I began transcribing this section from my notebook today and it took an unexpected turn. I present what I have below with some added comments to show the process unfolding.
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Let's not start at the very beginning. Let's start smack dab in the middle with the girl who was the turning point. Her name was Debbie. She was big as in tall, big-boned, big breasted, big voiced, big eyed and big in personality. She spoke her mind and carried herself with a self-assured authority which belied her level of education. I took to her right away. Though the nature of our jobs kept us from working in close proximity, our paths crossed a time or two during the work day.
She was kind to me. On my first Thanksgiving separated from my husband, she invited me and the kids to her house for the holiday along with a few of her other friends. ++ What follows is the turn. It was not in my notebook but apparently is a segue which needs to be followed++ We sat around her spacious living room talking and taking in the smells from the kitchen. When it was all ready we sat down together around a beautifully decorated table. At the end of the night, her husband let my kids take home wireless Xbox controllers. It was more Thanksgiving-ish than I'd experienced since my dad had died many years before. ++I don't like this last sentence, but it's what I got for now.++
It had become a tradition once we had kids, my mom and dad flying to Texas to spend Thanksgiving with us. My Mom and I would set the table the night before, something I would have never done on my own, and got up early to start preparing the bird for the oven. I'd heard about soaking the turkey in a brine but my mom said that she'd never heard of such nonsense. I diced carrots and sliced onions and listened to her stories like how one year she'd used a disposable aluminum pan and it made the gravy taste like metal - disgusting! She would complain about something she'd made this year or last, how tasteless it was and if only she could cook. What once annoyed me, I now think of fondly.
The last holiday season before my dad died, my parents came for Christmas instead of Thanksgiving. My daughter had just turned four and my son was toddling around in his one piece pajamas with the footies. The following year or maybe two, my mom came alone for Thanksgiving and the third year she brought her boyfriend. He sat on the couch mostly, watching television or reading the newspaper. I didn't imagine it could be much fun for him. Though we had been to Florida and stayed in his house, we were strangers. We weren't his family, his kids, or his grand kids. Though he didn't intend to be a wedge or to cause a disruption in our ease as a family, he did. The next year they didn't return nor any year since.
+++ That's all the time I have for new content tonight but wanted to share on process before signing out. This morning I was worried that I didn't have enough story to tell and now this segue opens up a larger story, maybe a parallel story that intermingles and entwines with what I came to the page to write. I didn't want to write about this. It's painful yet it is the surprise, such is this, that keeps me coming back to the table, to see what more will be revealed. Who am I to argue? +++
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Let's not start at the very beginning. Let's start smack dab in the middle with the girl who was the turning point. Her name was Debbie. She was big as in tall, big-boned, big breasted, big voiced, big eyed and big in personality. She spoke her mind and carried herself with a self-assured authority which belied her level of education. I took to her right away. Though the nature of our jobs kept us from working in close proximity, our paths crossed a time or two during the work day.
She was kind to me. On my first Thanksgiving separated from my husband, she invited me and the kids to her house for the holiday along with a few of her other friends. ++ What follows is the turn. It was not in my notebook but apparently is a segue which needs to be followed++ We sat around her spacious living room talking and taking in the smells from the kitchen. When it was all ready we sat down together around a beautifully decorated table. At the end of the night, her husband let my kids take home wireless Xbox controllers. It was more Thanksgiving-ish than I'd experienced since my dad had died many years before. ++I don't like this last sentence, but it's what I got for now.++
It had become a tradition once we had kids, my mom and dad flying to Texas to spend Thanksgiving with us. My Mom and I would set the table the night before, something I would have never done on my own, and got up early to start preparing the bird for the oven. I'd heard about soaking the turkey in a brine but my mom said that she'd never heard of such nonsense. I diced carrots and sliced onions and listened to her stories like how one year she'd used a disposable aluminum pan and it made the gravy taste like metal - disgusting! She would complain about something she'd made this year or last, how tasteless it was and if only she could cook. What once annoyed me, I now think of fondly.
The last holiday season before my dad died, my parents came for Christmas instead of Thanksgiving. My daughter had just turned four and my son was toddling around in his one piece pajamas with the footies. The following year or maybe two, my mom came alone for Thanksgiving and the third year she brought her boyfriend. He sat on the couch mostly, watching television or reading the newspaper. I didn't imagine it could be much fun for him. Though we had been to Florida and stayed in his house, we were strangers. We weren't his family, his kids, or his grand kids. Though he didn't intend to be a wedge or to cause a disruption in our ease as a family, he did. The next year they didn't return nor any year since.
+++ That's all the time I have for new content tonight but wanted to share on process before signing out. This morning I was worried that I didn't have enough story to tell and now this segue opens up a larger story, maybe a parallel story that intermingles and entwines with what I came to the page to write. I didn't want to write about this. It's painful yet it is the surprise, such is this, that keeps me coming back to the table, to see what more will be revealed. Who am I to argue? +++
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