One Last Phase of Goodbye

The ancient lockbox always sat under the old slant-top schoolmaster's desk. The desk was a Christmas gift from Mom to Dad. She was a teacher when they met, and a couple years after he became a teacher too, she gave it to him, the desk lovingly stripped and refinished by her patient hands.

I've spent so much time in that lockbox over the past 20 months, going through their papers - SO many papers! Pictures from their childhoods, family birth and death certificates, taxes, scribbled genealogy notes, pension papers, pay stubs from the 60s, homeowners' insurance, car insurance, investments, taxes, wills, medical stuff, assorted licenses - and the deed to a house I've never lived in, but have lived with, for over 40 years. 

That house became mine when Mom passed in March 2023, and it's now been three weeks since I finalized the sale of what was called, on the 1981 survey, "The Drummond Estate."

Built in 1824, it was a little farmhouse with an outbuilding or two, and perennial gardens which, if memory serves, were a huge selling point. Mom and Dad had always admired the flowers on their daily trips to and from the schools where they taught. 

Over the years, the gardens changed; bulbs gave up after many years of bloom; raised beds replaced ground-level ones; herbs replaced flowers; flowering trees and shrubs, roses, more perennials, and more bulbs were planted, expanding the garden from its original spot in the east lawn to vantage points from windows in almost every room. 

Over the years, the house expanded from its original footprint, just as the garden had, as family members' lives and needs changed. With none of us in a position to take it over, for a variety of reasons, I've sold it to someone who will bring it up to date, allowing a family to move in and enjoy the gifts the Estate has to offer.

For a long time, even before Mom passed last year, it's been hard for me to see and feel the memories I had of the house. There are many reasons for that, including me putting up a protective shield to purposefully keep them out, and later to keep them from getting in the way of handling the estate (the lower-case 'e' is intentional), and spare me the pain of her loss, and Dad's 18 years ago next month. 

But as I walked the buyer and his team through the house, those memories started to sneak back in:

• staying in the tiny room at the top of the steep and narrow original stairs, as I described where the original house ended and additions began;
• the dogs having to be collected from the old house and driven back home (more than once, the silly pups) as I walked him around the yard;
• standing in the dining room, remembering running my fingers over the indentations in the old dining room table, where Dad marked papers for years with a heavy hand;
• looking out where Dad's little pumpkin patch (a fun field trip for Mom's elementary school kids) used to be; before that, the asparagus patch, and at some point, the Christmas trees, only a couple of which were ever harvested;
• the half-removed sidewalk leading to where the chickens made their home in one of the long-since-gone outbuildings that appeared on the survey;
• the surprise 50th-anniversary shade garden My Sweet Baboo and I planted where they'd see it every morning at breakfast; 
• the hours spent in the living room, packing little bags of herbs and spices for the booth at the Jordan Fall Festival, and singing 'Oh-ree-gano' to the tune of Handel's 'Hallelujah', leaving us giggling the rest of the night; and more.

I was surprised how much the house, emptied of Mom and Dad's worldly possessions, spoke to me. Moreover, I felt encouraged for the first time in a long time. Obviously, getting the house sold and all of the associated 'stuff' settled was a huge relief that I'd been looking forward to for over a year and a half. But it was more than that. 

If I could smile, misty-eyed, as I walked through the empty rooms for the last time, remembering where Dad's blue recliner used to be, where the stairs used to rise, where the schoolmaster's desk sat, looking out the kitchen window where I could see the moon rise, spots in each room where specific pictures used to hang, where laughing grandchildren used to open presents... there's hope. 

If the empty house, primed walls hiding the familiar colors, could awaken my memories with more smiles than tears, then maybe I can finally start putting all of the sadness, anger, frustration, pain, and guilt that have taken up so much space in my head and my heart behind me.

And maybe I can tackle the boxes of 'stuff' that came here that I've been avoiding, and the rest of the 'stuff' sitting in a storage unit that I've been avoiding even more. And maybe I can empty out that darn lockbox for the last time. 

Dad's schoolmaster's desk, the gift from Mom back in 1966? Yeah, that's here, and it will stay here until it comes time for someone to figure out what to do with my stuff. I may just keep the empty lockbox under it, for old times' sake. 

Sunday School 5/5/24: Noem's VP Interview

Here's the last of the three vice presidential interviews - whew! 

This time, we've got South Dakota Gov. Kristi Noem, who talked with Margaret Brennan in the Face the Nation classroom. Will we see any questions about the dog? I'm willing to bet the answer is yes. 

Brennan had a copy of Noem's book, No Going Back: The Truth on What's Wrong with Politics and How We Move America Forward (and can I tell you how much I hate overly long and self-serving book titles?) with her for the interview, and started out by asking if Trump mentioned  "any of the response to"  the book when Noem was at Mar-a-Lago over the weekend.

Oh, he certainly knows about the book, and I appreciate his endorsement of it. You know, this is really a book that talks about how we're not going back. It's – we're not going back to the days before Donald Trump. Donald Trump broke politics. And I think that's a good thing. We're not going back to the days of Mitt Romney or the Bushes, that now there's a new way to do and talk to the American people, and they appreciate it. It's an honest, genuine conversation about what these citizens can do to take back their government and to have more input. So, this book is really a how-to guide for how to make your voice heard and how – for people in this country, what they can do to really make sure that they are getting genuine elected officials that really want to give them more freedom and liberty.

So, was that a yes? A no? A 'buy my book' entreaty?  I can't really tell, can you?

Brennan turned to Noem's crazy statement about meeting a particular world leader. Here's what the book says: 

I remember when I met with North Korean dictator Kim Jong-un. I'm sure he underestimated me, having no clue about my experience staring down little tyrants. I have been a children's pastor after all." 

Brennan asked if she had met Kim. 

Well, you know, as soon as this was brought to my attention, I certainly made some changes and looked at this – this passage. And I have met with many, many world leaders. I have traveled around the world. As soon as it was brought to my attention, we went forward and have made some edits. So, I'm glad that this book is being released in a couple of days, and that those edits will be in place, and that people will – will have the updated version.

So, was that a yes? A no? A 'I had no idea anyone was actually going to read the book' line? I can't tell.

Brennan said, "So, you did not meet with Kim Jong-un? That's what you're saying." Noem's answer was pretty funny.

No, I have met with many, many world leaders, many world leaders. I have traveled around the world, I think I have talked extensively in this book about my time serving in Congress, my time as governor, before governor, some of the travels that I have had. I'm not going to talk about my specific meetings with world leaders, I'm just not going to do that. This anecdote shouldn't have been in the book. And as soon as it was brought to my attention, I made sure that that was adjusted.

So, "as soon as it was brought to my attention that I lied in my book, I said, 'oh crap!' and called the publisher," or something like that?

And so, we're doing all that we can to make sure that those changes are made. And I'm going to continue to focus on what this book is, and the blueprint that it lays out for the American citizen on all of the things in the background and stories of my life, but also what I think that needs to be identified in politics and was broken today. I talk about how broken the money game is, how broken it is that – that we've got consultants that are getting rich off of elected officials, and then how fake some elected politicians are. 

Every single person in this country wants someone in elected office that's – that's a human being, that doesn't say they're perfect. I take responsibility for that being in the book. And as soon as it was brought to my attention, I asked for it to be changed. So, I'm glad that the release date is in a couple of days. And we're excited to talk to America about my new book, "No Going Back."

Brennan then asked who Noem might have confused with Kim Jung Un, and wondered if it was the previous, female leader of South Korea.

Well, I think you need to remember, Margaret, and everybody needs to remember that I have worked on ag policy and federal policy for over 30 years. My time in serving and making policies in this country has been extensive and covered decades.

No. No one is required to remember how Noem spent the last three decades, given that most people never heard of her until she hitched her wagon to Trump. 

And when Brennan asked if she ever went to North Korea, Noem said, "yes, I have. I have been there." Brennan was shocked but then said she went to the DMZ (not the same thing, by the way) and said the book includes the info she's "willing to share" about that visit. 

I have traveled the world, and I visited with world leaders. And some of that is referenced in the book. And this anecdote is something that, when it was brought to my attention… … we made some changes. And when the book is released, we'll do all that we can to see that – that that is reflected.

Brennan then noted Kim was mentioned not once but twice, at which point Noem asked "Do you have a question for me, Margaret?"

Yes, I do. South Korea is a treaty ally. North Korea is a nuclear-armed adversary, so that's a… pretty big thing to confuse. I know you read this book before it was published because you released video of your recording of the audiobook. You didn't catch these errors when you were recording it?

And then, Noem did what they all do: point the finger at the other guy.

Well, Margaret, as soon as it was brought to my attention, I took action to make sure that it was reflected. And, listen, this is what is so discouraging about politics and the media today, is that we have the White House that just recently came out and confirmed that President Joe Biden has misspoken, has made mistakes, has even outright lied over close to 150 times just this year.

And you've done nothing to question him on any of that. And you're – you're talking about a book that hasn't been released yet, that's been corrected before it's been released. And you haven't said one thing about Joe Biden saying that he was in prison with Nelson Mandela, that he started the civil rights movement, that he drove an 18-wheeler, that his uncle was eaten by cannibals.

And then it got even more fun.

MB: If I had an interview with Joe Biden, who I have asked for multiple times, I will definitely ask him about his record. But I'm asking you about your book here, which we have. So…

KN: Well, I'm just asking – I'm just asking for why – why am I being treated differently than every other person that you've interviewed? I have looked at your last several weeks of your interviews.

MB: I'm quoting you.

KN: You don't – you don't interrupt other people. You let them talk. Thank you for inviting me to have this conversation about this book. This book is extremely important to the people of this country. It is important, because it's a how-to guide of what they can do to have input into their government, how we need breakers and builders in this world.

OK, that part made me laugh out loud. Brennan doesn't interrupt other people? Good lord, she's the interrupter-in-chief of the Sunday School classrooms! She interrupts everyone! 

KN: And I'm taking responsibility for the change that we've made. And the buck stops with me.

MB: OK, and for the mistake in the book?

KN: And I have told you that, and I'm – no, it's not. What I have said is that I have decided that this anecdote should…

MB: You're not taking responsibility for the mistakes in the book?

KN: I have decided this – I – I am saying that this book is very, very good. And I have met with many world leaders, and that I – there are world leaders that I have met with that are in this book. There are many that I met with that are not in this book.

Now, at this point, if you're Noem, wouldn't you just stop talking about your damn book? Seriously, wouldn't you just stop?

KN: And this is an anecdote that – that I asked to have removed, because I think it's appropriate at this point in time.  

I feel the need to interject here with a definition for Gov. Noem.

Hopefully that might help her going forward. 

KN: But I'm not going to talk to you about those personal meetings that I have had with world leaders. I'm just not going to have that conversation, because I think it's important.

"Help me, Obi Wan Kenobi." I want to be the vice president, but I'm not going to talk about my alleged vast foreign policy experience, "because I think it's important" not to? Is that what she's saying?  

Noting that Benjamin Netanyahu is one of the world leaders the governor' has spoken with, Brennan asked if Noem agrees with Trump that "Bibi Netanyahu has been criticized for what took place on October 7."  Here's the gist of her response: what Hamas did was horrific, America should never stand for anti-Semitism, what's happening at colleges is bad and should be "shut down immediately," and Biden should have acted sooner on that. Brennan interpreted that response to mean Noem doesn't agree with what Trump said.

And then, the interview turned where everyone knew it would: Cricket the dog, and how Noem killed the puppy for being aggressive, too excitable to be a decent hunting dog, and for killing chickens.  The question? "I wonder if you have regrets about sharing this story."

I know, everyone wants to hear Noem defend herself on this mess, but let's be honest: had she not been so proud of what she did, no one would ever know that she did it. And let's be honest about something else, too: animals, including misbehaving dogs, are killed on farms. And I dare say, that fate is likely preferable to leaving a 'bad dog' chained up in the hot sun, pouring rain, and freezing snow, with little or no sustenance.   

In a nutshell, Noem says she included the story about killing the dog because it's indicative of how she has "made very difficult decisions" and "because people need to understand" who she is. And who she is, is a mom with little children and the choice between her kids and the dog, well, the kids win. 

Another reason she talks about it in the book?

...because what I'm tired of in this country is politicians who pretend to be something that they're not, that they aren't willing to have the hard conversations and look at the past and the tough decisions that they've made...what I talk about in the book extensively when people are able to get it on Tuesday is to see the whole story and the truth, not the spin that the media has put on this story. The media has put some or removed – removed most of the facts and – and what – the reason this is in there… 

At this point, Brennan should have stopped talking about the dog, but she didn't. She asked why the dog wasn't taken to a shelter. Noem explained it had been to multiple trainers, she had put lots of time into the dog's training, and nothing had changed.  She took responsibility, she didn't ask anyone else to deal with it. And, then, according to Brennan's interpretation of the book, Noem went out a shot a billy goat that "smelled and would chase kids."  

And I'm asking you this because it seems like you're celebrating the killing of animals. 

Noem turned it into a conversation about extremism and political attacks and she's being treated the same as Donald Trump is treated.

… every day, the constant attacks and coming after me. I – during COVID, I was attacked night after night for months after month for the decisions that I made. In fact, you and many other journalists attacked me every single day on TV for months for the decisions that I made in South Dakota, for my people to protect their freedoms and their liberties.

Does that make her a good candidate to be his VP? I would have asked that, but it wasn't my interview.  

MB: And I thanked you for answering questions on it. But on the – on this point, though... You talk multiple times about it. In fact, at the end of the book, you say the very first thing you would do if you got to the White House that was different from Joe Biden, is you'd make sure Joe Biden's dog was nowhere on the grounds. "Commander, say hello to Cricket." Are you doing this to try to look tough? Do you still think that you have a shot at being a V.P.?

KN: Well, number one, Joe Biden's dog has attacked 24 Secret Service people. So, how many people is enough people to be attacked and dangerously hurt before you make a decision on a dog and what to do with it?

MB: Well, he's not living at the White House anymore.

KN: That's – that's a question that the president should be held accountable to.

MB: You're saying he should be shot?

KN: That what's the president should be accountable to, is, what is – what is the number? And I would say, about Republicans criticizing me, these are the same Republicans have criticized me during COVID. They've criticized me when I have made other decisions in South Dakota to protect my state. And my state today is extremely happy and thriving. We're doing well...

She listed a number of positives for her state, reflecting growth and jobs and no debt, and a AAA credit rating. To which Brennan responded

MB: So, you're not going to retract the book? 

I kid you not - that's what she asked.

KN: I – this book is a powerful book... It's an honest book of a blueprint for America of what citizens can do here to take their country back. And I'm so proud of this book and – and what it will bring to people. I hope that they will buy it. They'll find a lot of truthful stories. And we talk a lot about what we can use as an example from Donald Trump on how he has continued to be a real person, been genuine, and been honest to people, and that what bothers me the most about politicians is when they're fake.

MB: But if you have to retract it or parts of it…

Noem said "I'm not – I'm not retracting anything. I'm not retracting anything."

I'd like to retract this interview, what do you think?

See you around campus.

Wondering on Wednesday 2/14/24

 

Ready... set... wonder!

I wonder more than a little if the candy in those ubiquitous red hearts - the ones that have been on store shelves in my neck of the woods since around Thanksgiving - is still safe to eat? And if it is, will it taste as good as if I paid full price to get it, I wonder?

With all the talk about memory, two old guys running for president, and all of the known instances where both of the OGs have demonstrated memory lapses, I wonder if there's really a significant difference between OG1 not remembering the exact dates he was vice president, and OG2 not remembering when he was married to one of his wives. 

And I wonder more if there isn't greater significance to OG2 saying, in a videotaped deposition about his sexual assault case, that a picture of him and the woman he was accused of sexually assaulting was actually a picture of him and his wife than there is that OG1 didn't remember the date his son died when asked that question in a deposition regarding classified documents. 

Don't get me wrong - I'm not giving either of them a pass. I believe they are both the wrong people to be running for president. But if 'we' - the media, the punditry, the keyboard warriors - are going to make the age and mental failings of one of them an issue in the 2024 race, I can't help wondering what it's going to take to get 'us' talking about the other guy, too, with the same level of breathless panic.

And, totally NOT related to breathless panic... My father, a high school history teacher, used to call me every Valentine's Day and leave a voicemail telling me he loved me and hoped I'd have a great day. Before he hung up, without fail, he'd close with a 'rat-tat-tat-tat-tat' which was his way of commemorating the St. Valentine's Day massacre. And I find myself randomly wondering what my mother must have thought the first time he did it, and, the tenth, and the 20th... I know I loved it, every time. 

What's on your wondering minds tonight?

Yet Another Phase of Goodbye

For many years, I’ve collected Santas. I have some made of wood, cast iron, tin, plastic, resin - even felt-wrapped Styrofoam. They're tall, short, and in-between; the kind that sit on a table or hang on a tree, or balance precariously on a stand. Some ride in cars, trains, and sleighs, or sit on the moon; one even rides a sheep.

Several hold an evergreen tree in one arm, and a staff, a child, a deer, a bag of toys, or even snowshoes in the other, to ensure they can get to children in the snowiest parts of the world.  They wear red, of course, but also plaid, and robes of green, white, blue, or brown; some have sparkly accents or fully sparkly outfits.

My collection has grown in the years My Sweet Baboo and I have been together; I don’t think a single Christmas has passed without him gifting me another Santa. Others were gifts from my mom, from friends, or received as holiday party favors.

Every year, but never before December 1^st, they come up from the Christmas Room in the basement, or from the hall closet, where the cast iron ones spend the off-season. I open the totes and the boxes, sometimes with a plan, but more often haphazardly, freeing the Santas from their wrappings of old newspaper, nearly airless bubble-wrap, and tissue paper at least a decade past when it last saw better days.

Slowly, randomly, I'd start placing them in the foyer - on the sideboard, or the bookcase, or the table where the family pictures usually sit, or the table by the door. I’ve followed that process here for nineteen Christmases. And then came this year: the first Christmas without my mother, who passed in March. 

She loved my collection and looked forward to seeing how they were displayed each year. And she had her own collection, too.  Some of them I suspect came from kids she had in class during her nearly thirty years of teaching. She saved everything they gave her, just as she saved everything my brothers and I gave her over the years. Her collection was augmented by My Sweet Baboo - he gifted her a Santa each Christmas for the last 15 years or so, too.

Earlier this month, after I brought my Santas out of storage and prepared to put them on display, I struggled to stay motivated. I'd work for a while, walk away, and then give up. For the first time, it felt like a chore rather than a favorite holiday tradition. I knew why, of course – there were other Santas out there, in a closet half an hour away.

I hadn’t been out to the house - Mom's house still, even though I officially own it - in weeks. Honestly, I can't remember when or why I was there last. Too much emotion, too much stress, too much to do, too much… everything. I had planned on going, a couple of times, and planned on getting the Santas, a couple of times, but those ‘couple of times’ never worked out. And here I was, in December, needing to make the trip, needing to 'make Christmas'. 

Out we went. While I sorted through some of Mom's things, making 'keep' and 'toss' decisions on books and placemats and random artifacts of her life, My Sweet Baboo rescued the Santas from the closet under the stairs. When I had had enough, had done enough for one trip, we loaded them up, along with Dad’s old schoolmaster’s desk (a gift from Mom) and a small Christmas tree, and brought them all home.

The next day, I stood in the foyer, surrounded by Santas. They were all over the place, wherever I had unceremoniously left them, looking ridiculously forlorn and forgotten. A tote and four shoeboxes of my Santas sat on the floor, unpacked. A tote and a bag or two of Mom's were nearby.

I took a deep cleansing breath: a full, slow inhale, then a full, slow exhale, and then I took another, inviting in the emotions I knew would come as soon as I started unboxing her collection, and then forcing them out, refusing to let them overwhelm me.

It took two or three hours to arrange them all, blending hers with mine, placing them just so amid the strings of lights I put out to help show them off. For the first time, the collection spilled up onto the picture shelves on the wall, down onto the floor, and over to the corner bookcase. I needed to recruit a plant stand from the porch, too, which would have made Mom smile.

The whole thing - seeing her Santas seamlessly integrated with mine, miraculously no two exactly alike - would have made her smile. And finally, I was able to smile, too. 

In Case You Missed It (v115)

Last week was one of those weeks. 

I had plans to get several timely posts out; I had made some progress on clearing out the drafts folder, cluttered with ideas dating back to last summer, for Pete's sake. And then life happened.

Instead of Wondering on Wednesday about politics, current events, and a couple of things that absolutely drive me to distraction, I was distracted by a frightening medical situation with my elderly mother, which ground writing - and pretty much everything else for the past several days - to a halt. She's on the mend, thankfully, and while things aren't yet back to normal, I've got time to share the posts that did go out, in case you missed anything.

For your Sunday School, I recapped two conversations from CNN's State of the Union. Jake Tapper had Reps. James Comer (R-KY) and Jamie Raskin (D-MD), the incoming Chair and Raking Member of the House Oversight and Accountability Committee.

On the Biden and Trump document handling issues, the Congressmen had distinct points to get across. For Comer? 

the key issue - because at the end of the day, as he puts it, there's only one issue... 

...this is the same type of investigation that the Democrats...launched and demanded happened to President Trump...   And we just want equal treatment here with respect to how both former President Trump and current President Biden are being treated with the document issue.

And Raskin? 

He didn't answer Tapper's question on why Biden's personal lawyers - with no security clearance - were searching in DC and Delaware for records, instead of the FBI or DOJ handling that. His understanding is that Biden's folks did the right thing. As to what the official procedure is, but he doesn't want this "turned into just a political football." 

... So, when my friend Mr. Comer says, we're just looking for equal treatment, that's all we're looking for. I think it's good that this is in the hands of special counsels on both sides...

My take on all of this? 

I was frustrated, of course... And, I'm not at all confident that we'll see anything other than politically motivated attacks for the next couple of years out of this Committee. 

For your Extra Credit, I went to the Meet the Press classroom to hear from Sen. Debbie Stabenow (D-MI) and former Deputy AG Rod Rosenstein, which was the more interesting of the two interviews.

Rosenstein, who previously said he wouldn't have appointed a special counsel for Trump's document problem, said

...Garland didn't really have a choice, unless the preliminary inquiry established that "there was no chance a crime had been committed." He said "that wasn't the case," based on what we know so far.

Jack Smith and Rob Hur, he said.

... are two professionals who spent extended amounts of time in the Department of Justice. They understand that their goal is to focus on the facts, and law, and apply department policy. And both of these men are not going to be influenced by political pressure.

They won't be influenced, but they will be attacked.

It's certainly true of these gentlemen, as it was with people like Ken Starr and Bob Mueller, that you pick people with sterling reputations who are known for being nonpartisan. But you're in the political arena where it's inevitable you're going to be attacked.

Of that, we can be certain. 

Back to distractions, for a moment. 

My mother's health scare coincides, almost to the day, with my father's passing sixteen years ago. I shared a couple of old posts about him last week.

Distractions of Dad tells of two unexpected events that in wonderful, fun ways reminded me of him. One came as I observed a couple in the grocery store.

... I saw a man start to toss something across a low display case to his wife, who was on the other side with their cart. He was gesturing with his hands, making a tossing motion, and she was gesturing right back at him, clearly indicating with both her facial expression and her hands that she wanted no part of his pitch and catch game. 

And just like that, I was back in elementary school, on any Saturday morning, with Dad, getting groceries. Let's just say that if anyone today did what we did back in the 60s and 70s they'd probably end up on the store's "Instacart Only" poster. 

The second distraction occurred when someone brought snickerdoodles - his favorite cookies - to work. It immediately reminded me of how my brothers and cousins responded to his annual gift from my aunt: a coffee can full of her delicious homemade snickerdoodles.

The second post was an early Wondering on Wednesday, and how my grandfather, my dad, and I are all victims of our own self-doubt, self-criticism, and our epic lack of patience. I had misplaced some papers - including some of Dad's writing from college, which

frustrates me, and in fact brings out the Dad in me. Patience with himself not being one of his virtues, he had a litany of mostly under-his-breath mutterings that I find myself repeating when I'm kicking myself for some minor failing or another...

I didn't find Dad's papers that day (I did, eventually), but I did find some of his dad's writing. 

So - my grandfather. My dad. And now, there's me: a third generation 'keep-the-day-job, try-to-be-a-writer' person, full of self-doubt, a mutterer and sputterer, apparently from way back. I'm wondering, this Wednesday, what Dad would tell me about his father, and his father's writing, and his own writing, and mine.

And I'm wondering, is this nature or nurture? Writer begat writer begat writer?

I still don't know the answer, and neither of them can tell me. Similarly, I don't know how many posts I'll get out this week; I hope you check back to find out. 

A Future Tale (Part Four)

In Part One of our Future Tale, our narrator took a walk in the city where she's lived for decades. 

She entered an alley in Part Two - a very strange alley, which we experienced with her in vivid detail. 

And in Part Three, she faced a decision on how to get out of it: step into a ridiculously out-of-place revolving door, or go back, through the terrorizing part of the alley, to the gate where she entered.  Here's where we left her.

The thought of stepping into the hug of that door was paralyzing.

I stood there for what seemed like an eternity; in reality, it was probably only a minute or two, as I considered my options. I had only two choices, I realized: try the door, or go back the way I came. Slowly, I turned my body slightly to the right, and took the measure of the alley.

Where there had been the giant screen, I saw nothing. Where I had seen all those dimly lit, frightening doorways, I saw only solid walls. I could barely make out the gate at the end of the alley, still shrouded in the confusing mid-day darkness.

I turned back to the left, towards the revolving door, and to the right again, in the direction of the gate, where this all started. I turned both directions again, and a third time, before making my decision.

Choking back my fear, I started walking.

Which way did she go? Let's find out. 

Towards the revolving door I went, with more than a little bit of trepidation. 

That was really the only choice... I mean, what sense would it make to go backwards? As I asked myself that question, the answers were numerous: I know what I'll find there; I've been there, done that, and so I know exactly what to do; they know me there, and I know them, so it'll be easier; the future is a scary place, especially right now, so why put myself through that? Why not go back the same way I came?

At the same time, I didn't want to go back through that alley, that very strange alley, with all the time-shifting, am-I-looking-ahead or am-I-looking back stuff that was, truly, frightening. There must be a better way, I thought, and that meant tackling whatever was waiting for me in the revolving door. 

I put my hand on the brass plate and gave a little push, to see if there was even a chance I could get out this way. At first, there was quite a bit of resistance. That wasn't surprising; who knows how long it's been since anyone else was in this alley? I gave another push, thinking how much this was like pushing the gate at the other end of the alley. When was that, anyway? How long have I been in here? I have no idea.

Finally, on the third push, it actually moved noticeably, if slowly, with a bit of a grinding noise, as if it needed to be oiled. Or, thinking back to when I was a child, maybe it just needed some kids to push and push and keep pushing, going round and round in their little cages within the door, like I did, chasing my older brothers... or, were they chasing me?

Thoughts of anything chasing me right now were unwelcomed, and I pushed those memories aside, focusing on the task at hand: getting this darn thing to move and, hopefully, finding a way out on the other side. I leaned in a bit, putting some oomph into it, and finally, the door moved, with purpose. 

I kept up steady pressure on the door, and then I was fully inside it, and that made me stop for a brief second. I stood, holding my breath, feeling my heart start to beat a little faster. And then, throwing caution to the wind, I pushed, hard, once more, and around I went. I couldn't tell if there was a door on the back side for me to duck through; I was moving quickly now, surprisingly fast given the outward appearance of the door. 

I started pushing again, walking and pushing, pushing and walking, thinking this has to be the biggest revolving door ever. It seemed to take forever to make it to the front, where I entered, and then to move around to where I expected an exit to be. I went fully around a second time; I'm not really sure why. On the third trip around, I slowed enough to spot an opening, right where it should have been, if this was a normal revolving door. I took a deep breath, and jumped into the darkness.

I landed, awkwardly, barely managing to stay on my feet, and waited for my senses to adjust. What did I hear? What could I see? What did it feel like, wherever I was now? As before, it seemed like an eternity for me to get my bearings. And when I did, I realized I wasn't in a room, I was outside still. 

I felt a breeze, the kind the wind makes, not the breeze from a fan or air conditioning. I could hear traffic - cars, and trucks, and the funny noise made by buses that run on natural gas, and the obnoxious sound of a motorcycle, racing almost above my head. That made me duck, and I laughed at how silly I must have looked, had anyone been there to see me.

As my eyes adjusted, I could see broken glass, fast food trash, empty cans, and a very tall wall to my right. Was I actually back in the alley again? I couldn't be!

I looked up the wall, and higher, seeing the huge beams and girders above. I put my hand  on the wall, feeling the vibrations that told me I was underneath the elevated highway that bisects my city, in one of the 'cheap-monthly-rate' parking lots, cheaper by their distance from the city center. I slowly moved towards the light I could see to my left, and eventually made it out from underneath the interstate and into the fading daylight. 

Left was west, and as I looked far down the street, I could see the setting sun off in the distance, and make out the streetlights, the traffic lights, familiar buildings, and people on the sidewalk. 

I headed in that direction, towards the place I started my walk, however long ago.

Could Alexa Even Handle the Decorations?

Folks who know me well know I sometimes question the value of all our modern technology. For example, here's an old post where I designed my own robot, one that would actually do meaningful and helpful things, rather than stuff like turning on the oven I'm standing in front of... I remember my now sister-in-law once said that I was like the Unabomber. 

She meant it in the nicest possible way, of course, but I'm still not so much a joiner in some of the tech stuff.  I'm known for chuckling at the ridiculous 'smart' things and the ads trying to convince me I can't live without these devices. This is my current favorite. Not for nothing, but unless there's a robot coming out of the woodwork to get the bowl out of the sink and onto the floor, well... As all pet owners know, the only thing worse than an empty dish is a full one your pet can't reach.

Another sis-in-law, who shares similar feelings about commercials (don't get us started on the perfume ones!), tagged me in a Facebook post (that's it to the right), and while we both laughed, I started thinking about what that would look like at our house - or anyone's house, for that matter. 

I can't imagine just telling her to "take down the Christmas decorations" without any additional instructions. I mean, how would she possibly know what's involved?

Would she know that the cute little boxes stacked so festively on the front stairs are nesting boxes? Would she know she has to take the lids off all of them except the smallest box, then put the smallest one inside the next smallest one, and then put that lid on, and put those two boxes inside the next biggest one, and then put that lid on, and then put those three boxes inside the last box, the biggest one, and put that lid on? And then put the box of boxes into the tote labelled Boxes and Pictures, which is downstairs in the Christmas room? 

Would she know to get to the Christmas room by going from the foyer to the dining room to the kitchen to the back door (not to be confused with the back porch door), and down the stairs, then cross the basement heading towards the front of the house, and if she runs into the bikes hanging on the rack, she's gone just a step or two too far? 

And that before she puts anything in the Christmas room, she's going to have to take out a bunch of trees and decorations that we didn't put up this COVID Christmas?

Would she know the framed pieces of some of our favorite wrapping paper hanging on the wall need to come down? And that they, too, go in the Boxes and Pictures tote in the Christmas room?  And that there's a difference between a framed piece of wrapping paper and the picture of me and My Sweet Baboo?

And the Santas? OMG, my Santas! 

Does she know the difference between cast iron, glass, ceramic, resin, metal, wood, and felt? Which need to be on the bottom of the tote, and which on top? Would she know that the tall skinny wooden Santas need to have rubber bands put on them, before being wrapped in bubble wrap and tied with ribbon, so their arms don't flail about and possibly break off? Does she know those don't go in a tote, but instead are placed gently on a shelf? That all of the motion-Santa bases get wrapped together, to make it easier for me to find them next year?

The cast iron ones? They get wrapped in newspaper and put in a tote, sure - but would she know that it doesn't go in the Christmas room, it goes in the closet under the stairs? 

Or that the smallest of the Santas, and the flattest of them, get wrapped (unless they don't need to be) and they go in a separate box that goes inside one of the Santa totes? 

And if you put the Santa's away 'wrong' you could end up with way too much space, or not enough, in the totes? And if it's too much space, would she try to fill it with other decorations, co-mingling them with the Santas and messing up the system? I did that (once) - is she smart enough not to?

Would she be even remotely curious about the newspapers everything gets wrapped in, some of which are more than a decade old? Would she even look at the articles, or no? And will she know whether to replace the least viable newspapers, or if they'll make it one more Christmas before being recycled? 

And what about the memories? 

Will she smile at each Santa as she gently puts them to bed until next year, remembering which came from where, or who, and why? 

Will she know which of the cast iron ones I got years ago in one of the first booths we visited at a massive antique show, and carried in a knapsack for hours as we wandered around a field of 1,000 dealers? Will she hear My Sweet Baboo cursing my foolishness that day?  

How could she possibly know which was the very first one he gave me, or the most recent? Whether it was from our first Christmas, or our second? The tenth? Twelfth? Does she even know this is our 18th Christmas this year? Could she actually put the decorations away without knowing our history, our Christmas history?

And, will she do this? Is she able to do this, the real work of De-Christmasing? 

As I put things away, I find myself pulling out the decorations that never left the tubs, the ones that didn't make the cut. Could I have put this ornament on the tree? Could I have put this stocking somewhere? Could the candy cane candles have gone on the sideboard? I spend almost as much time thinking about the ones that didn't get used, and how I had used them last, as I do remembering how much we enjoyed the ones that did.

Thanks, Alexa, but I think I'll take them down myself. Although, if you want, you can take care of the lights...

I Have Never Forgotten

I haven't written anything in a few days, mostly because I've been struggling with the topic of the day - the nomination of Brett Kavanaugh for the Supreme Court, and the allegations of  sexual assault that have been lodged against him.

I can talk about it in a detached sort of way, as I have on social media in reaction to questions or comments - that's relatively easy:

• prior FBI background checks would not have been likely to delve into this type of thing, particularly since, from all appearances Kavanaugh has led an exemplary life as an adult
• having an additional investigation by the FBI at this point should only help Kavanaugh, if he's innocent, and I wonder why he was so afraid to ask for one on his own, or even say that he wanted one, when asked. It seemed odd to me, that exchange with Senator Durbin.
• neither being first in your class nor being a virgin for many many many years have anything to do with sexual harassment, and those seemed like odd defenses to have raised, either in an interview on the friendliest possible network or at a Senate hearing 
• if he's not on the Bench by tomorrow, surely the world won't come to an end; we have concrete proof of that thanks to Mitch McConnell
• no Democrats were going to vote for him, unless out of a desire for self-preservation as Dems in Trump country, and the investigation will not change that. 
• Kavanaugh's performance at the hearing on Thursday seemed to be exactly that: a performance, driven by Trump's comments about his temperament during the Fox News interview than anything else. 
• Dr. Blasey Ford's account sounded plausible, and I found her testimony about the event both compelling and horrifying.

But really talking about it, or writing about it, has been very difficult.

Because I have been the under-aged drinker at parties with no parents around, or with parents who looked the other way.

Because I have been the girl in the bedroom, being drunkenly and aggressively fondled by a 'friend' when I was clearly, drunkenly, unable to give consent.

And I was not the only one, back in the 70s, as a small-town teenager trying to navigate high school.

We didn't have a fancy country club. We had back roads and drinking spots and the Kissing Bridge and other make-out spots and I saw many times those became one and the same, a natural progression, if you will. We had dances at school, with plenty of dark and out of the way spots like parking lots and playgrounds and athletic fields. And there were parties.

I remember one particular party - I was not in attendance - the rumors and gossip and tales of drunken exploits were so rampant that the school principal got involved, urging discussions on under-aged drinking and personal and parental responsibility and things along those lines.

The drinking age was 18; the purchasing age was lower, or there were older friends willing to help out in a pinch. Or there was stealing booze, or there was the basement keg. It was easy.

And, one time, for me, things got out of hand, and could have gotten really out of hand, had someone not knocked on the door. Not out of concern, mind you, but because he wanted the room.

Back then, it wasn't considered sexual assault; I don't know that anyone in high school ever reported it to anyone. We were awkward and nervous and afraid. Afraid to participate, and afraid not to. Alcohol was cool, and liberating. Choices were made, sometimes regretted.

I didn't tell my parents about any of this, about the drinking, or about that time when things got out of hand, because I was in the wrong place doing the wrong thing, and so it was my fault.

They found out about the drinking, of course, but that's a whole nother story. I don't believe they knew about that time when things got out of hand, and could have gotten really out of hand.

I don't have a calendar from high school; somewhere, I have my high school yearbook, not sure exactly where it is. But I know my yearbook, like Brett Kavanaugh's, has references to parties, and drinking, and a whole host of things I'm admonished to never forget.

And like Dr. Blasey Ford, I have never forgotten.

Happy Thangksiving

I thought about doing an all-new Thanksgiving post again this year, but in the end I decided against it. Not because I have nothing to say - like that will ever happen! -- but because there are thousands of bloggers who will be posting millions of words  today and tomorrow, and ultimately we're all probably going to write about the same themes.

You know: family and loved ones (those still here and those who have passed); memories of holidays back in the day; lists of things for which they are thankful; and the obligatory pictures of cooking, dinner tables, and the aftermath, the men sprawled on various couches in various states of turkey- and carb-induced torpor. Buzzfeed has some examples if you need a chuckle. Slate also chimes in on this.

Instead, I took another look at posts I had done for Thanksgivings past.

In 2013, I relived the story of Thanksgiving 1978, when I was an insecure college dropout traveling to my six-years-older-boyfriend's family gathering, something for which I was hopelessly ill-equipped, but which didn't kill me. And you know what they say about things that don't kill you: they make you stronger. And more appreciative of things. Here's an excerpt:

I remember being dropped at the bus station, and wondering if I was doing the right thing, not being home for Thanksgiving. I remember getting a small floral arrangement, a peace offering for his mother, And holding it on the bus from Syracuse to Jersey, trying hard not to spill it (it spilled). And it seemed so puny once I handed it over to her.

Last year, the post was a little different; it fell nicely into my Wondering on Wednesday theme, which (note to self) I just noticed I haven't been keeping up to date. Rather than the nostalgic musings of the year before, this post was full of pressing questions, such as:

If a male turkey's name is Tom, what's the female's name?  

Nobody answered me on that, so if know the answer or you've got a good guess or a suggestion, drop me a comment.

This year, I'm not cooking Thanksgiving dinner -- for the first time in 20 year or so, maybe even 25 years. I'm struggling a little - it's just always been 'my holiday', if you know what I mean. The special platter, and the special candles, and special dishes, and the little $5 antique potato masher that my Sweet Baboo - my now husband - loves so much.

But it will be fine, and it will be fun, and we will make new memories, just as we would if I had been the one slaving in the kitchen for days. Hmm... maybe I have the theme for next year's post?

Happy Thanksgiving - safe travels, wonderful memories, and well wishes.   

Remembering Fifty Years Ago Today

Where was I fifty years ago today, when JFK was assassinated?

My guess was that I was in a kindergarten classroom in Barrington, RI (given that I was only five years old). I called my Mom to confirm that, and she pointed out that I would have been at the baby sitter's, given the time of day. My brothers would have been in school, but not me. 

I remember where Mom was that day, though. Just a year younger than Jackie Kennedy, she was in a kindergarten classroom that day too - teaching in a Catholic school -- and got a knock on the door from one of the nuns who told her that JFK had been shot. Completely shocked, Mom had to go back to her class as if nothing had happened, because she didn't want to alarm the kids and because, at least back in the day, news like this was delivered to youngsters by parents, not by teachers.

When the second knock on the door came, this time the nun letting her know that Kennedy had not survived, it was even harder to maintain composure in front of the kids, because the school echoed with the sound of prayer. Everyone in the building - all the students except the youngest, all of the nuns and teachers and other employees - were praying out loud. It remains to this day one of her most vivid memories.

(Note to people looking for work: the fact that Mom, born and raised and to this day a practicing Methodist, was teaching in a Catholic school is topped only by the fact that when she was younger, she worked summers at a Jewish camp. When you need a job, you take a job.)

We were living in Rhode Island back in the early 60's because Dad was getting his Masters so he could become a teacher and stop having to uproot the family every time Goodyear decided to transfer him to another store. And so, he too was in a classroom that day, as a student teacher, talking about history as history was being made.

What I find interesting about remembering is how much I 'remember' things not because they're etched in my individual memories, but because they're in our collective memories. When Mom and I were talking this morning, I could clearly remember having heard the story before about the hallways echoing with prayer, and can remember Dad having talked about where he was that awful day.  And when I see people posting on social media or talking on the news about where they were fifty years ago, as has been the case over the past couple of weeks, I clearly 'remember' the day JFK was shot as if it was my own memory.

What's also interesting is how much we collectively focus on the "where were you when...?" question (WWYW?), as if we must remember where we were, or somehow be seen as less interested, or worse, less interesting, if we can't. I seem to recall a time when the question was about the event itself, not so much on where a person was when they heard about it, but I can't remember for sure.

I remember where I was the day of the space shuttle Challenger disaster, but I couldn't tell you when that happened. I remember where I was on 9/11, who I was talking to and why. I remember Bobby Kennedy being shot, and where he was when that happened, but not where I was. Sadly, it seems I don't recall the other WWYW? events of my lifetime off the top of my head, much less the answer to the pressing question.

Fortunately, everyone's collective memories of all these events sort of wrap their arms around me, protect and support and comfort me, both when I do have personal recollections and when I don't.

Where was I fifty years ago today?  At the baby sitter's. Where were you?

Happy Father's Day, Dad

Dad,

Over the past few weeks I've received dozens of emails - at last count around 75 - having something to do with Father's Day.  Ranging from creative spam (Dad's day Cialis) to retail frenzy (buy this! no buy THIS!) to messages from politicians (the best was short & sweet from Governor Andrew Cuomo), they started arriving just around Memorial Day, about the time we would have been cleaning up from a cookout.

With you being gone (five years now), at first I found them all to be intrusive, and deleted most without even reading them. After all, none of them really fit my situation: what do to for Father's Day when your Dad is gone.  But as it got further into June, I started looking at them a little differently.

As I read the emails from hardware stores and sporting goods stores and home improvement stores and clothing stores and on and on, I was taken back to when I was a kid and going through the 'find the right Father's Day present' angst. I'm sure Mom remembers those days too!

I only remember on one present I ever gave you for this occasion. And no, it wasn't a tie, but that doesn't mean I didn't give you some over the years -- you had so many, all so very wide and colorful that if I were to guess, I suspect I may have had a hand in some of them. You were kind enough to wear even the most 'special' ones to school.

Once I became an adult, our Father's Day celebrations were cookouts or dinner at my house, with as many family gathered as possible; you and Mom would come over, the boys and usually some of your grandkids, and there'd be that buzzing, bubbling sound of family, people picking on each other and reminiscing and laughing too loudly about silly little things.

And there was always the US Open, around which I had to plan dinner.

I remember one year (after My Sweet Baboo and I got together) when everyone was out in the garden, playing croquet, taking pictures, looking for toads and bugs, except you.  You were inside, bowl of oyster crackers on the coffee table, cocktail in hand, watching the golf.  I remember asking Mom what was wrong, and her telling me there was nothing wrong, you were enjoying Father's Day. 

It was hard for me to understand how sitting by yourself watching golf while your whole family gathered outside was 'enjoyment' for you, but I learned to live with it, over the years, and remember coming in and sitting with you, with my glass of wine, watching Phil and Ernie and all the rest, and of course that darn Tiger Woods in his red shirt.  Together on the couch, with quiet conversation or sometimes just companionable silence, we enjoyed the time, until I had to go stir something or turn something or head back outside to see what was going on. You'd give my arm a squeeze, "OK Diz, see you in a little bit," and off I'd go, leaving you with a smile (and taking mine with me).

I'm thinking this morning that nothing would make me happier than to be able to sit and watch golf with you, or plan dinner around a sudden death playoff. And I'm remembering that one very special Father's Day present.  It was a little resin statue of a man which was popular at the time. He'd be dressed for different occasions, or different sports, with cute sayings on them.  In this one, he might have had a hot water bottle on his head or something, don't remember that part exactly, but I do remember what it said.

I Love You So Much It Hurts.

Happy Father's Day.

Distractions of Dad

Since my Dad died in January 2007, I’ve gone through what I figure are normal cycles of remembering him and missing him. Not that I don’t always remember and miss him – of course I do.  Most of the time, he’s tucked safely away in my heart; but occasionally I feel he’s sitting right next to me, walking along side of me, or looking over my shoulder. It’s happened twice in the last week, and both times it’s been the most marvelous experience.

The first time was Saturday at the grocery store.  I had left My Sweet Baboo in the cat food aisle and headed off in another direction, and stopped short when I saw a man start to toss something across a low display case to his wife, who was on the other side with their cart. He was gesturing with his hands, making a tossing motion, and she was gesturing right back at him, clearly indicating with both her facial expression and her hands that she wanted no part of his pitch and catch game. He kept trying, she kept saying no, and eventually he gave in and walked over to her, handed her the item, and went off to get something else.

I stood there giggling, and the woman looked at me as if I was nuts; after all, she clearly communicated that she thought her husband had been acting like a child. I apologized to her for laughing and told her it could be worse: when I was a kid, my Dad would roll cat food cans, paper towels, and whatever else he could get moving down the aisle, and my job was to scoop everything up and put it in the cart. Sometimes I missed; things would slide by, and Dad and I would laugh, go pick up the cans, and move on to the next aisle. I thanked her for reminding me of that fun; she smiled and walked away, and secretly I wished her husband would try my Dad’s favorite trick – tossing something across the top of the shelves, from one aisle to another! He didn’t try it often, but it was fun when he did.  (Note that we lived in a small town, with a small family-owned grocery store; I don’t think our behavior would be as well received in a larger store like Wegmans.)

Today it was snickerdoodles. One of my co-workers stopped by this afternoon with a container full of them. They were my Dad’s favorite cookies, mostly because every year at Christmas his sister would make some for him. She’d pack them in a coffee can, put on a pretty bow, and put them under the tree. At some point, we kids would sneak the cookies out from under the tree (preferably while everyone was in the room), and hide them. Even though everyone knew the drill, it was still fun to go through the process, coming up with more creative ways to steal, hide and then rediscover the cookies. One year my aunt made two containers, one for stealing, and one which she triumphantly handed to my Dad, a huge ‘so there, kids!’ moment. In the silliness that followed, my brother stole the second batch and hid that one too.  Another year, we actually left the cookies behind; I remember there was much feigned indignance for a couple of days after Christmas, which ended when the cookies were safely delivered.

Two wonderful memories, completely unexpected, and made that much more enjoyable as a result.  Thanks Dad, for the distractions.

The Weekend Trifecta 01/24/10

A trifecta is generally described as a type of bet where, in order to win, the bettor must pick the top three finishers in the correct order. Here are the weekend’s top three:

Stuffed appetizers. The appetizers were part of the whole Stuffed Dinner we put together for my oldest brother’s birthday. Making them was made all that much more enjoyable – in fact the entire event was that much more enjoyable - because my nephew Sam helped.

One of the appetizers, tomatoes stuffed with tuna fish, Sam indicated he wasn’t really excited about, because while he really really likes tuna fish, he’s not a big fan of tomatoes.

The second appetizer was stuffed celery. I put my Mom in charge of this one. While Sam wanted to help with, he’s not allowed to use a sharp knife until he’s a little older; right now, he’s a few months away from his seventh birthday. He thought his mom said he could use a sharp knife when he was seven, but his dad said not until he turned ten. Turns out he had the parents backwards, but with a ‘safe’ knife and careful supervision, he cut the pieces to size, putting a tiny mark in the side of the celery, and then lining up the knife to make the cut. He stuffed the ones with peanut butter, Mom did the ones with cream cheese, and a careful count was taken to make sure we had the same number of each, along with a ‘tester’ for each flavor. Peanut butter was a hit, earning a big grin and many "mmms" and "oh boys." The horseradish was a little too much for him, but the adults enjoyed it.

The last appetizer, stuffed potatoes, was almost too much for Sam to believe. I halved and roasted some small red potatoes, then we scooped out the inner potato leaving the skin intact; the innards were combined with some chopped green onion and some cheese, then put back into the potatoes and baked, served warm. Sam couldn’t figure out why I’d want to do this in the first place, but he helped scoop some and then he and Mom did the mashing – by hand – which he thought was pretty cool.

Stuffed Dinner. This is what started us off on the whole mission of stuffing stuff into stuff. My brother requested stuffed peppers for dinner, and we then got carried away. Sam, watching me stir the hamburger, rice, and secret ingredients, thought stuffed peppers was kind of weird. I explained that even Grandpa (my Dad, gone three years now) loved them and not only that; he called them stuffed ‘poopers’. Well, this was almost too much, peals of laughter as Mom and I explained that Grandpa always did the grocery shopping and he’d write down the week’s menu, always putting poopers instead of peppers. We mentioned that we missed little things like that.

Sam said, very honestly, “I miss him too. And I don’t get to have Boost anymore either, because it makes Grandma think about Grandpa and get sad.” Somehow, Mom and I managed to maintain our composure – not really sure how, but we did. I had forgotten that Dad used to share a Boost – called it a milkshake – with Sam, and was amazed that he even remembered. After all, he was three when Dad passed. Mom explained very reasonably to Sam why they don’t buy Boost any more, and that was good enough for him, and we moved on.

In addition to the regular stuffed peppers, we also had stuffed poblano peppers with Mexican corn, into which I had stirred a little hot mustard.

Sam’s job with all of the peppers was to do quality control. Since he couldn’t help (a sharp knife, again), he inspected all of the peppers to make sure there were no seeds left in them. He found a few that I had left behind, fewer that Mom had left behind, and then declared them "ready for stuffing stuff into."

We also had stuffed salad, a delicious fruit salad that Mom put together, then stuffed back into a halved pineapple and two melon halves. A little orange juice, brown sugar, and balsamic vinegar on the fruit helped bring out the flavors.

And for Sam and my teenaged niece, we stuffed some hotdogs inside crescent rolls, ensuring that there was something stuffed for all ages.

Stuffed dessert. This one was the silliest of all. I made a rectangular Bundt cake, then we removed most of the cake and stuffed it with a mousse made with Cool Whip, condensed milk, and chopped pineapples and their juice. Getting the mousse into the cake was easy; flipping the cake and mousse onto the platter without making a horrendous mess turned out to be fairly easy as well, once everyone left the kitchen. For Mom, the official family dessert server, it was a little more challenging getting everything served; next time, I think I’ll freeze the mousse.

It’s rare the Weekend Trifecta all occurs on one day, but Saturday had it all – it was a day stuffed to the brim with three generations of family, good food, and lots of fun. And I can’t wait to cook with Sam again!