Our little house on the prairie was the scene of quite a family gathering this week. Despite my extreme familiarity with some of this cast of characters, I'm still amazed, sometimes delighted and occasionally chagrined, at their quirks, their tastes, and their humor. Three generations of Gollys and a few of their friends gathered at Om Shanty for Thanksgiving, and they all got along reasonably well, or at least survived the encounter by adapting and being good sports.
The kitchen is a key element in this most kitchen-centric of holidays, and our kitchen had an important upgrade this week. My student-friend Ja and his handyman-friend Rick swooped in with the suitable materials, tools, and skills just in time to install our new dishwasher two days before Thanksgiving. For considerably less than what professional plumbers, electricians, and carpenters would have charged, they connected the waterline and drainpipe, ran a power line from the breaker box, moved a cabinet, and placed a new countertop. Nice work, guys, and that's enough drama for one week.
Jessi's plane came in that night from Providence, and he looked like he had stepped right out of the cranberry bog, which he had. Alas he did not come bearing copious quantities of cranberries like last year. They had a bumper crop at the Mann family farm in Buzzard's Bay, Massachusetts, and they worked right up to the last day, so I guess he was so preoccupied with harvesting, screening, packaging, and shipping berries - and making on-again, off-again travel arrangements with his sweetie - that he didn't box another year's worth of berries for the folks in the heartland. I think we'll live.
The good news is that Jessi's sweetheart Alexandra joined us for the holiday. I was so happy when Jessi initially told us she was coming, then afraid she would have second thoughts when our plans expanded to include a raft of additional out-of-town relatives, and then crushed when it looked like she wouldn't make it. But they worked it out, and she bravely flew into Port Columbus International from LaGuardia on Wednesday, forsaking the safety of New York to risk all in a houseful of rough, holiday-reveling Midwesterners. Her timing couldn't have been better, as the four of us had a quiet evening to settle in before the rest of the rowdy clan arrived.
That handsome dude on the far left (wearing a tie) is my Dad, with a few close friends at the C & D, the year Jo Jo was born.
And arrive they did, all three of them, late Wednesday evening, bearing pies and other good things to eat and drink, as well as the whole kit and kaboodle for making lefse, which, as everyone knows, is a tender Norwegian flat bread made with potatoes, traditionally eaten at the winter holidays, and a kind of sacrament not to be missed. So when sister Jo Jo Golly and parents Chas and Helen Golly arrived, armed with ingredients, equipment, and a small traveling bar, the wild rumpus could officially begin.
Grandma Helen had an agenda. Besides making lefse, she was determined to settle the matter of preserving some old photos and newspaper clippings she had recently unearthed from her personal records. She was pleased and relieved when we were able to photocopy and scan them into our computer for posterity. Passing the photos around also gave Grandpa Chas an opening to tell stories about life in Spring Grove just after the War, working in the C & D Cafe with my Uncle Chuck, running the grocery store for Helen's Uncle Freddie Anderson, and related tales that spin off from one another like sparks from the fire.
That's Great-Grandpa Anderson on the far left, next to Fjelstad (?) in full regalia, including wooden shoes.
The kitchen is a key element in this most kitchen-centric of holidays, and our kitchen had an important upgrade this week. My student-friend Ja and his handyman-friend Rick swooped in with the suitable materials, tools, and skills just in time to install our new dishwasher two days before Thanksgiving. For considerably less than what professional plumbers, electricians, and carpenters would have charged, they connected the waterline and drainpipe, ran a power line from the breaker box, moved a cabinet, and placed a new countertop. Nice work, guys, and that's enough drama for one week.
Jessi's plane came in that night from Providence, and he looked like he had stepped right out of the cranberry bog, which he had. Alas he did not come bearing copious quantities of cranberries like last year. They had a bumper crop at the Mann family farm in Buzzard's Bay, Massachusetts, and they worked right up to the last day, so I guess he was so preoccupied with harvesting, screening, packaging, and shipping berries - and making on-again, off-again travel arrangements with his sweetie - that he didn't box another year's worth of berries for the folks in the heartland. I think we'll live.
The good news is that Jessi's sweetheart Alexandra joined us for the holiday. I was so happy when Jessi initially told us she was coming, then afraid she would have second thoughts when our plans expanded to include a raft of additional out-of-town relatives, and then crushed when it looked like she wouldn't make it. But they worked it out, and she bravely flew into Port Columbus International from LaGuardia on Wednesday, forsaking the safety of New York to risk all in a houseful of rough, holiday-reveling Midwesterners. Her timing couldn't have been better, as the four of us had a quiet evening to settle in before the rest of the rowdy clan arrived.
That handsome dude on the far left (wearing a tie) is my Dad, with a few close friends at the C & D, the year Jo Jo was born.And arrive they did, all three of them, late Wednesday evening, bearing pies and other good things to eat and drink, as well as the whole kit and kaboodle for making lefse, which, as everyone knows, is a tender Norwegian flat bread made with potatoes, traditionally eaten at the winter holidays, and a kind of sacrament not to be missed. So when sister Jo Jo Golly and parents Chas and Helen Golly arrived, armed with ingredients, equipment, and a small traveling bar, the wild rumpus could officially begin.
Grandma Helen had an agenda. Besides making lefse, she was determined to settle the matter of preserving some old photos and newspaper clippings she had recently unearthed from her personal records. She was pleased and relieved when we were able to photocopy and scan them into our computer for posterity. Passing the photos around also gave Grandpa Chas an opening to tell stories about life in Spring Grove just after the War, working in the C & D Cafe with my Uncle Chuck, running the grocery store for Helen's Uncle Freddie Anderson, and related tales that spin off from one another like sparks from the fire.
That's Great-Grandpa Anderson on the far left, next to Fjelstad (?) in full regalia, including wooden shoes.
Our den Thursday evening looked like an arts and crafts convention. Most of the females clustered in our den had knitting or some other handwork to do while talking about this and that. A few had a crossword puzzle or sudoku to occupy their eyes, hands, and left brain. The age range spanned those in their 80s who were born in the 20s and those in their 20s who were born in the 80s. The floor was dark green tile, the ceiling was cedar. The soundtrack included Django Reinhardt and Stephane Grapelli, Bela Fleck, and Joe Cocker, but it was strictly background to the fiber art, word play, conversation, and storytelling around the woodstove. The dog claimed a warm piece of floor with her belly toward the stove. The cat favored the rocking chair to the side of the stove, and woe to any human who usurps Isabel's chair.
But the ultimate art form, let's be honest, is food. At Thanksgiving, the meal is the thing, and ours was abundant if not elaborate. The bird itself was a beauty, and around it were assembled a mountain of Zelda's garlic mashed potatoes, gravy whipped up at the last minute, Gven's rendition of our friend Gorm's Irish-Italian upstate sausage stuffing, Zelda's friend Bernard's Belgian cranberry sauce, Jo Jo's green bean casserole, spinach salad with raspberry vinaigrette dressing, and sourdough rolls, oh ya.
I must say the table looked fabulous. Candles were lit, wine glasses were filled, and Grandpa said grace. According to our tradition, we went around the table and each person made note of something they were thankful for, some heavy and some light. We took our time getting around to the coffee and pie - pumpkin, apple, cherry, and a deep-dish Dutch apple that was to die for. Everybody contributed to the meal, and everybody helped clean up.
Friday afternoon we piled into three cars for an outing at Franklin Park Conservatory, where there's a surprise around every corner. Every time I go there I'm reminded of what a gem it is to have in our town. The toucans in the rain forest room get your attention right away. The overstuffed chair upholstered in cacti, appropriately titled "Sticky Buns," and the warm, dry air in the desert room is refreshing in a way unlike central swingstate. David Byrne's magnetic poetry in the shape of a tree was fun, and the architecture of the palm house was as riveting as the trees.
We wandered upstairs to an exhibit by Dorothy Gill Barnes, an artist from Worthington who does wild things with wood that is already marked by natural forces. We also ran into Gwen, the horticulturist and former taiji student, who poured out information about orchids, and Mark, our former minister.
About this time Jessi and Alex took off to meet up with Andy, Jessi's friend from high school. The older generations needed to restore our strength, so we repaired to La Chatelaine for a light supper. It's right across the street from Half-Price Books, so we perused the shelves until Zelda, Jessi, Alex, and Andy returned from their dinner-break together, then we proceeded to disturb the bookish customers briefly by congregating in the friendly confines of Zelda's store, which was kind of special for the older folks to see one of the younger folks in her work milieu.
It's getting to be a long day, but we still hadn't made lefse. The folks had brought along their special rolling board and board cover, rolling pin and pin cover, lefse grill and magic turning stick, dontchaknow. It takes a trained team of three experienced Norwegians to roll out dough until thin, heat briefly at 450, turn and cool slowly (under a towel) so they stay nice and soft. That mission accomplished, we could relax in the den again and watch Isabel and Helen compete for the rocking chair.
By Saturday morning, I think everybody agreed it was time to go home. Jo Jo, Helen, and Chas left for Tennessee after breakfast. Jessi and Alex had a plane to catch at one. Gven and I were ready for a normal weekend of doing laundry, baking bread, and reading the paper, reassured that we are so very related.
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