Thanksgiving

The Thanksgiving holiday is ending – a holiday brought to us, as Sesame Street might say, by the letter F.
F as in
•family,
•friends,
•food
•football
and
•Black Friday. (that’s a stretch I know but there is an F there!)
For my non-American readers, Black Friday is the day after Thanksgiving, a holiday for most Americans. Stores open at 5 a.m. or earlier with special sales to entice people to start their Christmas shopping. Some say it’s “black” because of frustrating traffic jams; others say it refers to the profit the stores hope to make during the Christmas season.
My memories of Thanksgiving go back to my early childhood, as is true for all Americans. But, due to my double life, – yes even then – these memories are not exactly those of other Americans.
Until I was 15, I called this holiday American Thanksgiving. I was brought up in Canada, the only other country that has a public Thanksgiving holiday. Canadians celebrate the second Monday of October. My parents and I always sat down to a turkey dinner followed by pumpkin pie on that day, as our Canadian friends were doing. Then, about 6 weeks later, on the 4th Thursday of November, I came home to the same smells and the same meal as our family celebrated Thanksgiving again. (My friends know that I love holiday rituals. I come by it naturally. Every year, our family of three consumed three turkey dinners in about 11 weeks to keep the traditions of two Thanksgivings and Christmas!)
When we moved to Jamaica, we stopped celebrating Canadian Thanksgiving but I continued to come home from school to the aroma of turkey and pumpkin pie on the fourth Thursday of November. The "family" and “food” traditions, thus, became firmly entrenched in my mind.
I was twenty the first time I spent Thanksgiving in the United States. After four “real Thanksgivings”, I went to France where I resumed my expatriate holiday -- “food” and “friends” but no day off, no football and no shopping.
This weekend marked my 10th Thanksgiving in Charlottesville – long enough to have established new traditions. Dinner is at Nancy and Fred’s, my good friends and neighbors. They host a large potluck buffet, inviting friends, neighbors, work colleagues and foreign students. Fred and Nancy provide hospitality, turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes and gravy. I bake a ham. Other guests bring side dishes, desserts and drinks. Our Thanksgiving meal includes egg rolls, samosa, rice dishes, and always something called “Do you know what this is?” provided by one or another of the foreign students. (The answer is always “No but have some, it’s good.”)









The shopping and football part of Thanksgiving have never been my traditions and I can’t seem to acquire them. I do participate in football to some extent, as I live about a ten minute walk from the stadium where the University of Virginia's team plays its arch-rival two days after Thanksgiving.

View leading from my street to the stadium on Game Day


Tailgating -- a picnic in the parking lot before the game -- is a great tradition.


Some never make it to the game.


The stadium fills. All hopes still permitted.




Today is the eye of the hurricane – a calm place from which to remember the fun of the last three days while gearing up for the month of festivities ahead. May we all have the energy to enjoy the ride.
P.S. Pictures of Thanksgiving dinner are courtesy of my friend Jeanne because I forgot my camera. Thanks Jeanne!

Let the Holidays Begin!

When I was a child, there was Thanksgiving and then, an eternity afterwards, there was Christmas. Between the two there were some preparations, of course – the list for Santa Claus, the Santa Claus Parade and a little Christmas shopping. “Daddy we bought you some slippers, but it’s a surprise!” Mostly, however, there was just a long stretch of ordinary time between two distinct holidays.
Since children experience time differently, they may still feel this way. For me, though, it seems like the end of the year is just one big holiday called Halloweenthanksgivingchristmas as pumpkins and pilgrims, turkeys and trees, stockings and Santa Claus cohabit in a cheerful bundle.
Some mutter and complain but I enjoy it – especially the early days -- before people start smiling wanly, wondering whether they’ll have enough enthusiasm for the Big Day after all the introductory festivities.
Charlottesville kicked off its holiday season this past weekend with the Annual Tree Lighting on Friday evening followed by the Holiday Heritage Parade on Saturday morning – probably the only community in the United States where Thomas Jefferson and Santa Claus share the limelight.
Friday, we gathered at 5 p.m. at Central Place on the Downtown Mall. Two local television news people welcomed us and the City Registrar led us in song

while a strategically placed snow machine helped us believe in a White Christmas.
An elf distributed song sheets

but I noticed that almost no one needed them. The children, already caught up in the magic, heartily sang the songs they knew and danced or enjoyed the grownup singing the rest of the time. For the adults, each familiar word brought back memories.








At 6:10 precisely, came the moment we’d been waiting for. The Mayor pushed the button that lit the giant Christmas tree, donated by a County resident.


The next morning, some of the same people and many others were on the Mall again for the big parade. Led by the American Army’s Old Guard Fife and Drum Corps,and followed by bands, choirs, dancers and decorated golf carts, it made its way down the eight blocks. The fun thing about a parade in a smaller community is that almost everyone has a sister or father or aunt to wave to.
Though the distance travelled was short, progress took time as every group stopped several times to sing, dance or play for an appreciative crowd.














When Santa had passed, we reconvened at the Amphitheater –usually a venue for outdoor country or rock concerts but, today, the site of a Historical Pageant to honor Virginia history and the True Meaning of Thanksgiving. A local middle school band played the Star Spangled Banner to start. Another middle school choir led us in America the Beautiful to finish and, in between, Presidents Madison, Monroe and Jefferson, as well as Madison’s wife, Dolly, reminded us of the bravery of the patriots who had fought for our freedom and all we had to be thankful for.
The Old Guard Fife and Drum Corps play for us


President Madison and Dolly arrive

An hour later, uplifted and thankful, we streamed back to the Mall for lunch and, the merchants hoped, that other great holiday tradition – Christmas shopping. The 2009 holiday season was launched!

Remembering

For most of my life, November 11th has been special to me. When I was a child in Ontario, it was Remembrance Day or, more familiarly, Poppy Day because of the artificial poppies we wore, sold by a war veterans’ charity.
It was not a public holiday but, in my elementary school, we had a Remembrance Day Assembly that mimicked the official ceremonies held at the Cenotaph in Ottawa and in communities all over Canada. The whole school gathered in the auditorium at about 10:30. We sang “God Save the Queen” and “Abide with me”. A class recited or a teacher read “In Flanders Fields”. By this time it was just before 11:00 when a recording of “The Last Post” was played and two minutes of silence began. We were admonished to remember the soldiers of World War I who had died for our freedom. I tried every year. It was hard because I didn’t know anyone who had fought in that war. With relief and a slight feeling of guilt, I listened for the bugle to play again, signaling the end of the two minutes of silence. We then sang “O Canada” and filed back to our classrooms. This simple ceremony, repeated annually, made a deep impression on me.
As I grew older and moved from Canada to Jamaica to Ohio, the significance of this day faded. Then I went to France. There the day is called "November 11th". Some dates need no explanation. Every town and village has a “Monument aux Morts” (Monument to the Dead). Some facts require no euphemisms.
"Monument aux Morts" in Provence.


Some village monuments have plaques provided by their families


Though some of these monuments include the names of the fallen of World War II, many remain exclusively for the dead of the four and a half year war that cost France 10% of its male population. Commemorations are held at each of these monuments every year. The official ceremony takes place at the “Arc de Triomphe” in Paris where the President lays a wreath at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. Until last year, when the last veteran died at age 110, all the French World War I veterans able to travel were present and, later, interviewed by the press. Their story was one of hardship and horror. The official message was “Never again" -- a message stronger than ever this year as Nicolas Sarkozy of France and Angela Merkel of Germany, lit the eternal flame at the “Arc de Triomphe” together, reviewed French and German troops, heard the national anthems of both countries played and made brief speeches. As one of the major French newspapers put it “”Hereafter on November 11th, we will no longer celebrate the victory of one country over another”.
But I was not there. I spent my first November 11th in the United States in 39 years where I discovered in shocked surprise that, about the time I was learning “In Flanders Fields” in Canada, the 83rd Congress, at the urging of veterans’ service groups, had passed a law turning Armistice Day into Veterans Day – a day honoring, not those who died in World War I, but those who served in all wars --and lived.
I have been pondering cultural relativity ever since.

Hat party!

For the last six years, one of the regrets I have when it’s time for me to go to Charlottesville in November is leaving the pre-schoolers I read to on Friday afternoons. We just met in September and, since they are only three, my two month absence is equivalent to 5% of their entire little lives.
This year, however, my leave-taking was easier. Indeed, it was a festive occasion.
Two years ago, I decided to learn to knit – after two or three other abortive attempts. Since I’m not very clever with manual tasks, I knew I’d need lots of practice. How could I do that and not get bored? My answer – “I’ll make hats for the kids.” Not the class I was reading to in 2007 – that would have been too lofty and stressful a goal. Not even the class I had last year because, by the time I finished the 18 hats I needed it was spring, and woollen hats were no longer appropriate. So the hats were destined for this year’s kids.
Of course, this year, there are 25 children instead of 18 so I had a busy fall making 7 extra hats in just 8 weeks. Since each one was different, I invited Christine, their teacher, to my house for tea one afternoon and we decided together which hat should be given to which child. She said that, the Friday before I left, she’d have them make a cake in the morning and, instead of story-time, we’d have a party.
On Thursday I wrapped 25 little presents



On Friday I set off to school.
The children, just getting up from their nap, rushed to me squealing “We made you a cake!” When everyone was dressed and reasonably calm, I called each one to come get his or her surprise. Three year olds are unpredictable. Though most of them were eager and delighted, two little boys refused -- one firmly, one shyly -- to take their presents even once they saw what their classmates unwrapped!
Photos were taken,







a little impromptu dancing occurred

Then they all hung the hats on their coat hooks and rushed back to have cake and Coke.


Afterwards, getting dressed for recess was more confusing than usual. Most children were happy to wear their new hats. Some were confused since they’d come to school in one hat and now had two.


Eventually, they swarmed into the playground wearing the hat of their choice.
Half an hour later it was time to go home and more confusion ensued. One little fellow no longer had his hat. When asked where it was he replied cheerfully; “I don’t know.”
Photographic proof that he used to have a hat!


One little girl eagerly showed her mother her new hat and then said “But I’m giving it to you, because I already have two.”


One mother, who had rushed off before Christine could explain the new headgear, dragged her protesting little boy back after they were half-way to the métro, convinced that he had taken some other child’s hat.
Soon it was time to say “Goodbye” and “See you next year” to the teachers and the principal and float away from school with a big grin on my face. I was still smiling the next day as I began to pack – though my apartment felt empty with no hats in it.

The happy knitter

The Beginning of the End of the Year

Just when I start getting used to fall, October 31st rolls around. When I was a child, this meant Halloween and the excitement of trick or treating. The happy memories remain, but now my main thought is “Oh my, it’s nearly the end of another year!”
The French do not celebrate Halloween. About ten years ago they tried to. The holiday first appeared in the form of Halloween Balls for young adults. They dressed up, as they do for Mardi Gras or, sometimes, New Year’s Eve and danced the night away in nightclubs decorated for the occasion. A few years later, stores were full of Halloween decorations, costumes for children and special candy for trick or treaters. What was this imported holiday? Learned discussions on TV and in the press linked Halloween to the ancient Celtic festival of Samain. Since at least part of France has Celtic origins, experts decreed the French had as much right to celebrate it as the Anglo Saxons. But, for the majority of French people, it was a Disney-promoted foreign custom pounced upon by merchants eager to find a new way for people to spend money. And so, two years ago, it died as quickly as it had sprung up -- except for small pockets of resistance in areas where many expatriates live -- like the village in the south of France where I spend it.
Most French people don’t realize that November 1st, which is a public holiday, is actually another manifestation of the same Samain – the Celtic marking of the transition from one year to the next, when crops are in and winter looms. Centuries ago, the Catholic Church declared it All Saint’s Day ("Toussaint"). It is popularly known as “le jour des cimetières” (cemetery day) -- the day when people go to visit family graves. The earliest custom, still observed, was to place lighted candles on the tombs after tidying them. Much later, people started bringing fresh flowers to the graves on this day.
I enjoy both parts of this ancient holiday. For the last 6 or 7 years, I’ve gone down to visit French friends in Provence at the end of October. Their three daughters decorate the house with homemade witches and ghosts and spiders. They carve a pumpkin, whom they, obscurely, name Helmut, into a magnificent Jack- o-lantern. Their father cooks a feast, part of which includes the innards of Helmut as soup or mixed with mashed potatoes. Not pie; we tried that last year and it was pronounced inedible. They think they are too old for trick or treating, now, but Halloween is still fun, especially with a real live American in the house. Particularly, if she brings candy, as I always do.



The next day, though my friends are fortunate enough not to have any graves they need to visit, we grown-ups sometimes go for a walk to the nearby cemetery, to enjoy the peace and the flowers.

Entrance to the local cemetery.

Remembering


When both holidays are over, I return to Paris to clean, pack and say goodbye to my French life for another year. A few days later I cross the ocean to my other life – and the next celebration.

To Do Lists

Those of you who have been following this blog since summer know that the transition from Paris to Charlottesville is difficult for me. But at least in the summer, everybody is winding down and getting ready to go somewhere. When I leave in November I am out of sync with my world. It's about half way between summer vacation and Christmas. Everything is in full swing. And then .... I have to get ready to leave.
I keep going to choir, reading to the kids, knitting, seeing friends while my To Do list gets longer. About a week before I leave, it has morphed into five To Do Lists
•Things you really, truly have To Do or you won’t be able to leave
•Things you need To Do (and will be able to if you get organized.)
•Things you should try To Do
•Things you don’t have To Do now if you promise you’ll do them as soon as you get to Charlottesville
•Things you meant To Do but now it’s too late.
The first list gets done. Some other items slip from list 2 to 3 to 4. I contemplate list 5 with chagrin and try to make sure it stays as short as possible. But I always seem to have a list 5.
I still find it strange to start saying “See you next year” or “We’ll do that next year.” nearly two months early.
My last week is always filled with last outings, last phone calls, last errands. Then it is The Day Before I Leave. My November and December calendar pages are starting to fill with Charlottesville plans. My January calendar is already half full of Paris plans. Time to get on that plane.

Vendanges!

Linguists know you can learn a lot about a culture by seeing what concepts rate a specific word in one language but not in another. One such French word is “vendanges”, or “harvesting the grapes used to make wine”. “Vendanges” is the harvest itself and also the grape which is harvested. It is usually used in the plural. There are also two verb forms – “faire les vendanges” ,used more often by the workers who do the labor, and “vendanger”, used by the owner of the vineyard.
During the French Revolution, when the Gregorian Calendar was replaced by the Republican Calendar for fourteen years, the first month (running from approximately Sept 22nd to Oct 21st) was called Vendémiaire,
“Les vendanges” is an intense period varying, according to the region and the warmth of late summer, from the end of August to the middle of October. Each region harvests in about two weeks, so lots of extra workers are needed. It is a popular end-of-summer job for students – backbreaking work during the day and fun in the evening. In recent years, the unemployment offices have posted “vendanges” jobs for people waiting for those job interviews to materialize.
Years ago, I participated in a private “vendanges” The small vineyard had been a hobby of Marc’s dad while he and his wife raised their 6 children who were handy “vendangeurs” each year. But by 1982 the children were grown up and scattered around France. They gathered for one last "vendanges" and I was invited. It rained the whole weekend but I still remember the fun we had.






Nowadays, my “vendang”-ing”is limited to Montmartre.
In 1930, as a protest against the proposed construction of an apartment building, the citizens of Montmartre (yes, of course, it’s been part of Paris since 1860 but has never fully accepted that) decided to plant a new vineyard on the site.


This, officially, was in honor of past vineyards in the area from the Middle Ages until that fatal 19th century year of 1860. Today the vineyard is lovingly tended by the gardeners of the Parks and Gardens of Paris and produces about 500 bottles of, apparently, appallingly bad wine that is sold at auction for charity.


And, after the "vendanges", a 5 day Festival delights Parisians and tourists alike.
This year's Festival was held from October 7th to 11th. There was much singing, dancing; eating, drinking, art, conversation, story telling,




and, on Saturday afternoon, the Big Parade -- followed that evening by fireworks. It almost rained but it didn’t and much fun was had by all.








Wish you could have been there, too. Maybe next year.