitting, coffee and a rosary for me. And Advil for both of us.

(You know how I love these saintly connections: who wrote the history of St. Sebastian? St. Ambrose. Somehow, that makes me feel better.)

peace

Oh Deer

At this evening's Mass, Father talked about things we worry about that may never happen.
I could write my dissertation on that topic, you know.
But last night, one of my worries came true.

Maggie hit a deer.

Or rather, Maggie was hit by a deer. On her way home from work, around 11:00. He ran out of the woods on her left side and ran into her door. He left a large dent in her front fender, and her mirror was hanging by just some wires.

But she is fine. She was just scared, and angry that her nice car, that she has had only had a few months, and which she has taken such good care of, is crunched -- she has to crawl in from the passenger side.

She and Nate went out to look for the deer, but couldn't find him -- I'm hoping he was able to die peacefully in a nice warm leafy spot. If not, he must have a hell of a headache.

November Oddities

It is the middle of November, and that is a rosebud, with many more buds in waiting:

(Poor Mary needs a paint job!)

And if that weren't odd enough, the lilac bush bloomed, as well.

My Prodigal Kitty, PK for short. He just showed up one day, and we fed him. He sticks around for a few days, then can be gone for weeks, but I'm always glad to see him -- he is very sweet after you feed him. I told him yesterday that if he chases away the skunk, I'd give him a nice can of tuna. (Yes, I am a November oddity, myself.)

We took the Confirmation kids to St. Meinrad on Sunday. We had a lovely time, although the weather was gloomy. Once again, I forgot to take out my camera until it was almost time to leave, but here are three good (not-so-odd) guys who went along:
And the Archabbey Church. It's very beautiful and not at all odd, but apparently my picture-taking skills are (it's not sliding down the hill, I promise). peace

. . . and protect us from all anxiety . . .

I worry. A lot.
About a lot of things. War. Immigration. Wrestling. Hunger. Thanksgiving Dinner. Poverty. Skunks.

This morning, at 6:00, anxiety got the better of me. I woke up thinking about Will's wrestling meet this Saturday. My stomach hurt; was it food poisoning from the dinner I catered last night?
(We joke that the motto of our catering business should be "Ain't killed no one yet.")

Or, was it the fact that once again, our house is skunky?

I sat down on the couch and cried a little; Clay got his ratty golf umbrella and went scouting around the house. No signs of skunk outside. He thought perhaps the skunk had just sprayed while passing near our house.

I cried some more. If I didn't know better, I'd swear the skunk was hanging out in the garage or the basement. So, at 7:00, in a sweet attempt to get me to relax, Clay went to Home Depot to buy an ionic air purifier.

"Look," he said gleefully when he returned, "a three-pronged approach." Not only had he bought the purifier, he got a Febreeze fan "Odor Eliminator" and moth crystals -- much more potent (and probably more toxic) than plain old moth balls.

It smells better in here already.

I've had panic attacks for about 6 years --they started around 9/11 and when my dad was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. After a round of Paxil (lethal) and a round of Zoloft (slightly less lethal), I've almost learned to control them with exercise, prayer and meditation and an occasional Xanax.

But probably the best cure is a husband who would go out in the rain to assure me there wasn't a herd of skunks partying under our porch. Who always took the kids to the dentist. Who sweeps and mops as I am freaking out before guests arrive. Who doesn't mind if I wake him up if I've had a scary dream. And who always listens as I babble on about my latest worry, tells me to relax, hugs me and reminds me that whatever it is, we'll get through it together.

Protection from anxiety (and skunks) for almost 25 years.

peace

Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life? Matthew 6: 27