Black Friday

I think it's terribly interesting that all day yesterday we were told to be thankful for what we had, realize our abundance and count our many blessings.

And all day today we're told that we really don't have any where near enough, certainly not our fair share, especially if we want to please others, so, by god, get out there and get MORE.

sigh

Thanksgiving

Since I've been grown and married, we've always used the Catholic grace:

Bless us, o Lord, and these, thy gifts, which we are about to receive from thy bounty. Through Christ, our Lord, amen.

When I was a kid, though, Thanksgiving and Easter were always at my Grandmother Bach's house, and she spoke, along with English, pretty good German. A good Lutheran, grace was always said before meals, and always this one:

Komm, Herr Jesus, sei Du unser Gast
und segne, was Du uns bescheret hast.

I was in high school before I learned what it meant. I still say it, in German, at Thanksgiving and Easter. Thanks, Nana.

Other holidays were spent with the Kerbaugh grandparents and relatives. Presbyterian and High Episcopal, they got right to the point:

Bless this food to our use and us to thy service, keeping us ever mindful of the needs of others. Amen.

If I feel formal, that's what I say. More often, though, I just say "Thank you, Mother, thank you. For everything. I am so blessed." Because that's pretty much how I feel.

I was going to do some big Thanksgiving post about what I'm thankful for (the hardships from which we learn, and hot water. Especially, hot water.) I found this, though, in Susan Wittig Albert's newsletter, and she says it perfectly:

Give thanks for material and spiritual blessings and for the challenges that teach us who we are and what we're made of. Spend time in the holiday kitchen. Love the kids, your partner, your parents, your neighbors (on this small planet, we're all neighbors). Share.

Aha! Here I thought it was *my* fault!

Will ye go, lassie, go?

Not sure why that's always the song that I hum (like a camel) when things get really bad. Maybe it's just in my key. More likely it's that the version I know best is the Fred Neill one, and his voice is always a comfort. 'Ev'.

So, let's see where we are... everyone (except me) is sick, and John, a.k.a. Spleen Boy, possibly seriously. We have pretty much no money and, with half a foot of (unexpected) snow outside, no work likely for me. Everything needs tires and the electric bill came in a gray envelope (blue=normal, white=not so good, gray=give us the money dammit.)

Did I mention that I almost burned the house down? Just finished sweeping up the shattered light bulb and vacuuming the soot off the bed. And after I just changed the sheets and vacuumed the room yesterday. Insult to injury. Yeah.

No wonder I'm singing about pulling wild mountain thyme. Wish it grew up here on the hill.

Day 5 without water.

You have to read that aloud, in the tone used to read the journals of the arctic explorers, to get the full effect.

Actually, it's not quite that bad. Cold water we have plenty of - it's the hot variety that's missing, meaning no restorative bowl of water to sit in for hours on end, recuperating from the woes of the world. Something is wrong with the hot water heater, and John has been trying to fix it, on and off, since early in the week. For a little while we had no water at all, making plenty of the cold variety seem such a luxury that I've quit complaining and/or beseeching the gods.

All the clothing and dishes are dirty, as are the humans (well, this one, anyway, although I do sponge off using a big basin of water heated on the stove. The others take *shudder* cold showers.)

I was all set to go get a room or two at the Lincklaen House and order up turkey club sandwiches and a bottle of Alsacian rose, but I realized that the bill for that would be about the same as for a new water heater, so I've taken to my bed for the duration.

Perhaps tomorrow I'll shovel a path through the kitchen, heat my big basin of water and start washing my way through the dishes. I suppose the clothing could be washed on cold. (I suppose I could as well, although it's not too bloody likely.) I could get a fire going in the woodstove and the fireplace and make something warm to eat. But for now, I'm staying in bed, drinking room temperature beverages (read: chilled) and reading, drawing warmth out of the cat instead of the inverse.

Things are nippy up here on the hill.