Gobble, Gobble

I've always secretly admired the Americans for their version of Thanksgiving. It makes so much more sense to have it in November. Not so much in terms of celebrating harvest, as that's loooong done, particularly in Canada, but as a sort of gateway into that other Holiday Season.

Thanksgiving in November helps to keep consumerism at bay (a bit) and forces people to think about something else before they lay themselves prostrate at the altar of Must Buy the Perfect Present This Year. It's all about family and giving thanks and counting blessings.

Oh, and days off, of course. I love how it's such a big holiday that Americans schedule a day off to recover.

We decided to use our days off locally this year (yes - we are Holiday Locavores) and stayed home instead of making our usual trip up to Canada. Much as we love weekends home, they tend to be very busy and we get back feeling more tired than when we left. Plus, given that we always go home for Christmas as well, we get puzzled looks and raised eyebrows in December and people say, "weren't you just here?"

I'll admit to being quite homesick on Wednesday. The week prior was full of conversations like this:

Kind Coworker: So, PM, what are your plans for Thanksgiving?

PM: Oh, nothing.

KC: [quizzical look]

PM: Well, see, I'm Canadian. We celebrate Thanksgiving in October, so I've been there, done that.

KC: Oh, I see. So you went up to see your family?

PM: Um, no. It's not that big of a deal. But my in-laws were out and she made me pie, so that was pretty fantastic.

KC: Mmmm, did you get turkey, too?

PM: Um, no. We don't eat meat at our house.

KC: Oh. So basically it's just a four-day weekend for you and your family.

PM: Yup!

KC: [wistfully] That sounds kind of nice.

And as nice as it has been to stay in pajamas, drink coffee, and go for numerous walks around the lake, I was still sad when everyone else was packing up and getting ready to go Home and make turkey and complain about overeating...everyone except me.

So I was sad for awhile. But Old Dutch and onion chip dip and three books and a few pots of coffee have done wonders to help me cope.

The kids are loving it, too. Their eyes are about ready to bug out of their heads from all the TV they've been watching. But we have been sending them outside. Because, check out The Boy's latest obsession:

NONONONONONONONONONONONONONONO!

(Also: of course the Canadian kid's wearing shorts in November)

Yep, he's discovered football. Actually so has The Husband. He used to watch two games a year (hola Super Bowl and Grey Cup!) but now he's averaging at least two games a week. The Boy gets into it too - "Dad, which team are we voting for?" - and The Husband went out to get a ball to throw around with him. Which led to this:

The Husband: [whispering] PM!!

PM: [whispering back] What?

TH: OhmygoodnessPM - I was playing football with The Boy...he's totally got an arm for it.

PM: [unimpressed] Oh, really?

TH: Yeah, the kid's throwing spirals - and it's his first time! And it's totally not just me - a neighbour walked by and said, "hey, that kid's pretty good!"

PM: [picturing after-school practices and weekend tournaments and trying to get uniforms clean and having to learn what an off-side kick is] Oh.

TH: You know, the lowest salary in the NFL is, like, three million dollars. Our kids totally going pro.

PM: Sigh.

When in Rome...

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If You Build It, They Will Come

We've liked our church pretty much from the start. (Wow - just finding that link made me realize that it's been almost two years since we've been there.) Small, welcoming, and all kinds of soul-foody, it quickly became a place where we felt at home.

In a land where "Christian" is all too often synonymous with "Crazy," our church has been a refuge of quiet, peaceful grace. There's only about 70 people, but its size fosters cross-generational relationships and I often see the seniors chatting up my kids. They love Jesus, they love one another, and they love their neighbours - all traits that somehow seem lacking in a lot of "Christians" these days.

But the one less-than-perfect aspect to our church has been the music.

[Cue angry votes of non-confidence and storming out to the beckoning arms of the local version of Hillsong - nothing gets Mennonites more riled up than the "M" word.]

Our church has a very traditional worship style. If it ain't got four parts, it ain't on the roster.

Now me? I was learning how to sing alto when I still believed in the Tooth Fairy, and some of my best church memories are standing by my mom listening to her sing those incredibly moving old hymns. But The Husband and my munchkins don't heart all of those old chestnuts. Their hearts don't thrill to Luther or Wesley, and "606" merits simply an eye-roll (from The Husband) and whining about length (from The Littles).

So it was with much interest this past summer that we noted the attendance of a lone guitar player. Someone who *gasp* knew choruses and *double gasp* was willing to play in church.

The Husband took swift action. A guitar is half of a praise group, he declared, and you sing alto PM, so all we need is a bass guitar.

And off he went, purchasing and learning how to play said instrument with astonishing swiftness (guess the threat of one more hymn, of which we always sing the oft-skipped verse 3 - we're an equal opportunity group, was good incentive). We found a couple of sopranos and an unbelievably talented violin player to add to the mix and, hey presto, we're Days of Elijah-ing it with the best of 'em.

These halcyon days of song are numbered, though; our guitarist is scheduled to depart spring 2011 when her husband's study program ends. And so, I decided to follow in my fellow band member's footsteps, and declared I would start learning the guitar so I could take over by the time she goes.

(Because, while a guitar is half a praise band, it can function as the entire praise band in a pinch. Solo bass guitar? Does not a praise band make.)

But somewhere betwixt my faltering attempts at a G chord and a C chord, we bought a piano. And, because The Husband wanted to go over one of our songs, I sat down and tried to figure it out using only the chord chart. Just so I could help him out.

That was three weeks and about a bazillion hours hunched over the keys ago.

Why didn't anyone tell me that playing with chords was DEAD easy? That you don't have to know any of the actual notes and you just put your hands sorta kinda where they need to go, remember a few sharps, pound away with a semblance of rhythm, and suddenly you're rockin'?!

I play by ear the way I cook: everything is kind of suggested and I don't really measure, and if I'm unsure, I just add a little more spice. I'm not awesome, but I get the job done.

And suddenly I do have a job. Holy smokes - I'm playing along on Sunday! Only one song, to be sure, and it might get axed at the last minute if we can't get it together, but in theory, I will be playing. In public. At church.

I'm totally nervous.

But also excited. It's super fun, and where better to try out a new recipe of musicianship than at church where everyone loves you and says nice things even though in their head they're thinking, "wow, better keep practicing PM."

The funny thing is that neither The Husband nor I would ever have attempted this at our old church. Our fantabulous, much-missed FG church was chock full of musicians - far better than he or I could dream of being.

And yet, with no one else coming forward, with no possibility of singing a Steve Bell song again save doing it ourselves, we did.

So we shall see what we shall see. It is possible I will be laughed off the piano bench right back to my microphone and told to stick to alto. But you never know. Maybe I'll end up the other half of that praise band, which means we will have three halves which means we are awesome.

Or maybe The Husband will abandon the bass guitar for his latest instrumental pursuit: the ukulele. That's right folks - it's all Tiny Tim at our house when we're not praising it up.

(He's getting good, but "good" is relative with that instrument. It is a happy instrument for the most part. Except in the mornings. When used as an alarm clock, for two children who refuse to get up, and who have now been traumatized by The Husband standing in the hallway hammering away on A flat. Then it's not so happy.)

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Falling Victim to the Chaos of Modern Life? Or Early Onset Alzheimer's?

Sunday:

Exhibit A [in car on way to church]

"Shoot, I forgot to bring that book I promised. I'll just drop you off and quickly go home to pick it up."

[later] "What took you so long?"

"Well...there was traffic...so I tried a different way. And I totally got to see parts of the Twin Cities I've never seen before!"

Exhibit B [in kitchen, after church]

"Hi, um, Johnny's mom? I'm The Boy's mom and he got an invitation to your son's birthday party two weeks ago and we were very excited about it but I set it aside to RSVP and I forgot about it and I just found it and I know the party is this afternoon but is there any way that The Boy could still come and I'd totally understand if you didn't have room for him anymore...oh, that's fantastic, thank you so much...that's so nice of you, I'm so sorry I was so scatterbrained...."

Exhibit C [in Target, purchasing the present for the narrowly-missed party]

"Shoot, I forgot my wallet at home." [to cashier] "Do you take cheques"?

"Yes, we do."

[writes cheque out in 10 items or fewer line, causing sighs and malevolent looks from those behind in the line]

"Here you go."

"Do you have your ID with you? Because we don't take cheques without ID."

[narrowing eyes, thinking this would have been helpful to know a minute ago, a minute in which a cheque would likely not have been written if someone had taken that whole "forgot my wallet" concept and run with it...]

"No. No, I don't have my ID with me."

"Oh, well, I'll just keep this all here for you until you can come back for it."

All this in a space of six hours. The ol' cylinders don't seem to be firing as well as they used to.

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That Bread Was *How* Much?

See the loaf of bread The Girl is holding?

It cost $400.

Now, it wasn't so much me coughing up that kind of serious cash for a plain old loaf of grocery store whole wheat. Nope, it was four people, opening up their wallets because people in Kenya are starving, and donating $100 each to "purchase" the bread my daughter proudly carried to the front of the auditorium.

Ah, the MCC relief sale. I love, love, love it. I love hanging around with a bunch of Mennonites and watching people share their gifts. I love seeing people ooo and ahhh over intricately-sewn quilts. I love hanging out with friends from church, teasing them about the white gloves they don to protect the quilts as they help bring them for display at the auction.

And I LOVE watching my kids participate. Last year, The Girl was put into a refugee camp-style tent and was "freed" when donors dropped a cool $400. This year, she was part of a similar group - 12 kids walked up with loaves of bread and money started to pour in. There were 12 loaves of bread in total, and we raised an unbelievable $8,000.

It is mind-boggling watching people (who I'm fairly certain had already spent a fair amount of money on baked goods, crafts, and verenkje) reach even deeper into their pockets and throw money at something intangible.

And it is throat-lumping to see my kids be a part of it. I volunteered with the kids' activities again this year, and I got to help my own littles make bags they can use to take food to share with others. Then later, eye-mistiness set in again when I caught out of the corner of those eyes The Girl looking thoughtfully at the collection basket and news story posted beside it detailing the plight of starving Kenyans and then grabbing a dollar out of her allowance to add to the pile.

The best was observing them after the sale, when a group of us took the bread to a homeless shelter, and they gleefully donned plastic gloves to turn these high-priced loaves into sandwiches for tonight's guests. (Take $8,000 and divide that by 12 loaves with 16 slices each, add some donated meat and cheese, and those sandwiches cost $42 each. That's a heckuva lot more than Jimmy John's!)

Some days I despair that we live in this snobby, ritzy suburb where we are surrounded by people who inhabit the top three percent of income level in this country and that my kids are growing up with no concept of what it is like to be in need. Sure, they neeeeeed a new DS game, and they are TOTALLY put upon when supper has too much melted cheese or we have to have pizza again, but quite honestly my children have never known a day of real need in their lives (nor have I, for that matter).

So days like today, when we can leave that world behind - even just for a few hours - and not only remind ourselves that the home, food, security, independence, opportunities, and sheer wealth that we have are available to increasingly few in this world, but also share in the joy that comes from using that awareness to play the teensiest part in something so overwhelmingly gracious and loving - days like today are my best.

Busy with sewing projects - The Girl is well on her way to being a true Menno girl and bought herself some fabric for her treat today.

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Nobody Bothered to Check With Me...

...whether it was okay to grow up.

And yet here we are:

(For the "wow, they've sure changed in a year!" effect, click here.)

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Infected!

Back to the land of the living! Or the land of the blogging, as it were.

It's been a crrrrrazy two weeks with a may-jer cold (me), the flu (The Boy), an unwelcome - or, perhaps, welcome given that all that was waiting for him at home was sickness - extension to a business trip (The Husband), and a virus (our computer). Suffice it to say, it was a week and a half of solo parenting, working from home while tending the ill, and cursing stupid spyware.

(Cue "I told you so's!" from all the people who get after me for not keeping my virus software up to date [Hi Dad!])

Ugh. But we're all back under the same roof now, and we're all healthy (with the exception of the computer, which is in the process of having its hard drive blown away prior to us renewing its technological virginity and starting from scratch).

And none too soon, since yesterday was the oh-so fabulous Hallowe'en.

The Girl is quite unimpressed that we don't partake in the annual decoration fest that marks a Minnesota Hallowe'en. Everyone else gets to decorate, she complains. So, this year we said she could decorate if she pleased, so she scotch-taped her best seasonal drawings on the front porch and hung kleenex ghosts from the trees.
Trick or treating was the usual good times. One of our church members says she considers Hallowe'en to be the most Christian of holidays that the US celebrates, because it's the one night of the year when people get out of the house, meet their neighbours, and answer the door to strangers and connect with them. I'm quite tempted to agree with her.

The kids had awesome costumes this year. A hundred billion thanks to The Husband's mother, who lovingly crafted the best Laura Ingalls Wilder costume (complete with pinafore and bonnet!) I've ever seen.

My contribution to costume-creation was a little bit less skillful. The Boy's teacher said he had to dress up as a book character. Fortuitously, we are reading The Wizard of Oz right now and he chose the scarecrow. Some pants borrowed from a sister, a shirt borrowed from a father and then turned inside out, a Hawaiian skirt dismantled and tied to elastic to make straw anklets and bracelets, and a hat from Value Village combined to make the best scarecrow since Ray Bolger lamented his missing grey matter.

Add a time change (Daylight Saving Time falling back is the Best. Day. of. the. Year!!), and it's been a fab weekend. I kinda don't want it to end.

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