Grace

Photo: Petr Kratchovil

Even by secular definition, the word "grace" is more bountiful than the Thanksgiving table in a Norman Rockwell print. But in theological terms, it's all the more powerful. It means: "The freely given, unmerited favor and love of God."

Let that sink in for a moment. Freely given. Unmerited favor. Love. Remember these as I unfurl a tale of Thanksgiving grace.

One of my closest friends was preparing to spend Thanksgiving alone this year. I had, of course, invited her to join me . . . but she declined the invitation because a) she has a young and very active Jack Russell terrier, b) she is allergic to cats and c) my brother and sister-in-law have five cats. (And I pause here to say that said brother and sister-in-law are just "cat people" NOT "crazy cat people!")

No one was happy to think of this friend flying solo on a holiday. She is the friend who makes every holiday matter . . . not only for herself, but for all of those in her circle. Her home is decorated thematically for every special day, right down to the tune on her doorbell. Her annual Christmas party is such an event that friends RSVP BEFORE she sends the invitations. It seemed ironic and totally unfair that someone who did so much for others was going to be alone. She put on a brave front and said she didn't mind but I don't think anyone was fooled.

On Sunday afternoon, she ducked into a local market to see if maybe she could get a turkey breast to cook for herself on Thanksgiving day. As she suspected, it is more cost-effective to buy a whole bird than a breast, so she started poking around, looking for a small bird. She spotted an 8 or 9 pound bird for $16.99, and thought it would do. But, as she moved it, she noticed that a bird behind it . . . it was only $14.99 and, unless her eyes were playing tricks on her, it was a bigger bird.

She hauled it out and asked the clerk behind the poultry counter if there had been an error, pointing out the smaller bird at the higher price. He said that it did look as though a mistake had been made, but that if she wanted the bigger, less expensive bird, the store would honor the price mark. I'm not sure he actullay wished her a Happy Thanksgiving at this point but it clearly was implied.

My friend headed to the register with her bird and some other items she'd picked up to round out her holiday menu. At the register, she asked the clerk if he would be kind enough to weigh the bird for her, explaining that she needed to know the weight in order to know how long to cook it. The clerk was happy to comply; the bird weighed 13 pounds. Julibilant over her bargain, she paid for her groceries and headed home.

She was having dinner with friends that evening, so she hurried to put things away before she had to leave. As she did so, she glanced at the reciept. And then looked again. And a third time, just to be sure. The 13 pound turkey? Free. The clerk had neglected to ring it up at all.

That in and of itself is a story of Thanksgiving grace. But, at dinner that night, she told her friends the tale, adding, "I have no idea how I'll ever eat a 13 pound bird by myself but I have it!"

Her friends looked at one another. They looked back at her. And, taking a breath, confessed that they had no Thanksgiving day plans and, well, would it be okay . . .

And so my dear friend, who is never happier than when she's entertaining, not only has a free 13 pound turkey to cook on Thanksgiving Day. She also has company for dinner.

That, my friends, is grace. It gathers us in when we least expect it and when it does, more often than not, it ripples outward in ways we would never have imagined.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. Give thanks. With grace.

Squirrels and Wunkels

Photo: Cassie Peters

If it's true that you are what you eat, then squirrels are nuts . . . and this may be the reason that my family nickname is Squirrel. I prefer to think that it's because I'm "bright-eyed and bushy-tailed" as my grandparents used to tell me . . . but then, de Nile ain't just a river in Egypt.

My sister will tell you that I earned this name not ONLY because I am nuts, but also because I am noisy. And a bit of a pest. I make a noise (which I learned from my father) that we call "the squirrel noise." It may or may not have anything to do with actual squirrels . . . I've seen a lot of squirrels and have heard them make a kind of chirping sound. And I've heard them chatter. They can get pretty animated, especially if there's bird seed involved.

But truthfully, the noise we make is louder than a chirp and yet would not qualify as chatter . . . were I more technologically savvy, I could record it and place the recording here for your listening . . . er . . . pleasure. My sister is the only person on the planet who does not appreciate the genuis of the squirrel noise. In point of fact, she LOATHES it. But trust me. She is an aberration. You, I am sure, would recognize immediately the value of this noise and wish to replicate it. But alas! For now, those recording and uploading skills elude me and so you will be left wondering. And squirrel-noiseless. Buck up. When we meet, I will teach you the noise. And then we will go visit my sister . . .

My sister's answer to the Squirrel is the Wunkel . . . the origins of Wunkel-dom are a bit murky, but we agree that the Wunkel is a mythical creature who (in contrast to the squirrel) is quiet by nature. And (here we agree to disagree) -- Wunkels are not a bit pesky. Ummmmm..... we'll discuss that later, shall we? On our way to visit her after you've mastered the squirrel noise. (No, really. She's a fantastic hostess. She'll be delighted to see you!! But if she pulls out the .22 when you proudly recreate the squirrel noise, get behind her SUV. You'll be safe there . . . she'd never take a chance on scratching that. And buckshot stings. The Badger, remember?)

Anyway, when she was still too young and sweet to exhibit Badger like tendencies, the family called my sister Skunk. (Which, come to think of it, may help explain how she developed the Badger like tendencies in the first place.) Skunk became Skunkel-Wunkel which, in due time, evolved to Wunkel. My sister likes to tell anyone who will listen that while Squirrels are noisy [Insert Me as Exhibit A], Wunkels are QUIET by nature. (Shhhhhhhh!) [QUIETLY insert My Sister here as Exhibit B]. This is her story and she's sticking to it.

But my niece (who is proud of both her Squirrel heritage AND her Wunkel tendencies) has the last word. On a recent visit when we were talking about her mother and said mother's Wunkel-like nature, she cocked her head thoughtfully and said, "Aunt Debbie? I don't think Wunkels are really so quiet. They don't mind making noise. . . they just don't like it when OTHER people make noise."

I swear I heard a chorus of squirrels chortling. But maybe it was just me.

Happy Birthday Baby Bunny!

Photo: Anna Cervova

With children of her own, my baby sister no longer qualifies as a baby. But I sometimes think of her that way nevertheless.

Growing up, I wanted a sister like I wanted my grandparents to arrive on Christmas morning. (We couldn't open presents until they arrived . . . and my grandmother had many sterling qualities but punctuality was not among them.) Finally, finally, FINALLY she arrived (the sister, not the grandmother. Though she always showed up, too, eventually.) But the sister finally arrived early one cold November morning. And it's true what they say . . . good things do come to those who wait! She was everything I hoped she'd be and lots of things I couldn't even have imagined.

A poet once told me -- I no longer remember the context of the statement but the statement itself made a lasting impression -- "If a Scorpio woman wants your man, pack your things and go. Because she will win every time." My sister is a Scorpio. (Luckily, we have never wanted the same man!) And she is beautiful, with such a striking resemblance to one of those Hemingway girls (Muriel? Margeaux? I always get them mixed up.) that people used to stop her on the street with, "Excuse me. But aren't you Margeaux Hemingway?" (Or maybe it was Muriel. Whichever.)

She is also fiery, with a temper that has earned her the family nickname of the Badger. (As in: "Take this coffee in to the Badger . . . just open the door a crack and poke it through with a stick. Then step away quickly and quietly.") Mostly, when she gets in "a mood," we try to stay out of her way . . . unless we have coffee, wine or chocolate with which to bargain for safe passage. So far, no one has ever lost a limb . . . but we all are wary just the same. It's not unusual for us to have M&Ms in our pockets "just in case." (Okay . . . I made that last part up. M&Ms wouldn't even cause a distraction. If there's bargaining to be done with the Badger, you'd best have the Good Stuff.)

The point is, if most Scorpio women are like my sister, I'm inclined to think what the poet said is true . . . a Scorpio woman can have any man she wants, including yours. (But again, it's not all bad news . . . my sister found a keeper in my brother-in-law - that would be the coolest brother-in-law on the planet, for those of you who are regulars here IDW [In Deborah's World] . . . so she isn't going to want your man.)

So. We've established beauty, passion and great taste in men . . . er, make that husbands! . . . as three of my sister's attributes. But she is also the best secret keeper on the planet. She is tolerant and will defend the undertrodden and underrepresented. She is brave. She is loyal. And . . . well, trust me. If you're a regular here IDW, you'll be reading much more about her as time goes on. Because she's one of the most important people in my life. My sister. And happily, one of my best friends, too.

I love you Sissy Ellen . . . and the palm tree is to remind you of the birthday party you had poolside in Antigua. Remember? When you could swim from one end of the pool and back again without ever coming up for air? Now that you live in the Snow Belt, I thought you might appreciate the reminder! Happy Birthday!!

Picasso Before Breakfast

Photo: Vojko Kalan

The dazzling brother of one of my nearest and dearest . . . and let me just pause here to say that dazzle runs rampant in that family. Seriously. Beauty and intelligence like theirs before morning coffee is NOT for the faint of heart. Genetically programmed with wit like lasers and cheekbones like razors. Daunting. Dazzling! And me without my sunglasses, too. But anyway, back to my story . . .

My friend's brother runs an art gallery that is currently showcasing a Picasso exhibit that highlights one of his most ardent and long-lasting love affairs, with Marie-Thérése Walter. And my much-loved and loving friend arranged for a private walk-through before our breakfast this morning.

Put aside for a moment that the collection -- which took nearly two years to pull together, because it involved borrowing pieces from museums and private collections -- includes pieces that have become iconic, in the literal sense of that word. Put aside (if you can) the fact that . . . well, it's PICASSO, for God's sake! Put all that aside.

Because what happened to me circa 7:37 a.m. today . . . before my morning coffee but after rising at 5 a.m. so that I could move furniture to accomodate the workmen coming to restore a wall in my bedroom that was damaged by a recent leak in a pipe behind it -- how mundane is that? . . . what happened to me circa 7:37 this morning was one of those transcendent experiences that sometimes (but not always) happens in the presence of truly great art. And because it was a transcendent moment, my words will a) not truly capture it and b) sound awkward and clumsy besides. But I'm still going to try because, well, that's what writers do, isn't it? Even though we sometimes fall on our face in the process.

Standing in the center of one room, surrounded by canvas drenched in color and alive with the geometric patterns Picasso used the way Nabakov used language, I felt myself part of something . . . an energy pattern, perhaps? The color and texture seemed to radiate through the room and we -- the three-dimensional, constantly changing, human sculptures of flesh and blood and bone-- became part of the art itself. Art in life; life in art . . . microcosm, macrocosm, telescopes and microscopes . . . the Universe shimmering within and without, melding for one brief but timeless moment.

This is always true, of course. But the awareness of it is exquisite . . .what the mystics call an ecsatsy. Spirtual thrill-seekers troll for such moments. Moments that at once lift us out of our mortal shells and connect us to all that is or has been. Something Divine. I don't believe such moments can be forced. It's not like sky diving or looking for electronics on Black Friday . . . the harder you look (I think), the less likely you are to get the thrill.

Read your quantum physics . . . or, for that matter, the Enquirer. Wisdom and truth can be found anywhere. Everywhere. And the truth is these moments surround us always. They are gifts. They are always with us.

All we have to do is show up and pay attention. And this morning, before breakfast, I did.

Veterans Day

I'm not sure that my father will appreciate being mentioned in this post -- as far as I know, he doesn't read my blog because he disapproves of blogs in general. Still, I'll go out on a limb and take a chance, because I cannot think of Veteran's Day without thinking about my Dad.

My Pop spent the whole of his professional career serving this country that he loves. My siblings and I grew up in a home where "truth, justice and the American way" were like the Trinity . . . so interconnected that it was impossible to tease one from the other. And the way in which my father led his life, and the choices that he made, gave us no reason to question that it was so.

I have met very few men (many of whom, interestingly, are themselves veterans) who have as much personal integrity as my father, but I've yet to meet any man who supercedes him. My Dad has lived his principles and values. Growing up, I saw him treat people from all walks of life with kindness and with dignity. I never heard him make a racial slur or tell a sexist joke, let alone a joke that poked fun at someone's sexual preference. He has his opinions, like every other American, but he raised his children to believe that wherever they went, they were ambassadors for their country and he led the way by being a consummate diplomat himself.

He worked long hours and there is no question he could have made more money in the private sector. In fact, on one memorable occasion, there was an offer on the table. I was an adolescent at the time, interested as most adolescents are in the shiny baubles money can buy and equally interested in the idea of living in one place, without moving every couple of years. I'm sure my father weighed the offer carefully, but in the end he turned it down. He believed he could be of greater service right where he was.

Service. We use the phrase "service man" (or woman) so casually. We forget that it has a literal origin. Veterans pledge themselves to serve. They put service above money. In our society, this is almost an incomprehensible choice. And there are many, many people of privilege who write off those in the armed services as "losers" or "suckers" or worse, "bullies."

I'm sure there are some losers and suckers and bullies among them, just as there are in every strata of society and in every profession. But, for the most part, the men and women who serve this country represent the very best we have to offer. They are idealistic. They are brave. They are resourceful. They are patriotic. And, because of them, we are free.

So thanks, Dad, for everything you've taught me and for your years of service to this country we call home. I love you very much and I am proud of you.

And to all the other veterans who have served or are serving . . . thank you.

233 Years and Counting . . . OORAH!!

Photo: Petr Kratchovil

Not every American knows that the United States Marine Corps was first formed in 1775. November 10, 1775. In Philadelphia. And yes, that means the Marines helped give birth to a republic that didn't declare independence until 1776. Even fewer folks know that Marines everywhere celebrate Marine Birthday every November 10th. And let me just say that if you've never celebrated with a bunch of Marines . . . well, you only THINK you know what a party is, and that's the truth.

And speaking of parties, I chose the image above this post for two reasons. First, and most obviously, because we tend to associate fireworks with over-the-top celebrations. Here in New York, for example, the USS Intrepid is back in place again and last night its return was celebrated with fireworks. We go out of our way to see fireworks displays on Independence Day -- the bigger the better. We love the colored lights, the noise and (some of us, anyway) even love the smell of gunpowder. It's thrilling to witness that kind of spectacle.

That fact brings me to the deeper and less obvious significance of the image. I know at least one Marine Corps veteran who finds these celebratory displays unnerving. The noise. The smell of gunpowder. The smoke that begins to form a curtain. The uncanny resemblance of the colored lights to tracer rounds in a night sky. These are images of battle, not celebration. And so, he and others like him -- men who helped secure the very freedom we're celebrating -- avoid the displays as assiduously as the rest of us seek them. That those who should be our guests of honor are so unnerved by the celebration they'd rather not be guests at all, is, my friends, a textbook illustration of irony.

It's not just fireworks, of course. I know another vet who can't stand the sound of chopper blades. And still another who hates the smell of mud. And . . . well, you get the idea. These men wouldn't tell you this themselves. They are far too busy leading productive lives . . . loving their family and friends and making a difference in their communities. They remember men who didn't make it home and feel grateful to be here.

So if they wouldn't mention it, why am I? Particularly on this, a day for celebration? Good question. I mention it to remind those of us who have been served by them --which, make no mistake, is every one of us living in this country -- that taking an oath to serve and protect cost them in ways they never could have imagined. Not just in the big ways, but in a hundred little ways, too. They are our warriors. And, as a society, we have a responsibility to honor our warriors.

Most of them would dismiss this post with a cock-eyed, "aw-shucks-ma'am" grin and tell you they went because they knew they could blow stuff up, and there's truth in that. But there is a complementary truth that is a little deeper than that: They pledged themselves to walk through hell to spare us the need to do so. And, without exception among the men I'm blessed to know personally, they served proudly and honorably and would do the same again.

These men . . . these Marines . . . are part of a tradition that is older than the nation they serve. They served or are serving for their families. Their friends. Their neighbors. For you. And for me. So today, if you see someone wearing the Eagle, Globe and Anchor, wish him (or her?) Happy Birthday. And maybe even buy him (or her!) a beer to say thank you.

And to all "My Marines" . . . Happy Birthday, guys. I am so blessed to know each and every one of you.

Time Passages

Photo: Anna Cervova

I think I finally am beginning to catch my breath after the whirlwind tour of New York my goddaughter and I had last weekend. We went from 7:30 a.m. to after midnight everyday . . . except the first day, Friday, which started at 3 a.m. for her and 4:30 a.m. for me! We saw Manhattan from one end to the other -- took in the Halloween Parade in the Village and a Broadway show. Walked the length of Central Park and took a ferry out to Liberty Island to visit the Statue of Liberty. And, of course, ate some really good food. (And some really mediocre food, too . . . The Jeckyl and Hyde Club was a fun place to be on Halloween but the food was barely edible!) By Monday, we both were plumb tuckered out. But in a good way.

I had waited patiently for this visit for fully 18 years. Having known her, almost from the day she was born, I knew I loved her. I'm her Fairy Godmother, after all . . . and I have the bracelet to prove it! But even so, I wasn't prepared for the depth of emotion I experienced or the delight I felt in realizing that she's fast becoming the kind of woman I'm proud to know.

One of the best-kept secrets in our youth-obsessed culture is that it is truly awe-inspiring to know other human beings from the moment they arrive on the planet and onward. It is an honor and a privilege to be part of someone's life that way. Parents know this, of course. But what I'm speaking of isn't specific solely to parents. It's so much broader than that. It encompasses all the young people in our lives, and those older than we are, too, come to that. It gives us space to appreciate our place in the Grand Scheme and to honor THAT place, instead of wishing for another.

It's true that the shiny-penny energy and exuberance of the very young can be a reminder that we now are in a different place . . . that we're older . . . that the phase of life we witness in them now is behind us. And I'll admit to an occasional wave of nostalgia over the fun I had in my Roaring Twenties. We're encouraged -- by the folks who sell us lotions and potions and unguents and pills and tonics that promise to forestall the march of time -- to think of ways we can look as much like we did then as possible. Which, when you think of it is A) ridiculous and B) a terrible example to set. When you live in New York, you see a lot of women and men who have "had work done." And in almost every instance, they don't look younger . . . they just look like they've had work done. I don't think there's anything intrinsically wrong with that . . . but by trying to look the way we looked 10 or 15 or 20 years ago -- or, worse, the way we wish we'd looked 10 or 15 or 20 years ago -- we don't leave much room to look the way we look right now. Which is younger than we're ever going to look again.

If I can give my goddaughters and godsons and nieces and nephews and cousins and Girl Scouts and all the young people in my life an example to live by, I'd like it to encourage them to see life as a grand and glorious adventure at every port of call. New York isn't better than Paris; Paris isn't better than London; London isn't better than Rome. Every city offers its own delights for exploration. It makes no sense to miss the grandeur and glory of Rome because you're dreaming of New York! (Well, that's probably not a great example. I mean, anyone who has read the New Yorker knows that Manhattan IS the Center of the Universe. And rightfully so. But for the purpose of this illustration, let's pretend that it's on an equal footing with the other great cities of the world. Instead of being superior in every way. Which it is. Clearly. But I may not be totally objective on this point. First of all, this is my home. And secondly, I haven't been to Paris or London or Rome yet. And I will love each of them in turn. Obviously. But probably not as much as I love New York.)

The point is probably best made by counterpoint: Begin with my beautiful goddaughter at Point A, who is a few decades behind me and just beginning -- she's working three jobs, saving money for nursing school; then pan to my dear friend and contemporary who is just beginning -- she's getting a degree in landscape design; then pan to my handsome friend, who is a few decades ahead of me . . . and just beginning -- he's getting a law degree.

No matter where you find yourself, there are new adventures to be had and gorgeous views to enjoy. My goddaughter would add theatre and art to that list, my dear friend would add pastry and chocolate, and the handsome friend would add sharp cheese and good wine. All of which just serves to underscore how important it is to have good friends of all ages!

Change

Photo: Petr Kratchovil

So. America voted for change. I got e-mails this morning . . . both, ironically, from combat veterans. One was ebullient . . . seeing the election as one that has ousted a corrupt and greedy administration. He believes that the next four years will place renewed emphasis on work and personal responsibility rather than the politics of rank and privilege.

At the other end of the spectrum was my friend who is in mourning. He is flying his flag at half-mast for the next 30 days and then intends to pack it away for the next four years. (And, no, I am not making that up.)

I tend to put my own faith in the democratic process itself. In our system of checks and balances if not in our collective wisdom. It makes it possible for me to sleep at night regardless of who is living in the White House. And, if you listened to the speeches, we had two candidates who were gracious and inspiring, which isn't always the case, so I think we should be proud of how these men represented us collectively, whatever our political leanings may be.

I believe we are at a watershed moment in human history. I know I'm not alone in this belief so it's not like I'm claiming it as my own unique observation or anything . . . but it's hard to wrap one's mind around the full significance of what's happening politically, economically, spiritually, evironmentally . . . and what it can mean, not just for the United States, but moreover for the world.

We have a handsome, dynamic, articulate and intelligent new president. I hope he proves to be the right man for the job.