There's a small chance we'll have some before Thanksgiving.
I went out this afternoon – it was still warm and a little windy – and dug out some of the vine-y plants from the summer pots, then repotted them for the house. The closer winter gets, the more I want to hang on to the greens of summer!
This year we brought in two pots of basil; they release their fragrance when the sun warms them in the window. The rosemary and lemon thyme smell good when I brush by them.
What a difference fragrance makes! When the house has been shut up for awhile it smells stale, somehow. But having fresh green plants sitting around freshens the air, scents it with a touch of summer.
It's easy to understand why people used to build orangeries. We visited one in Kansas City this summer; it wasn't large but the ceiling was tall enough to allow large plants. Walking in was an adventure in beauty. The plants were a symphony of green, varied in texture; the fragrances tickled our noses with delight. Visitors were invited to touch some of the plants, adding a dimension of pleasure.
We don't have an orangerie in our house, but we do have generously sized windows that allow us to have green plants through the winter.
When the snow flurries, it's nice to watch it through our living room garden.
It's one more thing for our Thanksgiving list!
The sky filled with clouds this afternoon, and the wind picked up. The temperature is dropping, as this autumn tease continues.
It's a good day for soup, and I've just come from making a pot of beef-vegetable. All that chopping and slicing gave me a lot of time for thinking, and a lot of time for thanking.
I used up the last of the roast I made the day Meg died. She came into the kitchen as soon as I opened the package of raw meat to sear and put into the oven. She sat right at my feet when I took the roast out of the oven, and right beside John while we ate dinner that night, hoping – successfully, as it turned out – for morsels of hot meat from his hand.
As I prepared the left-over roast for the soup I thought of Meg, and wished she were in the kitchen with me, hoping for a morsel of meat to drop her way.
A friend who has been living with cancer has begun the process of dying from it. It doesn't look as if there will be another reprieve; but she is determined to live as much as she can til she dies.
I slice and dice the garlic, the onion, the carrots, and I think of her, wishing there would be more time for dinners out, wishing there would be more time to hear of her travels.
I think about loved ones who've died, and began a litany of thanksgiving for them. I'm thankful to have known them, thankful to have been part of their lives.
I'm thankful to know that death doesn't win in the end; love wins.
Some Sunday I'll take my place in a church pew, and it will be the last Sunday I'm there. Maybe I'll know that somehow, but more likely I won't. I hope, though, that I am aware of how precious, how lovely it is to be alive that day. I hope I have a thankful heart; I hope I'm completely present in those moments.
Making soup requires a kind of mindfulness. As I work with the vegetables I admire their shapes, their colors, their smells, the way they feel as I work with them. I think of the people who planted and grew them, who drew them from the ground, who shipped and sold them. I think of them with thanksgiving, and I think of the people who will gather round my table with thanksgiving. I think of those who came before, and those who will come after, with thanksgiving.
An attitude of thanksgiving is an antidote to mourning. It doesn't take away the sting of death, but it eases the pain somehow. On an autumn afternoon as darkness fills the house, thanksgiving is a bit of light and lightness that does my heart good.
The soup is warm now, and fills the house with an enticing aroma, just as thanksgiving fills our lives with the fragrance of God.
Christmas notwithstanding, we cooked out last night.
Or rather, our son and his wife did, and they brought their 16-month old along with them.
The 16-month old didn't help with the cooking, although he was free with his opinions about the food: he especially liked the bun and the sweet potato, and the fresh pineapple made his eyes shine and his mouth water.
It was a warm afternoon, with the possibility of storms. The yard had a good supply of sticks, thanks to a windy storm the night before, and the 16-month old had fun picking the longest sticks up, balancing them in his hands, throwing them into the creek, even as his daddy's hands were hooked firmly into the back of his pants so he wouldn't go swimming, too.
The sky was that bright brittle blue of autumn, and every now and then fluffy white clouds, framed by heavy grey ones, would go skidding across the sky.
We took a walk around the yard. We picked up sycamore leaves big enough to be hats, and visited with a neighbor from across the street. We checked out a pile of dirt where a squirrel had been trying to bury a nut.
The hamburgers and brats were juicy and tasty, and the grilled sweet potatoes toasty and delicious. We were out of catsup, so someone made a quick trip to the grocery store – what good is a hamburger without catsup?
Some days are so busy I hardly notice the color of the sky or clouds. I take little note of whether or not there is water in the creek. I really couldn't tell you much about whether or not the squirrels are busy burying nuts in the front yard.
And some days, like yesterday, are for savoring. When Thanksgiving comes, those are the days I'm thinking especially about.
