The Rules of Compassion

When I boarded the subway this morning, one entire bench was taken up by a rather rough looking guy stretched out sound asleep. Now, you must understand how highly prized and fought over these seats are, especially during rush hour (which in New York runs roughly from 5am to, er, 5am).

I've witnessed some pretty scary battles over subway seats before, so the fact that this guy was shutting 4 or 5 people out of a place to park their bums was cheeky (no pun intended), indeed. But there he was. Snoring away. He was a big feller, too, so not even one person could have squeezed into part of the seat.

I found a seat right off, so he didn't cost me a place of comfort. But as I watched him (sleeping) - and the reactions of others as they crowded onto the train - I found myself wondering why I didn't feel any compassion towards they guy. Who knows what caused him to have to sleep on the subway? What was it about his past or current life left him with no place to bed down except a hard bench on a noisy train? Was he just a lazy sum'beach or had he worked hard all night and just didn't have money to sleep anywhere else?

But I didn't dwell on those speculations. I was too busy trying to sort out why his being there irritated me so much. After all, I am in the compassion business, right? Do I only feel for the nameless hordes of folks "out there"? Why wouldn't the same feeling kick in when I'm confronted up-close-and-personal with someone who might need compassion? How do I take more notice of what's going on right in front of my face in the same way I do of Sudanese refugees or children with AIDS in South Africa?

Am I missing the point? Are there any rules of compassion?

The Toughest Exercise Routine

I spent the day in one of those all-day, hard-working meetings. It went pretty well, considering that the last few gatherings of the group have almost resulted in bloodshed (figuratively speaking). Still, after it was all over, I was shatteringly tired.

"The meeting went well," a co-worker said, "Why are you so tired?"

"Well," sez I, "It takes all my energy and muscle-groups to keep my mouth shut."

Yup. I bet I burned off hundreds of calories just making sure my jaw wasn't flapping or my throat making speech-like sounds at inappropriate (or even appropriate) times. I mean, it was solid 8-hour rigorous exercise session. Surely it was the equivalent of several hours on a StairMaster.

My point is that some of the most tiring, draining things in life don't count as physical exercise. You know. The really hard stuff.

. . . Like keeping all those marbles (aka, "must-do's") from sliding off the table of life. (Builds strength in the arms, right?)

. . . Like withstanding a session of tongue-lashing or insult-hurling. (All that bobbing, weaving, ducking - just like 10 rounds in the ring with a prize-fighter.)

. . . Like sitting through a blindingly boring speech. (Do repeated hammer-blows to the head burn calories or just turn your brain to mush?)

. . . And, yes, like keeping my mouth shut.

I'm feelin' the burn just thinking about those things.

Now, excuse me while I take an early bath, then hit the bed with a great book (The Glass Castle, thank you very much Cuz). I've run the marathon today.

Watch This Space

I did it. I joined WeightWatchers yesterday. A group meets here at the Episcopal Church Center, and rumor has it they have an uproarious time, so that's why I joined. I like uproarious groups. And if I lose a few pounds? Well, no complaint. Especially when I saw how much I weighed. Yikes!

Confession: I don't own a scale. "No hock, Sherlock," I hear you saying out there. Anyway, why have a scale? It only brings sorrow and depression. I just look at the way my clothes fit (or not) or how tiny (or big) a space I take up on a subway seat, when I get one. So yeah, actually seeing a number on that scale yesterday was a sad, sad thing.

But really. The main reason I joined was because I wanted a little more fun in my life. Honestly.

So watch this space, at least the amount I fill up in the world. Let's hope it shrinks a just little bit. Now excuse me while I try to sort out how many points a hot fudge sundae has.

Remembering Suzanne Pleshette: Best Sitcom Finale Ever

Well, we lost another one. Suzanne Pleshette died over the weekend, she of Rome Adventure, The Birds, and best of all "The Bob Newhart Show." What a dame! I thought it was cool that she was briefly married to Troy Donahue in her young, hot days but ended up with good old Tom Posten at the end. (Tom Posten died last year, God rest his hilarious soul.)

Both Pleshette and Posten had roles in "The Bob Newhart Show," and Posten went on to become a regular on "Newhart," as well. Though I liked the first show better than the second, I have to admit that the finale of "Newhart" was the best sitcom finale ever. Better than the finale of "M*A*S*H" (which was way too serious). Way, way better than the finale of "Friends." Way, way, way better than the "Seinfeld" finale, which was just awful.

But in that last scene of "Newhart" when Bob wakes up in bed with Emily (Pleshette) in the old Bob Newhart Show's Chicago apartment - "it was all a dream!" - completely hilarious! Newhart and Pleshette pulled it off beautifully. What a total surprise!

Here's to you, Suzanne Pleshette, aka Emily Hartley. Thanks for a great body of work, especially your part in the best sitcom finale of all time.

(Second best sitcom finale? Why, "The Mary Tyler Moore Show," of course. Everyone gets fired but Ted. Ha! "It's a long way to Tipperary. It's a long way to go . . . ")

Low Profile

I'm keeping one right now. Work is crazy-busy since that the cats are out of the bag regarding who's going, who's staying, and where we go from here. My workload has quadrupled with my new position. I suspect the salary won't grow exponentially, however. Still, I have a job. No complaints, my friends. Not now, anyway.

The cough's almost gone, but I'm still spending the dark winter evenings with my nose in a book or watching repeats of Law & Order, Law & Order SVU, Law & Order Criminal Intent, Law & Order Sushi On A Roll, and so forth. When I get L&O Fatigue, I grab one of the books on the stack and go to it. Almost finished with The Emperor's Children. My copy of The Glass Castle came in the other day, so that's next up. It looks like a page-turner.

And speaking of books, I got a sort of chain letter thing from Lil Sis the other day, but this one I'm going for. (I'm a notorious chain-letter-email breaker, just so you know.) Here's how it works: You send one already-read old book to the person listed on the letter (not the sender), then send 6 letters out and put the name/address of the person who sent it to you on the letter you send out so that those folks will send them a book. It's really not as confusing as I've described it.

Anyway, the theory is that eventually I should get 36 books coming my way. Of course, they won't be of my choosing, but it should be interesting to see: A) what books are sent, and B) where they come from. That is - of course - if C) anybody sends me anything. So heads up to 6 of you out there - you'll be getting Sis's letter from me in a few days. I've already sent them out. Dropped a Katie Fforde book (good airplane/bath reading) to the person as per instructions. We'll see . . .

By the way, I've been lurking around everyone else's blogs but have kept my comments to myself. I've grown blog-comment-lazy, I guess. Things will re-energize soon, I know.

I'm counting down to the 3-day weekend. Aaaaaaaaaaah!

That was the week that was

Remember the classic television show That Was The Week That Was? I never saw the original British version, though I do have some of its sketches on a comedy album (remember those big black vinyl disks?) I picked up when I was living in England. I do, however, remember watching the American version, which aired in the early 1960's. Yes, I'm that old.

Anyway, I thought of the program as I looked back over the week. Here's my not very David Frost-y version of the TW3 theme song:

That was the week that was:
It started with a cough
(And stuffy nose and cloggy lungs)
And – alas - has yet to wear off.

That was the week that was:
I slogged it out at work.
With tasks piled high and tensions rife,
My like looked like soleil du cirque.

That was the week that was:
I tried to follow the news.
Hillary’s up, Britney’s down, Bush is where?
Ooh, pass the booze.

That was the week that was:
At least it ended well.
The reorganization has a place for me
So I still have a job, which is swell.

That was the week that was:
What will the next one bring?
As long as I get rid of this *@#*-ing cough,
I can handle anything.

How memorable was your week?

Bad Cold/Good Books

I'm starting the year off with a big bad cold. It's certainly survivable, but the hacking cough is getting to me. All sorts of unpleasantness have settled in my lungs for the long-haul, it seems. Yes, I'm ingesting vast quantities of orange juice, hot tea, chicken soup, and Musinex - all the non-prescription remedies the law'll allow - but to no avail.

This darn cough is driving me crazy. Worse at night, or course. My head aches from all the coughing. I haven't blown out an eardrum yet (oh, yeah, I did that some years back during a cough-attack), but I've come close. Wonder if an afternoon in an old-fashioned steam room would help?

There is a good side to this, however. Although I'm not able to sleep, I am able to read, and I got a load of new books for Christmas that have kept me in relatively good-humor throughout my cough-a-thon. Friend Carey gave me The Thirteenth Tale by Diane Satterfield which I tore through at a rapid pace. Good story. I'm a sucker for anything that involves an antiquarian bookstore.

After Tale, I decided to stay in England with Charles Todd's A Long Shadow, featuring the post-WWI sleuth, Inspector Ian Rutledge. The Todd mysteries are easy reads for me, WWI aficionado that I am. Todd is actual the nom-de-plume of a mother-son writing team. Can't imagine how that works. Oh, well. It does.

Now I've moved back to this side of the pond with The Emperor's Children by Claire Messud. Just got into it last night, so I can't make much of judgment yet. It's a different kettle of fish from the two cozy English mysteries. Interesting writing and story threads. And a good old Anne Tyler is waiting after that. (Thanks for the Borders gift card, Nephew!)

So, even though I'm starting the year with a bad cold, I have some good books to help me make it through the - cough! cough! - night.

Twilight Zone-a-Rama

Was anyone else glued to SciFi's Twilight Zone Marathon over New Year's? I just couldn't stop watching. "One more episode, and then I'll turn it off," I'd say. But, nope. Couldn't do it.

I guess you could write it off as nostalgia - "Ooh! I saw that one at Debbie Goff's slumber party!" - but it's more than that, I think. Great stories. Tight writing by the likes of Rod Serling (natch), Ray Bradbury, Earl Hamner. Stars and future-stars aplenty.

The weirdness was in the tales themselves. And yeah, there was some hokey make-up for some of the space monsters and that odd thing outside the airplane window that freaked out William Shatner, but most of the stories didn't involve special effects of any kind. Just little twists in reality. Nothing was what it appeared to be on the surface. And when the truth was revealed, you'd smack your head and say, "Oh, man! I never saw that coming!" C'mon. You know you fell for "To Serve Man" just like the rest of us did.

Most of the episodes are text-book Cold War fables. And the ones about space were written and performed during the height of the Space-Race, which gives them an interesting perspective. The show says so much about the socio-political climate of the late 50's/early 60's. The fallout shelters. The "aliens" next door. Time travel (backward and forward). And those pesky evil toys - telephones, dolls, ventriloquist dummies.

Yes, but what impact does Twilight Zone have on our lives today? Well, I don't know about you, but I always look for that monster on the airplane wing every time I fly. And I never answer toy telephones. Oooh.

My Quadrennial Knicker-Wad

After extolling to Elsie the other day about how I try to stay away from politics on this blog, I just have to post about the Iowa Caucus-New Hampshire Primary silliness that happens every four years. Granted, once they're over, I forget about 'em until the next national election; then I get steamed up all over again.

Iowa? New Hampshire? What? Here are two states that don't have (m)any people in them, and yet, candidates and the media fall all over themselves trying to get a handful of folks to commit one way or another. By the time we emerge from New Hampshire, the field of candidates has been culled, winners declared, money committed - all on the say-so of a couple a hundred thousand people. Shoot, there are that many people sitting on any given block or two of Manhattan.

But do folks in - oh, I don't know, pick a metropolitan area - Boston, Los Angeles, Dallas, Atlanta, Miami, Chicago, St. Louis, or San Diego get to put in their 2-cents' worth on who the nominees will be? Not until later in the game, and by then there ain't much of a choice. Is it just me, or does the tail seem to be wagging the dog, here?

With all due respect to the fine upstanding folks in Iowa and New Hampshire, it's time to move over and let other regions get first crack at winnowing the presidential candidate field. I no longer buy the rationale of rural folk making major political decisions for the other 90% of the country. (Same goes for the antiquated excuses for the Electoral College.)

Is anyone out there brave enough to change this absurd system?

Elsie and Shorty Get S'mac'd for New Year's

New York City was the scene of a New Year’s S’mac Down, as Elsie and Shorty met up for lunch at Sarita’s Mac ‘n Cheese in the East Village. It was a gloomy old day, but two blog friends meeting for the first time brightened things up considerably.

First thing you should know: we talked about all of ya’. Yeah, we did. Were your ears burning? It was all good stuff, not to worry.

Over our Manchego (Elsie) and Cajun (Shorty) macaroni and cheese dishes, we got to know each other the old fashioned way – face-to-face. Don’t we look adorable?

And generous Elsie fulfilled one of my Christmas wishes by giving me – wait for it – a brand new Etch-a-Sketch! Woo-hoo! I’ve been doodling on it ever since I got home. I suspect it will cut into my blogging time. Hmm. Ooh! And also, Elsie presented my with a lovely bottle of Rhode Island Red.

Could a gal have a better New Year’s Day than that? Mac-and-cheese, Etch-a-Sketch, a bottle of red, and finally getting to meet Elsie. Perfect!

10 Things I Did For The First Time in 2007

Went to Africa (lots of firsts there)

Ate pheasant (in Scotland; it was delicious)

Attended a cremation (farewell, dear Aubrey!)

Lounged in a pool in Yorba Linda, California (thanks, Lil Sis!)

Lived in Spanish Harlem/on Park Avenue (take your pick - they're one and the same - obviously, I'm on the dodgy end of Park Ave)

Appeared on a Broadway stage in a Tony-winning musical (remember my stage-sitting role in "Spring Awakenings"?)

Visited Central Park's Conservatory Gardens, Grant's Tomb, and The Cloisters (ah, the resident tourist!)

Bought groceries at a bodega (what I wouldn't give for a Super Kroger or Publix)

Befriended an MTA worker (Salute, Calvin! You're missed on the Grand Central Station subway platform since your retirement.)

Didn't use all my vacation days (must do better in 2008)

Closure

Everyone says it, I know, but really - where has 2007 gone? I'm still trying to get some closure on 2004. At this rate I'll never catch up. Is it OK to just skip 2004-2006 and work on 2007, do you think?

It's the stock-taking that wears me out. What have I done this year that I meant to do? What did I get myself into that I swore I wouldn't? What fell by the wayside? All those good intentions.

Seems a rather depressing exercise, but I'm not denying that one must take inventory once in a while, lest our ready supply of . . . of . . . stuff runs out. And Lord knows I need stuff to keep me going. Still, it always appears that my short-comings (not staying in touch, losing weight, writing - no! I mean it!, miraculously becoming a kinder, gentler soul, etc.) far outweigh the accomplishments.

But, next year! Next year, by gum! I will repair my damaged, flimsy moral fiber. I mean it. I will make it beyond February on the resolutions. Or not. Well, hope springs eternal. I'm facing a 4-day weekend, and I'll try to think this stuff through. Or maybe I'll just sleep and read. Stay tuned.

Christmas Crazy/Christmas Calm

After almost two full weeks in Atlanta, I'm back in my little New York turret to ring in the New Year. It's good to be back, but it was a most wonderful Christmastime down home. Much of what happened falls squarely into two camps: wild/crazy, restful/calm.

Crazy:

• Family gathering, including the hayride. You've seen the pictures - food, babies, cows.
• Chuck and Barbara's party. Good conversation, lots of laughs, and unsurpassed salmon Wellington. Oh, yeah - and he didn't hide the "good" stuff: the lovely blue-bottled Bombay!
• Cookie-making frenzy. (Yummy butter cookies and outstanding cheddar cheese nibbles, if you're interested.)
• Children's pageant service the Sunday before Christmas. All those angels and wise folk! I assure you that the Baby Jesus couldn't have slept in heavenly peace with all this racket going on. Hilarious (in a religious sort of way)!
• After-Christmas movie Sweeney Todd with daughter Kate. Fabulous. Amazing. Brilliant. The only thing I missed (from the play) was "The Ballad of Sweeney Todd," but I understand why it wouldn't have worked in the film.

Calm:

• Time enough to put my feet up by the fire and watch old Christmas movies. Very restful and welcome. Ahhhh!
• Meal-sharing with friends - lunch with Lynne, dinner with Craig, and dinner(s)/present-exchange with Carey & Family. Nothing beats good conversation in conjunction with good food and dear friends. All part of the blessings of the season.
• Low-key Christmas day with family. Amazing stories around the fireplace - some funny, some loving, one scary/disturbing. Nibbling on sweets and chowing down on homemade chili and sandwiches. Calm and bright.
• Going through the stack of Christmas cards when I got back to New York yesterday afternoon. I took my time and appreciated each and every one.

Not sure which category the Christmas Eve service at All Saints' falls into - crowded, colorful, brass-and-timpani, red roses and poinsettias, candles, music. Not crazy. Not calm. Christmasy, though.

Hope Santa was good to you. Now, I must go find a pen and ream of paper to start making those resolutions for 2008!

The Christmas That Santa Forgot

I've never been a present-counter. When I was a kid, Santa left our gifts in very distinct piles under the tree, so that after a half-minute's assessment in the cold darkness - because it was darkness at 4 or 5am - each of us could head straight for our own small array of presents once we'd spotted one or two items that we knew had our names on them. Santa was nothing if not organized in our household. One of us would fumble around to plug in the Christmas tree, then we'd sit in its light on the floor in front of our goodies and indulge in magical exploration.

But back to the present-counting - I don't remember any of us hollering, "Hey, I got 8! How many did you get?" The focus was on quality - and by that I mean, had those one or two important Santa List wishes been granted? - not quantity. I'm not sure we really asked for much. Oh, there might be a special doll or game that caught our fancy, but I have no memory of having a long list of wants. Once that basic wish had been fulfilled - and it always was, I think - the sheer number of gifts didn't matter. (Take note, Dudley Dursley.)

In the pre-dawn darkness of Christmas 1961, I spied my pile of goodies. It wasn't a pile, exactly; it consisted of only two gifts. But I knew it was mine. There, in the subdued glow of the multicolored big-bulb and bubble Christmas tree lights, I saw the one thing I wanted most that year: a transistor radio! Yea! And next to it was a book about the American Revolution. Imagine! Santa thought I was grown up enough to own my very own hard-backed scholarly (well, to a 5th grader) work! A radio and a book. What more could a girl want? (I still have the book. See?)

I don't remember what the other three had in their gift-stacks. I was totally captivated by my personal stash of music and literature. To the best of my memory, we all seemed pretty happy with the goods.

On these early Christmas mornings, Mother and Daddy usually dragged themselves out of bed once they heard us rattling around. I don't know if they wanted us to have a few minutes on our own to take it all in, or whether their warm comfy bed was just too hard to leave. At any rate, they did manage an appearance within a half-hour or so after the four of us had hit the living room.

That Christmas, Mother came in first. I don't think I noticed her until she said, "Is this all that Santa brought?" There was a bit of uncharacteristic panic in her voice.

All? All? A transistor radio and a hard-backed book? All? Why, this was the mother-lode, as far as I was concerned. But evidently my own mother saw something lacking in the layout of gifts.

"I think Santa Claus must've left some things in the attic. I think Daddy ought to go up and see where Santa dropped them."

Poor Daddy, who'd probably only gotten a couple of hours' sleep, shook his head and headed upstairs. After a few minutes he came down, laden with other goodies. I remember a Flintstones Bowling Set (the "ball" was shaped like a boulder - ha!) and - what? - the Give-a-Show Projector, maybe, plus assorted games and goodies. Wow! I guessed we'd been better that year than we'd thought!

The point is that as wonderful as the additional gifts were, I, for one, was perfectly happy with my radio and book. It didn't matter that in the year 1961 Santa had lost his marbles, not to mention our Flintstones Bowling Set. But it did make for one more memorable and oft-repeated Frazier Family story: "The Year Santa Left All the Presents in the Attic."

Merry Christmas, blog-friends. Wishing you comfort and joy, and the 2007 equivalent of a transistor radio and a book on the American Revolution.

What I really want for Christmas

I have serious kid-envy this time of year. No, no - I don't envy people with children; I envy the little curtain-climbers themselves. Once you outgrow toys - and I mean real toys, not computery, electronic, or car-shaped things - some of the excitement goes out of the season.

Now, I'm not talking about the real meaning of the season. Nothing beats a Christmas of watching a re-creation of the Nativity, reading Luke chapter 2, gathering with other faithful (and once-a-year faithful) folks at church to witness the 2000-year-old mystery, and singing Christmas carols during a service. But I'm talking about the flip-side, the childhood, Santa Claus part of Christmas.

So, if I had my druthers, here's what I'd hope to find under the tree on Christmas morning (unwrapped, of course, since Santa himself left them for me):

Etch-a-Sketch - Boy, I'd love to have a brand-new Etch-a-Sketch to doodle around on. Mess it up, then flip it over, give it a shake, and start all over.

Slinky - A metal one, not a plastic one (what's the point of that?). I love the "slinky" noise a metal one makes as it goes from palm to palm or down the stairs. Very soothing.

Monopoly - Just the original Atlantic City one, not a cutesy special version. Of course, I'd need to find a couple of suckers to play with me. (Kidding - I never win at Monopoly, but that's not where I find the fun in the game.)

SpiroGraph - I could sit for hours making mindless kaleidoscope patterns with all the different little wheels.

Modeling Clay - Real clay, not PlayDoh. Such therapeutic stuff, is clay - smooth, easy to manipulate, and all those long, long snakes to create.

Wooly Willie - OK, so the name sounds a big risque in this day and time, but he was pretty harmless in his day. You know - he's the bald guy with the magnetic shavings that you can pull around to create hair and eyebrows.

Tinkertoy - A whole canister just for me. The real wood kind, not plastic. Whoopee! I'd master that Ferris wheel for sure.

Guess I'm really showing my age, here. Sigh. Wonder how many kids will find those toys under the tree this year. Not many, I suspect. What toy - real kid toy, not a grown-up toy - would you like to find under the tree this year?

Guilty Pleasures

Go ahead. Put me behind bars. 'Tis the season of guilty pleasures - usually food-related, if I'm the norm. Alas, my guiltiest pleasures are indulged, embarrassingly, all year long. Amidst all the ho-ho-ho, a little GP soul-baring:

1. Reading the Daily Mail online. This English tabloid (and it is a tabloid) cracks me up. It oh, so wants to be above the Page 3 Sun-type paper, yet it manages to show as much T&A and harp on as many scandals as anything on the stands. But all in the name of "news," of course. Hilarious! (Apologies to any faithful "news" readers of the Mail.)


2. Watching "Snapped." It's a show about women who have reached a breaking point of some kind and have bumped off the old man, boyfriend, or rival. Since only about 7% of the murders in the U.S. are committed by women in any given year, there's usually a damn good reason the killer "snapped." These murders mostly involve love and/or love of money and are divided into two groups (in my mind): a) the woman is a greedy bitch and wants the guy dead so that she can collect insurance or run off with another guy, or b) the woman is abused and the sucker deserved whatever she threw at him. At the end of the show, I'm feeling pretty good about my own life, however pathetic is might be. Snap!


3. Eating raw pasta. Guilty. I keep boxes of penne pasta around to snack on. I know. This is terrible for my teeth, and I will rue the day I break one on the stuff. Guilty.


4. Eating New York street food (from street vendors - not off the street). Yeah, yeah. It's terrible for you. And who knows where it's stored and whether it's properly cooked? But, mmmmmmm, it smells good and tastes good and it's cheap. OK, I'm not that guilty about this one.


5. Nightly, steamy-hot, full-tubbed bubble baths. I'm a great water-conservationist except when it comes to filling the tub full of hot water and having a nice soak at the end of the day. Whenever I feel too guilty and skip the bath, I usually end up getting out of bed at 3am to take one, anyway. It relaxes me. It de-stresses me. And I realize how selfish that is in the big scheme of things. Guilty, as charged.

Got any guilty pleasures you want to own up to? I'll be glad to share my cell with ya'.

Hay! Hay! Hay! Merry Christmas!

What could be better than a hayride in the country at Christmastime? Cuz treated those of us brave enough to withstand a wind-chill factor of -4 to a wagon tour of his eye-pleasing acreage and a chance to get up close and personal with his cows. The hay was quite comfortable - not the thick, scratchy kind - and if we'd had a few blankets and several flasks of brandy, it would've been absolutely perfect. It was pert-near perfect, even without the blankets and booze.

Here's Cuz on the tractor, patiently waiting as we decide who's going, who's staying, and where those who are going will sit. At least he has the hat for it.

Before the hayride: I call this shot "It Takes a Village (to Dress Tallulah for the Hayride)." Note her one pink/one purple Crocs. As her mother Amy said, some battles just aren't worth fighting! Amen.

Baby Elliott finds the ride conducive to napping. He could barely keep his little eyes open as we rumbled along.

Ah, the cows. They even mooed for us. They're just standing around waiting for their parts in the Nativity play, I reckon.

While Cuz used some of our "sittin' hay" to feed his cattle, the hayriders tried to stay warm in the stiff breeze.

And homeward we trundled, up the dirt road to warm our bones and regal the weenies - er, rest of the family - with tall tales of our Christmas hayride.


Thanks, Cuz, for a truly memorable experience!

The Gresham-Bartow-Ross-Nash-Frazier-Clotfelter-Buchanan-Brennan-Wall-Fisher-and soon-to-be Richeson Family Christmas*

Forget the Griswold Family Christmas. Our family does a much better job at food and festivities without electrocuting a cat and destroying a Christmas tree, though we have come close to doing both over the years. I promised Cuz I'd post about the party yesterday when I got home, but I really needed time to let the events of the day sink in. OK, that, plus I went to another Christmas party last night and was too tired to post by the time I rolled home. At any rate, this'll be a 2-parter, since I want to do justice to the hayride, as well.

A little background: This gathering is a tradition that's happened a week or so before Christmas for as long as I can remember. During those early years, most of the parties took place at the Ross mansion on Avon Avenue in Atlanta, though occasionally the crowd would pile into cars and travel up to the Frazier's estate in Chattanooga. Joking about the mansion (and the estate). The Avon house was tiny, and how we managed to pack in there year after year is beyond me. But we did.

While the tradition of too many people and too much food (both glorious excesses. to be sure) is still being honored, there once was a time of too many presents, as well. Why, you could hardly get into the house for the masses of gift-wrapped surprises under the tree. The Nashes would travel down from Granite City, Illinois, toting bags and bags of wrapped boxes. Aunt Mildred would stick the bows on after she got to Atlanta or Chattanooga. The Fraziers would roll in from Chattanooga with a trunk-load of festive packages to add to the already-groaning tree-area, though Mother never bothered with boxes. She was famous for her "soft packages."

The presents were always little things, or rather, inexpensive things. It was the thrill of seeing all those gifts under the tree and delighting not only in what you received, but what your brothers and sisters and cousins got, too.

But over the years, we did away with the present-giving, much to the dismay of the Kate-generation. Family and food were enough to keep up with, without having to figure out what to buy umpteen relatives.

So. Back to the here and now.

Cuz - of "remember the moosehead in the attic?" dispute - hosted the annual gathering of the clan at his farm in Dahlonega, Georgia, site of the nation's first gold rush (honest!). The cozy cabin-style farmhouse was packed to the rafters with folks of various shapes and sizes ranging from 5 months to 78 years old. It took each of us an hour or two to get through all the hugs and "how're ya' doin's" once we arrived.

It was cold and windy, as those of us who braved the hayride (see next post) can testify, but that only added to our Christmas spirit. The house was festively decorated. Cuz had even broken out Christmas photos of old and posted them on the kitchen cabinets. We saluted everyone who's joined us over the years, even some ex-spouses. Hey, they were once a part of this craziness, so why not?

As mentioned in previous posts, our pot-luck food theme this year was Italian. Now, you must understand how this flew in the face of the time-honored Southern food tradition of our family get-togethers. More than once yesterday, I heard someone say "Mildred/Catherine/Helen/Marie is/are rolling in her/their grave(s) over this!" Whatever grave-spinning we caused, the Italian pot-luck went down a treat. Lasagna and ravioli fit for a king, er, Caesar. Big bro's osso bucco was outstanding. Fabulous salads and antipasto munchies, plus nephew Matt's homemade Parmesan-black pepper biscotti provided day-long nibbling. Yum. And yes, the two Veniero's Italian cheesecakes made it from New York fine and dandy. I added a few blueberries and no one complained. Linda's Italian cream cake and Lil Sis's back-by-popular-demand Christmas cookies sated our sweet tooths. Teeth. Whatever.

In addition to the Italian theme, we also had a "new baby" theme. The family experienced a baby boom in 2007, as we welcomed Rowan, Elliott, and Sarah. They joined Tallulah, Cody, and Dylan (plus Bryleigh and Jaxson, who weren't at the party due to illness) to make up the new generation, as our sons and daughters start adding to the family tree. Yes, it's that season again - the re-birth season. It cycles through every 20 or so years - with the old folks (ahem!), young parents, babies. Then as the kids grow, the family gets to the no-baby stage until the once-babies grow up enough to start families of their own. It's all very reassuring!

And speaking of generations, the clan gathered for the annual generational photo ops. Sort of a State of the Family moment. One husband kept complaining that we always do this and then never see the pictures again. Well, I beg to differ (I have one of last year's as the wallpaper on my laptop at work), but I've posted them here so that you can see what a fine group of folks we are.

Though our mothers - all deceased - vowed and declared we'd never carry on this Christmas gathering tradition once they were gone, I believe they were with us in spirit yesterday(some of them may have been spinning spirits, however). How could they not rejoice that we were still gathering, and we do find family the most important thing, when all is said and done? Who knows us better than, well, us? And even though we went Italian instead of Southern, and though there are lots of new faces that they wouldn't recognize, I'll just bet the Bully Bartow Sisters are pleased as punch from their perches in Heaven.

And the Christmas beat goes on.

* Revised post: I added Cuz's food photo, though it shows just a teeny bit of what we chowed down on during the day. Wish I had that spinach dip in front of me right now!

Christmas time in the City

Don't you love this little "Happy Holidays" sign on Fifth Avenue across from Saks and St. Patrick's Cathedral? Yeah. Happy Holidays, and oh, by the way, ain't no buses stopping here during the "holidays" so just move along.

Another little storm blew through yesterday, but we didn't see much snow in Midtown. Imagine my surprise when I came up from the subway at 116th to find a couple of inches of snow and slush! What a difference 72 blocks uptown make! Another one's due tomorrow night. I should just miss it, as I fly out tomorrow afternoon.

Remember Calvin? Today was his last day. He is now officially retired from the MTA, so I won't hear his "Good Mornings" as I pile out of the #6 Downtown train onto the platform at Grand Central Station. I gave him a fond farewell and a retirement card. I also sent a good word to the MTA folks about him a few weeks back. Maybe they'll give him a little bonus.

At the risk of being really politically incorrect, I think the new "green" Christmas lights on the big tree at Rockefeller Plaza are lame. Little tiny specks of too-bright color. Not nearly as wonderfully soothing as the big ol' incandescent bulbs. And those awful little lights are taking the place of the soft golden/white bulbs all over the city. Now everything is bright blue/white. Yuck. Like those ugly headlights that cars have now. No wonder everyone has a headache. I'm a very environment-friendly gal, but I do draw the line at purdy lights. And the eco-friendly ones are just irritating. Kinda like the difference between old cel animation and new-fangled computery stuff.

Tomorrow, I head out of NYC and back to the ATL for Christmas. So the next time you hear from me, I'll be in the middle "Christmas in Dixie." By now in New York City, there's snow on the ground . . . and in Atlanta, Georgia, there's peace on earth tonight.

A little something for the "Southern" Italian family

Took the day off today to do a little New York shopping, since I leave for Atlanta on Saturday. I'm coming in earlier than I had planned, but our gigantic, fun-filled, whoo-hoo! family Christmas gathering will be at Cuz's place in Dahlonega on Sunday, and I just didn't want to miss it.

Cuz, who occasionally adds his 2-cents' worth to my posts, and his wife are hosting this riotous affair (and let's face it - a family gathering rarely comes off without a bit of rioting). They have added a little twist to the tradition-bound food-theme. This year, instead of our usual down-home Southern pot-luck meal, Wife o' Cuz suggested an Italian theme. Well, why the hell not? Other than the fact that I'm situated in the city with more fine Italian food than the whole of Italy, so why go to Dahlonega? - but what the heck.

Anyway, after polling my resident Italian (hard-working office mate Lisa), I was told to get myself down to Veniero in the East Village and pick up an Italian cheesecake. Or two. I opted for two. I know my family.

At the crack of 10:30 this morning, I walked through the venerable doors of Veniero and grabbed two of the ricotta-filled cheesecakes. I was tempted by the fig ring - sounded wonderful! - but at $12.00 a pound, and it's heavy - I stuck to the cheesecake option. So, the kind folks (well, actually they were kinda snooty) at Veniero boxed up my little cakes and tied them with string. They now coolly reside in my fridge, where they'll remain until I pack them on Saturday. Unless I feel the need to "test" one of them. No, no, I won't - I promise.

I will have to pack them in my checked luggage, since squishy stuff's not allowed through carry-on security, as a friend trying to bring in pumpkin pie filling found out at Thanksgiving. Dear Family, I will do my best to pack the cheesecakes carefully and pray that the luggage carriers slinging my bags around won't turn them into mush. If they do, you're eatin' 'em anyway. I'm sure they'll be yummy, whatever the consistency.

After Veniero, I did a little street shopping in the East Village and at Union Square, where there's a big Christmas market set up. Just trinkets. I'm po', ya' know. Ooh. And had lunch at dear old S'mac - 4-cheese mac and cheese with ground beef and a layer of pepper flakes. Ummmm-umm!

I'll let you know how the cheesecakes fared on their trip South. It will be some kind of fabulous Italian hoe-down come Sunday. Yee-haw and Mamma Mia!