In Memory

"I just finished The Women by Kristin Hannah," my friend Amy mentioned at dinner a few weeks ago when she was visiting from Arizona. "It was amazing."

It just so happened that I was looking for an audiobook for our road trip to Mountain Lake that weekend, and the premise of the novel, the story of a young woman who enlists as an Army nurse in Vietnam and her experiences there and upon her return to the States, seemed like something Heidi and I would like. The fact that it was narrated by Jill Whelan was a plus-- I have enjoyed her work on several other recordings.

We were rolling through the Piedmont of Virginia as the novel started in 1967, Coronado Beach, CA, and we followed the saga of Frankie McGrath all the way to the southern Blue Ridge Mountains and home again, with more than half of the book to go. "This is brutal," I said after her first week in Vietnam. "She's gotta get a win soon." And she did, becoming an extremely competent OR nurse at an evac hospital, despite or maybe because of the brutal conditions she was thrown into. Over her time in the country, she made lifelong friends and lost some, too, and we were as relieved as she was when she headed back to California.

We continued listening a couple weeks later all the way to Buffalo as Frankie faced a rocky adjustment to life at home, her ups and downs propelling the trip forward. And we heard the end of the book a little more than an hour into our trip home, shaking our heads to emerge from the late 70s into present-day Pennsylvania. 

And, although I found the book flawed in many ways, heavy-handed, overwrought, and predictable in places, I was profoundly moved by the real-life experiences written there, particularly the invisibility and subsequent struggle of the over a quarter million women who served in Vietnam. So today, when we loaded Lucy in the car and headed downtown for a walk on the National Mall, we hadn't gone far when I suggested we visit the Vietnam Memorial, a place I usually pass by without a second glance as I round the reflecting pool.

We paused more than a moment at the Vietnam Women's Memorial, erected in 1993, more than 20 years after the war ended. Three women are shown in it, one holding a bandaged soldier, another shading her eyes looking skyward, and a third on her knees in perhaps grief, but more likely, exhaustion. Eight trees are planted around its cobblestone circle, one for each woman killed there. 

I don't think I'll ignore it again.

Weather Machine

Despite the news article I read yesterday predicting substantial snow for the mid-Atlantic region in early January, our late December weather has turned unseasonably mild today. We've had the sliding glass door open since noon, a light breeze wafting its way past the Christmas tree and freshening the house. 

Outside, the temperate weather reminded me of winter holidays spent nearly 50 years ago in the Eastern Province of Saudi Arabia. There was something about the slant of the sun and the soft air on my bare arms that took me back to those December days spent on the salt flats along the shore of the Arabian Gulf. Our family collected driftwood for a beach fire and steamed the little neck clams we pulled from the sandy bottom of the shallow sea. We had the beach to ourselves, and my dad taught us how to drive in our '75 Plymouth Fury sedan.

Is it possible that this weather is that weather? I asked myself and consulted the weather app on my phone. In Al Khobar, Saudi Arabia, the temperature will be in the mid-60s tomorrow, just as it is here today. 

I doubt they'll get that January snow, though.

Holiday Twist

"How did the movie end?" Heidi asked me this morning. Last night, she simply couldn't keep her eyes open to see how our umpteenth Hallmark movie of the season turned out.

"Well," I reported, "there were some surprises."

She raised her eyebrows. "Do tell."

"It turned out her best friend was actually dead," I started.

"The one she texted?"

"Yes, and left voice messages for, and who sent her the Christmas Bingo game. The friend died earlier in the year, and she still wasn't over it."

Heidi nodded thoughtfully.

"They also didn't save the bookstore." I shook my head. "They sold it, and he took the money and left. So, they didn't end up together at Christmas."

"What?!" Heidi interjected.

"Right! She went back to her job in New York, and her boss congratulated her on taking time for self-care, and also for pushing the company to take a risk on an unknown writer, although the expectation was for her to return to the high profile books. But then he came to NY, and brought mistletoe, even though it was March, and told her that he could write anywhere, and then they kissed, and that was the last item on the Bingo card."

"So she didn't give up her stressful career to move to an idyllic small town to run a family business?" Heidi clarified.

"Just the opposite," I confirmed. "But? They still lived happily ever after. Of course."

Heaven Furbid

I couldn't resist the book called Crafting with Cat Hair when I was shopping for stocking stuffers. I thought my sister-in-law, the artist, would appreciate it, being both an artisan and a cat owner, and she did, although I don't think she'll be rushing to create the cute felted finger puppet on the cover. 

Even so, the family was indulgent last night as I spun my fantasy of not only collecting and crafting from our own pets' coats but also getting so proficient at processing animal hair that we would charge others for the service. 

"People could ship us their beloved pet's fur," I said, "and we could card it, spin it into yarn, or felt it and send it back to them ready to use. I'm sure there's a market for that!"

"You want to get boxes of dog and cat hair in the mail?" my brother scoffed. "You would definitely have a flea problem."

"Oh, no!" I answered. "We could just keep it in the shed."

Ba dump bump.

Render Unto Caesar

"Just toss those out," my mother-in-law gestured to the leftover pieces of garlic bread she had served with her Christmas Eve lasagna.

"Let's save them," I suggested. "I can make croutons tomorrow."

I spotted the bag of bread the next afternoon as I was prepping the rib roast and peeling the potatoes. I knew I wanted a salad for dinner, too, and the hit of garlic I got when I undid the twist tie practically shouted, "Caesar!" which is usually a crowd pleaser.

Once the croutons were toasting away, I turned my attention to the dressing. I've made many a classic Caesar over the years, but I knew raw egg would not be well received by my diners, and there was no anchovy to be had, either paste or filet. I had garlic, though, and so I pounded it with some sea salt to a creamy paste. Next, I added a little Worcestershire sauce (it does have anchovies!), Dijon mustard, and a bit of mayonnaise to contribute a little egginess to the emulsion. I whisked in olive oil, finished it with white wine vinegar, and voila! 

"Delicious salad!" my mother-in-law proclaimed when we seated at dinner. "It must be the croutons."

So to Speak

I gave myself a huge pat on the back when I got 10 out of 10 on the NY Times quiz "Do You Know 2024 Speak?" Even so, I'm afraid I may have peaked in performance because a lot of the credit should go to all the middle school kids I spent time with in the first half of the year. They schooled me on Bet, Skibidi Toilet, Stanley Cups, Ohio, and the new meaning of preppy. 

I also have to give credit to Harrison Ford and the show Shrinking for bringing raw dogging to my attention and to the mainstream, liberal media for flagging trad wife. I take credit for "very mindful, very demure," though; I found that meme myself.

And the rest? Was just solid test-taking skills.

Well, Wasn't That Fun?

After dinner, a few arms were twisted last night, resulting in one, and only one, round of the Christmas carol trivia game I packed. Aside from the single-round condition, the other concessions were that we played in teams, and we had to listen to the carol in question after each answer. "And you and Heidi have to be on separate teams," was Louise's final demand.

Done, done, done, we started the game. Mark and Heidi got off to a fast start, answering multiple-choice and fill-in-the-blank questions about Jingle Bells, Silent Night, and Little Drummer Boy (despite my partner trying to sing other songs to distract them). When it was our turn, we answered one easy question about The Twelve Days of Christmas and another about Away in a Manger but stumbled on a multiple choice question about The Most Wonderful Day of the Year: "What island is mentioned in the song?" Mark read from the card. "Is it A) Santa Island, B) Christmas Island, or C) The Island of Misfit Toys?"

"It's not the Island of Misfit Toys!" I scoffed, but neither of us could recall Andy Williams singing about any island at all in the song. Finally we guessed Santa Island, and we were shocked when Mark read the answer: The Island of Misfit Toys! 

"How can that be?" Louise asked in dismay. "Aren't song titles copywrited?"

"Titles aren't," I sighed, "But--"

"Let's play the song," said Heidi, and it was then we discovered that there are indeed two songs of similar but not identical titles, It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year by Andy Williams and The Most Wonderful Day of the Year written by Johnny Marks for the Rankin/Bass classic, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.

"This is why I hate games," Louise said as we handed over the dice to Heidi and Mark.

"We can still rally!" I encouraged her, and thank goodness we did, winning the game in a squeaker entirely owing to the exact count rule at the end. 

"Anyone up for another round?" I asked optimistically. "Maybe we can try some of the sing the next line questions?" But they were already packing up the game.