Saratoga

Thanksgiving Day was passed on the mini-farm with family and friends. The neighbors stopped in for a break from their own dinner preparations. We served traditional fare from a buffet on the counter and ate around the coffee table, mainly because I relegated the dining room table to use as a plant stand last month. Nonetheless, it was nice to keep it casual and not interupt the conversation with formal dinner ceremonies. It was also much easier to entertain and cook at the same time in this way. I was able to wash dishes and talk and give tours of the updates on the house and mash the potatoes as time permitted. 

Everyone asks so here is the menu: 

• Turkey (cooked on the grill with mesquite) 
• Corn Bread and Chorizzo Dressing 
• Grilled Vegetables: Sweet Potatoes, Parsnips, Celery, Carrots and Onions 
• Mashed Potatoes with Blue Cheese and Chives 
• Sauteed Zucchini and Carrots 
• Roasted Brussel Sprouts with Pecans 
• Pumpkin and Pecan Pies 

I was sorry to be so far from my brothers and sisters, but consider myself blessed to be able to spend the day with my Mom and Pop. Salt's parents are gone too early and all of our grandparents have passed away. Since we've moved to the mini-farm, an hour from my parents, I'm afraid that I don't spend as much time with them -- or my siblings for that matter -- as I would like. We're all so busy with real responsibilities in our lives, but time passes too quickly. I don't think I'm very old, but already I've lost many important people in my life and I still wish I had more time with them. 

One of those people who has been on my mind lately is my grandfather, who was a school teacher, a farmer, and a hunter. 

I'd like to tell you a bit about him, if you don't mind. 

 

I recall him as a warm-hearted, intelligent, and pragmatic man. He was calm and straightforward. He said what he meant and took other people at their word. He didn't tolerate foolishness about serious things. My grandfather was stern in a way I found intimidating. As a small child I knew never to disobey him, never to talk back to my grandmother and never, ever be involved in an accident. He often said "Accidents don't happen. Carelessness happens." The  translation into practice of this philosophy was that getting hurt was as punishable an offense as hurting someone else.  As alarming as that may sound, it was a good rule for a farm teeming with grandkids that couldn't be observed every minute and filled with dangerous equipment, animals and situations. We had to look out for ourselves and each other. Grandpa's anger wasn't the worst thing that could happen to us if we didn't use common sense. 

On the lighter side of his pragmatism, my grandfather had had a keen sense of irony, and his sense of humor highlighted the ridiculous. He could be light-hearted and silly, especially when he was being affectionate. Driving down the highway, he would occasionally tap his horn twice, his face alight and his eyes laughing. "Do you know what that means? It means I love you." He wrote sporadic and unexpected letters to his grand children describing what he had done that day for no other purpose than to let us know he was thinking of us. I loved to listen to him talk, because he always made sense and would dot his conversation with subtly amusing observations. 

  My grandfather had one of the most entrenched Kansas accents I have ever heard. A Kansas accent is not commonly known and is difficult to describe. It's best created by speaking as clearly as possible in a Midwestern accent with one's back teeth locked together.  It suited my grandfather, since his jaw always seemed to be set. 

It added to his stern demeanor, along with the fact he was tall and upright. His muscles felt like stone and his hands had an iron grip. His jaw was always set in a determined way. I thought of him as solid and unbreakable, which was why the last months of his life when he was bed ridden with an immobilized back were tragic to witness.  

 
His eyes were his best feature. His eyes pierced when he spoke to me directly. The gleamed when he talked. They sparkled when he laughed. I miss his laugh. 

Anyone in the family who disagrees with me on particulars is welcome to their own opinions. These are mine. It's impossible to really know or describe another person. We're all too complicated. The relationships we have with one another shade how we perceive them. 

I know my grandfather is not entirely what I remember him to be. In fact, I fact I learned much more about him out after his death. For instance, I did know that he enjoyed hunting, but I had no idea that he hunted almost every single day until I read his day books after his death. I had always assumed he taught school to afford to be a farmer. I hadn't realized he farmed, so he could have the opportunity to hunt as often as he could. With my own interest in subsistence beginning to develop now, I wonder if I've oversimplified him all of these years. No need to wonder, I'm sure I have. It doesn't really matter. I know he loved to hunt. I know that when he was outside working, he often took time to look appreciatively into the distance beyond the task in front of him.  I know he loved the song "Home on the Range," and that the lyrics meant more to him than an ode to life on the plains. 

 
And so, in tribute to my grandfather I asked to take on the care of one of the undying members of our family, Saratoga. Saratoga is the trophy head of an antelope my grandfather shot in 1959 in Saratoga,Wyoming. ("Where the deer and the antelope play.") I have been told that having the carcass of a dead animal in my home is bad karma. (So much for Thanksgiving turkey!)  No doubt Saratoga was having a bad morning when he crossed paths with my grandfather on that fateful day, but his fate is a far cry better than having  been long ago forgotten by the carrion that would have feasted on his carcass back in the 1960s had he died a more natural death. You see, the acquaintance who warned me of the the metaphysical fate awaiting me, jumped to a conclusion without full knowledge of the facts. 

Saratoga isn't just a trophy. Saratoga is part of story of my grandfather and uncle hunting together in Wyoming.  Saratoga fed the family. Saratoga hung over the dining table for nearly 40 years, a presence at every family meal, celebration, conference and consultation. Saratoga is considered a revered member of the family and part of our family history and a suitable tribute to my grandfather. 

  

Even in the days when I was an urban diva, Saratoga graced my wall, baffling my more refined friends. I have carried him from home to home as a prized possession wrapped carefully in blankets with a pillow under his neck until he could be put in his place of honor. This past Wednesday, we finally unwrapped him and placed him prominently above the stairs. He looks beautiful and impressive there.  I wanted him mounted before Thanksgiving, because it wouldn't be a family holiday without him. 

On this Thanksgiving I give a prayer of gratitude to the one's I've lost and still carry with me and I count my blessings in the ones who are still here for me to know.  I imagine my grandpa would have been proud and privately amused at his prissiest granddaughter living on a mini-farm. I hope more of our family will come to see it for themselves and spend some time with us on the farm in years to come. Beep, beep! You know what that means.

My grandparents posing with a future diva.

#farmdiva #saratoga