One Tacky Thanksgiving

The following is Celie’s Livingston's latest Thanksgiving story:

 

Daddy insisted we go to his mother’s house for Thanksgiving last year. Mama pouted for Lord knows how long because she’s Jewish and my grandmother is a bonafide born-again Christian.

You can’t create a more perfect storm.

Granny tries to make her point by collecting small Pilgrim figurines so she can put miniature halos on their heads. She’s first in line at the Hallmark store on Black Friday in order to add to her collection. She calls them God’s little angels and she’s certain that the black garments worn by the original Pilgrims were actually Nun’s habits. 

Granny talks her head off about those stupid knick-knacks of hers while we do a lot of yawning that has nothing whatsoever to do with the Tryptophan-ladened turkey. 

Last year, right in the middle of Granny’s long Thanksgiving blessing (I watched the turkey getting frostbite and the dressing and gravy turn to Jello), my little brother escaped one. Yep. The little monster farted. Granny stopped in the middle of her Thanksgiving prayer-slash-sermon giving thanks to God for sending Christopher Columbus to America. In no time at all, she turned a bright shade of blue. I thought it was due to my little brother’s sweet potato after effects — he had sneaked a mouthful way before Granny finished blessing it. Granny was having a tacky-cardia that scared her so bad she sat straight up and held her breath till she turned the color of a blueberry. 

Daddy jumped up and dialed 911 on his cell and by and by two unhappy paramedics left their own turkey table and showed up at Granny’s front door. After they left, Daddy covered Granny with a crocheted Afghan on the sofa and told her to hug her Bible. 

Then he put Mama in charge of reheating everything in the microwave which was a serious mistake. Mama doesn’t cook because she’s a Jewish Princess who claims to be electronically challenged. When she gets within three feet of a microwave, she turn into a pillar of salt.

Mama reminded Daddy of the last Thanksgiving fiasco, but he was able to convince her that Granny could be looking at her last turkey day. He said she needed to show off her little pilgrim nuns one more time before the Rapture that she was so looking forward to, whooshed her up to be with Jesus.

Mama agreed to go to Granny's but on one condition: he had to promise her that we would eat Thanksgiving dinner at the Japanese Restaurant downtown because it was right next door to the fire station and the paramedics. If Granny's tacky-cardia acted up again, rescue would be, if not a piece of cake, then maybe a slice of pie.

Who knew that daigakuimo was a Japanese sweet potato specialty, or that it had been a featured menu item every Thanksgiving since we won the big war? 

Who knew that the paramedics in the building next door had decided to eat turkey at home? 

Two weeks later, my little brother suggested that we plant a sweet potato vine next to Granny’s tombstone. He felt sure it would produce a full crop. I told him it was a tacky-cardia idea, but Mama grinned real big and said, “I’ll get the shovel.”

 

A Random Act of Kindness

 Children Learn What They Live 

by Cappy Hall Rearick 

I dashed into the Dollar Tree for one item. One bottle of Dawn Dishwashing Liquid. Thirty minutes later, I looked down at a shopping basket full of needed things that had quickly become necessary mere minutes after sashaying down Aisle One.

     Hallmark cards were two for a dollar. Such a deal. 

     Quart size zip-lock bags? Gotta stock up.

     Snicker’s in a giant bag. Babe’s favorite. 

By the time I rolled the buggy with the wonky wheels up to the checkout counter, I was looking at a bit more than an uptick on my debit card. Oh well, what else is new?

A heavy-set woman was ahead of me in line, but I was in no hurry so I smiled and thought about what I was going to cook for supper. After several minutes, I noticed that the woman seemed to be having difficulty settling up for the items in her buggy. I was not sure what was going on, so I went back to trying to decide between fried pork chops or fried chicken for supper.

It was about that time that I noticed two young boys, around eleven years old, tow-headed and adorable, both grasping candy bars. They headed to the next checkout line but the cashier told them she was cashing out so they should go over to the other lane, the one I was in. 

The boys were eager to pay for and eat their booty, so they switched lanes over, albeit reluctantly, to where I was waiting for the woman ahead of me to get her act together.

I told them that since they each had only the one item, to get ahead of me. They flashed me a beatific grin and zipped behind the other woman. 

When I looked  again at the woman still struggling to pay for her goods, I saw that she was physically challenged and perhaps mentally challenged as well. I also realized that she didn’t have enough money to pay for all the things she’d bought. She was trying to decide what to put back and what she could do without and still be able to pay for what was left.

It was at that moment when I saw the grandmother of the two boys who had been waiting near the door for them to pay for their candy. As soon as she became aware of the poor woman’s dilemma, she quickly walked over to the cashier.

“How much does she need,” she asked.

The cashier could not have looked more disinterested if she had written instructions in front of her. “A dollar and thirty cents,” she said. She sighed and rolled her eyes up to her hairline.

Granny opened her purse, took out the required amount and paid the difference. When she did that, she looked at the distressed woman and gave her a smile to match the one her grandsons had given to me.

It was a privilege for me to be in that particular space at that particular time and to be privy to such a lovely random act of kindness. All I could think was that everyone needs to do nice things for others every chance we get. We too often overlook the opportunities given to us. One of the young boys turned to me just then, smiled again and handed me a shiny quarter. 

“Here,” he said. “This is for letting me go ahead of you in line.”

I wanted to hug that child, but I thanked him instead and suggested he give it to the lady having trouble paying for her stuff. His smile got even wider as he whipped around and handed the quarter to the woman. Her eyes filled with tears (as did mine) when she thanked the boy and said, “Things are not going so good in my life these days. I’m having a real hard time.”

When I looked up at Granny, the pride and love pouring from her eyes was overwhelming. 

It occurred to me then that children constantly learn from what we do and that Granny had given those boys a life lesson to remember. The boy wanted to give me one off his quarters for the simple act of allowing him to get ahead of me in line. What a lovely thing to experience. I haven’t stopped smiling since.

“When children live with sharing, they learn generosity.”

Best Friends Forever

When my mother was alive, her BFF was a French Poodle named Pepé. Nobody in the family liked that dog but Mama thought Pepé was the cat’s meow. The neighborhood cats, however, did not agree. They stayed six socially distant feet away and yowled.

I would lose patience with Pepé when he acted like he was in the throes of canine PMS. “Why do you put up with that mean-spirited dog, Mama? Nobody likes Pepé. He snarled at me the other day and if I hadn’t snarled back, he’d have taken a chunk out of my foot. I’m certain there’s a nice Golden Retriever somewhere in the world pining away for you. Call the SPCA.”

Her answer? “I don’t want a big ol’ Golden Retriever. I want little Pepé. He’s my best friend and the sweetest dog in the whole wide world. Unlike some people I know, he doesn’t talk back and he’s never rude.”

I rolled my eyes at her no more until the next time the sweetest dog in the whole wide world tried to eat my ankle.

These days, I find myself comparing my mother’s bestie to Alexa, who became my electronic best friend last Christmas. Like Pepé, she doesn’t sass me and is never rude, but that’s where the similarities end.

Wait ... what? Cappy has a virtual BFF?

H-E-O! Holy Electronic Overload! 

My friend Becky told me that Alexa knows everything about everything. I didn’t believe her. I did NOT want or need a know-it-all robotic voice listening to me complain about things and certainly not when I’m singing off-key. Babe bought me one anyway. What else could I do but smile and act grateful? Mama wouldn’t want me to be rude.

I plugged her in and threw questions at her in hopes of stumping her.

Holy A-M-A! (Ask Me Anything).

Not only was I totally impressed, I was totally hooked. If I could have, I’d have filed adoption papers. I wanted that amazing three-inch smart-mouth voice sitting right next to my kitchen stove. Being near meant that I would never again need to whine about sole kitchen duty, which was probably the method of his madness when he bought Alexa.

Alexa, tell me a joke. 

“I’d tell you an umbrella joke, but it might go over your head.”

Don’t give up your day job, my new BFF.

Alexa, how do I bake a potato? 

“Good grief, girl. Tell me you’re not serious.”

My BFF doesn’t like stupid questions.

The thing I like most about Alexa is that she plays music that matches my mood. I love jazz, and with her vast knowledge of music, I am in Blue Note heaven the entire time I’m peeling potatoes. Alone. A list of the artists she’s introduced me to sits next to my slow cooker.

Alexa, play some Bill Evans.

“Good choice, Capster. Shuffling songs by Bill Evans on Amazon Music.”

Holy Polyrhythm!

Alexa wasn’t the one to turn me on to Bill Evans, my son did. I wanted to know if he’d ever heard of him and he quipped, “Asking me if I’ve heard of Bill Evans is like me wanting to know if you’ve ever heard of Flannery O’Connor. Next time ask Alexa.”

I told him my BFF never sasses me like some people I know.

When I want a bit of musical variety, I mix up some martinis in a shaker.

Alexa, play some Snoop Dog.

“I can shuffle songs by Snoop Dog, but you won’t like it. Shuffling songs by Frank Sinatra from Amazon Music.

What? She’s choosing my music preferences now? What’s next? Books? Movies? Husbands?

Holy Jeff Bezos.

I pop a couple of martini olives into a glass, empty the shaker and before I can say Stolichnaya, me and Old Blue Eyes are Flying to the Moon while stirring a pot of potatoes on the stove. I can live without Snoop Dog, but if Alexa doesn’t want to get unplugged, she better not shelter in place or isolate Bill Evans, Don Shirley, Bee Gee Adair or even Sinatra.

My BFF may not be the cat’s meow like my mother’s Pepé, but she doesn’t bite and like Becky said, she knows everything about everything. There is nothing my best friend can’t do. Don’t believe me? Listen up:

Alexa ... make me a martini.