Thanksgiving Leftovers

Sitting amongst the wreckage of Thanksgiving at the kitchen table – some dinner rolls in a zip lock, a cranberry cake (deliciously baked by my daughter I might add), some cornbread and God knows what’s in the fridge.  I’m almost afraid to open the door for fear of being buried by an avalanche of leftover feast.

Yes it’s all over but the indigestion.  Two turkeys and all the trimmings and the pumpkin pie, chocolate cream pie (Both baked by my son – he even makes the crust!), some Filipino desserts, wine and what not.  By my count the census was 15 people (12 adults, 3 children) representing 4 generations; 4 dogs, 7 swans-a-swimming, 3 French Hens and a partridge in a pear tree and no I’m not getting ahead of myself.  All of last night’s merry making transitions into Christmas, which pathetically began at the retail level a couple of weeks before Halloween while the World Series was still going.  This reminds me of course that just a month or so after New Year’s, pitchers and catchers report to spring training which actually starts a month before the actual start of spring and then it’s going to be time to buy individual baseball tickets – it’s just around the corner.  Okay maybe I am getting ahead of myself.  The cycle seems to go round so quickly. 

It dawned on me last night that the last time that I took a real drink of alcohol was a year ago, more or less.  It was the day before Thanksgiving and the wine spun my heart into atrial fibrillation.  Normally the doctor applies a shock to the heart and reboots it back to normal.  This time the ER doctor and the cardiologist who was a fresh faced, albeit cute, little twit apparently just out of med school decided that they would control my racing heart with medication.  They sent me home with pills, instructions and short of breath.  Five days later on the following Tuesday my regular doctor had the juice applied and that was the last a-fib episode (I still recall the ER crew that did the job; a really fantastic, fun loving bunch.  The doc, who was really cute by the way, explained to me that they would give me some propofol to put me under.  “Where have I heard that name?”  I asked.  A big, burly nurse, chuckled and said, “That’s the stuff that killed Michael Jackson man.”  Gulp.).  The whole experience of not being able to walk without being exhausted terrified me so much I’ve clung desperately but without difficulty to the water wagon - it solved a lot of problems.  I catalog the whole event as one of those crappy twists that turned out good; something that I give thanks for.  There are others.

There was the time that Linda Wong dumped me.  After three years she decided that yes I was indeed a real shit heel.  I begged, pleaded, cajoled and used all the charm that I could muster to negotiate myself back into her good graces and her bed (I was still in my twenties – okay?) but to no avail.  Linda was history the moment I bounded down the stairs at work and out the side door and nearly bowled over this sweet little Filipina all dressed in purple.  To this day I don’t know why the prim and proper little Catholic girl decided that a long haired, bearded, hard drinking foul mouthed lout was right for her.  I had my doubts on that first date when she said she wanted to go see Friday the 13^th.  What the fuck, I thought – she wants to see that mindless crap?  Yeah I give thanks for that meeting.  Okay so I’m doing the giving thanks bit.  Wasn’t I supposed to do that yesterday?  Sure but we’re supposed to give thanks every day – aren’t we? 

I’ve succumbed to Jessica’s cake.  Shit’s good!  Cora’s out of bed and shuffles into the kitchen.  All of the chairs are still in the dining room, “Can you bring all the chairs back?”, she asks.  “I’m in the midst of thought – I’ll bring you one. That's all you need now”  She shakes her head and gives me the Tagalog version of “Don’t be a wise guy,” that she’s given me for thirty plus years.  God I love that woman.

There was my freshman year in high school when I flunked PE.  It wasn’t a quasi-flunking as in a “D-“.  No it was the full flower of flunking – an “F”.  You see in those days PE was the real thing – not the budget gutted, self-esteem saving joke that it is today.  We dressed out, had PE lockers, showered afterwards and did all the things that terrified me; boxing, gymnastics and wrestling.  And so my freshman boy’s little mind conjured the faulty reasoning that life would be good if I just skipped going to PE.  Since the counselors (yes we had those) my parents and my ego wouldn’t tolerate flunking PE I took the only other option available and joined a sport, cross country, for the automatic “A”.  Yeah I’m thankful for that.  I’m not one of those who attributes some religious, Zen, Voodoo, spirituality bullshit to running but that move to cross country (and track in the spring), was life changing.  I’ve kept at it for over 40 years.  Now with nagging injuries I’m thankful to get out and run a couple times a week with either Rainey, my dog, or Ashleigh my running buddy of 13 or 14 some years.

That first run with Ash was sure a dark cloud.  She was a co-worker who one day offered that she wanted to go running and so we met up at a local recreation path.  In those days I was still training at a 7 minute mile or so pace and Ashleigh was going at a pedestrian, jog-jog - Judas Priest, I thought, this shit is going to take forever.  I ALWAYS ran by myself for the very reason that I didn’t have the patience to dawdle at 11 minutes a mile.  This time I hung in.  She got faster over time and I had my first and only running partner.  Every Saturday and Sunday we met for a run, usually in Berkeley, and then we would linger for coffee and conversation.  Sometimes we would start from the farmer’s market in San Francisco and afterwards we would walk around and refuel with all of the free samples of fruit and other organic goodies.  There was that time that we ran in a downpour and then, two wet rats, sloshed into a coffee house to rest and get warm.  The run in Wildcat Canyon when I assured her that it was flat and had plenty of bathrooms – it was rolling hills a couple of steep climbs that were more like walls and nary an outhouse.  I think what was really special were the injuries.  One would get hobbled or sick and have to get back into shape and the other would take it slow, nurturing and encouraging until we would both be back at full speed.  I never thought that I would gladly stop and walk in the middle of a run for someone to catch their breath; but she did it for me and I did for her.  We don’t get together to run that much.  She’s training for a half marathon and I’m just muddling.  I’m horribly jealous of her new running partners.  I’ve really only two reasons to run these days - Rainey and Ashleigh. 

As I write this I’m thankful for some of the values inherited from my dad.  When I was a small child he would, like any parent, read to me at bedtime.  He read to me Kipling’s, Just So Stories; Robert Louis Stevenson’s, Treasure Island; Jack London’s, Call of the Wild and White Fang, and Mark Twain’s, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.  Dad never ceased to admonish me of the importance of communication – “Learn to express yourself son.  Learn to write.  It’s power.”  But to learn those things and to be good at them he said, you have to read – read the classics.  We have four full bookcases and boxes of books in our house. 

This leads me to a generational thread that occurs to me when I read my daughter’s blog.  She writes a “mommy blog,” and she does it too infrequently.  She writes well; better than I, but that’s damning with faint praise.  I don’t know that Jess realizes the connection with her grandfather (I suppose she will after reading this).  You see for a short time, just after World War II, dad was a columnist for a small town newspaper – a blog, if you will.  I have to believe that it was his dream job but I imagine necessity forced him to get a “real” job.  He loved to write. Later in life, he would write, just to write.  Jess never really knew her granddad.  She only knew the man who was tortured by dementia.  How proud would he be to read her blog? He must be in a better place now, reading her posts, with a pipe clenched in his teeth, chuckling and saying, “That’s pretty damned good.” 

I’m thankful for a son who teaches me lessons on how to live.  It’s supposed to be the other way around but he’s the example of patience and reason countering my volatility.  He has the wry, intelligent, ironic sense of humor that brings a laugh and elicits a recollection of his granddad’s wit; a rapier comment an arched eyebrow and chortling all round – even from the victim of the barb.  In my dream I see Matt and his grandfather exchanging stories and ideas across generations; maybe conversing between moves over a game of chess.

There is so much more to be thankful for.  My children's spouses who are not career baristas, lifelong students trying to sort out what to do or drifters. One is a nurse at the VA and the other a firefighter.  The three grandchildren.  Jackson, calling out to me, “C’mon Papa let’s pway.”  Sophia, who at five is already starting to exhibit her great-grandfather’s wit.  And the littlest, Luciana, who took the name of her great-aunt, bears the feistiness required of a little sister while taking in all of the big brother’s abuse with what has become a trademark shrug of the shoulders. 

I didn’t mention that other stuff that we’re supposed to be thankful for – the things.  I didn’t mention my job.  Someone posted on Facebook to be thankful for a job because someone else doesn’t have one - fuck that.  A job is ephemeral; and things break and wear out. Their value is diminished by people, memories and the experiences that warm our hearts and live on long after possessions have outlived their usefulness and been sold off at a garage sale or turned into landfill.   

I'm thankful for

My partner and me

With lifelong friend Scott

Jackson

Jess and Lucy

Matt and Sophie

Selfless, solid children in law

Niece Giselle and Nephew Carl

My running buddies, Ashleigh and Rainey