Thursday, November 27, 2014


Despite Ed's statements (that every day is a birthday, that Thanksgiving is just like yesterday and tomorrow, etc.), today, from the earliest minutes, feels different. Special.

Happy Thanksgiving, Ed! -- daylight is coming in, I wake up with it.
Aren't you going to wish me a happy Thanksgiving?
I said it yesterday.
(I know, I know, Thanksgiving is like yesterday, like tomorrow...)

I get up to let the cheepers out. This is a day when being out this early is just fine. Tending your chickens. Watching the light at the farmette grow bolder with each minute.

The day looks gray. I push shut the jacket I grabbed off the chair. It's Ed's and about thirty sizes too big. A geese formation passes over the farmhouse. For once I don't mind their noise. Thanksgiving is a very fowl-oriented holiday, no?


I bake the cinnamon rolls, as much for the aroma of yeast and spices as for the sweetness they provide for our breakfast table.


I practice what so many Americans practice on this day -- a lack of restraint, an indifference to nutrition, calories, fiber, etc etc -- whatever we eat today will stay with this day.


We lose ourselves in computer work. The beautifully illustrated NYTimes piece requires follow up work. A thank you note to Spencer Wilson, who drew the picture for it. And, too, people send you their stories. I love that! I want to respond to them! For me, reading about someone's life, on FB, on the blog, or in an email in response to something you said is the grandest benefit of publishing anything at all.

The skies clear to a beautiful blue. It's cold, but as always, a sunny cold feels bright and beautiful. Or is it that it's Thanksgiving?


I visit the cheepers in the barn. They've found the spot where the sun comes through in a lovely patch of gold.


As you will have read, my daughters are in Chicago and so Ed and I go over to do some cat sitting. Here's one guy who honestly looks a bit like a rat here:


And in the evening, there is, of course, dinner. For us, it's at the Japanese Edo's.  A small place and a short drive for us.
I ask Ed -- how many people will be eating there tonight, do you think?
There are maybe 12 - 15 tables total, right? I'll say eight will be occupied.
I'll say only five.

In fact, we are the only diners. We are there at 6. A sign announces they will close at 7 tonight. Two little girls, daughters of the proprietors perhaps, are sitting at the counter, coloring.

We order our foods. (Do we look like the sketch in the story?)


We're eating the last of the sushi. The little girls at the counter are already in the jackets. We know the owners want to close shop. We're quick: we ask for the check and as we take care of the paper work, I ask -- anxious to get home?
No! We want to go shopping! To get the bargains!

We drive home in the darkness of a country night. Over the hills and through the woods.

And then we're home.

I hope you had a splendid day!