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The Art of Living
During this time of the year when the air is crisp and cold,
frosty snow lays in some spots where the ground stays the coldest, and brown leaves crunch beneath one's feet, I regularly sing the old song, "Over the River". It brings out the nostalgia in me, and prepares me for the Thanksgiving day that is soon to come. If you are in the neighborhood, drop in on this festive day, or call me (402.991.9727) to join in share in the feast. I would love to share our meal and conversation with you. Peace and grace to you this week, and may you be abundantly blessed as we are. With loving hearts, Maggie, Lily, Lizzie, Silver, and all the critters in our pond.
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The coming weeks of Thanksgiving bring excitement about the
feast, gathering of friends, a warm and gracious home, and a time to reflect in gratitude of a blessed life. Inside she jumps with glee and enthusiasm with all the planning that remains to be done. She starts with a list of ingredients that must be picked up at the market and orders her fresh turkey from the local farm. So much to be done! She recalls the Thanksgiving's spent at her grandmother's modest post war brick bungalow. Mumuci had a tiny home, probably no more than 1000 square feet, but as a child, it was her palace because it was Mumuci's home that had a tiny "cold room" filled with canned goods from her garden, smoked Hungarian sausages and salami, onions, and garlic. Good thing this cold room was in the basement because the smell was overwhelming. The little boxy brown brick home had a cute little cupboard painted a yellowish-cream that was a pass-through to the outdoors. This is where the milkman would leave pints of whole milk in tall clear glass bottles. As a little girl, she would open and close the cupboard doors repeatedly throughout the day to see if there was any milk left by the milkman. Large gatherings were always downstairs around the old mahogany table carved with ornate leaves and blossoms. She loved this table because it was so old and heavy; it's deep rich color made meals warm and inviting. Thanksgivings were always best with Mumuci. Her deep love for her grandmother always on her heart. She wanted the rest of her family to follow her grandmother's candor, but that was not the way it was. Long ago, she forgave each of her family members for their unprincipled behavior, and opened her heart to welcome them provided their choices and demeanor turned gracious minus the lies, hate, and bitterness they carry toward people. All but one chose to continue living dishonorable lifestyles. After decades of not speaking, her authoritative father redeemed himself by turning a bit softer. Still aloof, un-attentive, and placing himself first, at least the conversations became bearable so they could engage in normal conversations. He too, would not be at the feast because of his choice and lack of desire to make the effort. She shrugged it off. This has become the norm. Not her choice, but she accepted the fact that her family was not like most. By not accepting this situation, these circumstances could potentially rob her of any happiness during her lifetime. So it's best to shrug it off, and free herself from the contentious thoughts. Off she drives to the market; fresh flowers, yams, golden potatoes, fresh deep-red cranberries, and plump oranges; she buys what she needs and heads home to her one true love, her daughter. When she arrives, she is greeted at the door by the little helper who is interested only in the Pecan pie. She finds the pie and the flowers, and her eyes shimmer as she squeals with enthusiasm. Mom eager to unpack her purchases asks for help and the little one, reluctantly agrees on the condition she have one sliver of that richly sweet pie. Mom quickly concedes and they both move about the kitchen putting those things where they belong, in the fridge and pantry. The day before the feast, she prepares for the Thanksgiving day to come. This year, her Thanksgiving will be cold and wet, making the indoors seem even more sumptuous and cozy. Her clever and lovely daughter grateful and delighted that she will have a five-day holiday from school. The thought of sleeping in everyday makes her eyes dance with joy. Quite honestly, even mom is looking forward to sleeping in and hanging around the house lazily. With the turkey in the roaster, homemade cranberry sauce and stuffing made, there are minor tasks to be done. Music softly echoes her favorite Bach concerto, the colorful flowers with their sweet fragrance decorate her home, and the table is set for a memorable gathering. This Thanksgiving day she will be with her friends and they will share in the laughter and chatter that brought them together to begin with. Best of all, she will be with her dear sweet daughter, a special gift from God. Her gratitude ever present toward her daughter; she tells her how grateful she is to God for her. "I thank God for you", she lovingly tells her child and kisses her forehead. In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields. In Britain and Canada, this poem still serves an integral piece to their Remembrance Day. Lest we forget. |
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January 2019
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