Happy Thanksgiving

Our thanksgiving feast for 12 has become a party for 24 in the last six hours. A couple days ago, I was feeling a little sorry that we weren’t a bigger crowd, since I bought a 28 lb turkey, but we found some friends to feed, and now my husband is afraid he won’t have leftovers.

And I’m sitting at the computer… The turkey is brining (an experiment – I hope no one gets e. coli), the rolls are rising, the flavors in the cranberry sauce and relish are marrying happily in the refrigerator. Pie crusts are chilling, and pie fillings are cooling. The house could use a swabbing down, but the kids are working on their rooms, I’ll do the potatoes, bathrooms, and floors in the morning, and that’s about all I’m going to concern myself with.

That’s the joy of living on this island – standards are relaxed. People are just happy to have somewhere to hang out together and eat.

Of course, tomorrow morning I may be pulling my hair out and doing the crazy dance when I realize how much I’ve forgotten to do…

For now, though, I’m taking a moment to recollect, to remind myself to be thankful, and to share one of my favorite poems which we read in class last night, even though a few days ago I was feeling sorry for myself for not being with extended family, for failing students, for having a son who just took a driving class, for calling someone I should know the wrong name, for having to pick new schools for kids who don’t want to move. There’s always something to get you down. 

But now I’m looking forward to a housefull to feed and to sitting on the porch drinking wine while the kids play streetball and to eating pumpkin pie and pumpkin cheesecake and to having plenty.

Love Calls Us to the Things of This World

BY RICHARD WILBUR

The eyes open to a cry of pulleys,

And spirited from sleep, the astounded soul   

Hangs for a moment bodiless and simple   

As false dawn.

                     Outside the open window   

The morning air is all awash with angels.

 .....

Yet, as the sun acknowledges

With a warm look the world’s hunks and colors,   

The soul descends once more in bitter love   

To accept the waking body, saying now

In a changed voice as the man yawns and rises,   

    “Bring them down from their ruddy gallows;

Let there be clean linen for the backs of thieves;   

Let lovers go fresh and sweet to be undone,   

And the heaviest nuns walk in a pure floating   

Of dark habits,

                      keeping their difficult balance.”

See The Poetry Foundation site for the whole poem