5:59 to 6:11 am

I hear you in the morning even while in the deepest meditation, landing with precision the L.A. Times on each driveway. I am not a subscriber. Still, I smile at the familiar sound; the certainty with which your strong left arm lobs each heavy bundle of news out the window, over the hood of your red pick-up truck, or frisbee-like across the street.

Walking early, sometimes I see you, though never your face, only that sturdy left arm and I marvel at the unique circumstance that must have developed those muscles to the max… day after day, week after week… How many years? If I peek at the clock when I hear you, I note that nearly always, you’re by my house between 5:59 and 6:11 a.m.

Years back a tennis coach came to me for bodywork. His right arm weighed almost twice as much as his left, so unilaterally developed it was, and it hurt him a lot. Without much capacity to BE in his body, from the face cradle his muffled voice would joke… one-liners mostly… the kind that might have punctuated his tennis lessons to keep his students up-lifted. He was known for his light heart and mean serve. Only rarely did his voice hint at darker currents. He'd talk about no more 'Mr. Nice-Guy' and his jaw would ripple and clench.

Alas, his downfall was gambling – also a right armed event. In his frenzy to make the one-armed bandit relinquish its hoards he lost the down-payment for the home he was intending to buy for his beloved wife and himself.

Unable to face her/his disappointment (and who knows what childhood demons), he set fire to himself in his car in the desert between L.A. and Las Vegas. No more jokes, no more serves, no more Mr. Nice Guy, no more Coach.

Your L.A. Times gave the story its due… Section D; Page 9, Column 3.

I wonder still if I’d really seen his face... could I have known and been able to ease that level of psychic pain. I don't know.

My wish for you, dear paper man, and for all of us, is that we develop balance; muscular, emotional and spiritual balance. 

Facing our demons face to face with someone who truly sees the stardust we're made of - even if we forget or never knew - can give us a fighting chance against those demons which have the potential to fling us in an unbalanced arc of wobble and yaw to the farthest edges of madness.

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Ghosts of Thanksgiving Past... 

This is the story of Aunt Mickey and the stove top stuffing.

Aunt Mildred is one of those Aunties who lends herself to good-natured ribbing because she definitely has some quirks. 

Thanksgiving day 1974 the whole family packed up to go camping at McGrath State Beach. By WHOLE family I mean: My husband and I and our dog, "Fairfax," (1974 was B.C. – Before Children), my mom, step-dad and eleven year old brother and their dog, "Butchie," my mother in law and her dog "Girl," my older brother, his wife and two sons, Uncle Larry (my mom’s brother) and Aunt Mickey (Mildred), their two daughters and their dog, "Pepper." In addition, Mickey’s brother and sister-in-law, and my then eighty-something year old grandparents came for the meal but stayed in a nearby hotel, rather than camping out.

One of Aunt Mickey’s quirks is that she carries about with her an unwieldy fear of germs. It has gotten in her and other people’s way on numerous occasions. It may have to do with her doing a stint as a registered nurse for our old family doctor, Irv King, or that her sister Serena spent nearly ten years in and out of Children’s Hospital for a bone infection. Something about staphylococci made her cock-eyed and compelled her to engage in specific ritualistic behaviors.

The whole of our camp-out Thanksgiving feast was pot luck. Aunt Mickey was in charge of the turkey & stuffing. She cooked that turkey without stuffing it because heaven knows that could magnetize dread salmonella bacteria and sicken us all so we’d croak right there on McGrath State Beach. (I can see the headline: Entire family and their dogs wiped out by bad Thanksgiving Turkey.)

Uncle Larry carved that turkey at home. There was only one better carver than Uncle Larry and that was his dad, my Gramps. Well, they froze all the turkey meat in neat foil packages. Auntie planned to warm it up and make stove-top stuffing at the campsite….which she did from a box in an aluminum pan over the camp stove. It was done in about 3 minutes flat.

It was November. We were at the beach. It was powerfully windy. It was cold… penetratingly cold. Mama Freddy, my mother in law had brought some pot roast bless her heart! And it was warm, fragrant and delicious. The turkey never did quite thaw. To say that the stove-top stuffing was not a popular item on our menu is like saying that chewing tinfoil is not too bad. It tasted worse than the cardboard box from which it came. No one ate it. 

We put the congealed mass on the ground for the dogs. “Girl,” Mama Freddy’s dog, walked over, sniffed it and walked away. Now, this is a dog who ate horse plop from the equestrian trail near her apartment. This is a dog who would eat anything not chained down. My beloved husband called “Girl” a Sealy Posturpedic with legs. Our dear "Fairfax" took a sniff and also walked away which was not altogether unexpected. Mark says "Fairfax" was an old man in a dog suit. There were many foods from which he’d walk away. And with such attitude! “What? You expect me to eat that? Feh! A dog wouldn’t eat that!” Next up was "Pepper," Aunt Mickey and Uncle Larry’s dog…same story… a sniff and a walk. "Butchie," my mom & dad’s dog, bless his short-legged Corgi self and his food-lovin' heart, walked over to that stove-top stuffing, nosed it a bit, turned, lifted his back leg and peed on it! (I can hear his thought bubble, "I christen thee “INEDIBLE!”)  Even Aunt Mickey had to laugh. The rest of us were roaring ‘til the tears came and nearly froze on our cheeks.

Wishing you and yours a most cozy Thanksgiving. 

May you celebrate mightily and enjoy that for which you are thankful.