Here’s a poem for this season by Tim Nolan, of Minnesota. Once we begin to be thankful for things, there are more and more things to be thankful for. [Introduction by Ted Kooser.]

Thanksgiving

Thanks for the Italian chestnuts—with their

tough shells—the smooth chocolaty

skin of them—thanks for the boiling water—

itself a miracle and a mystery—

thanks for the seasoned sauce pan

and the old wooden spoon—and all

the neglected instruments in the drawer—

the garlic crusher—the bent paring knife—

the apple slicer that creates six

perfect wedges out of the crisp Haralson—

thanks for the humming radio—thanks

for the program on the radio

about the guy who was a cross-dresser—

but his wife forgave him—and he

ended up almost dying from leukemia—

(and you could tell his wife loved him

entirely—it was in her deliberate voice)—

thanks for the brined turkey—

the size of a big baby—thanks—

for the departed head of the turkey—

the present neck—the giblets

(whatever they are)—wrapped up as

small gifts inside the cavern of the ribs—

thanks—thanks—thanks—for the candles

lit on the table—the dried twigs—

the autumn leaves in the blue Chinese vase—

thanks—for the faces—our faces—in this low light.

I’ve been adopted.

After quite a few years of missing having a cat, I brought the subject up with my husband a few months ago. He said he didn’t particularly want a cat himself, but did not mind if I wanted to have one again. That was good enough for me. I waited until after our 25^th anniversary trip, before heading to the animal shelter to adopt a kitten, thinking a kitten would be easier for Scout to cope with than an adult cat. (Since my husband couldn’t come that day, Laure Ferlita came with me for moral support, and ended up adopting my kitten’s sister! You can read about that here.) 

The adoption went smoothly, the new kitty settled in well, and Scout accepted her with no fuss. Maybe that had something to do with getting a treat every time she had a calm interaction with the kitten? Now it was time to name kitty, but as T.S. Eliot wrote, “The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter.” (Read the whole poem, “The Naming of Cats,” here.) 

I can always make a simple matter more complicated, and so I did with naming the kitten. Her shelter name was Lucy, which I like as a name but didn’t seem quite right. A whole week went by with us trying out various names to see if they’d stick. I wanted a name that would be easy to say, and would suit an adult cat as well as a kitten.  A name I would feel comfortable hearing announced at the vet, and a name with some sort of back story or connection to another aspect of my life. I looked up literary cat names and popular cat names until I was cross-eyed. We tried Isabelle and Tiger Lily, Zoey and Buttercup, Luna and Lyra. Annabelle came close, but we finally settled on Prudy, after a favorite character from the movie Support Your Local Sheriff.

That took care of what Eliot calls her “everyday name.” But she must also have a “peculiar and more dignified name” to allow her to “keep up her tail perpendicular.” We figure Prudy is short for Prudence, which I hope is dignified enough to suit. (Of course, there’s also that third name “that no human research can discover”—that name is Prudy’s little secret, and she’s not telling.) 

As I type this, Prudy is asleep on my rocking chair. She’s the sweetest, purriest little thing, and has all three of us wrapped around her fuzzy paw. (When my college freshman son comes home for the weekend, he sleeps with her in his room!) Having pets is a source of deep happiness and contentment for me, and I suspect there will be Prudy stories, just as there are Scout and Tank stories here on the blog. Stay tuned.

What’s making you happy right now?

“Gratitude is the inward feeling of kindness received. Thankfulness is the natural impulse to express that feeling. Thanksgiving is the following of that impulse.”

—Henry Van Dyke

I’ve been a mystery fan practically since I could read,  especially enjoying “cozy” mysteries by Agatha Christie and Patricia Wentworth. I will always love Miss Marple, Hercule Poirot (Christie) and Miss Silver (Wentworth), but recently, I’ve been introduced to more modern (and younger) detectives who have become new favorites, most notably Jacqueline Winspear’s Maisie Dobbs and Kerry Greenwood’s Phryne Fisher. I find both heroines appealing.

The two share a few similarities: they operate during the same general time period, between the first and second world wars. Both served in World War I, Maisie as a nurse, Phryne as an ambulance driver. Both came from humble beginnings, though Phryne has had the good fortune to inherit wealth. Both women decide to become detectives.

Phryne (pronounced “fry-nee”), a resident of 1920s Melbourne, is smart, sophisticated, confident, brave, kind and generous. Despite tragedy in her past, she lives to the fullest and in the moment. Maisie lives in London in the late 1920s/early 30s. She’s much less well off, but just as clever and resourceful. The scars from her past haunt her just as much as Phryne’s do, and I imagine I’ll learn more about them as I continue through the series. Maisie studies psychology (and is referred to, in fact, as a “psychologist and investigator”) in solving her cases. 

Though I’ve read the first few Maisie Dobbs books (there are 10 so far), I’ve only met Phryne on DVD. I plan to read Greenwood’s first Phryne Fisher book (there are 20!) as soon as I can—in fact, I just requested it from my library. I’m completely charmed by the characters as brought to life in the TV series, and I imagine the books will be even better. I love what Greenwood had to say about her creation: “…Phryne is a hero, just like James Bond or the Saint, but with fewer product endorsements and a better class of lovers. I decided to try a female hero and made her as free as a male hero, to see what she would do.”  Doesn’t that sound like fun?

Linda Pastan, who lives in Maryland, is a master of the kind of water-clear writing that enables us to see into the depths. This is a poem about migrating birds, but also about how it feels to witness the passing of another year. [Introduction by Ted Kooser.]

The Birds 

are heading south, pulled

by a compass in the genes.

They are not fooled

by this odd November summer,

though we stand in our doorways

wearing cotton dresses.

We are watching them

as they swoop and gather—

the shadow of wings

falls over the heart.

When they rustle among

the empty branches, the trees

must think their lost leaves

have come back.

The birds are heading south,

instinct is the oldest story.

They fly over their doubles,

the mute weathervanes,

teaching all of us

with their tailfeathers

the true north.