Walmart's Failure To Deliver... Squared

Steve loves Brisk. I can't see why, but it's his taste preference, his to choose. It's been on sale here and there lately. It's just been a problem getting it.

First was Fry's. Steve ordered a bunch of 2 liter bottles for us to pick up from the store. The ad price did not give a limit. But you had to buy 5 to get 5 more free! He placed his order, we drove to the store to pick it up. Just a few bottles were available. While a disappointment, they immediately discounted the charge so he only paid for what he got.  No real problem. We could return. The carry-out person informed us of likely days when the trucks came in.

A few days later, in the next store sale cycle, the same offer was published, so we repeated trying to get enough to stock up nicely on. Same low amount of stock available, explained as being high demand, and again, lowered the charge on his order before we drove away. So again, not an actual problem. We still had time to keep trying.

Then I needed to order some things I wasn't finding anywhere else, and decided to use Walmart's online ordering. If you order $35 worth of anything, it can be delivered to your door with no shipping charge. It may take a day or three, but they let you know when you place your order. They also have their drivers snap a photo of the goods outside your door. 

Seems pretty foolproof, doesn't it?

About a week and a half ago now they had a deal on Brisk. Theirs wasn't on the 2 liter bottles that Fry's had, but a case of 24 cans. I ordered three, enough to push our total order price to double the minimum for free delivery. Steve would drink it quickly enough. When I got the email photo of the package outside our front door, it was our door, alright, and a package was sitting there, but it had no Brisk cases with it. Just some plastic hangers and a couple other things. I immediately put in an online complaint, since the order claimed to have been completed. The slow reply was that I'd get a refund, even though I requested getting the three cases of Brisk instead. I'd checked online and they were still listed as available and at the sale price. The free delivery is earned on the total price of what you order at one time, not how many tries it takes to bring it to you.

Since they insisted on refund as their solution, I went ahead the next day and placed a second order of Brisk, again, still at the sale price. This time it was for 4 cases, instead of three. I decided since I was getting a refund, supposedly, I could afford to add one more into the order. This time we made sure to be outside when the Walmart truck drove up. Rich was out front doing some work, and also keeping an eye out with me. 

The side door slid back. The driver rummaged around, put one case next to the door, then a second case by the door, then hopped out.

What? Two cases?

When he reached us I asked if he was going back for our other two. Four at once without a hand cart would be a heavy load, after all. He just looked at me and said he'd only been given two to deliver. He suggested maybe the others were coming from a separate store. They will send from wherever your ordered goods are in stock at the moment. But evening came. No additional driver did. So I wrote another complaint to Walmart, this time a bit more teed-off than the day before. I was given another email reply: sorry, refund.

By this time we'd ordered 7 cases, gotten two, but paid for 7. The Brisk was STILL advertised online and at the lower price. WTF!!!

I've been waiting 11 days now, since this started the 26th. I check my credit card statement twice daily, seeing if anything has come in since. You read my title, right? So you know the answer to that. Tonight I sent them another pair of bad feedback reviews, since they claim those are of value to them. So far they've been of no value to me! It was time to go a little more public.

I'll let you know what - if anything - happens to correct the problem. Meantime Steve went back to Fry's and picked up some more bottles of Brisk there, before their sale ended yesterday. I'd still rather get our order filled instead of a refund, but WallyWorld needs to get off their asses and make good one way or another! I will get louder and LOUDER until they do!

Trust me!

What Do You Mean, No Common Ground?

The chat rooms are all afluster about Liz Cheney appearing on Rachel Maddow last night. The two politically are polar opposites on practically everything, so (the alleged reasoning goes) how could they possibly sit down together amicably and discuss anything? The fact is, they did.

Did you meet with extended family and/or friends over Thanksgiving? If so, was your polar opposite there, freely tossing out opinions all over the place that made you wish it wouldn't be totally rude to get up and wrap your dinner napkin around their mouth for an hour or two? You think you have no common ground?

There are things we all agree on. How about our need to breathe air? Anybody care to argue that one? No?

Let's find more. How about gravity? Hating potholes deep enough to break your car axle? Thinking puppies and babies are cute, especially if you're not the one stuck with caring for them 24/7? Liking a spectacular sunset? Liking a comfortable bed even if your definitions of exactly what that means are different? Hating being sick? 

I could go on and on. You know I can. I usually do. But let's recognize that some things about humans are universal. It won't be politics, or religion, or sports teams, or condiment choices. So start a conversation and find out what those things we can agree on are.

Bitter Tea

 Before you skip to the poem, there are some things to know.

It was written July 31, 1989, during a workshop on Creativity, held in northern Minnesota at a YMCA camp called Camp Northland. At the time I was in a support group called We Care, for people dealing with the myriad issues following losing a loving relationship from separation, divorce, and for a few, being widowed. By this time I had become a group facilitator, and been elected to the management board, Fellowship For Renewed Living, or FRL. While on the board I was mostly a Programs Chair, the head person planning and overseeing workshops, such as the one where this was written. They covered a variety of topics, like sexuality, looking at our childhoods, massage/touch, creativity, and more. All were about personal exploration, healing, and growth. Emphasis was a combination of bringing in professional presenters, and breaking into small groups to look at ourselves and our feelings, the ones we'd all been thoroughly trained to stuff away. Through the United Way, our organization was assisted by the St. Paul YMCA. Primarily that meant we had a professional assistant, and one week a summer, a location to get away to and hold a week-long workshop at, Camp Northland. It is near the edge of the BWCA and abuts  sister Camp du Nord, along Lake Burntside, near Ely.

I've been cleaning and tossing, packing what should go north with us, recycling papers, going through seeming tons of old photos to save what still has some value, both for me and to pass down to younger generations. I might be halfway through the first purge of photos, which will need a second one once I know all that is there and decided how many shots of the same kids doing the same things on the same day are really needed to give them a sense of their history. So many are now red-on-red anyway. Most of the photos I shot of places and things have been duplicated by now with shots years later which are amazingly similar, except perhaps for weather, so I know my eye hasn't changed much. A few will need to be duplicated in e-files. 

Occasional surprises pop up.

This poem is one,  It was in the Creativity Workshop folder, one of several workshop folders hidden between albums, written, filed, and forgotten. It was a moment in time, an exercise to write without self-judgment, without censorship. It is a mood without documented reason, and you should know, a process whereby those things could be written down so they might be looked at for a moment where you could decide what they meant for you. Something in my brain back then said the writing process meant I didn't need to hang on to it any more.

Tea

Come, drink.
Know your cup is bitter tea
While others here sip honey.
For all the years
You’ve cultivated flowers,
Never swatting at the bees
When they buzzed near,
For all the honeycombs
Where you’ve scraped off the wax,
Now watch while others’ fingers
Dip the golden prize.
Your cup is bitter tea
And you will drink it
“Till it chokes you,
While others here sip honey.

A couple more things to remember. Things for me have gotten much better than that moment, whatever forgotten thing prompted it. And I've learned that the outward faces of others often do not reflect their inward truths. Mine was not the only cup of bitter tea that day. Or for that matter, any other day.

The Dog's Version Of The Story

 I need a home.

Let me introduce myself. My name is Heather. When I was adopted my new lady was asked if she wanted to change it. She's a Heather too. The vet she took me to changed mine for us to Heather Too.  It really doesn't matter. I also answer to Girl, Pretty Girl, Good Girl, Good Dog, Sweetie, the sound of my food bag, and kissing noises. I'm easy.

My exact origins are unclear, but at least one of my ancestors was a chihuahua. I’m told I look like one, mostly black with some white here and there. The white around my nose is getting bigger, and I’m starting to get what my lady calls white “chihuahua spectacles” around my eyes. Somebody else claims there’s schipperke in that proverbial woodpile, because there’s a bit of a ruff at the back of my neck and I’m just a little larger than my snooty “pure” peers. I’m not sure what they’re talking about, as I’m generally only 16 pounds when I check in at the vet. The vet says that I’m perfectly sized because I have a nice waistline. And while I’m eleven, whatever that is - 77 in my years? - I’m supposed to have some good ones left.

By the way, what’s a waistline? My lady and the vet just laughed when my lady said she wished she had a nice one too.

My current owners don’t care about my parents, just refer to my breed as a “rescue-huahua”. It’s always said with a smile, so it must be a good thing, right? They found me at the county shelter during the start of the covid outbreak. I’d been having a tough life for a while, but somebody found me running around in Phoenix, hunting for what food I could find, drinking what I could find on the ground or where trees were getting irrigated, grateful to have that much, though I was down to a very svelte 14 pounds when I was adopted, after they’d fed me for a while at the shelter. I was also happy to have so little fur that the hot summer wasn’t totally awful. They put me in isolation for a while and tried to find my former owner. They had a metal thing they held over my neck and said they knew who I belonged to. I don’t know what happened to her but she never answered the phone. I don’t really know what happened to me either to make me lost. But I was truly alone.

Then a new lady walked in, and my keepers took me to a room where we could get acquainted. She smelled like she needed a dog like me, so I went over and offered my ears to get scratched. I can tell a lot about people that way. Soon I was in her lap, then in a portable kennel for a ride across the city to my new home.

There are three welcoming laps in this home, all on people who know where I like to be scratched and where I just want to be rubbed. Everyone knows how much I love laps. When somebody with a new lap comes in the room, my tail starts wagging really hard. Maybe I can get an invitation to that lap as well! 

My new lady takes me to the groomer, which I don’t like, but my toenails are much more comfortable when it’s time to leave and she’s always there after with a treat. (Shhh, don’t tell those other dogs. They’ll get jealous. They even have to get baths and haircuts!)

It took me about two weeks to learn there would be water in a nice clean bowl inside and I didn’t have to hunt for where people water trees. There’s a nice fenced yard to explore, which had plenty of shade and several rabbits which seemed to know from the day I arrived that they could ignore me, at least until I get within two feet of them. That’s closer than the birds let me get, but I don’t really care. People are the best friends anyway. I always keep an eye on whichever of my people is out there with me.  They say they’re keeping me safe from coyotes. Silly people, there’s a big tall fence out there! I know they’re just keeping me from being lonely and remembering the bad times. For some reason they always tell me I’m a good girl for doing what I went out there to do anyway. Sometimes I can’t figure them out. But I’m just pleased they’re happy.

On the couch with my minty dental bone

My lady takes care of feeding me. I get breakfast and supper when she does, just different food. She calls it kibble. Funny name! But breakfast is served with a couple little pieces of freeze dried liver on top, once she learned it made toenails stop splitting like mine did when we met, and grow in strong. Supper has a minty dental chew on top, and I love that so much I grab it and go run to the corner of the couch where I gobble it up. No mess left, I promise! I eat every single crumb. After that the handful of  kibble isn’t such a treat, but I faithfully come back and thank my lady by eating every crumb of that too. Just as soon as she tells me to go eat it. I try to be polite, though it’s hard to wait with the treats. She has learned to put shoes on before feeding me because sometimes I get so excited I accidentally jump on her feet. I know the sound of those containers opening from all across the room!

I do have a carry kennel with a soft fuzzy blanket inside and a door to keep me safe, but I seldom use it. Laps are so much nicer! Even bedtime means I get to sleep with my lady in her big bed. She makes sure I hear the word “bedtime” before she heads down the hall so I know it’s not just to that other place she calls a bathroom. (She thinks she doesn’t need me there, but I usually check it out anyway.) Sometimes she forgets to lift up the blankets from the bed for me but I know where to squeeze between them and the sheet to wiggle into the place  where she bends her knees. But I know my duty once I snuggle her to sleep, and make sure when she wakes in the morning that I’m perched down at the corner of the bed, guarding the door to the hall, making sure nobody sneaks in without permission. I’d never bite them of course, but I’d make sure my lady is awake if somebody strange comes. I do that at the front door too, when some person we don’t know comes. If it’s somebody with a bunch of tools, I usually get to go sleep in my kennel then, but - shhhh, don’t tell - I don’t sleep until they’ve gone. After that I get a spot in my favorite lap anyway.

I used to be pretty scared when I first got here and my lady had to leave. I knew what it meant when she told me to be good, but it took a while to learn what “I’ll be back” meant. The couch is right next to the big front window and I could watch her leave. I could also hear her car and watch her return. Eventually I quit watching for her, especially when anybody else’s lap beckoned. I still remember those bad days, though, and if she’s been gone for a day or too, usually returning smelling of medicines and other stinky things, I am sure to let her know I missed her because I cry when she comes back in the door. Again, I do my best to be polite, and wait until she is back in her chair and invites me up into her lap before I jump up. If I’m really not sure, it takes her patting her lap and making kissy sounds, saying “up” a couple times, before I jump. The second her laptop comes out, though, I know there’s no room for both of us and jump down again. There’s usually another warm blanket sitting somewhere for me. It might even be on somebody else’s lap, the best of all combinations.

Sometimes I’m the one who gets to leave for a ride in the car. I love the back seat. It always has a very old blanket on it with interesting smells, one of which smells a lot like one of my people, only like a kid instead of a grown-up. It’s a very old smell now but my nose is very good. When we go on long trips to a place that’s colder, I get to get out on a leash and smell lots of other dogs who like to get out and do exactly what I like to get out and do. I don’t get to meet them too often because our people have leashes to keep us apart. I could tell them the other dogs mostly are friendly, but I don’t think it would matter. Anyway, I’m mostly glad since there was one dog that really scared me. When I told my lady she picked me up and we went away from him.

Me outside a doggie door in that cold place

Sometimes that colder place we visit in summer scares me too. They have noisy thunderstorms there which I almost never hear here. They also have a thing my lady calls “Fourth of July”. Everybody makes lots of loud booming noises for long times. My lady says it’s supposed to last only one night, but everybody seems to make them boom for weeks. They also have something called grass with something else called dew on it. It’s really cold, and tickles. I hate it on my bare tummy. They make me go outside on a leash when it’s dew or rain, but they have to catch me first! It would be a fun game but they always win. When is it my turn?

My lady has been sad lately. I can’t figure out why, but there’s a new word I’m hearing. “Allergies.” It’s something about how they’re kicking up again after many long years. I don’t know what they are, and I never see anything kick her or I’d be sure to protect her. I’m still getting lap time and pets and scratches in all the right places, even sleeping in her bed, but she’s sadder. And she’s started scratching herself, even though she won’t let me do it for her the way she does it for me. I think she’s caught a cold too, because her nose has been running a lot. At least she calls it “running”, though again, I never see that happening. Where would it run to without her? Mine never leaves. How can hers? She says it’s different, and worse than before, and she looks sadly at me when she says that. Is there something wrong with me? Am I sick? Do I have to go to the vet?

Uh-oh. I was listening to a phone call about me. I hoped I’d find out something wonderful, because usually when my name gets mentioned it’s with lots of love and praise. I pretend I’m asleep so nobody knows what I hear. This time it wasn’t good. They have to get rid of me! Why? I’ve been good. Apparently it’s something about this thing called allergies. My lady is getting sicker, and taking more of the medicine for “allergies” than this doctor thinks she should.  She wanted to send me back to where she got me but they won’t even let her talk to them until next year, whenever that happens. Other places she looked up only seem to want to give away dogs, not take any more in. I think that’s good because I can stay longer, but if that means she gets sicker because I’m here, isn’t that bad? I don’t want to go and I know she doesn’t really want me to go, so what do we do? So I thought I’d send this out to you. Maybe you can help us both? I know she loves to drive and she’d be happy to bring me some place I’ll find the same kind of laps and scratches as she knows how to give.

Making Wine

Another discussion in a different place brought back lots of old memories. So old in fact I'm not positive I was a third of my current age at the time. It was close, however, as I remember the kitchen in which sat the refrigerator whose top held the large canner tub that was used for the must to ferment in for its first stage. 

We had a yard. The yard had dandelions, because that's what unpoisoned MN yards did. I always liked dandelions, both for their flowers and their "poofy" stage when kids of any age could blow the seeds to wherever a breeze would pick them up. So I never poisoned the yard. I "poofed".

 One day the subject of making dandelion wine came up. I can't recall whether I volunteered or I got volunteered. Either way, I filled an empty bread bag - 1 1/2 pound loaf size -with open blossoms, found out what one had to do to turn those into wine, and did it. There was a shop in Har Mar Mall in Roseville that sold the yeast, and some kind of special one-way toppers once the liquid was separated from all the solids so that fermentation  could take place, gases could escape and no new nasty yeasts could enter the brew until it was fully wine and could be bottled. At some point, raisins were involved, sugar was added, and I'm not sure what all else went into the batch. I do clearly recall thinking that with all the other stuff, why were dandelions even needed? It had been a lot of work picking those!

Still it was fun enough. I'd learned to do something new! And for once in my life it seemed to be something that pleased my husband. I'm thinking he was looking forward to "free wine" in a few months, though what with all the supplies and equipment, it was the most expensive free anything he'd ever drink in his life. 

Was it any good? I don't know. I happen to hate alcohol. But it was all gone about as soon as it got bottled, and not in the same way a later batch of wine was. 

I got the bug for experimenting. Dandelions bloom in spring. It would have been summer before the canner was available for a next batch, but by then there were no dandelions. What was blooming, and even more difficult to get blossoms from, was yellow sweet clover. Those have tiny petals on short vertical stalks, and the scent of them has always meant summer to me. It's so nostalgic that each first-of-the-summer scent is a quick kick asking, "How on earth could you ever forget what that smelled like?" It has been a great loss to not smell them for the last few years. But this was back then when making this wine meant a few hours in olfactory heaven stripping those tiny delicate petals off their 3" long green stems. In the time I'd previously filled that bread bag of dandelion blossoms, I'd fill maybe a fifth of the bread bag with sweet clover. Those went in the fridge, then out I was again the next day for more, this time with kids along to assist. Slightly more progress.

Since nobody in the world had developed a recipe for sweet clover blossom wine - or at least none I could find, being decades before Google, I just did everything else the same way as the dandelion recipe. While the must was developing, everything in the kitchen smelled the same to my nose, so it must be working.

Tasting had to wait a few months, but I was on a roll. there were other things to try. Same basic recipe, of course, because it was making something, and that something contained alcohol. I tried two more varieties I can remember. Carrot wine was one. Lovely color, and carrots contain sugar, and scraping carrots on a cheese grater was much easier than stripping teensy petals off sweet clover stems. What's not to try?

Then of course, because one often does in such circumstances, came the piece de resistance. I'd not know it for months, but this last one met everybody's resistance, even my husband's, who was so determined to get all the "benefits" of the alcohol off this last wine that he set it out in winter to freeze, the theory that what didn't freeze would be alcohol, and should leave most of the... uh, "flavor" would be a kindness... removed with the ice.

But back to the middle of the saga. It was finally time to taste the dandelion wine. We held a party. It was served.  Sipped. Thought about. Sipped again. And declared adequate for drinking. Not so adequate that our guests would be so "rude" as to finish it all up of course. Or go home and make their own. Each had brought their own bottles of their own favorite flavors, so the party went well enough. And we'd learned a couple years before to put the kids to bed first, because we nearly had a tragedy when everybody, unknown to us, thought at the first party-with-baby we had that it was great fun to give our toddling first-born a sip of their drinks, and watch her toddle to the next glass, and the next, until suddenly somebody noticed her unsteadiness and put it all together. The party ended fairly suddenly after that, and we kept a close watch on our daughter for a few hours. We were still too young and naive to realize how close a call it was until a couple conversations with real adults in the next couple days!

A few weeks later the sweet clover wine was uncorked, with my husband's best friend over to share in the glories. It was sipped, swirled, thought about, and declared... peppery. Interesting choice for a wine, but please don't do that again, eh? But I'm OK with that decision, it was a lot of work for me, after all.

Some weeks later the same with the carrot wine. Drinkable, but no real flavor. Please note that none of these experiments were poured down the sink. Either they weren't that bad, or it was just the alcohol needed a home in somebody's bloodstream.

The piece that found resistance was already in process by this time, early fall. There were no flowers other than a few which smelled bad to my nose, so I didn't choose that route. Instead I went with something green, a late crop which was known for some sugar content. Enough sugar in fact that it was part of the name: sugar snap peas! I had already eaten the peas because I loved them, though not so much the pods, at least in this early market variety of them. Ones on the market these days, to my palate, are sweeter, though I doubt it would have made a difference. But back then? What the heck, I'm having fun making wine, trying new stuff that nobody else was making (without realizing there could be very good reasons for that), and why waste these perfectly edible food parts?

Same recipe, of course same timing, process, everything, though by this time instead of the top of the fridge they "worked" in the basement. I, at least, was a bit tired of smelling alcohol in the kitchen. And while I got no weird looks from my regular day care customers, nor lost any customers during this journey as a wanna-be vintner, it was time to put things away. Note I'm not blaming that move for the results, just noting it was all coming to an end anyway.

Once again it was uncorked in something less than complete privacy, with my husband's best friend over to help taste. This time there was no display of politeness, no thoughtful long tasting, just spitting back into the glasses it was sipped out of! Probably just as well that the friend brought over a bit of weed to share, though just with my husband. Among other things, I didn't smoke either, and second-hand marijuana smoke had no effect on me. 

A few days later, rather than throw the pea pod wine out, my husband used freeze distillation to remove ice, hoping more concentrated alcohol would improve the flavor. Even for him, no such luck. Everything that didn't slide down the drain got packed up, put away, and never brought out again.

I decided houseplants made a good hobby.

The Day After

Thanksgiving Day was exhausting. This is not so much why as a holiday it specifically was, but reasons why it wasn't. 

It wasn't the cooking. Steve provided cranberry sauce, the stuffing muffins were done over the two days leading up to turkey day, and the turkey just had to pulled out of the fridge a last few hours to finish thawing before taking the plastic off, rinsing it, and popping the roaster pan in the oven. Sure, I had to change a rack to a different height, big deal. There was no gravy to make, no pinfeathers to remove or tail to cut off with its attending big glob of fat.  Just clear the wing away from the red pop-up-it's-done gizmo, put the lid on, set temp and timer, and sit. Oh yeah, it also was just under a 14 pounder, and the oven is in the wall, so no back strain.

There was no club work to do in the morning, unlike most mornings, especially with the Fall Festival starting Friday. All merchandise going over was already cleaned, sorted, cards written out, and the larger glass pieces bubble wrapped and sent with their stands on Tuesday. Other people put up the tables, organized the cases, etc. My work there will be two short afternoons sitting in front of a box of cards and pulling out the ones for each item sold. Period.  (I always make sure to sign up early for that one, and end of day also means I know exactly how much of my stuff sold.) For the grand finish, I alphabetize the sold-item cards by last name of artist, for the convenience of our club treasurer, so we all can get paid ASAP.

The dog has been antsy in the mornings lately, but much of the duty of sending her out, bringing her in, has fallen on Rich lately. The path rarely is barefoot safe, so... his problem.

What caused the work for the day was laundry. But not for the reason you think, or not exactly. You see, I woke up itchy. 

Yes, the majority of my seasonal wardrobe was dirty, but I had plenty left. And cooler weather (finally!) meant it was time to dig into the heavier clothes anyway. I could easily have postponed laundry. Except I was down to my 4th pair of pajamas, ones I'd pretty much shrunk inside of to the point where they bunched up when I moved in the bed instead of fitting me properly. Wrinkles created pressure points, and those itched. First, the dog had been sleeping snuggled next to me in my bed to stay warm, not at the far mattress corner guarding the door. So the shedding happened next to me, and I'm allergic. My response is to itch, aka dermatographic uticaria, for as long as an hour after I wake up until the allergy pills take effect. In addition, the fitted sheet has stretched from several days use and also provided more wrinkles, aka pressure points. 

When bedding is included, it means two loads of laundry. There were already two loads cycling, both Steve's, one in each machine. So I really got to cycle double duty, and his stuff is heavier than mine because he is already into sweats and long sleeves while I'm still in knee length pants and short sleeves in lighter fabrics. Since Rich was outside and busy, I had to reach down and in the machines to get clothes where needed to be next, and next. It's a twist or three to reach past stuff in front of the dryer door and in to the recesses of the dryer, just because so much stuff is piled and packed close in front of the dryer door, not to mention on top of the dryer so I have to snake around between boxes and bottles to read and push controls. It all uses my bad shoulder, of course. 

It's quite similar using the washer except that's all vertical, so nothing is on top. Except a slanted low roof over both machines, so one can't simply stand up and reach out. It's more like leaning over and crawling back in, except feet stay on the floor. Whoever added the laundry space crammed it in without paying attention to the building codes. Or, just as likely, AZ didn't have decent codes back in '61 anyway so nobody gave a flying *%$&. Then there's hauling clean stuff to respective beds, sorting, and putting mine where it goes. Mostly that means on hangers on a fairly high rod, so... shoulder again of course.

At least after supper, meaning after all the bones are picked and pieces and broth put up in containers in the fridge and garbage out curbside, I got Rich to help me make my bed. It's so much easier with two, particularly the lifting the mattress part. It sometimes has to be repeated when you can't exactly tell which corner of a queen sheet matches the queen mattress. I try magic-marking the corners, but laundering eventually eliminates the ink, and these sheets are as old as this bed is, though otherwise in great shape. The topper - literally - was finally giving in to the season and putting the spread back on the bed, first time since last spring.  It weights about 75 pounds, or so it feels by the time all the rest is done. 

So now I'm ready for bed, right? Except all that late work had stimulated me wide awake. Aching a bit, but awake. Well, then, I might as well sit and write another blog post, right? Maybe with another bite of turkey to keep me company. No! Wait! Ice cream! I need room in the freezer for turkey leftovers. Mmmmm, chocolate cherry nut truffle! Now digging into that doesn't bother the shoulder one single bit.

A Giving Thanks Day

Forget all that stuff you heard or didn't hear in school about the how and why of Thanksgiving. Yes, it's important and controversial, both. History can be truly ugly. So can what's happening today. So right now, let's reduce the meaning of this celebration to how it is commonly celebrated in the US. We gather with families, whether the ones we are born into or the ones we create for ourselves, we feast as well as we can, relax as much as we can depending on who's there and how complicated our relationships are, and reflect on what in our lives we are grateful for, even if just a parade to keep the kids entertained while the rest of us try to sleep late, or get up early to start cooking. We can bring all the controversy of the world in the door with us, from the energy used to get us there, to the food choices, meat or plant sources and how they are raised, to various word views and political opinions and all the conflicting sides we can support or not.

BUT...

For now, this moment, let's just not do all that. Whoever you are with, whatever else you are doing in your lives, lets just look around and find some thing we are grateful for. You're still breathing - is that one? The planet is still spinning, the atmosphere mostly still breathable, most spots on the globe still have sunsets and sunrises, though they may be delayed a few months now. It is closing in on the next solstice after all. The pendulum swings both ways.

There is an incredible universe out there which we are learning more about every day, and now have the technology to see photos representing various wavelengths showing us what these other places and things look like, how they move, what we expect did and will happen with them way beyond our short lifetimes, things our ancestors never imagined. Are you thankful for the awe that follows those revelations? For knowing while you are such a tiny piece of that universe, you are still a piece of something so vast, magnificent, and incomprehensible?

You saw a smile recently, maybe in this place where you are reading this, maybe in the next room, maybe while waiting in a line, maybe from ones you love dearly. Are you thankful for those, and for being able to give smiles back to others who, by the way, always need them as much as you do?

You gave and received a kind word recently, held out a hand to somebody or took theirs, shared a laugh, watched a sunrise or sunset, saw a child having fun, heard a baby's laugh. Are you thankful for all those things? And thankful that you are capable of being thankful for them?

At some time you loved somebody. At some time you've been loved. It may have even been an animal more than a person. Whether those are now or earlier, whether those loved ones are still in your lives or just in your memories, and some are still only in your hopes, are you thankful for love?

Whatever kind or style it is, somewhere there is music in the world that touches you, speaks to you, cries for or with you, bowls you over weeping for its beauty. Perhaps instead it is a visual kind of beauty evoking a response. Or even something completely different, like the way numbers work, or how a building comes together. Do those make you feel thankful?

Do you still have memories? Hopes? Dreams? Goals? Thoughts? Feelings? Is blood still pulsing through your vessels? Can you still read this or have somebody to read it to you? Can you still be thankful for any of this? 

Then you still have something to be thankful for. Appreciate it. Give thanks today, and any other day you're still thankful for something.

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What, you thought this was about how rich you are and how important the world finds you? Maybe we should have a little chat.