Thankful

Fifty plus journals line the bottom of my bookshelf. Every year, on Thanksgiving, I try take the time to make a list of what I'm thankful for. Some years, the list is lengthy and eloquent. Other years I hastily scribble bullet points, hoping I'll be able to decipher my own handwriting at a later date.

This year, in between making a pumpkin pie and keeping track of the Peanut, I probably won't get to my journal until the weekend. 

Number one on my list this year? (Besides the safe arrival of the Peanut, of course!) The Sailor is on his way home for the holidays. Sailor homecomings are infinitely better than departures. 

Safe travels to you and yours... Happy Thanksgiving from our little (but loud) family.

Thanksgiving Stuff and Stuffing

Yesterday the Peanut and I braved the cold (Winter, we are so not ready for you...) and while he slept cozily in his sling, I browsed a few of my favorite stores, searching for Thanksgiving stuff. You know, some turkey-themed napkins, a floral arrangement, maybe a new table runner... decor that oozes Thanksgiving. 

Nothing. 

Nada. 

Zip. 

Zilch. 

Oh, there was Christmas stuff galore in every store. I didn't mind... it is November after all, and Christmas is a mere five plus weeks away. But Thanksgiving is over a week away -- how could there be NOTHING on display? Even the clearance racks came up short. 

One of the sales ladies asked me if I found everything I was looking for, so I asked if I was missing the Thanksgiving stuff. You know, cause Thanksgiving hasn't happened yet. She looked surprised that I would dare shop before Thanksgiving for turkey-related items.

I left thinking she was the turkey. 

I'm still slightly baffled by this. So I went home to search for my stuffing recipe. I may not have any Thanksgiving decor for the table, but by golly, my stuffing will happen again this year.
 
My family has never been much for Thanksgiving traditions, besides of course, the actual turkey and enough for leftover sandwiches the day after. In high school, I spent the holiday with a friend's family out-of-state. Post-college, I've shared Thanksgiving meals with strangers and friends, in obscure places like Ukraine where cranberries and turkey weren't to be found, overseas on a ship in West Africa, where I stuffed myself so full that I had to unbutton my jeans, and a progressive meal at three different homes in one night in England, chauffeured by our office's treasurer.

With such a hodge podge of Thanksgivings, I wanted to start a few traditions of my own -- like my stuffing. In all of the years that my mom has made a wonderful feast, I don't remember her ever making stuffing. I figured I could easily incorporate it into a family meal as an addition.

Okay, so it's not my stuffing. It's the Food Network Magazine's. I made it two years ago for the first time, and then again last year. I decided it needs to stay. 

But when I looked in my nifty recipe book, all I found was the cover sheet with the photo of the stuffing. The paper inside listed mix and match potato dishes, not the stuffing. Apparently in my madness to sort my recipes, I tossed the actual recipe, thinking that it was on the potato sheet instead. 

NOOOOOOOOOO!!!!! 

I mentally composed an email to the Food Network to BEG for their recipe, since I had accidentally thrown it out. I figured I'd give them the whole Thanksgiving-might-be-ruined-story. 

Thankfully, a quick search online yielded the mix-and-match stuffing recipe, and I didn't have to beg for it. Now you have it too. You're welcome. 

Happy early Thanksgiving...  and if you want to knit a quick gift for a friend's child, try a Thanksgiving Bird Blanket. Gobble, gobble.

Life Happens

I meant to sit down today and write a lengthy blog post... and maybe even a few extras on the side to store up for later. 

And then life happened. 

The Peanut needed feeding. 

Then changing. 

Then a nap. 

And right now the Peanut seems to enjoy napping on me, and I know these days won't last forever, so I don't mind. 

Then feeding again. 

Somewhere in between there, I needed to fix myself something to eat. Several times a day, in fact. Occasionally I get to sit down to eat it. 

And of course there was laundry to do. 

Then a walk outside for fresh air for both of us. Another nap for the Peanut.

Then more feeding, more changing, more laundry. 

I promised myself I'd lower my expectations of what could be done in a day once the Peanut arrived. Apparently 'do the laundry' and 'blog' should be on separate days. 

Right now, I'm typing this while the Peanut is squirming on my lap. 

Sometimes while I'm feeding, changing and napping him, I'm thinking of blog posts to type out. Or I look at my stash of yarn and dream of projects to come. 

Then I look at my smiley little guy and I just think all of those things can wait until someday later.

Holey Slippers

I love my slippers. Ever since my first trip to Ukraine, I have been a huge fan of slippers, house shoes, whatever you want to call them. My traveling friends and I used to find the ugliest pair for sale in outdoor markets and we'd send them to each other via snail mail. 

Over the years, I learned to make my own and some lucky pals are actually the recipients of handmade ones nowadays. Some of my favorites are these granny square slippers and these heavy duty felted ones. 

Then I felted the blue pair on the left and I gave them to my mom (knowing that she also loved this pair I made for her.) To give you an idea of how giant these are before felting, the pair on the right fit me perfectly and I'm a US shoe size 9.5.

Now, my pair on the right has a few holes in them. 

It was enough that this pair eventually wore holes in them after one winter. ONE. 

(You can actually see the light streaming through the hole on the right heel.)

 

I guess I kind of expected my orange pair to last forever. I did not, however, expect to feel the cold floor under my left toe when I stumbled into the kitchen earlier than usual this morning because the Peanut didn't get the Daylight Savings memo. 

There's only two things left to do. 

1. Turn the heat on. The weather got below freezing last night and I don't want the Peanut to turn into a popsicle, after all. 

2. Knit a new pair of slippers. These holes might be beyond repair. 

I should probably add a third thing: 

3. Buy more yarn for new slippers. 

No Words

Years ago, I made a phone call at 3 am from Texas to England that would change my life forever. 

The details of that phone call are a story for another time, but in the end, I found myself working on a magazine in the UK — with 'JH' as my editor. 

My own life would have looked wildly different if this man hadn't taken that phone call and offered me an internship and later job. Somehow, he saw something in me that others over the years never did, or would never admit to. My high school English teacher told me I was the worst writer he’d ever seen. 

JH seemed to think otherwise.

For years, I wrote editorials, columns and sidebars, researched, edited and proofread stories, all while listening to him tell me how good everything would look on my resume someday. 

But this — this kind of story was never meant to be included on that list. 

My former editor, mentor and pseudo-uncle, JH, passed away this evening.

It seems only fitting that I write something in his honor. After all, this is the man who launched me on a writing career. Yet here I sit, staring at a screen that looks a little fuzzy through my tears, somewhat at a loss for words.

However, JH taught me a few tricks over the years. Write — even when you don't want to. And, a lot of writing is simply rewriting. In this case, the following is adapted from a letter I sent to him a few weeks prior to his death.
 
Years before I ever met JH, I scribbled a few goals and dreams into a journal. One was to work on a magazine overseas. It seemed unlikely based on my high school and even college track record. And yet, I will never forget sitting at my desk in England, watching him jet off for some conference somewhere on the other side of the world. His words to me as he took off for the airport were, “I want to make sure you could run this magazine in case I drop dead.”

Thankfully, he came back very much alive, but he reminded me that he actually believed in me and my generation. And let’s face it, running the magazine didn’t scare me nearly as much as the thought of him not being around to champion the likes of me.

From stuffy offices in England, to sheep fields in Scotland, planning meetings in Germany, non-Christmas dinners in Wales, aboard a ship in West Africa and even in Ukraine (where our paths never actually crossed at the same time, but he understood nonetheless the reasons I loved it there…), somewhere along our travels and work together, he became more than a mentor to me. He became family.

And I have to give him credit for his perhaps unintentional matchmaking skills. Because of my job, I attended a media junket with Mercy Ships in Norway. Because of that trip, I later joined the organization, where I met the Sailor. We got married and we now have the adorable little Peanut.

Over the years, JH edited a lot of my writing. He'd brag about a good article I wrote and then joke that it only became great once he edited it.

During my time onboard the ‘Love Boat’, I remember sending him articles I wrote for Mercy Ships. Usually he’d have a bit of advice — or say things like, “Your writing is coming on.” It was the same as before -- he held back ever so slightly on giving me any bragging rights.

One time though, he actually paid me a genuine compliment — and it meant more to me than a thousand trite ones. He simply wrote: “It is redundant for me to say your writing is ‘coming on’. It has arrived.” I printed out that email and glued it into my journal for both posterity and proof.
 
Even though JH heard countless tales of how he influenced people over the years in the weeks leading up to his death, I think that was just a glimpse of the impact he made. There's still more to the story. And I suspect that along the way to hear more of the tale, he’ll be receiving a similar compliment to the one he gave me all of those years ago: “Well done, JH. Well done. You have arrived…”