THANKSGIVING LETTER TO KAREN ON OUR 55TH ANNIVERSARY

 

THANKSGIVING LETTER TO KAREN

ON OUR 55TH ANNIVERSARY

I.

The turkey goes into the oven at 6:30.

This bird is stuffed. You left that cavity to me,

doing your own stuffing in the crock pot.

Corn bread stuffing from both of us.

You left out eggs from yours as an option.

I used two eggs and celery,

but let me tell you about mine—as it says

on the box, mine’s a corn bread mix,

not corn stuffing. Homestead style,

protein packed, Kodiac.

Frontier food restored. So add this

to the mix. This corn bread might raise

hell with the bird and the oven.

I don’t know what will happen,

even now.

Even before I put that turkey in the oven

the thought crossed my mind

like it does each year,

that I’m the turkey.

Man in the oven. Baste him

This is no confession.

Cook him in his own juice. Stick him with a fork..

I’ll be right back. I have to go peek.

II.

You’re saying Grace at dinner today.

I loved that Ann Lamott you read me yesterday

sitting in your butterscotch chair. We were trying on

those new support socks you ordered.

Putting them on, getting them over the heel.

They were too tight. Too long.

You talking about Lamott.

Her secret. Even at six she believed in God

in a family of athiests. She had that friend

growing up, they said prayers,

and she was hungry for every word.

Each part of her story that you told got better,

and we decided right then you would say grace

at our Thanksgiving table.

That saves me from becoming the Church Lady, too.

Karen, all of that stuffing wouldn’t fit

inside the turkey. I figured that out,

especially after adding celery and onions--

oh, and carrots, too. I split it up,

putting half of the mix in a loaf pan.

I have no idea what will happen.

You say Lamott grew up around alcohol

and unhappy grownups.

That’s how she became watchful.

Karen, how did you become the beloved?

III.

Last night in bed, just before turning out the light,

you said, There’s one more thing, she said,

speaking of our daughter, those twins,

those two blessings, does it matter which one

told you what? Only in the particulars,

but it was so beautiful. The love coming forth

from the daughters for their mothers.

You, Karen, recipient and seed

of the great Mother-love. I was reading a poem

at the time, a poem by the Canadian Robert Bringhurst.

It, too, was beautiful, and I gave it to you to read

because it seemed to be saying the same thing.

The same thing, but not saying it better than you said it,

not saying it better than our daughters said it either,

but giving us a chance to say it again,

repeating it, a balm, and another blessing.

These lines: We are what we dream of--

music and truth and some unfinished weaving.

Our fire has lasted, and like you said,

How could you tell anyone.

How would anybody believe it.

IV.

Even then I wasn’t ready for sleep Karen,

Did you get the title of the poem, too?

Look at it: How the Sunlight

Gets To Where It’s Going.

My God, it’s beautiful.

It’s beautiful again this morning.

And we did have some unfinished weaving

to talk about. You were coming home

from the store and I heard the garage door open,

and then the door to the kitchen.

Two doors open. And like it is in this house,

in this graced dwelling: Imagine,

having a garage! A house for the car!

Two doors open. And there you are.

Your fabric art on the dining room table.

A mountain scene memory photograph

woven into a wall hanging, with portraits

of grandchildren. Nearly completed,

but in a tough spot. Critical decisions.

Everything’s open, you said.

Consider everything, I’m listening.

The two doors. And we look again.

My stuffing’s been in the oven a long time.

It’s golden, but the toothpick doesn’t come out clean.

Is this corn bread? Is it stuffing?

Is it to die for? Those doors.

I know those doors open, those doors shut.

We look carefully at the art on the table.

We get out the photograph that delivered the dream.

We look again where we hadn’t looked close enough.

Here. Look here, at these lines. This shadow here.

How interesting up against those rocks.

Can that be shown in fabric?

The material you used here, my God.

And what’s small in the background comes forth.

It’s alive and carrying what’s easiest to see.

What we can see, but don’t.

We find all these possibilities.

You find them. We see things together

we haven’t even learned to see.

We draw again on separate sheets of paper

Can something be done with this?.

There are places in this beauty-weave

that must be practiced and learned

before you can finish. All of this beauty.

And that, too. That beauty, too.

V.

Check the turkey. Check the dressing.

Dressing itself. Dressing for the day.

Two dressings. Corn bread. Indigenous beauty bread.

That dressing’s been in the oven a long time.

It’s early, though. We have time.

Before family comes.

We set places for everybody.

A plate for everybody and nobody.

One way or another, they’re all here.

Tim’s on his mountain, but he’s not alone.

His cousin Julia’s with him.

He sent photos of them swimming

in a high country lake surrounded by snow.

Wet socks! He said, that. Wet socks!

Everybody here. Sig and Alice.

Your Mom, Dorothy. Your Dad.

My Mom and Dad.

Places at the Thanksgiving table

on our 55^th Anniversary.

Love,

Jim

23 November 2023