The snow was too deep for Zoe to smell all the previous “activity” in the yard and she was at a loss. She tried the deck, but that wasn’t satisfactory for her or for us. Recognizing the problem, Charlie took the snow blower out in the back yard and made several paths through the snow.

Only one path brings her back home. The others end, much to her annoyance, with snow banks. She keeps trying to jump up onto one, but thankfully quits. I don’t relish the prospect of digging her out of 18” of snow.

She has never been one of those open the back door so she can run out and do her business dogs. She requires an escort, one of us. This morning it was 3 below zero(F) and I was up first. Donning long underwear, socks, clogs, hat and jacket to accompany my flannel granny gown, I took her out. Thank goodness she decided she didn’t want to do her usual exploration of the whole yard. Smart dog. She took care of business and rushed with me back into the gradually warming house.(First up turns on the heat. Second up gets a warming house. Sleeping late would have been the smarter choice!)

When I was a kid we got up early before school to listen to KEX Radio to learn if it has snowed enough overnight to close school. The announcer ran through the list in alphabetical order. If there was a lot of snow many names were read out until he came to the r’s for Riverdale. My brother and I would be jubilant, knowing we had a day of sledding with friends ahead of us. It was worth waiting for the r’s!

To my grandson’s dismay, despite the 18” of snow that fell in the last 24 hours he is doomed by technology. Since Covid, schools have learned to use Zoom to teach remotely. While the snow beckons outside he is forced to sit at a screen. For him the saving grace of school is his group of friends—not a mischief maker among them. I feel for the whole bunch of active 16 year old boys forced to sit still, staring at a screen. I imagine one or two will find a way to prank each other nevertheless. I look forward to hearing what happens.

It’s funny the admonitions from childhood that still occasionally echo in my mind. This one came to me in my morning shower. I grew up in a household of six, and was I frequently either being warned about using all the hot water or I was running around in a towel screaming “who used all the hot water?” So now in a household of two frugal adults who always have enough hot water I still watch my usage.

I am the same way about overhead lights. I still hear my dad’s “do we own the electric company?” when lights are on in unoccupied rooms. Forget the logic about LED bulbs lasting forever with little electricity, I run around turning them off. Of course, Charlie does the same before he hears me yelp from downstairs “I am down here!”

Just wondering if others of you still hear old, no longer useful, warnings in the background of your mind.

A few days ago I looked up from my research at the sound of machinery. Looking out, I was intrigued to watch the town’s public works men picking up leaves from the curb. Years ago they would have been burned in each yard, but air pollution concerns changed things. Our town, with its thousands of trees, collects them all, composts them at the dump, and uses them for mulch.

This was the first time I really studied the process. A couple of men used blowers to get stray leaves into the main pile. Then a vacuum tube sucked them into the truck. When I saw this tube bobbing and weaving I was reminded of an elephant’s trunk. It turns out it was being directed by a young man with a remote control device looking suspiciously like a video game joystick. While the job was getting done, I suspect he was imagining evil invaders, not mere leaves, being sucked up by his skillful hands!

I have often written about my late sister Patsy. However, this Thanksgiving I am remembering her late husband Robert. He of the marvelous mashed potatoes. I was trying and failing to explain to Charlie the feat of Robert’s dish. I never watched him do his magic. My mother would hand over the cooked potatoes, the Sunbeam stand mixer, the milk and the butter and leave him alone. I have never made them taste as good.

He was a lovely man, a perfect partner for my sister. He loved to cook and Patsy didn’t. Beyond that,though, his gentle spirit was a great salve to the tensions that could arise on holidays. Alcohol flowed freely at these gatherings, but he remained sober and peaceful.

We live alcohol free now, but I raise a sparkling apple cider toast to Robert today, remembering those melt on the tongue potatoes.

Tomorrow is American Thanksgiving Day, a chance to get together, eat and argue. Political discussions forbidden here this year. We are left with recipe wrangling. Since I am in charge, my opinions rule. Still it is fun to hear opposing ideas of the “right food” for the holiday.

Do you prefer homemade cranberry sauce(no question) or the jellied one in a can which emerges with the lines ringing it?

Should the turkey be stuffed(of course)or left unstuffed. If stuffed, with herb seasoned bread crumbs from Pepperidge Farms(no doubt) or cornbread or oysters?

Should there be petite peas(why ask) or broccoli or French green bean casserole?

Should the potatoes be mashed(how else) or substituted with rice?

Should the pumpkin pie be made from Libby’s canned pumpkin( the only source for the RIGHT recipe) or dolled up with completely unnecessary although Instagram ready extras?

Does it matter that I am alone in loving mincemeat pie? Absolutely not, one coming right up.

Happy Thanksgiving to all dissenting opinion holders!

I am extremely grateful for the collection of photographs my brother had digitized after my mother died. In the above picture, for example, I can see my grandmother(E.G.D.) with her sisters and parents. Her father was the younger brother of the Aunt Lucy I am currently researching. These photos and those like them were taken to preserve a time and place and were quite intentional.

My discomfort comes from a phrase I often hear that “we are doing this trip or this activity to make memories.” The emphasis is placed on the future enjoyment of looking back rather than on the sheer pleasure of the day. We don’t have to go out of our way to “make memories.” We might snap a photo, but we don’t focus on the recording but on the fun. Memories form on their own without the need to be curated.

So much of contemporary social media seems staged like that. Places are visited to take “selfies,” not to be seen. Meals are posted on Instagram to show how wonderful they look. Who knows what they taste like? The image matters , not the experience.

Maybe this is just me being a curmudgeon. Still I remember back in 1970 when a dear friend complained about the newly current word “lifestyle.” “Whatever happened to living a life, she asked. When did we have to think of ourselves as having a style?” I feel the same discomfort about “making memories.”

I had intended to write about my experience as a child of the death of a tree topper on the neighbor’s towering Douglas Fir. We lived surrounded by these giants and, for reasons unknown to me then or now, people regularly brought in men to cut off the tops. There was no equipment, just one man with a chain saw and spiked boots. It looked dangerous and it was. When the neighbor was taking down his tree last week I reassured myself that this time it was a safe operation.

This morning I read the above article in my childhood newspaper. It reported: “They put up a bunch of pulleys and they had an excavator out there to keep the tree from smashing on the ground so that they could save all the branches,” said friend Abby Zumwalt, “I mean, everything was set up as it should be, and it was just kind of a freak accident that the tree like started twisting and just came at her.” The woman survived but with massive injuries to her leg.

It will come as no surprise that the most dangerous job in the United States is log working. I was right to be nervous last week.

In high winds last week a major limb of the neighbor’s tree broke off, grazing another’s garage. (If you look carefully you can see the stub in the middle left) Wisely afraid that another limb would likely hit one of three houses, the neighbors hired a tree service to take the tree down. It is always sad to lose a very old tree which has come to be like an old friend. But I guess trees too have a life span, and this one had reached the end.

Even the cherry picker bucket couldn’t reach high enough, so the man used spikes to climb still higher. Because the limbs were so large they were lowered down on a complicated set of ropes he put in place. It took all day and a crew on the ground to remove the tree, put small branches through a chipper, forklift big sections to a truck and grind the stump. I know it was an expensive, if necessary, process.

The birds and squirrels are scoping out new houses. Fortunately many are available and I expect an abundant number of babies in the spring. Maybe they, like us, need to be shaken out of complacency now and then!(Thoughtful minds might make the connection with living in the United States at the moment.)
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In our sixties we constantly received offers for free dinners. Sometimes they were to listen to condominium sales pitches. Sometimes for time shares. Sometimes to discuss “wealth management”(proving they didn’t know much about us!) Eventually those offers dried up replaced with offers for free hearing tests.

Now that we are well into our seventies the latest postcard(no fancy brochures any more)we found this in the mail this week. Apparently they have reduced their incentive for this one. It’s down to lunch and a quick sales pitch for cremation. Even the lunch looks minimal, perhaps just a cup of soup.

I am struggling to imagine someone thinking up this promotion. I would prefer not to munch or sip away while we discuss cremating the same body I am fortifying with the free meal.

I was reminded of the old saying from my college years “there is no such thing as a free lunch!”