So last weekend was thanksgiving (in Canada) and while we did not spend it sitting around a huge table full of extended family eating mounds of turkey, we did spend in the most important way, WITH family.

We went south for the weekend and spent several days with the hubby’s Mom.

I know for many wives of the world that this would be a dreaded trip, but for me it is always such a great time.

I know I tend to talk about our trips to the US in terms of what we picked up while away, and all those great things and clothing really are wonderful gifts from my mother in law, but those things are just the squeeze icing on the cupcakes. The real treasure I bring back from every trip can’t be stuffed into a suitcase or bag.

I am not truly an overly affectionate (at least in public) person. I give hugs and I have learned to say I love you to special people in my life but that is about it. I had a rough childhood and public displays of affection have always been hard. I only learned to hug people when I was a teenager. Before that hugs were far and few between in my life.

As an adult the love word was horded just in case I was wrong. But it has come slowly.

What does all this have to do with anything you might ask?

Well it means I am not always good at showing how grateful and thankful I am to those I love, especially my family (of which my mother-in-law is a huge part of), and I want to take a moment to let them all know how very much I appreciate them.

Not for the gifts they give or even the things they do for us, but simply for being them. For loving me even when I am forgetful of how to say thanks. For being there even when I forget how to ask nicely. For doing things simply because it makes them feel good to do them. For not expecting more then I know how to give.

You all know my past, I struggle mostly in silence when dealing with those issues because for as much love as you all have to give these are things only I can work through, but to know that you are standing just to the side of me while I face the past means more to me then I can say. To know your support is always there means a great deal.

So even though I am not always quick to say thanks, or offer a hug or a I love you, please know in my heart I do mean all those things and am working to let that stuff out.

In the meantime I will keep remember this quote:

“If the only prayer you said in your whole life was, “thank you,” that would suffice.”  ~Meister Eckhart

And say a heartfelt thank you to my wonderful family (both blood, marriage and friend family).

(This post will in fact get around to talking about a book called The Help I promise it really will.)

So this is my first official post on my new blog. I am sitting outside on my balcony in boxers and a tank top praying that the slight breeze I can feel will blow over me and my cat and cool us both off. Yes for those that know him Stan Lee is laying out here with me, and a special treat to him he is without his harness. I was too hot to fight with him and since the BBQ is off and I do not plan to go inside before this is written I figured it was safe enough this one time.

So what am I going to write about. You see I have had this blog up and ready for a post for well over a week now but I just could not figure out what to write as my first post.

I thought maybe I would write about the passing our of Albino Hedgehog Spike Lee, but I have just barely come to grips with that myself and while I promise to write a memorial post for him soon it does not seem fitting for a first post.

I could write about Stan but then again I talk about him enough, or is that talk TO him, either way he is best left for a later post as well.

I had this great idea to write about something that has bothered me for some years. I hate my picture. I can look in the mirror  and see I am not ugly. I am not going to win any beauty pageants but I am passably cute. However I don’t see the same girl from the mirror in my pictures. I  just don’t understand why. But that post is a little too personal for a first post.

So that brings me to The Help. Recently, if you watch any TV, you might have begun seeing adds for a movie and book called The Help by Kathryn Stockett. (See plot summery below)

Now normally I like my books to be on the good old fashion goth/horror side with a heavy spice of fantasy and a tiny helping of Sci-Fi thrown in, but sometimes I find a book like this (fiction) that appeals to me. This is one of those stories.

It is well written, with all the affliction of the old south and well worth the recommendation. Even if straight up fiction is not your cup of tea it is a glimpse into a time in history which should not be forgotten.

I very much look forward to the movie and hope that is as well done as the book. I encourage you to grab up a copy (hard or electronic, or even borrowed from a library or friend) and immerse yourself  in a time not to long ago, in a place not to far away and maybe learn a little along the way.

So now that I have finally made my first post I can get on to those others I’ve mentioned and many more that are rambling in my head.

Till next time goodnight and stay cool!

The Help (plot summery)

The Help is set in the early 1960s in Jackson Mississippi, and is told from the perspective of three women, Aibileen, Minny and Skeeter. Aibileen is an African-American maid who cleans houses and cares for the young children of various white families. She has a job looking after a toddler girl named Mae Mobley, her first job since her own 24-year-old son was killed in an on-the-job accident. Minny is Aibileen’s confrontational friend who frequently tells her employers what she thinks of them. Her actions have led to her being fired from 19 jobs. Minny’s most recent employer was Mrs. Walters, mother of Hilly Holbrook. Hilly is the social leader of the community, and head of the Junior League. She is nemesis for all three main characters in the book.

Miss “Skeeter” Eugenia Phelan is the daughter of a prominent white family that owns a large cotton farm that employs many African-Americans in the fields, as well as in the household. Skeeter has just finished college and come home with big dreams of becoming a writer. However, her mother only wishes for Skeeter to get married, something that does not particularly interest Skeeter. Upon coming home, Skeeter discovers that Constantine, the maid that raised her, has suddenly quit, and moved to Chicago with no explanation provided to Skeeter. This was unusual since Constantine had been writing to Skeeter the entire time she was at college, and had promised Skeeter a surprise when she got home. This is a mystery that nobody will discuss with Skeeter.

During the weekly bridge club that Skeeter attends with Hilly, Mrs. Walters and Elizabeth, Abileen’s employer, Hilly discusses her belief that all homes should have separate bathroom facilities for the “colored” help. This discussion affects Skeeter. She is awakened to the realization that her friends’ maids are treated so different from the way a white person is treated, and wants to reveal the truth to the world from the maids’ perspectives by writing a book about it. Written in the first person from the perspective of Abileen, Minny and Skeeter, the struggles Skeeter experiences to communicate to the maids and gain their trust is revealed, as well as the issues of overcoming long standing barriers in customs and laws by all of the characters. The daily lives of the Southern housewife, and the household maid during the early 1960′s in Mississippi are explored. The dangers of undertaking writing a book about African-Americans speaking out in the early 60′s are constantly hovering over the three women.

I sat with rapt attention focused on the larger-than-life woman before me, transported into another time and place by her mere words. This was my first clear memory of being read to.

I have never been able to forget seeing Mrs. Desgarden in her smart tweed pant suit. A crisp white blouse set off by a brightly colored scarf tied at her neck, her gray streaked hair pinned neatly into a bun, reminiscent of an old school matron.

There was no other teacher like her, with her strict rules and stern manner of dealing with all students. Her coldness did not win her any awards with her pupils, though when she read that frostiness dropped off and her body language transformed her into a young woman filled with a passion for the written word. As one would think all English teachers should possess.

Her eyes and voice drew me in. It didn’t matter whether she was reading about Huckle-Berry Fin or witches in wardrobes, her voice commanded attention. Her eyes took on the look of youth trapped and ready to spring forth with each new character of the book.

Every day started out in the same fashion, she’d sit on the edge of her paper-and-book cluttered desk, the smudged chalkboard behind her, glasses hanging from a gold neck chain and the current book selection in hand. She would wait for silence before her voice rumbled through the room describing Water Ship Down during a storm. The air thick with anticipation, we all wondered where today’s adventure would lead us.

The beginning changed from time to time but, we all knew the ending. Her famous words about two-thirds of the way through each book. She’d close the book quietly, the room hanging on her every word, excitement filling each of us in hopes that this time would be different. Inevitably, though, she would look up at us with her bright-colored lips stretching into a gentle smile, and she would nod her head before speaking.

“The library awaits your arrival, the ending of this story and many more line the shelves.”

You could hear the groans of those who felt this ploy to engage her students to read was unfair, but not I. In my secret heart, from that day to this, I sit in rapt attention focused on larger than life women, though now they share the pages of my books and not a classroom.

Mrs. Desgarden may not have been my favorite teacher, but she gave me a precious gift, a passion to read the story’s ending.

I’m begging the man on the corner

For a nickel or a dime

With bruises on my face

Waiting for the end of time

My eyes forever searching

Eager for someone to come

Hunger gnaws at my body

Desire beats in my mind on an angry drum

And just how young do they gotta be

Before we even give a damn

Cuz the streets a’ filling fast and god let me tell you

You’ve got one too many sacrificial lambs

See that girl watching from the shadows

She’s looking to turn a trick

Dirt caked under her fingernails

Hair limp and greasy but combed back slick

Cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth

Frayed and tattered black jeans

He struts down the street all big and tough

Just another punk in a gang full of teens

So just how young do they gotta be

Before we even give a damn

Cuz the streets a’ filling fast and god let me tell you

You’ve got one too many sacrificial lambs

See I don’t wanna cry no more

And we are all tired of hurting

Looking for a savior who does not come

Hell even the angels are deserting

And I can’t see the sunlight

Darkness my only friend

These baby blue eyes are pleading

Please just don’t let this be the end

Well I ask just how young do they gotta be

Before we even give a damn

Cuz the streets a’ filling fast and god let me tell you

You’ve got one too many sacrificial lambs

Welcome to Velvet Kitten’s Den of Pleasure where the world awaits us all!