We’ve never really gotten into the whole Christmas shopping thing – the whole rush-out-to-the-store and spend-gobs-of-money the day after Thanksgiving zeitgeist. First, because there’s never really been that kind of money in any of our families, and secondly because doing it all in a rush during December always seemed a bit pointless. I spent so much time overseas, when it came to Christmas presents for the family back in the states, it meant getting everything mailed by October, so presents had to be decided upon, shopped for, wrapped, packed and mailed late in the fall. That mental timetable has never died, so my Christmas present habits generally fell into a routine of picking up suitable gifts during the year, whenever I spotted them and stashing them away against the mailing deadline.

My daughter thinks that the whole Black Friday doorbusters thing, which had shoppers lining up at ungodly hours at various retailers and mobbing the place when the doors opened at whenever – has pretty much died. The few years that retail outlets even made a thing of opening with much ballyhooed bargains on Thanksgiving night was even less popular – and fortunately that has died the death as well. As commenters kept pointing out – it not only ruined family Thanksgiving gatherings for shoppers, but those of the poor employees as well. And as also kept being pointed out – the so-called bargains weren’t really bargains. They were marked up … so they could be marked down with great fanfare.

This year we did pop out to three different retail outlets, though – but not strictly speaking, for Christmas shopping. The first stop was the Ikea outlet, which opened a couple of years ago, just a hop-skip-jump away; and that was because it was cold outside, and we’d get our exercise walking through the maze. We wanted to see if there was anything new in the sample room arrangements, which are always sweet to look at (they change them out, regularly so there is always something new) and if Ikea had anything special in the way of Christmas things. But the parking lot was practically empty, there were some shoppers in the store itself, but not as many as we seen on other visits. Ikea items used to be more of a bargain – not so much, now. The packets of meatballs are more expensive, and the frozen salmon fillets are pricier than they used to be.

We did have to get milk at the grocery store – but we were passing the Goodwill store on the way there, and my daughter wanted to stop in, saying that this particular Goodwill outlet often has surprisingly high-quality goods. I’m OK with that – as I’m trying to replace many of the movies I had on VHS with DVD versions, and buying them used at Goodwill, yard sales and through the ‘used’ option on Amazon is the most economical way to go. (It’s a mystery to me, though – how some movies on DVD are available for a dollar or two, and others – of the same popularity, year of release, and everything else – are practically unobtainable.) I found half a dozen movies on my list and a TV series which I thought about before putting it back – and then adding it to my stack. Someone donated a lot of TV series collections, apparently. One of them was Little House on the Prairie – several seasons worth. I liked the books better than the TV series, so gave those sets a miss. But the one that I took had splendid opening and a rocking soundtrack, so what the heck.

The cashier who checked me out was about eighteen, I think, He asked, “All movies?”

I said, “One TV series – this one.”

“Looks cool … what’s it about?”

“WWII aviation in the South Pacific – the adventures of a Marine squadron known as the Black Sheep.”

“Never heard of it.”

“No, likely you wouldn’t have – but your Mom or your grandmother probably did.”

And that was our post-Thanksgiving in-person Christmas shopping; everything else was done online.

We went to see the Christmas tree lighting in old downtown Bulverde, where the highlight of the evening was Jamie falling out of his Radio Flyer red wagon, landing on his head and opening up the cut on the back of his head that he got the week before on the playground at preschool. He also managed to ninja out of the first bouncy house without either of us seeing him do it. Good thing he was dressed in his Christmas elf costume, and someone else spotted him at the next bouncy house in the circuit just as we realized he wasn’t in the first one. The kid moves fast as greased lighting.

So – on to Christmas. I plan to have the romance “Return to Alder Grove” available on Kindle by Christmas Eve, as a present for you all!

I swear, I don’t know where the time goes. Here we are, closing in on Thanksgiving, and the Christmas decorations are already out everywhere – and next weekend it will be the Christmas Tree lighting in Bulverde. Since my daughter has decided that Bulverde is the place that she eventually wants to be in (mostly for the school district) we do take an interest in civic festivities going on there. Hope it is cold enough for the snow-making machinery this year. We plan to dress Wee Jamie in his elf costume again.

Anyway, Jamie’s preschool is out for the entire week. The staff held a pie social for kids in each class and their parents on Friday afternoon; we all went out to the landscaped playground and had pie, before taking the kids home for a week of shopping, feasting and general frivolity.

Saturday – we went around to a selection of our usual grocery stores for what we desperately hope will be the last time we need to run out to the grocery store before Thanksgiving. Every year we say this, and every year we wind up running out for something at the last minute …

Anyway, the turkey is already set. HEB had a coupon last week: buy one of their spiral sliced hams and get a frozen turkey of under 12 pounds for free! Yeah, can’t beat that deal with a stick. $24 for the ham – which got parted out, vacuum-sealed for the freezer for future meals and the bone consigned to a batch of ham and bean soup – and the turkey is thawing now in the refrigerator. We’ll mix up the brine tomorrow, and brine it for another three days.

Cosco first thing Saturday wasn’t too horrific – we escaped with a gargantuan tin of Walker’s Shortbread (the real stuff, imported from Scotland.) I think eventually the tin will contain either sewing stuff, or maybe odds and ends of hardware, screws and plate hangers in the garage. Nice cookie tins have an afterlife of centuries. There is an ornate tea tin knocking around our family which is going on a second hundred years, as it managed to survive the 2003 fire … and if it is still at my sisters’ house, the Eaton Canyon fire earlier this year.

My daughter also bought a bottle of Worcestershire Sauce at HEB which had a translated label which amused us no end. Apparently, it translates as “Salsa Inglesa”

As for Thanksgiving supper itself – all the customary dishes that we do like – the oven-roasted brussels sprouts with onion and kielbasa sausage, baked sweet potato streusel, mashed potatoes, stuffing and gravy, with pumpkin pie for dessert – this time made with the little pumpkin that Jamie painted at nursery school for their Halloween bash. The parents were asked to contribute small pumpkins – so, when it was brought home, I washed it off, cut it in half, cleaned out the seeds and baked it until it was soft and mushy. Then vacuum-sealed and frozen.

The only bafflement, grocery-wise this week was the total inability to find frozen artichoke hearts anywhere at all. It’s kind of an esoteric item, but HEB usually has them, and Trader Joe’s almost always … but still, nowhere to be found anywhere lately. I wonder if there was a bad harvest year for the artichoke crop that usually gets frozen for sale.

So that’s how it stands this weekend – a rainy one, as it turns out. I am working away on the Return to Flannel Romance, which I plan to release as a reader’s Christmas present – on Christmas Eve, I think. My daughter says she will laugh and laugh and laugh, if it turns out to be the most popular of all my books…

I wrote a couple of months ago about the odd and (usually rightfully) obscure movies that we got in the AFRTS shipments of programming back in the day that I was a lowly airman, working the night shift in the TV control room at FEN-Misawa. Indeed, we received many an odd selection of movies in the weekly package of TV programming.

In the first year or so of my service, the weekly TV program package came on half-hour long film reels, and then on Umatic ¾ videotape cassettes, which were a lot less messy to deal with – but still had their own challenges, mostly because the cassettes were held together with about thirty teeny metal screws, which had the dismaying tendency to come loose in transit – and then drop into the innards of the playback machine, necessitating much swearing by our engineering staff and possibly damage to the delicate machinery itself. As our experience developed with that format, a small Phillips-head screwdriver was routinely chained to the rack where the daily programs were pulled from their metal traveling cases and lined up the night before by the on-duty operator. Yes, part of that duty was to tighten ALL the screws holding each and every tape case together, the rollers, and the little metal flange that was supposed to protect the tape itself. In some cases, we went to the extent of opening and carefully rethreading the tape through the various rollers and take-up reels. Yes, we probably weren’t supposed to be doing this, but … whatever. The program had to air, especially if it were a very popular one. We all got very good at administering first aid to ailing Umatic cassette tapes.

Anyway – the movies. Many of the movies in the package were … grade C. The bottom of a double feature in a dollar theater in the bad part of town. Or so old and/or low rent that they were aired late at night back at home, interspersed with commercials for shady used car lots. It was a bafflement for years – why did AFRTS generally seemed to get the absolute dregs when it came to movies? We kind of got it that the military post-Vietnam was about as popular as a case of herpes with the Hollywood set, and perhaps that was the reason. We shrugged and moved on.

In the fullness of time, I finished the tour in Japan, whiled away a pleasant year in the Public Affairs office at (now closed) Mather AFB. After that, I did a tour at Sondrestrom AB, Greenland, of which it was often said, “Not the end of the world – but you can see it from there!” Sondrestrom was thirty miles north of the Arctic Circle and saved from complete and total isolation by also being the main international airport for all of Greenland.

During WWII the US Army Air Corps, after careful consideration, sited a transit airfield on that exact spot, because of usually favorable local weather conditions, as opposed to the generally unwelcoming weather conditions practically everywhere else on that continent. For an isolated military base, Sondrestrom AB hosted a constant trickle of international travelers on the Danish side of the base where the international airport terminal and hotel complex was situated –  separated from the American military side by nothing more than a narrow road around the top end of the landing strip.

(The runway had been built half on hard ground and half on fill blasted out from the hills and dumped into the end of a 40-mile-long fjord. It bent downhill in the middle. Only very experienced pilots of large aircraft were permitted to land and take off from Sondrestrom, situated as it was at the end of a 40-long, straight-as-a-die fjord with tall mountains lining either side.)

Anyway, there had long been an Air Force broadcasting squadron detachment at Sondrestrom. For exactly how long, I didn’t know; the very oldest discs in the library of AFRTS-Radio releases in the record library there (specifically in limited issue to AFRTS-Radio outlets only, beginning with #1 sometime in the early 40’s) were on enormous 16-inch records, and numbered in the 600s.

There was also – because this was an Air Force establishment, a range of recreational venues, all catering to the Air Force personnel, the Danish and American contract employees, Danish staff of the Royal Greenlandic Trading Co., and the airport. This included NCO and officer clubs, a small indoor swimming pool (said to be the only such in Greenland) and the BX movie theater, which usually showed first-run movies about six months after said movies opened Stateside. The co-location of the BX theater, and the international airport and hotel in such a remote site had a strange and incidental bearing on the lack of good movies in the AFRTS weekly packages, for a reason that I didn’t hear about until a decade later.

I did a year-long tour in Greenland and departed for a follow-on to Greece – my choice as a reward for a year in a place that couldn’t possibly be any more remote unless it was the Antarctic. Eventually I finished out my overseas assignments in Korea, at AIG-Yongsan, in the heart of downtown Seoul. In a conversation with an older NCO, who had knocked around military broadcasting for some years longer than I had and had a wider repertoire of stories about that specialty and some of the very odd characters in it. When I mentioned that I had done a tour in Greenland, he told me how our broadcast detachment there was the direct cause of movies in AFRTS-TV weekly packages being routinely so third- or fourth-rate for decades.

I honestly do not know if the story he told me was true or not. I am certain that it was technologically and in practice possible. Being in such isolated location, with only the semi-weekly transport aircraft from the States, and international flights taking a northerly route as a lifeline to the larger world – military personnel stationed there get very, very bored. It’s always dangerous when intelligent people in an isolated situation get bored. Because they do creative things to alleviate that boredom, especially when there is no one around to advise against the most … er, creative diversions.

What is supposed to have happened is that whoever was in charge of the BX movie theater got together with someone at the broadcast station.

(It may have been the same person, actually. It was a small base, and a lot of personnel doubled up on extra jobs. The year I was at Sondrestrom, the NCOIC of the Security Police unit was also the senior enlisted advisor, and manager of the BX theater.)

That person, or persons enabled the almost-new movie releases intended to be shown at the base theater to be taken to the station – and broadcast. This spectacularly violated a pair of iron-clad rules, the first being that only TV and radio programs provided by the AFRTS programming center can be aired by stations worldwide. The other larger rule violated – and the one with major outside-the-military implications – was that the movies to be shown in the base theater had not been released for broadcast in any form. That those movies were being illegally broadcast at a dinky military TV station with a total reach of maybe five miles in any direction, thirty miles north of the Arctic Circle made no difference. It violated the rights of the various movie copyright holders – yet it might have passed unnoticed.

But it didn’t. Apparently, according to my acquaintance, a fairly prominent studio executive happened to be passing through the international airport. Stuck in the airport hotel for a night or two, he turned on the TV in his room … and saw one of his studio’s new releases being broadcast. Illegally. When that executive got back to the States, the word went out from him, and just about every other movie production house that AFRTS was henceforward on the bad books; from then on, only used-up movie dregs were released to the AFRTS TV programming center.

I really don’t know if this occurred as my informant told me, as it was a story passed along like a game of telephone. But I – and anyone who ever tuned into AFRTS during the last quarter of last century can truthfully testify that, yeah – the movies broadcast on military TV stations were a very odd and generally low-rent collection.

At some point late in the 1990s or early 2000s I was feeling economically flush. I decided that I would upgrade my kitchen pots and pans from the basic inexpensive lightweight stainless steel and copper-bottomed Revereware that I bought from the BX early on, and had carted from hither and yon ever since. I was working as an executive secretary for a small consulting firm which had some very good months which rewarded the handful of employees with some nice bonuses. The office I worked in was across the road from a very nice mall with a Williams – Sonoma outlet in it. This place enticed me, what with the nose-bleedingly upscale offerings in it, most of which I could never in a million years afford and was just too grounded to seriously consider anyway. But the opportunities to research quality kitchen items were available to me, through that store, and again on-line. After carefully reviewing that which was available at the Williams – Sonoma store and looking online – I decided on Chantal enamel-on-steel and in the cobalt blue colorway. Enamel because it was non-reactive to acidic things like tomato sauce, or sauces with wine or vinegar in it, and blue – because. Chantal then offered a full range of pots, pans, casseroles and bakeware in six or seven shades.  Blue, green, red, white, maybe orange? Besides plain steel and maybe copper … alas, they stopped offering the colors before too many more years passed. I guess there wasn’t all that much demand.

I think they had a warehouse in Houston, which was handy for my purposes. I bought a small frying pan, and a soup kettle, first, and was very pleased to see that the same lid fitted both. So the larger part of one of those bonus checks went to buying one of their larger sets, and I was so extatically happy with them that I picked up a few more individual pieces on sale: a saucier, a wok, and a stock-pot. The cooking pots and pans all turned out to be as advertised; readily-cleaned, heated evenly, the lids were borosilicate glass, and had a loop that fitted over the pot handle so that they could be hung together from my handing rack. I have only ever been able to break one lid, in all the time since, through dropping onto a concrete floor and landing straight on the loop.

I believe that for some period around that time, the Chantal enamel pots were also the set dressing of choice for the movies and TV, possibly for the distinctive colors and style: If you look closely at the scenes set in the Home Improvement kitchen, there are a couple of blue Chantal pots, and a tea kettle. In the kitchen set for the Home Alone movies, there are some red Chantal pots and pans on the kitchen island, or the stove.

Alas, it seems that just as I decided on a make of something for the household – pots, dishware, whatever, assuming that I will always be able to replace or augment my selection … they stop making it. It happened with the sturdy blue and white restaurant-style china plates, mugs, bowls and individual casserole dishes that I got from an outlet shop in San Marcos. Yep, as soon as I needed to restock due to breakage, that store vanished between one visit and the next. So it was with my Chantal blue – gone with the manufacturing wind. My daughter has managed to pick up a couple more useful pieces for me through randomly finding them at thrift stores, and I scan through eBay now and again, like for a replacement lid. The pieces are a bit more expensive on eBay – but I guess the brand was popular enough that at least they are available, and for a good bit less less than they were when new. They do last very well, although one of my favorite pieces got badly chipped along one side by the rotating arm of the dishwasher. That particular pot hasn’t shown up yet; I can only imagine that it was everyone elses’ favorite as well.

So, I am writing this on a challenge from some co-bloggers – a Hallmark/Lifetime Movie holiday romance novel, which is turning out to be rather fun, and which I may finish by Christmas, which will be very suitable

Chapter 3 – Autumn in Alder Grove

 

As I drove west the next morning, I tried to remember the last time I had been in Alder Grove for anything longer than a flying visit to check on Granny May’s house. I came up dry. She died about the time that I started my senior year in high school, before Sheridan retired, so it must have been that Christmas before. Sheridan and Mom and I had driven from Houston and stayed a week. And after that, Sheridan and Mom moved back to Georgia, where Sheridan had been from originally. Maybe I knew then that it would be the last time in Granny May’s little white cottage with the wide front porch, the padded swing hanging from the porch ceiling. I loved sitting in that swing, rocking gently, and pretending that I was in a boat on the waves … Look, I should explain about all of that, and Alder Grove, and why I so loved Granny May’s house so deeply that I have regularly visited in dreams.

Granny May was my paternal grandmother. We – that is, Mom, my father and I lived then in San Marcos, the college town midway between Austin and San Antonio. Well, when I was three years old, Mom and Daddy were coming home very early one dark Sunday morning from honky-toking with friends on Austin’s Pecan Street, and their car was smashed into by an 18-wheeler on the highway. (The 18-wheeler’s brakes failed, or so investigators deduced afterwards.) Daddy was killed immediately, and Mom was in the hospital for months – years, even. She spent so much time being operated on to repair the damage done to her in the accident and then in physical therapy between operations that the only men she had a chance to meet were doctors. That’s how Mom met Sheridan, originally – he was one of her consulting surgeons. All during this time while Mom was in and out of hospitals, I lived full-time with Granny May until I was seven years old. Her dear little house was my home, the one that I recalled all these years later.

Granny May left it to me in her will, along with all the furniture in it – all of that and her personal stuff had been stored for years in the next-door neighbor’s shed. The little house had been out to rent to one local family or another. Mom and Sheridan had seen that it was handled by an agency in San Marcos, I supposed. In the years since Granny May passed, I had driven through Alder Grove a couple of times, making certain in passing that the house hadn’t burned down, or been struck by a tornado. To be strictly honest, I hadn’t wanted to stop and knock on the door of her house – which was so vivid in my dreams as it used to be when she was alive – since I would then see it all changed and being lived in by someone else.

Well, now I was coming back to Alder Grove. And it was in my mind that I might stay for a while.

It was a three-day drive in Blue Thing, across Virginia, down through Tennessee. I crossed the Mississippi at Memphis, and reaching the West, and began to feel that I was almost home. Still, it took another day to get across Arkansas, and dropping south to Dallas-Fort Worth. Nothing to do but drive, hopscotching across America, with no other purpose to my day than moving on. I spent the last night in a little hotel outside Waco and headed out early the following morning. South on 130, passed by Lockhart, with the domed county courthouse looming above the trees, and on through the rolling landscape, dotted with stands of oak. I wanted to bypass Austin, where the traffic is notoriously choked to a standstill in any direction. Now and again, passing an old farmhouse like Granny Mays’, or more often a gaggle of single and double wide trailers with sagging roofs, attended by a ring of junky cars and old farm equipment. It was autumn now – still to hot in the afternoon to endure a road trip with the windows down – but when I started out that morning it was cool enough, so I did roll the windows down.

I slowed Blue Thing down to a sedate crawl of thirty miles an hour, upon reaching the turnoff towards San Marcos. Almost home – or really, the closest to the home of my heart. Alder Grove is a small place – a hamlet, really, where half a dozen narrow country roads meet in a scattering of huge old oak trees. Granny May told me once that there were really no alder trees there – but the first family to take up a homestead in the area were named Alder, and it should really have been called Alder’s Grove. At any rate, Alder Grove boasts a post office and tiny general store at the main crossroads, a Sons of Herman lodge, two churches serving the religious needs of the community (Methodist and Lutheran), an auto body shop, a little café, and about forty houses scattered along the main two roads, most of them at the ends of unpaved dirt driveways. There was also an old Humble Oil gas station across from the post-office and general store. The square little brick building with a peaked roof and an overhang where the pumps used to be still stood there when I was a child, but the big glass front windows were boarded up, the gas pumps long gone. I used to ride my tricycle to it, the quarter mile from Granny May’s house, pretend to buy gas, stop in at the post office-general store to buy some penny candy and a postcard to send to Mom in the hospital, and ride back again. The post office and general store was owned by a family named Gamble. It was practically a historic monument, that little general store. Granny May had been school friends with the Gamble daughters, and it was their last remaining family member who owned the house next door, and who had stored all of her household things against the day when one of us Robertsons returned.

I slowed down even more when I came to the first house at the edge of town, right where the signpost for Alder Grove advised slowing to 25 mph. There were no sidewalks – it wasn’t that developed a town. Past another house and a side road with a set of mailboxes mounted on a length of pipe. The intersection with the general store stood – a stack of sacks of garden compost sat outside, and two bright flowerpots planted with yellow chrysanthemums.  There was a woman about my age watering them with a garden hose in her hand. I waved as I went past – it’s what one does, in Alder Grove. In the review mirror, I saw that she was looking curiously after the car. I still had DC license plates on it.

I was cheered to note that. I was also cheered – as well as intrigued to see that someone was making use of the old Humble station, across the road. Wow – the windows were no longer boarded up and the glass underneath polished clean. It looked as if some kind of workshop or office had been set up inside. There were some curious welded metal abstract sculptures standing where the gas pumps would have been, while underneath the awning, a muscular guy in a welder’s safety helmet and heavy gloves on his hands was doing something to some more metal – something that involved a lot of electric blue sparks and a faint hissing sound. Six, seven, eight driveways – and there was Granny May’s house. I felt tears starting to my eyes. Her house looked … empty and depressed. The grass was burnt around the edges, and the white paint looked faded, chipped and sad. No curtains in the windows, no plants on the porch, as Granny May always had. I parked Blue Thing around to the side, where the old garage stood. The garage was as old as the house , barely large enough for a single small car the size of a Ford Model A and sagged slightly to one side like a large van going around a tight corner.

I was home, in Alder Grove.