We went to my parents’ home in West Virginia for the festivities. Thanksgiving morning, I decided to head out for a walk. I invited my husband to go with me, but he turned me down.

“I’ll go!” my older daughter said. “Can I bring Charlotte?”

When my younger son saw us step outside, he begged to be allowed to come, too. Feeling extravagant—I already had a girl and a dog coming with me, so why not add one six-year-old to the mix?—I said yes. (I forgot to tell anyone else that he was coming with us, though, shame on me, so my husband was worried the whole time. But not worried enough to catch up to us, I might point out.)

The sun was bright, the air crisp, the ground frosty. We walked and I took pictures and my son held my hand and told me knock-knock jokes.

Here I am rocking the hunter safety orange. Why in the world do they make the orange camouflage? Doesn’t that kind of defeat the purpose?

We walked the whole way up to a little church that has a spring in it. The handwritten signs couldn’t have been more appropriate.

On the way home, we encountered a lot of fresh blood sprayed all over the middle of the road and I was reminded that I was indeed in West Virginia in the middle of hunting season.

And thus ended our picturesque Thanksgiving Day walk.

Update: My husband read this and then offered a correction. “I wasn’t worried. I was just curious if he was up in the woods about to get shot.”

This same time, years previous: in which I discuss sweet rolls and weight issues, pasta with creamy pumpkin sauce, steel-cut oatmeal, cranberry pie with cornmeal streusel topping, apple rum cake

The summary:
Sunday was a big day at church. I got up at 3 am to finish baking for the bake sale. I did the children’s story. I, or rather, our support team, hosted the congregational lunch. And then there was a congregational meeting to attend. After that I went home, changed into pajamas, and crawled into my bed for a two-hour nap.

The details, summarized:
*My husband was kind of grumpy about all the food I was making. “There is no way this is all going to sell,” he griped. “This is ridiculous.”
*Before breakfast, he smacked a mouse dead (not saying where or how because that would be TMI and because I get PTSD just thinking about it) and Charlotte ate it.
*We discovered that my husband sent my daughter’s laid-out church clothes home with my brother last night when he came to pick up his girls that we were babysitting (follow? good) , so my daughter had to hike over to their house to get dressed.
*We stacked the car full of deliciously-filled washbaskets and made each of the kids hold a tray or pan of something.

*At church we flew around stuffing mailboxes and setting up for the bake and craft sale.
*I got miked up for the children’s story and then, ten minutes before the church service started, I realized that I’d left my carefully written out and practiced story at home—PANIC. So I called my brother. His wife sprang into action, zipped over to our house, located the papers, and sped all the way into town, bless her heart. The usher delivered them to me with about six minutes to spare, whew.

*Every single one of the baked goods sold. Take that, Mr. Grumpy!

*We fed people lots of pizza.

The end.

This same time, years previous: ushering in the fun

In preparation for our trip to Guatemala—(problem: it’s not really a “trip,” and it’s not a “move” either. What to call this…event?)—some friends gifted us with some indigenous clothing for the girls. They gave it to us in the evening after the girls were asleep so we couldn’t show it to them until morning. I’m not sure who was more excited to introduce them to their new duds, me or my husband. Knowing how much the girls love dress-up, it was a given that they’d be through-the-roof thrilled.

The skirts are huge. Actually, they’re beyond huge.

The girls were appropriately amazed.
 

It takes two people to put a skirt on.

Or maybe I should say it takes two gringos to put a skirt on. An indigenous woman can probably do it with one hand tied behind her back while balancing a five-gallon bucket of water on her head and patting out tortillas with the other hand.

Wait. I think I lost count of how many hands there are on the human body. My bad.

The waist is basically just one giant drawstring. Once all the fabric is tightly scrunched together, we tie it shut by having the girl spin in a circle while the string coils tight around her waist. We loop the tail of the string through the string band and call it good. This is probably not correct skirt-fastening technique, but it works for now.

The top is a simple, lightweight shirt. The women wear just a cami or bra underneath. And on their feet, they wear slip-on shoes or flip-flops.

Keep in mind, it is rather chilly where we’re going. The houses are not insulated and there is no heat (except for the kitchen fires). I don’t know why the women aren’t frozen solid.

We’re not taking any chances, however. We’ll be packing leggings, socks, long underwear, fleeces, coats, etc. We’re wimps.

The girls would wear these outfits all the time if I let them. But I’m making them wait. Just a few more weeks…

This same time, years previous: a new ritual, orange-cranberry bread, smashing for pretty, chocolate pots de creme, feminism part one