So many troubles, but oh, the tender moment

The Middle Ages

We all need that one thing that brings us a measure of comfort. For me, it’s a daily workout, sometimes with the wolf-dog in tow. She is younger, faster, better-looking, which I realize is almost impossible to imagine.

But if I didn’t exercise, I’d be dead in a week. So off we go into the wild.

Here’s a typical scenario: The wolf-dog and I round the corner, where we encounter a neighbor I don’t know backing out of his driveway, oblivious to our presence. I wait, impatiently, because that’s how I do most things, with no trace of decency or understanding.

Such is life in the big city, waiting for people you don’t know to do things more slowly than you’d like. I curse the driver’s meekness, his hesitation in backing out of his driveway, for I sometimes see that same meekness in myself, and I don’t care for it much.

As I wait, White Fang shows an eagerness to move forward with her life. To settle her, I snap her leash, which she instinctively takes to mean “Mush!” given her snowcountry heritage.

Ouch, my shoulder, my neck. The moment is a little dark. Nearby, a crow complains.

But we manage, disdaining this driver we don’t know who takes forever to back out of his driveway.

Eventually, we step off again, and as the driver passes, he slows and rolls down his window.

“Good Thanksgiving?” he asks. “The best,” I say. “You?” “Very good,” he says. “Have a great weekend.”

So there you go, the hot and cold of city life. A small gesture, a kind and unexpected word.

Still, I don’t know why it took him so long to back out of the danged driveway. I mean, it was his own driveway.

And in truth, it wasn’t “the best” Thanksgiving. That’s just one of those things you say for the sake of expediency. It was a good Thanksgiving, to be sure. The lovely and patient older daughter cooked a big turkey, and Rapunzel baked a pie. The older daughter’s boyfriend made mashed potatoes from scratch.

Rapunzel’s boyfriend, the engineer, made an apple coffee cake. The little guy spilled his drink. The old beagle piddled near the front door.

So, in a sense, everyone contributed.

The Halloween candy wasn’t even gone, so one season bumped up against another. We watched the parade, then some football. Someone poured a meaty red wine. Tasted like Rome.

A holiday feast is exhausting; there’s no doubt about that.

“Today, let’s not worry about the little things,” I told everyone.

“Yeah, let’s just throw the dishes away,” suggested the boy.

We didn’t, so the cleanup lasted hours. We crammed the leftovers into two refrigerators that were already a little too full.

That’s where the leftovers will sit till Christmas, when we’ll rush to clean it out to make room for more leftovers we’ll probably never finish.

We seem to keep things from one season to the next as mementos of a full and crazy life.

As for Posh? She is our inspiration — a strong and brave woman working through her horrible cancer while not close to being done with her earlier awful grief.

My wife spent the day before Thanksgiving getting blood while wearing a tacky “Pardon My French” sweatshirt her older daughter gave her as a joke.

“Wear it,” I’d urged. “You speak a lot of (bleep, bleep) French.”

In the transfusion room, Rapunzel blew in like a Sierra storm and curled up next to her mother in the bed. At the holiday table, we left a place card for our late son.

Such a year it’s been. Two deaths in the family — Posh’s mother, our older son — and now the recurrence of this unspeakable disease.

During my morning run, I see that the trees are finally bright gold. Where I once thought I saw some divine glory in bright branches, I’m starting to see mere sunlight.

You think you have problems? Yes, probably so. As the bus signs say, “Everyone’s dealing with something.”

So in the spirit of our best season, we send you kind thoughts and prayers.

And, yes, we’ll always pardon your French.