Scarlet Stone

The month of November has brought closure to my exterior home improvement projects for the season, including finishing painting the garage and replacing some siding and two doors. The guys were finishing projects as the temps kept dropping, and I even found some time to add an antique round white bed frame and small perennial garden to my extra lot that I now call my croquet park.
In the spring, I will be surprised by the new blooms including baby’s breath, blue flax, and glorioso daisy. It’s hard to believe that after all the messes I had around the yard, I can actually get my car in the garage again, having been able to get it cleaned before the snowflakes flew.
The main thing missing from view is my porch lady, who is no longer sitting on the front step. On that windy Saturday night after Halloween, around 9:30 p.m., I was sitting on the couch in my flannel nightgown when there was a forceful knock on the front door (porch lady’s door). I nervously asked, “Who is it?” A man firmly replied, “It’s law enforcement!”  
“Oh God, now what did I do?” I thought as I went to the door and only opened it slightly so my young cats wouldn’t escape.
“Do you have any teenagers in there?” he asked, as I quickly answered, “No, it’s just me and my cats.”
He then explained that there had been some complaints about possible vandals at a white house in my area of town.
“How unfortunate,” I thought, and closed the door. Nothing more came of it that night, but when I went out the next morning, the porch lady was lying face-planted on the front sidewalk with her hip up in the air and dress hiked to the top of her spindly legs. Her glasses were lying broken in the grass nearby. When I turned and lifted her, I noted she needed a major hair transplant among other things.
I wondered who had ripped her loose from the screw that fastened her to the wooden step, then decided it most likely had been the tempestuous wind because delinquents probably would’ve damaged her more or abducted her, and I doubt the police officers threw her to the ground thinking she was one of the teenagers.
“Could crime finally be finding its way to peaceful Soudan?” I wondered. “Oh, how dreadful. Next it will be marijuana!”  
I collected all the porch lady’s parts and put her in a rocking chair for several days before finally moving her to a ledge that is located at the top of my basement stairs.
The saga continues. The other day, I was working in my office and heard a large commotion and crashing noise to discover that one of my young cats had knocked the porch lady off the ledge and she’d tumbled down the basement stairs. There she was with one leg detached lying midway down the stairs with her at the bottom in a heap. I decided that she will need traction, a long rest followed by an extreme makeover, so don’t expect to see her until late next spring.
That’s not the only bummer. A trip to Kansas City with my son and his wife to see family has now been canceled due to health issues on their end. The plane tickets can be rescheduled for a trip later, and to be honest, I was highly concerned about flying due to major issues at airports from the government shutdown. I was not certain if our flight would be canceled at the last minute or, worse yet, we’d end up waiting in a three-hour line at the airport.
We will still be able to spend time in the cities for a couple days, and I had previously purchased tickets to see White Christmas at the Chanhassen Dinner Theater. I am feeling sad because none of us siblings are getting any younger and it has been an entire year since I saw them.
“Fudgy Wudge!” is all I can say. Going with the flow is a skill that comes with age, and a change in circumstances isn’t going to ruin things completely. There is always a new event or project to take the place of disappointment, if you let it step forward … such as me cooking Thanksgiving dinner.
This story is told with much humor even if it appears I am out of sorts. Ever since my son, Keaton, was old enough to manipulate me, he has been doing it, and of course I seem to let him. 
Maybe lots of mothers have this exchange with one or more of their clever children. He told me recently he really wanted me to cook Thanksgiving dinner this year since I haven’t done it for a group in a long while. So, he, his wife, and in-laws will be coming to Soudan, and it will be great fun.
It became a fun little teaching point as I explained to him that hosting is more than just cooking. I will have an early Thanksgiving deadline at the paper, plus will need to clean the house, shop for the groceries, fix food, and clean up.
He said, “Mom, you’re making such a big deal about this, and it will be fine.”
I replied, “It will be fine, because you can come early and help clean and stay later to do dishes.”
He puffed up, shook his head, widened his eyes and said with an assured grin, “I will do that.”
I darted back, “I will greet you at the door that morning with the toilet brush and bowl cleaner for starters.”
He said, “No toilets, but I can vacuum.”
I do get annoyed when someone who’s never hosted a Thanksgiving dinner says that it’s easy ... a piece of cake. What do they know about creating a long list of to-dos, finding a few new recipes for side dishes that have to be prepared ahead of time in order to all be power-heated and ready at one time for the dinner?
It all takes planning, and I don’t want to be a sweaty, neurotic mess, so I insist on making some things ahead of time, and I plan on setting a lovely table. This year, I have to keep my kitties from leaping up there because they are young and carefree. It’s possible I will put them behind a closed door in another section of the castle.
For me, holiday dinners mean setting a grand table because I prefer it. I am not ever going to use paper plates for the top-tier holidays involving pilgrims and Jesus. Nope, not gonna happen. Now, let me first add that I have been sending money to the people in Gaza, food shelves, the Democrats and this and that, and protested at the No Kings rally a few weeks ago. I have not forgotten to treat myself a bit either.
Some history needs to be injected here. When my grandmother passed away in International Falls in 1981, she left her Wedgewood bone China to me. My Uncle Jim Houska brought it down on my first wedding day, packed into five whiskey boxes that he hauled up the stairs to the Hoyt Lakes Golf Course Clubhouse where my “dry” wedding reception was held.
Those were the pure, chaste, naive, and sober chapters of my young life, and so nobody else could have fun at my reception. The China is beautiful. All ten place settings with accessory pieces have gold accents with rose and teal flower motifs that my grandmother paired with high-end gold flatware. I admit I have always wanted gold utensils to match, but her set went to a cousin.
I concluded it was time. I am still working, a senior citizen with social security as well. I ordered some online. I call it “upper-end-peasant-quality, ornate looking enough to give that “Downtonesque” look without being so heavy you flare your carpal tunnel into an episode on the soup course. It’ll be a lovely spread to be sure, so now I can look ahead to a few holidays, cozy days with my kitties, gatherings with friends, and after a bit, start putting the porch lady back together again.