Yesterday was an especially beautiful day — except for having to say goodbye to Rachel and Paul, our friends who had come for Thanksgiving. We waved (and waved and waved) as they stood as small specks atop the big white boat, the first leg of their trip back over the pond, home to England and real life. We drove home, with this playing from our speakers . . . musica . . . the windows open, realizing how quiet it’s going to be without them . . . facing our own version of real life.
The weather was beautiful all weekend, unseasonably warm. I’ve never been able to hang my Thanksgiving napkins out to dry; they would normally freeze stiff in the late November air. But it was balmy and breezy yesterday; I filled my laundry basket with napkins and dishtowels and took them outside. A very tricky form of procrastination, masquerading as house work, because I love to do this, it’s not work at all ♥.
Even Girl Kitty, that little black and white speck over there next to the house, was outside; enjoying a good roll in the dirt driveway.
Not Jack though, he still has to stay inside, he would love our yard waaaaaay too much! The way Jack watches the bird feeders through the window, with yearning, his tail twitching like a whip, makes me fear for all living creatures in our vicinity. Let a mouse try and enter our house this winter, it will be mincemeat.
He is under my chair this minute, with a chocolate candy wrapper, making mincemeat of it right now!
While we were doing this, Joe was up on the ladder, fixing the gutters on the house. Each of us with reasons to be outside rather than indoors.
The leaves are off the maples and linden trees . . . no noise on the streets, all the Thanksgiving revelers have gone home, leaving the island to us again, quiet and drowsy, a little paradise; just the long wail of the boat whistle as the ferry pulls out of the harbor, and a few lonely crows cawing in the trees. And wet-napkin flapping noises. And my voice piping up, “Honey, do you feel like going for a walk?”
So “off to the woods did the merry men go” . . . we grabbed our jackets and went out to our favorite place, our walk out a long dirt road through the woods, the walk we’ve taken almost every day for the last twenty years . . . kicking up the piles of leaves as we go . . .
. . . to the end, where the woods stop. Past the pond, the road becomes more sand than dirt, to the sound . . . then along the beach, the long way, to search for colored glass and heart-shaped rocks, listening to the waves lapping on the shore, the seagulls calling, breathing in fresh salt air, bathing our faces in cool sunshine. And then, back again, through the woods . . .
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Someday a very long time from now, maybe fifty years or so, if you are walking out here and you see those shadows, which I am sure you will, it’s going to be me and Joe, because we have already made up our minds, we’re going to haunt this place for ever and ever . . . We belong to it and it belongs to us.
We got our tree this weekend, it sits out in this beautiful weather, in a bucket of water, waiting for transport into the house, into the jaws and claws of Jack. I’ll let you know how it goes. Have a wonderful day girlfriends!! I hope you enjoyed our walk in the woods. xoxo
The table’s waiting, anticipating, 
A bouquet of alstroemeria is cheering the guest room; for our friends Rachel and Paul who came all the way from England to have Thanksgiving with us.
More flowers are blooming in the living room. The clock is tick-tick-ticking on the mantle. And, finally it’s time to get down to the business of . . .
Time to sprinkle the sugar over the cranberries and roast them at 350° until they are properly tart and bubbling. (The British language is rubbing off on me!! 🙂 “Properly,” such a good word! Now, say “tart” without the “r” — Tawt. Uh-oh, I feel a kicking burrrd coming on.)
Time to taste my grandma’s stuffing; more sage? More salt? More butter? Where’s my dad when I need him!!!? Time to stuff the turkey!
Time to harvest pomegranate seeds for the salad (unless you live close to a Trader Joe’s, who sells them in containers, all harvested and ready to go!).
Besides, Little Women is on TV making the perfect background noise, what more could we ask for?
Time to pour off the roasted turkey juices to make the gravy.
Light the candles, pour the wine . . .
And read a beautiful poem that makes everyone cry; we toast Gerry and thank him; we toast each other and our friendships; count our blessings out loud; remember times gone by, thinking of our moms and dads, brothers and sisters, our grandmas and grandpas that can’t be with us today . . . we are so grateful . . . for all of it, for what has gone by and for what is still to come . . . “touching hands . . . “
After dinner, we put another log on the fire, Paul tells British turkey jokes while I play with Jack and an ostrich feather, on the giant scratching post Joe made for him . . .
Even after everyone put on their coats, kissed and hugged us goodbye, and walked out into the cold starry night, the party didn’t end; Rachel, Paul, Joe and I danced while we blew out the candles, washed and dried the dishes, put a load of napkins in to wash and spread a clean damask cloth on the table. 
I took pictures of Paul taking pictures . . .
Then I had to have this moment in time for myself. Another “little thing” to be grateful for.
