In 1944, when I was an unimaginable four years old, our family--a quartet consisting of my mother Marie, father Tom, sister Alice (the Republican) and myself—moved from Medford, Massachusetts about twenty miles down the road to Lawrence, where my grandmother, Celia, a weaver at the enormous Wood Mill, lived with grandfather Bill Gosselin, who owned a “lounge” called The Whippet Club on South Union Street. My grandmother was not always named Celia. Born in Alsace-Lorraine, the original monicker given to her was “Alphonsine.” She felt the same way about that as would anyone and eventually ditched it in favor of Celia, which just goes to show what a progressive, thinking woman she was.
When it came to Thanksgiving, Celia was In Charge. We lived in a large two-story house, us downstairs, grandparents up, and both my mother and grandmother contributed mightily to the dinner, both stoves in gear, mother and daughter in non-stop mode from dawn til mealtime, which was usually around one. Truth be told, Celia—or Nan, as we called her—started the day before Thanksgiving, whipping up pumpkin and mince pies from scratch. I remember sitting on a tall stool in her pantry, watching her level the dough with her powerful rolling pin, forming and fluting the crust with her fast moving fingers before dispatching the innards and putting the thing in the stove. The pantry stool was often a good place to take up residence because it was the closest spot you could be once a cake was frosted and the frosting bowl abandoned for “licking,” which meant taking a spoon to the varmint and scraping every possible sliver of frosting off the sides, so much so that the bowl hardly required washing, at least when I was designated the task.
Thanksgiving at our house always included guests, usually lots of them, and I can never remember a holiday when the table was not extended. When we were older, this would include anyone we might dredge up to bring home and everyone was welcome. There would be no finishing the mountain of food prepared if you brought in half the neighborhood and sometimes we did. Invariably, we would have our Dorchester Street neighbors, Arthur and Pamela Hebert, who, for some reason that escapes me, were called “Pay” and “Pie,” the latter of which is an absolutely unbeatable nickname. Pay and especially Pie were relatively lean folks which never explained why their daughter, Joan, always in tow for a free meal, was, well, larger. Joan was a sometimes babysitter for Alice and Bill, always on Saturday nights, and part of her recompense was potato chips and orange soda (orangeADE to us), which she devoured in quantities which awed Alice and I. Joan could always be counted on to do her share to reduce the holiday leftovers and she had an absolutely criminal dependence on those little green olives stuffed with pimentos. She eventually married a punchdrunk prizefighter named Clem Levine and did not live happily ever after.
Since we did not have other entertainment for these affairs, we usually counted on Pie to get roaring drunk and start smooching the men, which she did with great flair. Pie was not a particularly attractive woman, having the appearance of a rather tall, scrawny bird, but she made up for her shortcomings with bold aggression and good humor. One Christmas, she fell in love with Stuart Bentler (Pay was long gone by this time) and he had to flee for his life. To her great credit, Pie was one of the very few adults who was willing to join a 28-year-old Bill and Pamme Brewer in smoking a little hash while celebrating another holiday. Pie did cough a great deal but she became even happier than usual.
Things usually wound down by late afternoon by which time the gigantic meal and the alcohol—never far afield in those days—had done their best to render everyone immobile. Except for the kids, of course, who are immune to these problems, and continued to race through the house raising hell until exiled outside. This was all prelude to the Eight Days Of Christmas, which extended until New Year’s Day, and required visits to and from everyone under the sun for fellowship and, without fail, considerable drinking. There was no such thing as benign eggnog and even the children were subject to getting shnockered. You have to understand, of course, that there was no television during many of these times so measures had to be taken.
It took a wily observer to closely monitor the evolution of Thanksgiving at our house because the whole affair was carried off with such smooth competence it flowed perfectly from the arrival of the first guests to the removal of all evidence of the feast, and for this we must reflect and credit Nan, The Queen Of Thanksgiving, and her trusty assistant, Marie, who labored diligently and with great aplomb to make it happen. If they failed to receive the proper appreciation at the time, they are certainly accorded it now as we look back on those days of unparalleled joy and community with a wistful nod of appreciation. Thanksgiving may still be wonderful….but it will never be the same.
We Get Letters….
Your Sisyphus picture could be the centerpiece of a new ad campaign—“Seventy is the new 40.” (Irana)
Happy Birthday, Bill! You make 72 look and sound young. Our parents seemed a lot older at that age. (Leslie Logan)
The photo of you, naked, pushing the boulder up the Mountain of Life is a powerful, compelling image. You act about 37, in my opinion. You’re completely nuts—you know that, right? (Marty Jourard)
Considering society’s propaganda, it takes a conscious effort to repel “thinking like an old person.” Or behaving like one. I have never really changed the way I dressed, have never really gravitated to elderly pursuits. I LIKE a lot of old people—I just don’t want to BE one. I accept that there will be physical setbacks due to age but I’m trying to stay away from the MENTAL ones. So thanks for saying I’m completely nuts. I work very hard at it.
Just When You Thought It Was Safe To Go Back To The Stadium….
Most of you know I buy my tickets to sporting events from scalpers or fans with an extra. You get better seats that way and they often don’t cost any more than—or even as much as—tickets you might buy from the window. Or the pricey Season’s Tickets, to be sure. Of course, there are inherent risks in taking this course of action. You could get shut out, not be able to obtain a ticket at all and be relegated to watching the event at some noisy dive down the street. In all my years of going to these things, this has happened to me….oh, let’s see….well, never. You may not always get the seat you want, occasionally you will spend more than you’d like and, now and then, getting in is a close call, but most of the time everything goes swimmingly. And then there are days like The “Skip” Experience. You don’t want many of these.
I bought a ticket for the UF-South Carolina football game from Skip. It wasn’t quite as good as the tickets I usually bought but it was adequate and the price was hard to resist. On a day when scalpers were successfully peddling their wares for $100 and up, Skip was selling his single extra ticket for a mere $35. I couldn’t resist. And, at first, it seemed like a magnificent coup.
Skip was a personable guy. He was a knowledgeable fan, a builder by trade, who had experienced great success in his field and, with the recession, a severe jolt. The housing downturn almost bankrupted Skip—but he had an ace in the hole. That ace would be Jesus, who pulled him back up by his bootstrings and restored him to financial health. Grateful for this, Skip decided to repay Jesus by initiating a prison ministry based on his Forty Principles Of God’s Kingdom. Now, I know how my readers feel about these things so I am not going to assign you the actual task of committing these principles to memory. You can thank me later. Suffice to say that, to my widening terror, I discovered I was sitting next to a Jesus nut at my beloved football game. Worse even, Skip seemed to have a cold. I will do anything to avoid getting a cold. These things seem to linger with me for centuries before moving on.
“Skip, you sound like you might have a cold.”
“Well, yeah—a little one.” I edged away. And lied. A little.
“Skip, I have a bad case of asthma. When I get colds, it becomes difficult for me to breathe and I often end up in the hospital.”
“Oh, you won’t get a cold from me,” he promised.
“Well, why not?”
“Because I’m going to pray over you right now!” And he did, too. Skip reached over and put his large, meaty hand on my back and asked his Lord and Saviour to bless his new friend Bill, protect him from all harm—including this terrible cold—and keep him in the best of health. “So help us, Our Lord, amen.” Needless to say, this whole affair was eliciting more than a little attention from the hundreds of fans sitting within earshot. I am never especially comfortable drawing a lot of attention and that goes double for this event. Nonetheless, I thanked Skip for his concern and tried to switch the subject back to football. Skip told me he liked me very much, wrote down his phone number and told me he would have extra tickets for the Georgia game next week, just call him when I decided whether or not I would be going. I’ll be sure to do that, Skip.
I figured it was only a matter of time until I caught Skip’s cold. But, as the days passed, nothing, not a hint of infection. After a week, I figured I was out of the woods, probably due to the fact I have a wonderful immune system. But always allowing for the wee possibility that in that particular moment, at a college football game in Gainesville, Florida, I was truly blessed by God.
It Was The Best Of Times, It Was The Worst Of Times
On the seventeenth of November, in the fourth race at Calder, Cosmic Crown burst from the starting gate, immediately assumed command of the race, stretched her advantage to three lengths in the backstretch, widened it to five at the eighth pole and galloped home a seven-length winner. That’s the good news. The rest of the story is she was claimed from the race by a trainer named Juan Cintron, who will probably move her to Tampa at the end of the Calder meet. We’ll probably pay a visit or two.
Cosmic Flight, her half-brother, second by three in his third start after winning his second, is about two weeks away from his next start. Puck and Hannah, training very well (and obviously needing real names pretty soon), should be ready to ship to Calder on the last day of February, knock on wood. The mares, Dot and Wanda, continue to be pregnant, so there will be infants in the spring.
For all of you out there, this day and every day, Spirits Up! Enjoy the day. Celebrate family and friends. And, if you see Skip coming, well, you know….
That’s all, folks.
When it came to Thanksgiving, Celia was In Charge. We lived in a large two-story house, us downstairs, grandparents up, and both my mother and grandmother contributed mightily to the dinner, both stoves in gear, mother and daughter in non-stop mode from dawn til mealtime, which was usually around one. Truth be told, Celia—or Nan, as we called her—started the day before Thanksgiving, whipping up pumpkin and mince pies from scratch. I remember sitting on a tall stool in her pantry, watching her level the dough with her powerful rolling pin, forming and fluting the crust with her fast moving fingers before dispatching the innards and putting the thing in the stove. The pantry stool was often a good place to take up residence because it was the closest spot you could be once a cake was frosted and the frosting bowl abandoned for “licking,” which meant taking a spoon to the varmint and scraping every possible sliver of frosting off the sides, so much so that the bowl hardly required washing, at least when I was designated the task.
Thanksgiving at our house always included guests, usually lots of them, and I can never remember a holiday when the table was not extended. When we were older, this would include anyone we might dredge up to bring home and everyone was welcome. There would be no finishing the mountain of food prepared if you brought in half the neighborhood and sometimes we did. Invariably, we would have our Dorchester Street neighbors, Arthur and Pamela Hebert, who, for some reason that escapes me, were called “Pay” and “Pie,” the latter of which is an absolutely unbeatable nickname. Pay and especially Pie were relatively lean folks which never explained why their daughter, Joan, always in tow for a free meal, was, well, larger. Joan was a sometimes babysitter for Alice and Bill, always on Saturday nights, and part of her recompense was potato chips and orange soda (orangeADE to us), which she devoured in quantities which awed Alice and I. Joan could always be counted on to do her share to reduce the holiday leftovers and she had an absolutely criminal dependence on those little green olives stuffed with pimentos. She eventually married a punchdrunk prizefighter named Clem Levine and did not live happily ever after.
Since we did not have other entertainment for these affairs, we usually counted on Pie to get roaring drunk and start smooching the men, which she did with great flair. Pie was not a particularly attractive woman, having the appearance of a rather tall, scrawny bird, but she made up for her shortcomings with bold aggression and good humor. One Christmas, she fell in love with Stuart Bentler (Pay was long gone by this time) and he had to flee for his life. To her great credit, Pie was one of the very few adults who was willing to join a 28-year-old Bill and Pamme Brewer in smoking a little hash while celebrating another holiday. Pie did cough a great deal but she became even happier than usual.
Things usually wound down by late afternoon by which time the gigantic meal and the alcohol—never far afield in those days—had done their best to render everyone immobile. Except for the kids, of course, who are immune to these problems, and continued to race through the house raising hell until exiled outside. This was all prelude to the Eight Days Of Christmas, which extended until New Year’s Day, and required visits to and from everyone under the sun for fellowship and, without fail, considerable drinking. There was no such thing as benign eggnog and even the children were subject to getting shnockered. You have to understand, of course, that there was no television during many of these times so measures had to be taken.
It took a wily observer to closely monitor the evolution of Thanksgiving at our house because the whole affair was carried off with such smooth competence it flowed perfectly from the arrival of the first guests to the removal of all evidence of the feast, and for this we must reflect and credit Nan, The Queen Of Thanksgiving, and her trusty assistant, Marie, who labored diligently and with great aplomb to make it happen. If they failed to receive the proper appreciation at the time, they are certainly accorded it now as we look back on those days of unparalleled joy and community with a wistful nod of appreciation. Thanksgiving may still be wonderful….but it will never be the same.
We Get Letters….
Your Sisyphus picture could be the centerpiece of a new ad campaign—“Seventy is the new 40.” (Irana)
Happy Birthday, Bill! You make 72 look and sound young. Our parents seemed a lot older at that age. (Leslie Logan)
The photo of you, naked, pushing the boulder up the Mountain of Life is a powerful, compelling image. You act about 37, in my opinion. You’re completely nuts—you know that, right? (Marty Jourard)
Considering society’s propaganda, it takes a conscious effort to repel “thinking like an old person.” Or behaving like one. I have never really changed the way I dressed, have never really gravitated to elderly pursuits. I LIKE a lot of old people—I just don’t want to BE one. I accept that there will be physical setbacks due to age but I’m trying to stay away from the MENTAL ones. So thanks for saying I’m completely nuts. I work very hard at it.
Just When You Thought It Was Safe To Go Back To The Stadium….
Most of you know I buy my tickets to sporting events from scalpers or fans with an extra. You get better seats that way and they often don’t cost any more than—or even as much as—tickets you might buy from the window. Or the pricey Season’s Tickets, to be sure. Of course, there are inherent risks in taking this course of action. You could get shut out, not be able to obtain a ticket at all and be relegated to watching the event at some noisy dive down the street. In all my years of going to these things, this has happened to me….oh, let’s see….well, never. You may not always get the seat you want, occasionally you will spend more than you’d like and, now and then, getting in is a close call, but most of the time everything goes swimmingly. And then there are days like The “Skip” Experience. You don’t want many of these.
I bought a ticket for the UF-South Carolina football game from Skip. It wasn’t quite as good as the tickets I usually bought but it was adequate and the price was hard to resist. On a day when scalpers were successfully peddling their wares for $100 and up, Skip was selling his single extra ticket for a mere $35. I couldn’t resist. And, at first, it seemed like a magnificent coup.
Skip was a personable guy. He was a knowledgeable fan, a builder by trade, who had experienced great success in his field and, with the recession, a severe jolt. The housing downturn almost bankrupted Skip—but he had an ace in the hole. That ace would be Jesus, who pulled him back up by his bootstrings and restored him to financial health. Grateful for this, Skip decided to repay Jesus by initiating a prison ministry based on his Forty Principles Of God’s Kingdom. Now, I know how my readers feel about these things so I am not going to assign you the actual task of committing these principles to memory. You can thank me later. Suffice to say that, to my widening terror, I discovered I was sitting next to a Jesus nut at my beloved football game. Worse even, Skip seemed to have a cold. I will do anything to avoid getting a cold. These things seem to linger with me for centuries before moving on.
“Skip, you sound like you might have a cold.”
“Well, yeah—a little one.” I edged away. And lied. A little.
“Skip, I have a bad case of asthma. When I get colds, it becomes difficult for me to breathe and I often end up in the hospital.”
“Oh, you won’t get a cold from me,” he promised.
“Well, why not?”
“Because I’m going to pray over you right now!” And he did, too. Skip reached over and put his large, meaty hand on my back and asked his Lord and Saviour to bless his new friend Bill, protect him from all harm—including this terrible cold—and keep him in the best of health. “So help us, Our Lord, amen.” Needless to say, this whole affair was eliciting more than a little attention from the hundreds of fans sitting within earshot. I am never especially comfortable drawing a lot of attention and that goes double for this event. Nonetheless, I thanked Skip for his concern and tried to switch the subject back to football. Skip told me he liked me very much, wrote down his phone number and told me he would have extra tickets for the Georgia game next week, just call him when I decided whether or not I would be going. I’ll be sure to do that, Skip.
I figured it was only a matter of time until I caught Skip’s cold. But, as the days passed, nothing, not a hint of infection. After a week, I figured I was out of the woods, probably due to the fact I have a wonderful immune system. But always allowing for the wee possibility that in that particular moment, at a college football game in Gainesville, Florida, I was truly blessed by God.
It Was The Best Of Times, It Was The Worst Of Times
On the seventeenth of November, in the fourth race at Calder, Cosmic Crown burst from the starting gate, immediately assumed command of the race, stretched her advantage to three lengths in the backstretch, widened it to five at the eighth pole and galloped home a seven-length winner. That’s the good news. The rest of the story is she was claimed from the race by a trainer named Juan Cintron, who will probably move her to Tampa at the end of the Calder meet. We’ll probably pay a visit or two.
Cosmic Flight, her half-brother, second by three in his third start after winning his second, is about two weeks away from his next start. Puck and Hannah, training very well (and obviously needing real names pretty soon), should be ready to ship to Calder on the last day of February, knock on wood. The mares, Dot and Wanda, continue to be pregnant, so there will be infants in the spring.
For all of you out there, this day and every day, Spirits Up! Enjoy the day. Celebrate family and friends. And, if you see Skip coming, well, you know….
That’s all, folks.
