Thanksgiving Thoughts

Thanksgiving day.  At first glance this year it seems hard to give thanks at the end of a tumultuous year of hospital visits and broken bones and pet loss and friend loss and downsizing and friends losing jobs-hope-faith and ongoing wars in other countries and guns and government infighting for themselves and the White Sox/Bears/Cubs eliminated again.

Wait.  While the negative can seem overwhelming, it is the small, the simple, the unexpected and sometimes the everyday, the overlooked that we should be thankful for today and perhaps each day.

I am thankful that an unplanned-for shifting of priorities–and finances– means we now spend more time with our friends and families playing-laughing-cooking,  share our homes and talents, a dinner out appreciated more (especially for mom), we explore local treasures, thankful I can watch a new rescue puppy morph into a dog, health recoveries, a vacation, a movie night in with the whole family, warm tomato and basil straight from the garden,  an email from a forgotten friend or a call from someone up the road, finding the steal of a deal while shopping, s’mores and lightning bugs, impromptu talent shows of children dancing and singing, decent grades in new schools, family moving closer, a new work endeavor, each other.

These thoughts aren’t new, though the experiences are, but sometimes it helps to really take a moment to remember, as life slips by, like sand through the fingers, the grains all intermingled but each one still individual–the shiny, the tarnished, the plain forming into a beautiful stream of grains.  And I hope that you all have small joys and the everyday smiles to be thankful for. They fill our lives as much as the than the wonderful, grand moments we experience.  They are everyday happiness.  C

 

Needing a Gay Chaperone

Who needs a gay chaperone?

That’s the question pick-up line I heard from the salivating youngster, approaching my companions at an extremely popular Chicago nightclub, The Crimson Lounge—full of poseurs and provacateurs and a team of forty-something women with matching dyed blond hair and black outfits and a real-life Planet of the Apes characters and mafia wanna-bees and MTV-looking nothings and a few people like us just out for fun.  Very cool decor.

Do you use the same shampoo? was the real question he asked the two sisters,  his excuse to be approach them.  Supposedly, his goal was to see where they looked when they answered—each other or us or him.  Whatever.

Is khaki a color or a fabric? The sisters perused this question from another buttoned-down boy, his entourage watching in the distance, waiting to pounce.   The two sisters debated this as a serious question until I informed them he really didn’t care.  He just needed a line–and I bet it was used often. Oh, yeah, right.

We left the technotronic sounds of Crimson Lounge, where the crowds felt like they were waiting…watching…in anticipation of….some B list or A list actor or musicians to sit behind the cheesy red ropes one step up from the main floor as an exhibit for all to watch.  Cliche, so the masses could wonder How did they eat?  What did they drink?  Who would they allow to cross the ropes?

The next club it was  I’m from NY; this is my first visit to Chicago. I was told.  That was later replaced by “Where are you from? No one says where they are really from.  I was really raised in Spain, and now I live in Chicago” this said after conferring with his friend, who readily agreed to this truth.  Ahhh—where is the accent, my Spanish dreamer but decent partner, old-school dancer?  I told him before he disappeared into the night that he should start with that line, not end with it.

And his friend, the purported overweight Yoga instructor.  Yeah, right.

You’re sisters?  We’re brothers ! We were told much, much later by two very similar looking, chiseled cheek lads still alone shortly before three am.  Maybe the only truth in the night, since they clearly resembled each other.

I forgot there are no night truths as the night fades to black, the speakers silence, the hunters and the hunted united in arms and beds, a few like us still with our evening posses, bodies exhausted from non-stop dancing, ears ringing, totally fun from start to finish.

What is the best or worst pick up line in YOUR past?  Mine has to be  on a college set dance set-up  date “Do you like to fish?” I certainly wish I had my gay chaperone that evening, spent trying to ditch a drunk fool who followed me into the bathroom.  But that’s another story. C

 

Coyote Roam

The coyotes amble through our yard as if their own, trotting along the  back perimeter, then disappearing by the mulberry tree into the wetlands or  the neighbor’s grasses, abutting the tiny creek that flows through it.  There are two we mainly see: one the size of a German shepherd, with similar coloring and a long, dark tail.  He suddenly sports a limp.  The other is probably the babe that our pup Cali chased in spring, smaller and sand-colored, cute as can be.

I wonder, do they snicker in the grasses as Cali comes out, tethered to a leash or long rope to play or “do her business”?  Cali’s nickname is Bolt from our unfenced yard, since she will play and chase balls with us, then give us “the look”, turn and run…eventually coming back, but not before she explores a couple yards and crosses some streets, barely avoiding traffic.

And then, as the coyotes stealthily gaze into our windows after dusk, whether needlelike rain or clear moon shining, do they howl at our home as we settle into our warm house, no rain, no breeze, no bugs,food in a bowl? Jealous of our comfortable, spoiled dogs? C

 

Equestrian Connected–People Connected

“When was the last party you were at with three generations singing together?” John asked, as we all broke into the familiar words of  Hard Day’s Night, Yellow Submarine, Eight Days a Week and a myriad of other Beatles songs performed perfectly by the band American English.  So true.

There were over 300 of us joined together last night, at the annual fundraiser for Equestrian Connection, the equine therapy program I volunteer at.    I looked around the indoor arena transformed into a party room with flooring (no dirt!), round tables and chairs for dining, a bar, a stage for a live auctioneer and bands, the silent auction nestled in the aisle with the curious horses, not used to these late night festivities.

The evening was lively and inspirational, with some young students speaking, a homemade DVD put together by one family showing the benefits of hippotherapy, wheelchairs scattered around the room intermixed with dancers and revelers.  The goals were clearly defined: to raise enough money to pay for one year of therapy for the 20 or so families who cannot afford the therapy right now but know how critical it is for their kids.

One choked up mom said on stage that her wheelchair bound eleven-year old daughter cannot play soccer or softball or baseball…but she can ride horses!  I have personally witnessed time and again the amazing improvements these children (and adults) make during their weekly lessons or fields trips from schools and institutes.

So, there we were, routing for the auction bids to go higher, warmth spreading on a clear, cold autumn night.  American English entertained–and reminded me how many Beatles songs I know ALL the words for (hard admission for someone who grew up a true-blue Elvis fan with the scrapbooks to prove it)–and drew people together.  Some people danced, I saw one group of seven from 65 to 13 standing arm and arm  and singing along while swaying with the music, others took pictures with their phones and cameras, some just tapped their feet and enjoyed the sets.

And we all arose with the encore, seeming to sing together strongly–if not totally in tune–that we would start a Revolution to band together and keep this organization moving forward.

A fine, successful night for all, horses now enjoying the quiet until their riders come again. C

 

Aura Alert

Do you believe in auras—the colored bands that supposedly surround each of us, the shades showing our moods, our emotions, our health?  And do you believe that some people can actually see and read our auras?

That would be truly incredible, to be able to see how someone feels and might react when they approach us, but I think we can partially do that just by watching people around us.

The middle-aged couple entering the grocery store with their matching bulldog jowls and scowls, their energy screaming DO NOT APPROACH!  We are here to shop for our staples, no excitement in our future are clearly dark brown, facing to black.

There are three young girls, with a bright yellow backdrop, joyously skipping across the yard, waiting to climb onto the trampoline.

Our friend, with cancer attacking his throat, grey-sad, lonely grey.

Orange bursting through the phone lines,  as another friend screams and laments about finding out her husband has been having a three-year affair with his co-worker, after she put him through grad school and now quit her job to stay home with their children.

A young bride, separate from her guests, calm, close to God, blue and pure, waiting for the celebration to end and her married life to truly begin.

Do I imagine these colors? Can I see them?  Feel them and just KNOW? Or wish?  C

 

Traffic Stop

Stuck in traffic, we lament the interruption in our travels, express dismay in the delays to our travel plans, wonder why we are slowing then stopped on the highway.  We sit with our uncomfortably filled bladders, unable to relieve the pressure, turn our cars around, or ride along the downward-sloping shoulder.

Complain, swear, scream uselessly inside our cars, a single white truck stopping every few feet for the driver to open the door and vomit on the side of the road, we creep along, helpless and frustrated.

After miles of this long snaking array of cars and trucks, we see the flashing lights in the distance.  Lots of them.  And we rethink our anger. We approach with trepidation, fear for whom these lights blink and sirens sound,  ambulances and fire trucks and a flat bed truck now loaded with half a speed boat on top of it, another winch pulling up the other half the boat from over the road’s edge, down from the barricades, workers in yellow reflective vests and hats gathered, watching.  The tail end of a car also visible in the overgrown weeds.

We feel guiltily thankful and relieved that we are simply stuck in traffic, not part of this horrifying accident that added hours to our driving schedule. And hope that the people who were involved have escaped, unharmed or at least alive.  As we drive past the rescue vehicles, the lanes open, the cars and trucks and motorcycles speed up, the race towards our destinations back on, the accident already fading in our minds as we think about what lies ahead—curving roads, glaring sun, and hopefully no more slowdowns.  Until the next one. C

 

Granny Can Dance

Granny tapped her foot to the rhythm over and again, as the middle school jazz band hopped through their songs.  Her husband next to her, hearing aid hidden and ball cap on his head, slowly pumping his ring finger to “Sing! Sing! Sing!” but it was granny–with her blue plaid shirt and pink Keds that I watched.

There she was in my mind, twirling on the floor with shimmering eyes, a teasing glint and flirty smile, blue chiffon spinning with a petticoat peeking from underneath, white ankle gloves and matching handbag on the table. Laughing, pearl teeth under red lipstick, as she flows, jumps, and spins around the dance floor, the brass pumping in the background.

Is she remembering the live band?  An icy drink?  A first kiss? A secrert glance?  the smell of gardenias?  They must be happy memories, as her foot continues tapping. 

And I wonder, will I feel this same way in 25 years if I hear the music of my youth?  Or my growing older? or my children?  C

 

Ah, my lonely blog–sometimes it is too busy to write, sadly enough.  A few spare moments now….

 

Zac and Robin

Thwack! Thud! Chrrrrrrrrrp. Thunk!

Those are the sounds of Robin, who has been repeatedly barreling in to our window, in a desperate attempt to get inside our home, to build her nest or roost in the kitchen or play the Wii, I am not sure which.

It has been three weeks since this confused bird has been smashing her body daily into glass to get into our home.  And several days of solid rain have left a bevy of wing marks, tiny feathers and bits of straw strewn across the windows, and white excrement covering the deck.  Not a lovely sign of spring.

We tried shooing her away, removing the tiny nest she finally started, and then resorted to our latest hopeful diversion–putting the life-size Zac Efron cardboard figure directly in front of the window, so perhaps she cannot see her reflection.

While any mention Zac draws Devon to you, we hope that his grin will scare this dazed bird away.  I know how creepy it is to enter her room at night to see a 6-foot “man” at the end of her bed, before realizing he isn’t real, after nights of seeing him there.  It is enough to keep me away. C

 

Waiting

We adults might not jump and down, shake our bodies in anger, stomp, cry while waiting, waiting, waiting.  But it can be just as frustrating, tiring, hopeful, as we sit, stand, lie trying not to look like we REALLY need for time to be stopped, the second hand lingering WAY more than a second over each tick-tock of the clock.  And waiting can be for the good/bad/ugly/dreaded/anticipated…..

what sex is the baby?  will this pregnancy ever end? 

was the contract for new business signed? or, did i get the job?

will she go out with me?  will he sleep with me? will they follow their hearts or their brains when they hook up?

is the traffic unmoving, as i am in a critical hurry to reach my destination (as if no one else is), hands on horn, toes tapping?

how long in hospice until peace descends?

will my “friend” return my third, fourth, fifth phone call/text/email?

when will spring arrive, turning the earth green again?

smell the banana chocolate-chip bread cooking?

i have been at this gym for #@*& weeks?  when will i have the body i imagine, after all this work?

how do i always find the slowest check out line?

We wait for the mundane, the life-altering, the tragic, the hip, the meaningless, the meaningful, the glorious, the dreaded, but we wait.  And hope. And hope not. 

C