A Thanksgiving to Remember

Ruby Jean Pitts
44 Lindon St.
Anniston, Alabama
30 Nov. 1944

Dear Aunt Maydale:

You know that Buddy came home last week. We all wanted to give him a wonderful Thanksgiving. We'd been saving coupons forever, stashing them in the Mammy cookie jar. Soon as we got word that he was coming home we put on our hats and gloves and rode the streetcar to the butcher shop. We gave him our coupons and came out with the finest piece of beef this side of Texas.
Oh, Auntie, it was beautiful, don't know when I've seen a piece of beef that looked so good, our mouths were watering all the way home. We put it in the icebox and then all day yesterday we picked roashineers and everything else the V garden holds, though that wasn't much considering the time of year, but it's been a late winter and still pretty enough, so there were a few things out there.
We got onions and potatoes from the cellar and then we went into the pantry and pulled out canned apples for making fried pies, Auntie you know how you go on about my fried pies. And there was tomatoes, okra, beets, watermelon pickles, snap beans, everything we could find that we know Buddy likes.
We let Buddy sleep late, Lord knows the boy looks like he could use more than one good night. You should have seen us tiptoeing around the house trying to be quiet but getting a fit of the giggles at just about everything. Anyway, we started cooking long about sunup, I'd started some bread raising yesterday and the kitchen smelled so good. We were talking about other Thanksgivings. Even though I'm thirteen now I can't remember much from before this war. Seems like we've always been at war.
Speaking of which, it took our last coupon to buy butter. We had decided we wanted real butter for the bread, but it took a while to find some. Every place we tried somebody would ask if we didn't know there's a war on, but it didn't stop us and finally we found some. You should have seen us on our way home, we took off our shoes down at the bottom of the hill and walked barefoot carrying our treasures. I don't think I've ever enjoyed a trip to town and back as much as that one. But then today when we brought out the butter and set it on the table Grandma said if we'd kept the churn we wouldn't have had to buy it.
She's right, but nobody knows where the churn got to, we haven't used it in years, I think it must be the same place as the lemonade crock, wherever that is. Anyway, she went off into the parlor mumbling about never missing something until you need it. But there was no help for it, so we kept on a cooking.
We put the beef in the blue-speckled pan you gave us for Christmas last year and added potatoes and carrots and onions around it, put the cover on and set it in the oven. All morning the smells of cooking were driving us crazy with hunger, but we didn't eat, we wanted to save ourselves for the big meal. Although I think Miralyn must have snuck some of the cornbread, but she's little so we didn't say anything to her.
Long about one o'clock the roast was ready and everything else was ready. Buddy was up by then. We made him and the rest of the fellers go into the yard. Raymond came over, too, you know how he idealizes Buddy. They were sitting out there smoking and spitting and telling stories. I wished I could have been out there with them, but there were things to do still, so I got the big platter down from the top cupboard. When I pulled the roast out of the oven and took off the cover the cloud of steam that came out smelled so good I almost fainted!
It looked so pretty, the potatoes just going brown and the carrots cooked but not soggy, the onions you could almost see through.
Martha put the best linen on the dining table and borrowed a couple of chairs from Mrs. King down the hill. It took four trips to get everything on the table. By the time we finished it looked like we'd cooked enough to feed Coxie's Army. When it was all set, we took off our aprons and marched outside.
The boys joked about not being hungry. Buddy even said he'd wait until we fed the babies, but we knew he was just putting on Sunday manners, and we finally persuaded them it was time to eat. Daddy said we'd say grace in the yard, since there was more room. So we all got in a circle and held hands and Daddy prayed one of the most beautiful prayers I've ever heard. He thanked God, first for Buddy being home safe and sound, and then for everything else he could think of, from the sky overhead to the fertile soil under our feet. Then we all sang Blessed Assurance, Jesus Is Mine. We girls were teary, and it was so wonderful.
We all hugged each other and then went into the house, laughing and joking, the boys jostling each other for position. Everybody stopped short, though, at the door to the dining room. I thought they were admiring the candles and flowers and food, but I was hungry so I pushed past them and you wouldn't believe what I saw.
Old Blue was sprawled out asleep under the table, and if a dog could wear a smile, he had one. The roast, our beautiful roast beef, was gone. I'll give you three guesses where it went and the first two don't count. I yelled at that dog, called him every dirty word I'd ever heard and I think I even invented a few. He skedaddled out of there right quick. We all stood there staring, absolutely speechless. Daddy kept clearing his throat, like something was stuck way down inside.
And then Buddy started laughing. He laughed until the tears rolled down his face. Then Daddy started laughing, too. Grace laughed so hard she had to sit down.
I said I failed to see the humor in the situation. Buddy said you couldn't blame a dog for being what he was. He said some boys in Europe reminded him a lot of that dog. Grandma said we might as well eat what was there. So we did.
The potatoes were passable and the bread good and the butter was wonderful. I guess on the whole the meal was a success. An hour later we were all still sitting around the table laughing and talking. And then Daddy said we should pray again. So we all stood up and got real close to each other and he thanked God again for the day and the food and our dear Buddy being home.
Auntie, I guess the secret of this day was not the roast we didn't have, or the food we did, but that we are all together again.
Someday I'm gonna laugh about this, but not today. And I'm gonna kill that dog if he ever comes out from under the house.

Lovingly,

Your Ruby Jean

you can't judge a book by its cover

More years ago than I care to remember, back in the day when people who knew about software programming were a rather elite group, I was in Washington DC to present a design package to my customer. Three of us, my boss, another designer, and myself (the only female in the group) went to the desk at the Springfield Hilton to check in. Our flight from DFW had been delayed more than once due to weather, and we were all quite tired. The other two were making plans for meeting later on to have a drink in the lounge, but I still had to unpack and then use my collapsible traveling iron on the suit I planned to wear at the meeting the next day, and said all I wanted was to go to my room and collapse. Bill checked in, Clancy checked in, and then it was my turn. But just as I approached the desk, the clerk turned around and went to the room back behind the counter. As the elevator doors closed, Bill shouted they’d see me in the morning. And there I stood, tired, far from home, alone, ignored.

Now, I’m not normally short tempered, but my feet were beginning to feel like they’d been hours in a medieval torture device, and when the clerk had not come back in a couple of minutes, I rang the bell. He came out and looked down his nose at me and said “yes?” “I’d like to check in” I said. You should have seen his face. “Oh, I thought you were with one of those guys” he sneered. Several responses immediately came to mind, among them: “oh, yeah, they’d be likely to pick up a hooker wearing these shoes” or “don’t you think if I was with them I’d be gone by now?” or, better yet, “you obviously in your life have been associated with only one type of working girl.” But I said none of those, simply put my gold card and a copy of my room confirmation on the counter, and waited. The word “sorry” never came out of his mouth; for that matter, he didn’t act the least bit recalcitrant for his lapse in customer service, but by then all I cared about was getting a room. Finally, nerves shot, key in hand, I schlepped myself and my one carry-on to a numbered door on the second floor (which by the way was not serviced by the elevator but instead up a loooooong flight of stairs). There were bugs in the bathtub, the temperature of the water in the faucet never got beyond tepid, and when I threw the bedspread on the chair and turned back the blanket found sheets that either had not been changed since three residents ago or were totally beyond the help of even straight Clorox.

But I soldiered on, did what I had to do to get my attire ready for the next day, called the desk and asked for a wakeup, then turned on my travel alarm and set it on the bedside table. Which was a good thing, because the wakeup clerk was also the snotty desk clerk, and he exacted his revenge for my discovery of his shortcomings by not recording my request. (At the time, ironing boards and irons and hair dryers and coffee pots and bedside clocks were not standard in the rooms, so if you’ve read this far, you’ve figured out how many years ago this took place.) The rest of the trip was a success, the customer was happy, making only two minor changes to the proffered design, and three days later we were back in Dallas.

By now you’re asking yourself what’s the point of this blog entry? “There are more things in Heaven and earth, dear Horatio, than are dreamt of in our petty human philosophies.” Sometimes things are so far outside our comfort zone that their existence is hard to reconcile with day to day normal.

Looking across the group of attendees at yesterday’s DeSoto Veterans Day celebration, I realized there were two ladies sitting unaccompanied. During the hour long program the Veterans were never asked to stand for recognition, so I had no idea if the two were wives or Vets or both or simply paying their respects. The program ended, and I quickly made my way across the aisle to the woman closest to me. I discovered from her answer to my well-formed question that she was, indeed, the wife of a Veteran, but also a Vet, herself. I thanked her for her service and got a smile that will warm my heart for at least a week. How many times, I wondered, has she been recognized for her contribution to our freedom and our way of life? From the size of her hug, obviously, not a lot. (The other lady got away before I could get to her, so I do not know her story; maybe next year.)

Flash forward three hours to Champions Cove. Most of the guys there were wearing ball caps that proudly displayed their military affiliation and years of service. I do not wear a ball cap. I was never given one and frankly have not through the years been able to justify the expense of buying something, other than clothes (and SHOES), for myself alone. I do, however, at such events, wear two buttons in my left lapel, both identifying myself as a Vet. But they are both small and hard to read and, besides that, it’s not politically correct to stare at a woman’s chest. One of the residents and I were talking after the movie, and he told me a couple of things about his tour in Vietnam. To give him time to recover from a particularly intense moment, I said, “One of the things I remember most about being in Okinawa is the odor associated with the planes full of babies during the airlift. The smell of human poop is determined by what you eat, and a diet of rice and fish gives definitely different results from one of beef and corn.” He dried his eyes, laughed, and then asked, “You’re a Vet, too?” My confirmation sent us off on another tangent and it was a good five minutes before we ended our conversation and said goodbye, no longer strangers but two people sharing a common, albeit dissimilar, background.

You can't judge a book by its cover, and you can't discern a Vet by the cut of their jeans. With that in mind, on this Veteran's Day, I honor three very important people who helped shape my life. Virginia Lois Galloway Branson. Virginia (Susie) Howton Wilson. Noreen Rose Arao. Thank you. We traveled different roads, together and apart, but our journeys were similar and our destination the same. We're still here, and I am so very, very proud of you. I hope someone else this weekend will thank you for your service, but in case they don't, never doubt that you have my undying gratitude. We few, we largely unrecognized mostly forgotten but still happy few - - thank you, my sisters in arms.

five minutes - fifty years

The James Martin High School band is not just good, they're mostly great, and at times absolutely awesome. Last night's performance was one of the best.

This year's program focuses on JFK. Yes, I know I'm old. And my forgetter is way better than my rememberer. But seeing the images as they evolved on the field and hearing the music, as they segued from the Beach Boys to the Back-Bay-Harvard accent of our young President to the last poignant note of the finale, sent me back like it was yesterday, not 50 years ago.

Those fateful five minutes tick by in my head in slow motion: the office runner standing at the door to our Physics classroom and delivering the unbelievable news; Diane Whitehead's near-hysterical response; Bobby Holley's pasty white face; Doctor Youngblood allowing us sixty seconds of shock before getting us back on track with the lesson of the day (but I don't remember anything else he said). And then a few short hours later Miss Rosebud Johnson's decision that theatre tradition of our show must go on trumped grief and therefore no fall play performances would be cancelled (after all, she said, the only time the world stopped was when President Roosevelt died, and JFK was certainly no FDR). My father echoed her thoughts, saying to me that on that fateful 40's day he cried as though someone in his own family had died. His eyes and mine were dry as we watched the boots-backwards rider-less horse and black draped caisson move through the streets of DC.

Oh, there would be other events in my life that upon recollection evoke gut-deep profound sadness, chief among them Cryton and my parents and sister's home-goings, the Beirut Barracks bombing, Columbia, Challenger, and 9-11. It doesn't matter whose it is or where it comes from, pain is still pain, and all grief deserves respect. But there were too many other things going on in the fall of '63, and my world did not stop spinning. Last night, thanks to Mr. David Carbone's vision and the Martin Band's execution of same, as I drove home, I found the time to grieve.

As I write this, Slater and the band are on a bus bound for San Antonio. I wish them the best as they perform for a State-wide audience. While I know it is extremely important to them, it doesn't matter to me if they win, place, or just show up and stay on their feet. I thank them for their creativity in finding time to couple classroom studies with ten weeks of practicing from pre-dawn 'til way-past-dark, their diligence and determination to get it right, the resulting excellent performances from this band of brothers and sisters, the warriors hearts of parents and drivers and movers and stagers and fans and supporters. I thank them all for a new five minutes in my memory bank.