Just Two Gypsies' Worst Thanksgiving Ever

 Thanksgiving 2021 will go down in Gypsy Family History as The Worst Thanksgiving Ever...

The whole week started off with an ominous bang when we had to rush Twyla Rose to the Emergency Vet Clinic Tuesday night.  (Twyla Rose is a much-loved tri-colored beagle, and is the absolute center of our family unit. Twyla has been undergoing treatment for leukemia since early April.)

Twyla was admitted and treated for pneumonia.  Wednesday morning, we were told that she was "alert and bouncing around", and that she could possibly go home later in the afternoon.  Siobhan and I scurried around, getting things ready for sweet Twyla's homecoming; we washed her bedding, vacuumed and cleaned the carpet, placed ferns and houseplants near her bed, and filled the refrigerator with all her favorite foods. Now all we had to do was wait on the call to go pick her up.

Then disaster struck.  The oncologist called with the news that Twyla's lymph nodes had doubled in size since 7 days ago.  The cancer was growing unchecked--the stronger chemotherapy didn't work.  She recommended euthanasia.  Now.  

Siobhan and I were devastated, but we were not in denial.  We knew there was no cure for leukemia.  We knew the end was coming.  We didn't know it was today.  We had already ordered a truly beautiful child's coffin--all the pet casket companies were on long-term back-order--it was to be delivered next Monday.  We couldn't wait for Monday... So we opted to have her cremated instead--but it's The Holidays.  Everything is in limbo for now.

So Siobhan and I went home, and proceeded to Drink.  (Myself more so than Siobhan.) And PRAY--please don't lose our dog.  Or her ashes.

Wednesday arrived, and we slogged through our usual farm chores and house work.  Then we tried to make a couple of casseroles a day early, thinking it would ease some of the cooking workload for tomorrow.  HA!

We made a green bean casserole.  Later, I found the evaporated milk that was supposed to go in it (!). Sigh. We made a sweet potato casserole--the topping never looked right...it just looked really dry and crumbly.  (In the middle of the night, I woke suddenly and realized, "I never added the melted butter!")  Oh well.

Thursday morning rolled around, and I boiled the eggs for the devilled eggs.   (Yeah, they were store-bought--our hens are ON BREAK, and I had to buy eggs--and they were fresh. ) Of course they wouldn't peel--of course they were a DISASTER.  Four hours later, and I am still struggling to peel these bastards.  They've been UNREFRIGERATED the whole time.  POTENTIAL  FOOD POISONING!!

 

Then Liam got the tin foil, lard bucket, and charcoal ready to cook our traditional Turkey-In-A-Bucket.  And after "thawing" that 10 lb. turkey in the refrigerator for 4 days, it was still frozen!! Fast-forward to the microwave for "flash thawing"--again, POTENTIAL FOOD POISONING!!  TIMES TEN!!!

 So...5 or 6...(or maybe 7!!) mimosas later, I don't even care. What's a little food poisoning between friends?!?   Our dog just died.  My mother can't even remember 5 minutes ago.  My sister, Saphrona,  just got out of the hospital with "Crack lung" for the 3rd time this year.  My aunt and uncle are in a nursing home.  My brother is still crazy.  Some things never change.

I am thankful that Siobhan, Liam, and I are still alive--and I'm thankful for our health.  I'm thankful for our remaining 2 dogs, 3 horses, 2 cats, and 12 chickens.  And I'm thankful for my memories...Happy Thanksgiving.

 

 

Justice For George Floyd

 God, give me strength.  I'm waiting, along with most of America, to hear the verdict in the Derek Chauvin trial...God, we all know Chauvin is guilty of murder.   What else could Derek Chauvin have been waiting for but Death, with his knee on George Floyd's neck for 9 minutes and 20-some seconds?  He was waiting on the man to die--there is truly nothing else he could have been waiting for.  It was a very calculated and very deliberate murder. 

Please, God--give the jury the courage to convict this guilty, remorseless man.  This gypsy's heart aches for George Floyd. 

"... let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream."  --Amos 5:24

Little Irish Boy, It's YOUR Day...

 

 Happy Saint Patrick's Day.  Yes, it's a doll.  And NO, I don 't have a doll collection.  Just the one.

 Mother particularly liked to throw out our toys before we were through playing with them.  Consequently, none of my dolls survived childhood...I bought this little guy just 3 or 4 years ago.   But he's Irish, and Today is His Day.  I owe it to Him to share his story...

One October evening, three or four years ago, I was browsing on Ebay, looking for leprechaun dolls to go in Siobhan's and Liam's  Christmas stockings.  (My whole Christmas theme was "Ireland" that year--most of their gifts were  made in Ireland...sweaters, socks, jewelry, etc.)  

I scrolled past goofy "Lucky Charm" leprechauns.  

 

 

I scrolled past smirking, sly leprechauns.

 

 

 I scrolled past slightly drunk leprechauns (sigh).

 

Then I came across a photo of an Irish doll for sale--not a leprechaun at all, but a small porcelain doll.   Sweet and solemn, his little face had a crack below one eye--it looked for all the world like he was crying.  

As a rule, I don't particularly like dolls.  I certainly don't buy them.  Strange that this little Irish doll would have such an instant hold on me... He wasn't even remotely what I was looking for--but for some reason, that sad little face kept drawing me back. 

For several days, I browsed and shopped Irish and leprechaun dolls and figurines on Ebay.  Again and again, I looked at this sad little guy's ad.   His minimum bid was only .99; even at that, no one was bidding on him.  As the auction clock ticked toward zero,  I contemplated the fate of this little Irish lad.  In my heart, I knew that he was destined for the dust bin.  No wonder he looked so sad.   Still, I didn't need him.  Still, he drew me back.

At the last minute, I bid .99--and won the auction. Three days later, he arrived in a shoe box, complete with his cracked "tear-marked" face and a gaping hole in his forehead.  Siobhan kept saying, "Wait!  I'm confused!  You bought A DOLL?  A BROKEN DOLL?  Why?!"   I told her that I had to buy him, because his sad little face kind of haunted me.  Siobhan gave the little doll her best Side-Eye look and said, "I know he haunts me!!"  We both laughed.  But I did save the doll from the dust bin.  Mission accomplished--or so I thought.  I stood my little Irish boy on my desk, and promptly forgot about him.  

 Days and weeks went by, each one rich in the infinite variety of life on a farm, but all unremarkable.  Then one October night, I had a dream...

In that dream, Siobhan and I were hosting a Halloween party for riding students, just as we did years ago.  Straw bales and corn shocks dotted the farmyard.  Colored lights and streamers were strung around the garden.  In every nook and cranny, carved jack-o-lanterns grinned and winked.  A scavenger hunt was in progress, and our farm was overrun with laughing, pushing, squealing children. 

In my dream, Siobhan and I stood by the garden gate, marveling at some of the costumes, as groups of children drifted by.  Suddenly Siobhan said, "Hey Mom--LOOK!  A boy is dressed like your Little Irish Boy!"  I looked, and he was--EXACTLY like my Little Irish Boy.  Same hat.  Same shirt and vest.  Same pants.  Same face--just a little older.  Yet something was different.  This boy had scars where the doll's damage had been.

I approached the child, and tentatively asked him, "What happened to your face?"  He gave me a puzzled look and said, "Don't you remember?  You never got it fixed."  

I woke up with a pounding heart, a guilt-ridden conscience, and a resolve to get the doll's face repaired as fast as possible.  I found a Doll Hospital online that sounded really nice.  I emailed them photos of  the little boy's damage, along with measurements, manufacturer, etc.  They emailed me an estimate of $875.00.  (Not saying these folks were ripoffs, but that's a lot of money to repair a doll that you can still buy in stores--unbroken--for $7.95.  Just saying. )

I couldn't afford the doll hospital, but I couldn't afford to just forget about it, either...I didn't want the little boy to be scarred forever in my dreams, and I really didn't want him to haunt me.  (I don't know if the "haunted " dolls they sell on Etsy are for real, but let's face it folks--my doll apparently IS.)  So I searched online until I found doll repair putty and porcelain paint in various flesh tones, along with a set of plastic sculpting and smoothing tools.  DIY! Perfect!

 My putty and paint order arrived, and I went to work...I filled the hole in the little boy's forehead, and smoothed it as best I could.  I carefully filled the tear track cracks below his eye, and delicately sanded over his freckles.  Not too bad for my first attempt!

 I checked the package for drying instructions, and read:  Cut oven on lowest setting, and place the doll on oven rack; prop oven door open with a wooden spoon; bake doll for 4 hours.  (Yikes! Are they kidding me?!  No Way am I doing that--can you imagine the nightmares I'd have?!)  Instead, I let him air dry for 7 days, and then painted his face as best I could.  He's not perfect, but I think the Little Irish Boy is happy now.   No more bad dreams.

 

                             HAPPY ST. PATRICK'S DAY TO MY LITTLE IRISH BOY!