A Traditional Italian Thanksgiving

On Thanksgiving, Tom and I drove to Sacramento with his mother, Ann, and her husband, Mac, arriving in due time (the traffic was horrible) at the home of Steve and Julie, Tom’s brother and his wife. Besides the aforementioned, Paul and Eva were there, and Scott and his son Spencer, who is six.

The last time I saw Spencer, he put his face approximately three inches from mine and pointed out the birthmarks on my forehead and eyelid by pressing his fingertip firmly on each one: “You have a red mark there, and there.”

Steve and Julie have converted their garage into what they call “the Tuscan carriage house.” The long dining table was set up there. Outside the Tuscan carriage house is a not-yet-addressed patch of bumpy yard they call “habitat.”

Ann reported to Steve that when Spencer, in the house, was told the other guests were “out there,” he peered out the window at the magnificent remodeling project that took much time and no doubt much money and asked, “You mean in the shed?” “Easy, tiger,” Steve murmured, though Spencer wasn’t present to register this admonishment.

After Julie’s wonderful dinner, several of us took a walk. Steve and Spencer played Frisbee. When the Frisbee sailed under a parked car, Steve called to Spencer, “That’s you, buddy.” And then, encouragingly, as he strolled on, “Keep ‘em coming.”

It was a very pleasant day indeed.

When I got home, I chatted with my mother on the phone for two hours and 45 minutes. We discussed computers, a perennial topic. My father has recently gotten a new Mac. My mother has been nagging me for some years to buy a new computer, but it was so traumatic the last time I did it, I’m planning to hold off until this one dies completely and I have to pay someone a thousand dollars to get my data off it. I can still remember the feeling of wanting to drop a brand-new computer out the window and see it smash into a thousand pieces on the sidewalk.

I told my mother that I could probably save a hundred dollars a month toward a new computer, and thus should be ready to make a purchase in two years or so, as my policy now is to buy such items only with funds left over in the miscellaneous category.

To prove I could buy a computer right this minute if I really felt like it, she asked how much money is allocated for miscellaneous expenses each month and what other financial categories I have, and I read them off: rent, food, utilities, hair-related. I embarked on a description of my current hairdo, but was interrupted: “Stop, I don’t want to hear this.” She said, “Stop cutting your hair and you could probably buy a computer in no time.” She added, “Definitely stop cutting it like that.”

My hair lately had come to look like a horrid little scraggly dog clinging to the top of my head. (I used to know a fellow with bushy hair who, after he cut it off, said he had begun to feel like the life-support system for a juniper bush.) Fortunately, Stefano at Vertical Clearance had an opening the day before Thanksgiving at 5 p.m. I told him, “There’s something horrible on my head. Please get it off.”

That night, when Hammett was licking my face in the middle of the night, he bit my earlobe slightly. I was startled and slightly dismayed, but realized he’d meant no harm. He’d never seen my earlobes before, buried as they were under all the hair, and he probably thought it was some type of escargot.

On Friday I went to see Shut Up & Sing, Barbara Kopple’s documentary about the Dixie Chicks, which was excellent. They are the band that got in so much trouble after their lead singer, Natalie Maines, said during a show in London that she was ashamed that President Bush is from Texas, her home state.

After the offending words were uttered, she began by apologizing and affirming her patriotism, but it was too late: their career was seriously affected. But instead of working harder to get back in the good graces of country music fans, they realized they had an opportunity to make whatever kind of music they felt like making, since country music radio stations weren’t playing their records, anyway, and they embarked on a liberating artistic journey. This film is wonderful, the Dixie Chicks are delightful, and like the concertgoer shown holding a homemade sign, I think Natalie Maines should be President.

On Saturday I went to see Borat (eh; one could have waited for the DVD) and The Science of Sleep, which I liked a lot. It was funny and haunting; the music was lovely; and the very expressive Gael Garcia Bernal was splendid, as always.

Sunday early afternoon I was going to go grocery shopping, but it was pouring rain, so I had a nice long chat with my friend Amy on the phone instead.