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Change. I've learned to embrace it, ride it out til the end. Sometimes I'm kicking and screaming, other times weeping with my eyes clinched tight. Once in awhile I ride like a dog in a car, head out the window snorting what life has to offer. Mother to young adult children, a marriage of thirty years, and a desert to mountain to valley waltz with God have shaped me into someone I never imagined I'd be. Life is short and I want to live it. Tears, sighs, laughter and change. Every morsel granted to me. Scrambled, shaken or stirred.

Thursday, May 11, 2006

Scribbles and Scrambles - Pat and the Thanksgiving ABC's

In honor of Mother’s Day, I’d like to share another Pat story.

This one is about a special holiday. Not the one we are celebrating this weekend, but the warm and wonderful family Thanksgiving.

Procrastination, in Pat’s hands, is an art form. The closer the deadline, the more exciting the prize. Like some who keep scrapbooks of amazing accomplishments, Pat has a mental scrapbook of white-knuckled near misses.

All of my memories of events include stealth Pat as he runs up the stairs to the shower as the first guest arrives. Pat is fashionably late to all the parties at his house, because he begins party hygiene as he hears the crunch of gravel signifying the impending visitors arrivals.

Kind of like an elusive woodland creature, Pat skulks around cleaning, repairing, painting – whatever needs to be done – while the rest of the party planners lay out the final touches. I liken him to a woodland creature because his hair worried and teased by his frantic deadline angst, looks a bit like a black and silver poofy skunk pompadour.

“Where’s Pat?” is a common first question after the friends and family members arrive.

The answer, “in the shower.” Sometimes the project du jour warrants further explanation, followed by shaking heads, laughter and comments by all.

Thanksgiving is at Mom and Dad’s. The dining room and kitchen adjoin and we use both rooms to seat twenty plus people. In between the dining room and kitchen is a small pantry closet. With the door open, it blocks the passageway between rooms. Thanksgiving for twenty plus requires all the china, which lives in the dining room, and requires two fully set tables, and serving dishes for each table.

One Thanksgiving morning while Mom basted and stuffed and I chopped and washed, Dad decided to clean out the pantry cupboard. This is where Dad’s penchant for danger becomes crystal clear. Did I mention my mom has a touch of Irish?

Mom stood with hands on hips. “You’re cleaning what?”

Dad ran a hand through his bristly, perky hair. “It won’t take long.”

to be continued.........

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