Spring Slams into Seven Hills Farm West

                Spring came early this year to Seven Hills Farm West. Really early.

    It actually started on Christmas with the arrival of Tweedy Bird. After a lifetime of owning canaries, one of my girls actually hatched an egg.  This my not sound a big deal –  there are a million canaries out there and they all began as eggs - but it came as a huge, and pleasant, shock to me. A miracle actually.

               

               Apparently a lot of people agreed with me. Ever the proud bird god-mother, I posted near-daily pictures of Tweedy’s progress on Facebook and Instagram, and soon found s/he (I have no idea if Tweedy is a female or a male) had many more followers than I did.  They were also more rabid. If I didn’t post photos for a day or so, well, people complained.

                

             What amazed everyone was just how fast Tweedy went from a horrible bug-like creature to an actual bird. By the time he was four weeks old, Tweedy was hopping around eating real food and had grown actual feathers. Eight weeks later he was back in the flight cage with his parents.  He looks nothing like his mom, but is a carbon copy of his dad. Nature is pretty amazing.  Really astounding.

              

             It’s only gotten better. 

February 28th was monumental. Not only was there a driving rainstorm, which is enough to bring out the happy dance in drought-stricken Los Angeles, but  after an anxious 10 months of waiting, Lucy decided to deliver her foal.

I’d been on baby-watch for a week, since the experts told me she was showing all the signs.  Naturally, I was sleeping literally with my phone on my pillow, since horses tend to deliver between 10 pm and 4am in the morning.  For two weeks there was nothing. Crickets.

Then at 10:30 on Saturday night, the vet office called to tell me to be ready to come out, that Lucy was looking ready. They weren’t kidding. Ten minutes later they called back to say she was in labor.  Naturally I left immediately.  I’m not even sure I locked the door. In fact I’m pretty positive I didn’t. I do know that I broke the speed limit driving to the clinic.

By the time I got there, a half-hour later, after a mere nine minute labor, which has made her the envy of all my friends,  Lucy was standing around, looking dazed. On the ground was a tiny, perfect, filly. The doctor was still drying her off as I walked in the stall.

Lucy had done a stellar job but she was staring at the lump on the ground like it was an alien. Which it probably was to her. Lucy’s a maiden mare and probably had no idea what had just happened.  Eventually she sighed and lay down next to the baby and nuzzled it, which made for some awfully touching photos.  

Not surprisingly, I have put the paparazzi to shame. I have taken roughly a million photos. It isn’t enough.

When Lucy got up, the doctor untangled the baby’s legs, which is pretty much all there was of her, and stood her up. She promptly collapsed, but after about a half hour managed to do it on her own.  Almost immediately she was zooming around the stall. I  believe it’s because she didn’t know what else to do with her legs except run. When she stopped running, she wobbled.

Then it was time to try to nurse. She stuck her nose everywhere except where the milk was. And every time she touched Lucy, Lucy would scream. Eventually the vets milked Lucy’s colostrum and tube fed it to the baby. They fed the baby that way every hour until about 4am, when the filly finally got the hang of eating on her own.  Apparently there is actually a syndrome called ‘dummy foals’ because, well they are. Who knew?

Thankfully it’s been off to the races ever since.  The baby has grown into a beauty, and I say that not just because she’s mine. Well, maybe I’m a little biased, but everyone seems to agree with me.

                

            She has a star in the shape of California on her face, and three white socks. She’s going to be bay, like both Lucy and her father, and is already pretty huge.  At a month, she’s no longer gawky, but is still all legs. She looks like an equine giraffe.

                

            She’s quite shy, but will let me play with her and, like a toddler is into everything.  Like her mama, knows exactly what she wants and more typically, what she doesn’t.  Like her itty bitty halter. She doesn’t appreciate that at all and makes it known. For a while I seriously considered calling her Dontwanna, but that seemed like tempting fate.

Instead, her registered name will be Way Out West.  The “West” comes from her father, Westporte. Her barn name, Faith, comes from Lucy, whose show name is Blind Faith.

Already she’s a little mini-me of Lucy.  If Lucy comes for a mint, so does Faith. Of course Faith doesn’t quite know what to do with them yet but she still wants one. 

Then there’s the fly masks. The flies have also come early this year, so Faith has been outfitted with a tiny fly mask which in a bit of serendipity matches Lucy’s. Together they look like they’re very stylish equine bank robbers.

                

            Obviously I’m pretty smitten. People tell me that babies go through a horrible ugly stage when they’re yearlings, but I can’t accept that. Faith is going to always be gorgeous.  No pressure.

                

            It’s a few years down the line before she can be ridden, and thankfully I’m not going to be the first person to do that – which is good for both of our sakes.  But I figure I’ll be on her in about five years.

               

         

 I can’t wait!

Mom's Visiting: Hide the Contraband!

         

 My Mother is coming for a visit. A long one. I like my Mom a lot, so there’s no problem there. But it does take a bit to prepare for her arrival.

Back in the day, that meant that shortly before she landed, I'd leap into a wild flurry of housecleaning.  That mostly involved stuffing things in drawers, vacuuming the floors and stashing various articles of drug paraphernalia. I’d usually miss something: rolling papers, a mini-bong, an empty bindle or two. No matter, she’d either not notice, or pretend she didn’t see while I shoved whatever it was into my underwear drawer.

Of course was that year she arrived stood on the patio of my first floor duplex and remarked on just how healthy my landlord’s pot plants were. She knew full well exactly what they were.  So much for that.

Things are a lot different now.  I don’t need to hide the pot ephemera – it’s virtually legal in Los Angeles, and I don’t smoke much anymore.

 I do still go into a frenzy of house cleaning before her visits. Which is weird if I think about it: mom’s a worse housekeeper than I am. Still, one likes to keep up the illusion.

But in addition to clean floors and sheets, now I have a few more things on my list.  Make no mistake: aging changes everything. Last year I had the plumber install grab bars in the bathroom. This year I measured the doorways to make sure her walker would fit.  I also located the nearest CVS Pharmacy so she could get her prescriptions here instead of schlepping them with her.

I ended up renting a car for the duration of her trip. I actually own two vehicles, but neither is suitable for mom any longer. The BMW is a low-slung two-seater which she can easily get into, but not out of. The SUV is too tall for her to climb into and she objects to being pushed into the passenger seat like a bag of grain. We’ve tried it a few times in the past and she dissolves into a fit of laughter, which makes it even harder to shove her in.  

A different vehicle is less amusing, but more appropriate.  So a rental car it is.

Shopping for anything is a chore to me but food shopping is torture. I look around at all those ingredients and am constantly amazed that people can throw them together and make actual meals. I rarely even try to cook.  I just don’t have that gene. Neither does Mom.

But I know Mom can’t survive on my diet of vegetarian junk food. So I took one for the team. I forced myself to go to Ralph’s and stocked up on the basics: bread, eggs, milk and coffee. I also loaded up on a few things I never have in the house: like candy. And really good Scotch.  Personally, I’m a bourbon drinker, but to each her own.

Part of the reason Mom is visiting is to get out of the winter weather. She’s coming from New England- Massachusetts - which has had a particularly awful January and February. It’s been below zero for weeks and has had a record amount of snowfall.  Naturally that meant that the day before she was due to travel, the snow came dumping down.

This created a certain amount of tension. Would the roads be plowed? Would her flight be cancelled? They were and it wasn’t.

She arrived today and is here for three weeks. The weather is going to be perfect, and I think she has a few PLANS. Three weeks sounds like a lot of time to do stuff.  It isn’t.

  

For one thing, I’m in school, and while class only takes two nights a week, I also have a writing group that meets on Thursday, and most of my days are spent working and writing.

Another problem is the Mom factor. Even in her youth she wasn’t a fast mover. Getting her up and going in the morning was always an issue. It’s become more so as she’s aged.

Also, Mom isn’t comfortable sitting in a car for hours on end any more. So the trips of the past - Joshua Tree, Santa Barbara and Hearst Castle - aren’t going to happen this time. It looks like we’ll probably go to the Getty, Descanso Gardens and maybe the Huntington.

Hell, we’ll be lucky if we do anything. My mare is due to give birth in the middle of Mom’s trip, and if that happens we’ll be visiting her and the baby every day. I mean, she wouldn’t want to do anything else, would she? Actually, I think she’ll settle for just seeing the sun almost every day. That the temperature is going to be the 80s is just a plus.

                

We'll Never Be Royal...Except for Lucy

I was never one of those girls who wanted to be a princess. I hated the clothing, wasn’t into the headgear and found the princes sorely lacking.

               

             But I have always referred to my show horse, Lucy (Blind Faith), as the Princess. She seemed to have all of the accouterments:  she’s beautiful, exceptionally talented and is a little bitchy, er, mare-ish.

                

          Well, I’ve just discovered that she actually is a kind of royalty, which makes me, by virtue of the fact that I pay her bills, royalty too. Okay, I’m the lady in waiting. Staff, as it were.

                

         See, last year after her second leg injury, I retired Lucy. She was never going to heal enough to jump anymore and I didn’t want to risk her being hurt any more than she already was.

The plan was that she would join the other two ancient geezers who live in my backyard and serve as friendly lawn ornaments. That was the plan.

                

        Except she wasn’t a geezer. At 16 she wasn’t exactly a spring chicken, but she wasn’t that old. Not to mention that the reality was that I just wasn’t ready.

                

        We’d been together for 11 years. I bought her sight unseen. (Hence her show name : Blind Faith. That and my fondness for the band.) When she arrived, I went up and down the barn aisle searching for my new horse. Except I’d never seen her and didn’t know what she looked like. Finally a groom took pity on me and introduced us. 

                

         Lucy had been imported from the Netherlands for someone who had changed her mind. So I bought Lucy as soon as she cleared quarantine. She probably didn’t understand English, but she picked up on the word ‘treat’ almost immediately. 

For the first few months in Los Angeles, she screamed incessantly. Her blabbermouth ways reminded me of the “Peanuts” comic strip, so her barn name became Lucy Van Pelt, Lucy for short.

For the first five months only my trainer rode her – she was that green. When I finally was allowed to get on, she bucked me off and I bruised three ribs.  She had colic surgery once and almost died. When she was recovering I threw my arms around her neck to hug her. She bit me in the stomach.  Hard. That’s just the kind of relationship we have.

I believe she does care about me. Not only am I the only one she bites, (you only chomp the one you love) but she always  she whinnies when she sees me, even if it’s only been a few minutes. And God knows she took care of me when I rode her. 

Over the years, Lucy developed into a much more talented horse than I deserved, and we became a great team.  After a while, when I screwed up she’d ignore it and take over.  We won a lot over the years mostly because she was that good.

So, last year when the vet said she was done, I made a purely emotional, probably stupid decision: I decided to breed her.  This was absolutely not a good financial decision. Warmbloods can’t even be ridden until they are three, so there’s the cost of raising the baby. Then training it. The bottom line is that the foal will probably be five before I can ride it. Then I have to pray it has some talent.  

It costs a lot less to save that money and buy a trained, proven horse. But this was about sentiment, not smarts. 

So my trainer and I looked through stallion listings. Some people watch porn, others look at clothing. I looked at horses. Hundreds of them. It had to be big, a good mover, a great jumper with a terrific brain and nice hind end. It was like going through Tinder.

Eventually we found the perfect match in Canada. Geographic proximity didn’t matter: the closest Lucy would be to her baby daddy was a doctor holding the veterinary equivalent of a turkey baster.

Thank goodness she’s had a textbook pregnancy.  Sort of.  She originally conceived twins.  Twin horses rarely survive or are unhealthy so one had to be aborted.  Again, the procedure was textbook.

Last week, 10 months in,  I brought her out to the farm where she’ll stay until the baby is weaned. The baby will be there until he’s (please make it a colt!) ready to be trained at three.

The lady who runs the place is a connoisseur of Dutch Warmbloods, and asked about Lucy's lineage. While I know a lot about Throughbred bloodlines I know nothing about Warmbloods, so I happily dug out Lucy’s passport and sent along the information figuring that she was nothing special. Wrong.

The lady was godsmacked.  Apparently Lucy’s family is seriously fancy. Important even. It seems that for the last 11 years Lucy has been trying to tell me she was actual royalty, and I was ignoring the signs. Oops.

Now that I know, I guess I should start bringing her organic carrots. And maybe a bling-y tiara.

                

Welcome to the World Tweedy Bird!

   

 My only New Year’s Resolution for 2015 is to use the Monty Python song “Always Look on the Bright Side of Life” as my motto.  It seems doable: I live a pretty good life. I have great friends and a decent family. Without becoming too sappy, I’m blessed.

     

     But only three weeks into this shiny New Year, it’s becoming harder every day.  The year started with a literal bang with the shootings at Charlie Hebdo. No matter what your opinions of the cartoons, or the taste -or lack thereof- the magazine showed by printing them, nobody should ever die for a cartoon satire. Ever.

     Then, as if not to be left out of the terrorist discussion, Boko Haram stepped up their assaults on innocents in Nigeria. Not to be overly pessimistic, but I’m sure there will be a school shooting  soon. 

     Boy Howdy! What a way to start the year.

     Which is why some of my friends have noticed my recent infatuation, some would say obsession with my canary chick. Staring at a half-ounce of newly-born fluff somehow gives me hope.

     Some background is necessary.  I’ve had canaries since I was a tyke. Usually one at a time, but sometimes more. Only the males sing, and stores always guarantee that the birds are male. Once the bird in question starts laying eggs, it’s a pretty good bet that it’s female. 

     I always wanted a flight cage where the canaries would actually have room to fly, as opposed to the tiny enclosures that pet stores sell, where the best they can do is hop from perch to perch. When I bought a house, I finally had room and I had someone build a five-foot avian habitat which I quickly populated it with canaries. Some turned out to be females, the rest were, as promised, males. 

     Most of the females spent their spare time turning the food dishes into nests.  Once they rip up enough newspaper to line the feeder, they hop in and start laying eggs.

     For the next two weeks the potential mama canary remains in that nest with her butt plastered to the eggs.  After two weeks, she gives up, hops out and I throw out the eggs . In about a week the process starts all over.

     Only once over decades of canary stewardship did a chick hatch, and it didn’t last a day. Apparently that’s not unusual. Canaries are terrible parents.  They are so bad that it astounds me that the species isn’t extinct.

     So when Rusty started sitting on a nest in late December, I had no expectations. Over the years she’s probably laid two dozen useless eggs. And zero chicks.

     On Christmas Day when she hopped off the nest, I reached in to toss out the eggs. But there was something breathing.  It was the ugliest thing I’d ever seen. It was an orange bug the size of my thumbnail. But it was definitely alive.

 

   A little late in the day I started reading up on how to keep the pair healthy. Rusty needed special food since she was eating for two.

     This meant that I had to cook. I don’t cook. I never turn on the oven except to bake turkey loaf for the dogs or heat frozen pizza.  I can’t tell you the last time I used the range.

     Suddenly I was buying eggs and hard boiling them daily. For the canaries. Even though it’s cannibalistic, the yolks are good for the chick and grown birds love them. They also got a daily ration of cooked oatmeal, broccoli, apples and soaked canary seed. A balanced diet.

     Every day I braced to find the chick dead. Instead, every morning I was awakened to the bird peeping while Rusty dutifully fed it. Except for when it was eating, the chick was completely silent.

Intellectually I know that nature works, but to watch it happen is magic. 

     The baby, now dubbed Tweedy Bird, changed enormously from day to day.  One moment it was bald, the next it had puffs of down and later it sported actual pin feathers. 

     After two weeks I moved Rusty and Tweedy into their own space. I‘d read that males occasionally attack fledglings, and I was WAY too emotionally invested in Tweedy for that.

The move was traumatic for all of us, but everyone survived. Okay, I needed a slug of Makers Mark . But then I was fine.

     The next day Tweedy started jumping out of the nest. Sometimes he landed on his feet. Mostly he was like a toddler – the feet moved but the brain had no control.

     Yesterday Rusty decided Tweedy  was weaned. No matter how much he flapped his stubby wings and screamed, she was done.  I suppose if he’s big enough to sleep on the perch at night, he’s big enough to eat on his own. Besides, she’s nesting again.

     My mare is due to foal in the next month or so, but I sent her away to the home for unwed horses.  I wondered if I was doing the right thing, but after the experience with Tweedy, I know I’m right.  Birthing babies is hard.

Shopping: The Real Nightmare Before Christmas

It’s no secret that I’m a bit of a curmudgeon.  Being pleasant for extended periods of time is simply exhausting to me.  So it’s not a surprise that avoiding human interaction is a huge priority during the holidays.

While I have friends that absolutely adore shopping during December, I find the whole experience about as joyous as a prison cell in Guantanamo.  The obvious solution would be to do all my shopping online, and early. Nice buzz.

I’m not nearly organized enough for that. This year I ordered my holiday cards on Thanksgiving and practically gave myself a high five because for a change they would get mailed before Christmas.  Or New Year’s.  Or Martin Luther King, Jr. Day.

As far as gifting goes, I try to give my friends something simple for me that they’ll also enjoy and use. That is, booze. There are a million liquor stores around and they’re not usually crowded.  Alcohol: the perfect gift. Except when it isn’t.

There are a few people on my list who are either age challenged, i.e. children, or don’t drink.  Since I understand that giving a child or a non-drinker a bottle of Makers Mark is considered rude and disrespectful, I find myself going to the mall at least once a season.

Naturally, I postpone this excursion as long as possible, which just makes the whole process even worse.  The thing is, even during the non-busy season, say, in June, I hate malls. They make my skin crawl.

There was dark period in my life when I actually worked at a mall. I’d been summarily dismissed from my record label gig, but still had bills to pay. It was during the holiday season, so I took a deep breath and applied to work at a bookstore - they still had them then.  I got the job, but was assigned to handle the store’s calendar kiosk, which was located in the middle of the shopping center.I still have nightmares. 

It wasn’t just the inane shoppers who purchased dozens of Robert “Miracle of Light” Kincade calendars to give to all their friends, or the non-stop holiday music, though it ruined many a Christmas Carol for me. It was the sheer numbers of people that I had contact with everyday.

Since the kiosk was positioned in smack in the center of the mall, there were always people pushing and shoving around it. And talking to each other at the top of their lungs. I’m sure it was a prime position for sales, but to me it was akin to being in Hell. You know the phrase ‘hell is other people?’ Times ten. I’d drive home after every shift whimpering and shaking.

Hanukkah begins tonight and ends on Christmas Eve.  No matter how much I’ve trimmed my gift list; there are still a few people I need to reward for remaining a part of my life.

So, without even so much as a Xanax, I’m girding myself for a trip to the mall. I don’t live far from a shopping center (does anybody anymore?) so in theory it shouldn’t take more than ten minutes until I’m plunking down my credit card and heading home.

That, however, doesn’t take into account the MMA-like exercise that it takes to obtain a parking space. I don’t mind ditching my car a million miles from the stores. I could use the exercise, particularly around the holidays.  But even in the distant outskirts of the lot it takes quick reflexes and fast thinking to park. The fact is, people drive like brain damaged maniacs at the mall this time of year. Especially the ones that are leaving.

Apparently they have been so wounded by their experiences inside the building that they’re beyond reason. Like the animal that will chew off its own foot to get out of a trap, these folks just want to get away from the stores. And they will do anything to make that happen.

This makes the half-mile from the car to the stores a little adventure, but I suppose like Darwinism, it weeds out the weak.  Eventually the strong, the survivors make it inside. Of course that’s where things really go bad.

Smart people walk into the lion’s den knowing what they want. They quickly pick it up, pay for it and run for the hills. I am not one of them.

Not me.  I wander around blindly around looking for inspiration.  Invariably I become dazed and confused. Everything is so shiny, and pretty and so that I can no longer see or think straight. Inevitably, after a few hours I’ll stagger out to my car. Having bought nothing.

This year I’m going to make it easy. Everyone is getting a box of candy from Mrs. Sees.  Maybe those cute chocolate Santas for the kids. I’m sure their parents won’t mind that they are hopped up on sugar all Christmas morning. Right?

A Jew Takes On Holiday Lights

I adore Christmas lights. When I was a kid we used to pile in the car and drive around town looking for homeowners who made an effort. It helped that we were in New England, and by Christmas the whole place was usually covered in new snow – which unlike old, dirty, slushy snow is pretty and festive.  You know, New England-y.

There was one family who really did it up. Perched on the roof was a Santa in a sleigh pulled by reindeer. The lawn was sprinkled with decorated trees and Ye Olde Carolers.  There was even holiday music piped out to the street. The week of Christmas a man dressed as Santa and gave away cookies on the doorstep.  ‘Course this was a long time ago. Now he’d be suspected of being a pedophile.

When I first moved to California I believed that that my best light-watching days were behind me. We barely have a winter, limited pine trees and certainly no snow. Boy, was I wrong.

Not only does the DWP sponsor a holiday light extravaganza, but there are at least two neighborhoods in Los Angeles County dubbed “Candy Cane Lane.” Any of the houses in these neighborhoods easily put my childhood memories to shame. They can probably be seen from the Space Station.  Naturally I love them.

When I lived in North Hollywood, one of my neighbors was a little loony. And not just because he had a pack of Pugs and Chihuahuas. Bad taste is part of what make holiday decorations great, and he was going for the title.

Year round his tiny yard featured a 10-foot, working Ferris wheel with stuffed animals in each car.  During the holidays they all received Santa hats. But that was just the start.  There was also the first blow up Grinch I’d ever seen, as well as Frosty the Snowman, Snoopy with Woodstock, Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer and for good measure, a couple of old school, white wire deer, trimmed with lights. It looked like a Christmas store had thrown up. It was absolutely awesome!

I’m sure part of my attraction to holiday decorations is that I’m Jewish, and while my family is not deeply religious, we never even had a Hanukkah bush.  My dad was very tolerant, but he drew the line at trees and lights.

I didn’t exactly suffer. My aunt is Catholic, and, every year she let my brother and I decorate her tree.  She is, however, an extremely tasteful woman and her tree is likewise. Mostly old beautiful ornaments, white lights and actual popcorn strands.  And tinsel. She let us go wild with the tinsel. 

Until about four years ago it didn’t occur to me that I was an adult and could have a Hanukkah tree in my house if I wanted. Maybe I had to wait until my dad died. All I know is that my last year in North Hollywood, I bought a tiny living tree and a strand of lights and set it up in my front window. It made me very, very, happy. Who knew I was that easily pleased?

When I moved to my little ranchette in Chatsworth I continued the tradition. Every year I’d get a little rosemary tree and decorate it. The rosemary made the whole house smell great, so I convinced myself it was really there to help cover the smell of wet dog. Nothing can cover the smell of wet dog.

Last year was my first foray into outdoor lights. Even though I adore those fat, old fashioned, multi-colored bulbs, I reined myself in and bought strands of blue and white ones. I popped them out of the box, carefully wrapped them around the round pen in the front yard (Doesn’t EVERY house have a round pen in the front yard?) and plugged them in. It looked awesome.

All my life I’d heard horror stories about stringing holiday lights. The way people bitched and moaned and carried on, you’d think they were being forced to build IKEA furniture. I thought  the whole thing was pretty easy.  Obviously the kvetchers were complete morons.

This year I decided to go wild and add a second strand of outdoor lights. But first I had to unpack the lights I'd carefully put away last year.  It took an hour to untangle them, but it was a pleasant day, so it wasn’t a big deal. 

Then I opened the new lights and wrapped them around the fence. It didn’t have that Martha Stewart look, so I undid them and rewrapped it.  Again and again. Finally it looked tolerable. I plugged it in… and it all shorted out.  I might have said a few bad words. Or many.

But I’m not a quitter. So I trekked back to Lowes, bought a bunch more lights and actually read the instructions. Apparently you can only connect a certain number of strands together or they will blow. Ooops.

By the time I got back to my house it was getting dark and I was over the whole thing. I rapidly hung the damn lights however they came out of the box.  Still when I plugged them in, it was beautiful.

While I was in Lowes, I saw that they had a 10-foot blow-up rubber ducky wearing a Santa hat. That would look AMAZING inside the round pen, wouldn’t it?

Hollywood Park is Closed; I Had to Spend Thanksgiving with My Family

Last week I went back East to spend Thanksgiving with my family for the first time in ten years. I don’t have anything particularly against my family, though taken all together they can be a somewhat intimidating bunch.  I hadn’t gone home for the holiday because until this year I had a job that, in addition to being awful, had a huge annual deadline that fell immediately after turkey day.

In practical terms what that meant was that for most of the previous decade I had what I believed was a perfect Thanksgiving ritual. First I’d go to Hollywood Park and watch the races. Because of the holiday, the shortened card began and ended early, which allowed everyone to lose money and then go home to their families and try to explain it over dinner.

After the last race, I’d hit the multiplex with a bucket of popcorn and watch a movie. It was fabulous. If I was lucky the only people I’d talk to all day were my friends at the track and the ticket-taker at the movies. A quick call to my folks after the film, and all was good.

That’s all in the past now. Last December, amid a lot of tears and anger, Hollywood Park closed. Oh, and I ditched the heinous gig. I was now free, nay, compelled, to see my family for the holiday. I no longer had a viable excuse for staying away.

I arrived on Monday and planned to leave on Saturday morning in order to avoid horrifically jammed airports. Unfortunately the only flight back left at 7am, which meant I had to leave my mom’s farm at 4:30 in the morning.  

I comforted myself with the thought that it was just 1:30 am West Coast time, and I’d arrive home in time to feed the horses their lunch. That helped a bit when I was scraping ice off the frozen car in 14 degrees in the pitch black morning. It also reminded me why I live in Southern California.

                

           The trip itself was surprisingly nice, though I admit spending an entire day in the company of more than a dozen other humans is rough. The truth is that I live alone for a reason: being pleasant for extended periods of exhausting – and hard work. I guess it builds character. At least that’s what mom insists.

               

           With that many people who are related and therefore far beyond party manners, there is bound to be drama. This Thanksgiving was no exception.

                

           One of my earliest holiday memories is from when lived in Connecticut. We had a big old house that sported a formal dining room which was separated from a butler’s pantry by way of a swinging door.  This particular year the house was packed. The dining room table stretched into the hallway. The head count numbered in the 20s.

               

           Dinner was humming along. With everyone happily tucking into the first course, Mom had taken the giant turkey out of the oven and left it ‘resting’ on a table in pantry, waiting to be presented.  The bird was giant, golden brown and perfectly enticing. Apparently I wasn’t the only one that thought so.

               

When the almost inevitable crash came from the kitchen area, no one was unduly alarmed. Most people probably didn’t even hear it – 20 people are pretty loud. So only a few sharp-eyed relatives saw the breathtaking sight when mom opened the pantry door: There, standing on the table reveling

in the kind of bliss that only a dachshund knee-and-snout-deep in turkey can experience, was our dog, Doxie.

I honestly don’t really remember what happened next. If it had been me, my reaction would have been what I may or may not have done years later when my dog ate part of a cake I made for a dinner party: wiped off the dog hair and served the non-gobbled part.  Since I don’t recall pizza being delivered that night, I suspect that mom did the same.

This year the trouble arrived before the relatives, in the form of the first November Nor’easter New England had experienced more than a decade. In the Berkshires, where mom now lives, we received a little more than a foot of snow. And the guy that never fails to plow the half-mile driveway was on vacation. Because it hadn’t snowed at Thanksgiving in the Berkshires for more than ten years.

Naturally, there was a good deal of hysteria coming down with the snow. This year 16 brave souls were expected for dinner.  If they could get up the driveway.  If not, there were going to be a whole lot of leftovers. And I’m a vegetarian.

It didn’t come to that. I’ve learned a lot from my parents, but one of the best lessons is simple: be nice. If that fails, be pathetic.

Mom, who recently celebrated her 84^th birthday, is a master of both.  Her village is small and everybody seems to know everyone else. That has upsides and downsides, but one of the positives is that people take care of one another. So when mom called a man with a plow, he not only knew her, he liked her. She turned on her best little-old-lady-alone-in-the-world charm and the guy was out of his pajamas and plowing our driveway at 8:30 on Thanksgiving morning before he knew what hit him.

By the time the relatives started arriving, the driveway was pristine. The sun came out, and the snow glistened.  The birds flocked to the stocked feeders and nearby trees.  The food (and wine) was good. All in all, it was quite pleasant. I might come back in another ten years. Maybe even sooner.