Yesterday, when I put up the tree at the LaGrange County House, I expected it to  be a short one that I would put on a chair and position on the porch. Well, in the end, it’s there on the porch, but it’s not on a chair. It is six feet tall.

I think what happened is a variation of the “upside down top of the Wal-Mart tree” syndrome.

Years ago, before we got our super Wal-Mart building, Wal-Mart was where Rural King is now – sort of a gloomy place. And at Christmas, one little section was transformed into a towering clutter of Christmas ornaments, lights, trees and garland. Trees were in a crowded display, put together by the random, unlucky employee. One year, I thought one tree looked a little odd; finally, I realized the tree looked like a big triangle on the bottom with a small inverted triangle on top and it dawned on me that someone had put the top of the tree on upside down.

That was before cameras in phones.

But let us look at 2011. I went into the Christmas area to get the aforementioned small tree and I saw one. I looked at the identifying Capital Letter by the tree to see what I should look for in the stack of boxes. No problem. Until yesterday when I pulled the branches and base – and middle section? – out of the box. So I look at the box closely and see the number “6” as in 6 feet. I believe someone left the middle section out when they were assembling trees.

I toyed with doing that, but decided to go “full tree”. It could use another string of lights. At least. Well, in a bit I’ll see to it, or maybe I’ll just decide I like the primitive tree look. Yes, I can feel myself liking it  more already.

Look closely at the middle and spot the basketball hoop. This whole picture is “nothing but net”.

I was amazed this afternoon by the amount and speed involved in our first real snow event, or, more accurately, our first slushing. It started about 3:30 pm while I was driving and by the time I reached our house, I had been going mostly 30 mph behind lots of other cars and getting deeper and deeper in the ruts of slush that looked more like the aftermath of a blizzard than the beginning of a snowfall.
It was quite lovely while I was driving – an evolving Currier & Ives landscape. When I got here, Summer and I stuck our heads out of respective windows and snapped photos . . . and then she ran off to paparazzi her family members. She forgets the pictures I have of her on my camera. Oh, could this be one of them?

So I published it. Right below this. About the tree. Cryptic. This message, not the tree.

Okay, I’ve had my fun for the day; let me plunge into real sentences. I am going to Las Vegas this weekend for Der Bingle’s  Company Christmas party; I drive to Dayton on Thursday and we fly out on Friday and return on Sunday and I come home on Monday.  I’ve had this invitation before, but  haven’t gone . This time I was on a 3-way call with Quentin and Der Bingle and I said, “You know, I might just let people fend for themselves and go.”

Quentin said, “Yes, there’s no thinking about it, Mom. You’re going. You are definitely going.”

So I am going.

I probably should put Rose in my suitcase to keep me on the straight and narrow.

 What? Suitcase? I want my own seat, the window one, of course.

I don’t know when we’ll put up our tree this year. We get it at a tree farm* down on the north side of Fort Wayne – usually a Fraser fir that comes home sticking out of the trunk. We don’t put it up until the middle of December and I surround it with fountains to keep it moist. I also shut off the heat vent close to it – I kinda figured that would be smart.

Usually I’m a big decorator, but this year I think I’m cutting back. Nutcrackers are sitting by the attic door, however, and they can be pushy.

* I looked and it’s this place. See, this place right here:

It seems like Sunday because Der Bingle went back to Dayton today. But it is not – tomorrow is Sunday. Two Sundays in a row. I’m not particularly fond of the Sunday night feeling; I think it goes back to school days and the put off homework. Sunday night was a grind. A downer. A bummer.  Well, writing about this wasn’t wise; it’s making me feel that way again.

I fished the mashed potatoes I had made Wednesday night for my early preparation for Thanksgiving experiment out of the refrigerator. I just remembered them today. I put a portion size in the microwave for 45 seconds with one of the Nordic Ware covers over it; they weren’t bad, but I don’t think they were as good as those made fresh. Of course, were I to reheat a Thanksgiving meal’s worth, then it might get complicated. I don’t know if I would want to go from refrigerator to crockpot in one fell swoop or not. I don’t feel comfortable with the idea of heating the whole mass that way; it might be possible to microwave partial amounts and then plop them in a crockpot to stay warm.

We had a snag on Thanksgiving – we decided to straighten up the bent ricer handle and it took a little longer than expected – wound up using duct tape on it with a big wooden dowel stuck inside the straightened metal. Oh, yeah, only at the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse.

Ah, that’s a lot of discourse for a small potatoes issue . . . . hahahahahahhahaha. Sorry. Actually, holiday meal mashed potatoes are a big deal here – I sculpt them while on my plate. Yes, I, AmeliaJake, play with my food. One year I made a Christmas tree and used peas and corn and cranberries for ornaments. I could do this because Mother always liked stiff potatoes – not ones that oozed into other food.

The gravy was a bust this year – the new roaster worked so well that I was presented with tons of broth and drippings and panicked. Always before, moisture had steamed out more than I realized – a lot more. But Mother made great gravy from the meager drippings. I got to where I could mimic it. This year, I should have thrown noodles into the broth. Well, I’ll look on youtube to see if anyone is giving lessons.

I know I am just being horribly boring here; I know it and yet I continue.

After my refrigerator posted agenda for Thanksgiving attitude, I am going to do the same thing for Christmas – sort of an advent calendar of respectful behavior and a true nod to concepts such as good will and good cheer. I don’t think a little dose of Christianity will hurt anyone.

Crap, now I’m boring myself.

In 45 minutes I am going to have my hair colored, which is good. I have my Kindle charged up and will spend the processing time well entertained. I started this post thinking I has something to say, but I think I was wrong. That often doesn’t stop me, but this afternoon I think I’ll just sign off . . . and go snack on a pre-coloring turkey sandwich.

I am awake. When Mother was alive, we’d have the turkey in by five am. That, obviously, would have been 35 minutes ago.  I don’t know when the chef and the cheflets will get up, but I’m okay with sitting here in the quiet of Thanksgiving morning. I’ve already had some fun; yesterday I made a batch of mashed potatoes in an experiment to see how they would fare in overnight storage and then rewarming. (One of the “take the stress out of Thanksgiving” internet tips)  I had some difficulty saving enough of them for my experiment, though. Vultures were everywhere, spoons in hand. Have they no respect for science?

I didn’t make any fancy salads this year – people are so finicky here. However, just a couple of years ago we had to chase young folks to get them to try a bite of cheesecake and this year they sneak giant pieces at every opportunity, so maybe soon they will be more accepting of jello dishes with cool whip, cream cheese, pecans and buttermilk. It’s nice to have a break from the unmolding procedure, though; it could be tense – the waiting for the complete plopping onto a plate.

Poor Shane can’t have turkey; he’ll have to make deal with a roast. One year, Mother got Sydney a little rotisserie chicken. We thought of doing that this year – putting one in her rotisserie and letting Shane watch it go round and round. I don’t know how patient he is and am not in a mood to figure it out this Thanksgiving.  It would probably be torture for him, anyway – better to get one already cooked. Did I just type all this? Shane is spoiled, isn’t he? Of course he is – it’s the Robert Grismore School of Dog Care. After all, Daddy used to order a chicken breast at Das Dutchman’s to take home for Miss Alice.

I’ve been rambling and daydreaming and it’s probably time to say Happy Thanksgiving and sign off.

Oh, to all those ancestors – those I remember and those generations back: Thanks for coming to America and all the work and enduring it entailed.

That is what I am hearing around here. Along with “What time will Grandpa get here?” I feel bad about it . . . not jealousy, more like a sense of throwing him to the wolves while I settle down with my Kindle.
But he seems to like it, so . . . YES!
Woo Hoo and all that.

I gets even better: Someone has taken it in her head to cook Thanksgiving dinner and so far, I am only responsible for the mashed potatoes. I am guessing Grandpa will be her sous chef. (My mouth is smiling and I didn’t even realize it until my cheeks started hurting.) This could be better than actually blowing up a frozen turkey in a deep fat cooker – one of my Mythbuster-type KABOOM dreams.

I think I will  go to the grocery store in about an hour. Then I’ll come back and announce, “Here’s your stuff, See ya.”

It may not go as smoothly as Someone thinks, but Grandpa, the sous chef, will be there to soothe tempers  . . . and I will be there with my camera.