Stepping out...

all weekend long.

But the archives are always here.

For Keeps

On Thanksgiving, you know where to find us. 10 am, Katonah Park, until the noon whistle blows; Contesting this trophy.



No name of any member, past or current, was forgotten on this 50th anniversary. More than 70 strong. This t-shirt moved me. Every name that means anything to me is there. The columns are filled with what we know of life, love, and tradition. Without them it isn't Thanksgiving, or even home.



This touch football game started small. A few friends walked up to the park to throw the ball around on Thanksgiving morning. Fifty years later some remain, one has passed away, but their children and grandchildren have arrived to fill the ranks. Their names are with the game for time immemorial.

This last group at the bottom is the founder's circle: Pat Coughlin was my Dad. He lived a remarkable life as a contributor in many ways, it still surprises me that of all the places where his name endures, this Turkey Bowl trophy is the only place that truly makes a difference to us.



Each year, we welcome new additions. In these past two years, these gorgeous creatures have joined us, my incredible Sister-in-Law, Amy, and my Daughter. They became part of this clan within six weeks of one another.



We could hug all day and try to catch up, but we are all on the field for a reason. Although, some will argue we are there as much to catch up as for the game. At 10 am, there is a nod and call to the field and it's time.





When the fire whistle sounds, they shake hands and to passer's-by, maybe it looks like a rag tag generational pile-on wiping the Westchester mud from their brow. To us, this is three generations giving their own version of thanks. Do you see that little boy? We'll watch him grow, before we even know what happened he'll be there with a girl, then a baby. We'll talk about how fast it went, and be relieved that our Dad's will live on in him.



Love. We know a lot about it. I think you can sense that.



Committed and sure as the mail.



Van, our lifetime organizer, and preeminent original, was much younger than the others that first year and went on to be a real quarterback. But he is ours first and last. He continues to lead: Van commisioned my Dad's trophy and for the third year, bestowed the trophy on my Brother, Chris.



This is still hard.



That's all I can say about that.



We take a shot like this every year, at fifty years though, the picture takes on new meaning. I have to wonder if the founders ever considered that fifty years later they would still be there, with all of us. They were young, how could they know something in them was so powerful that it leads all these generations back and endures. There is no prodding; No reminders, no guilt, no one is put out. We know we are lucky to have been their children.



This shot would be on my Dad's wall: Two brothers of the original era, one long lost to Chicago, kneeling together on this field fifty years later. My eyes don't see any age on them at all, I think I get that from my Dad. I will take a lasting respect for the sportmanship and dedication of the Muller family to my grave, as my Dad did.



When you take the measure of who we are or what we have accomplished as a family, what we value most is in this one picture, above all else.



We are family. Thankful does not even begin to cover it.

Happy Thanksgiving.

The Simply Pretty Prints Giveaway

Please welcome Simply Pretty Prints to the Blushing giveaway sponsor group. This talented Etsy design house creates custom handpainted entertaining items and stationery.


Fun and singular items fill Simply Pretty Prints Etsy shop, each hand-painted or printed.

This week's giveaway is this beautiful set of hand-painted appetizer plates.


Check out this pretty shop and be sure to drop by talented proprietor Sarah's gorgeous blog, simply.fun.stuff for updates on her work and other great Etsy designers. You can also follow Sarah's Twitter feed at simplyfunstuff - a great way to keep track of Sarah's new introductions.

To enter, drop in and visit Simply Pretty Print's shop, then just leave us a comment below.

Entries will close at midnight Dec. 2, 2009. Good luck!

Simply Pretty Prints Giveaway

It is that time of the week again. Another fabulous sponsor, Simply Pretty Prints, is pleased to offer this set of hand-painted appetizer plates for your gorgeous tabletop this season or the perfect gift for a friend.

Leave a comment to enter and tell us what else you loved at Simply Pretty.

I laughed. Then I cried.

I regularly discover things at inappropriate times, with regard to everything and everyone. I cannot possibly ask a battery of questions of each new person I meet, nor can I be expected to climb through a fireplace vent and discover what lies within. Or who, for that matter.

The gas fireplace and blower were blasted into life yesterday which damned to hell a legion of stink bugs making quarters in the vent, I can only surmise. I don't know if you have ever incinerated 1000 stick bugs in your gracious living room just before Sunday dinner but I tell you, at least you can stop ogling Grannies new novelty turkey sweater for a few and snap shots of some truly surprised guests.

Yes, I am sure am sorry you missed it too. It was better, and more unexpected than blowing up a fried turkey. Everyone does that now, no big thing, right? But this was spectacular folly.

This is exactly the reason there is a Thanksgiving run-through around here, to work all the bugs out, which has new meaning now.

Alright, so, whatever. It happens. In Bedford where I was raised, the hostess would not let on anything was wrong while her white knuckles wrapped around her glass stem belying her fury at Luis who obviously failed to double check every last thing everywhere. Did they have a sense of humor, or irony? This is Blushing's living room, after all. I laughed for a good five minutes, tears streaming down my cheeks.

Get the champagne, I said when I finally recovered. Fast. Then: No, no, it's for me.

Seriously, I laugh every time I think of it.

Never let them see you sweat, but be sure they know you can laugh.

Time tells

... what significance the photo of a seemingly innocuous moment might one day have. Both sides of this child's family are riders. At the moment a child reaches to touch a horse for the first time, maybe each generation wondered to themselves if they should show their new baby a tennis racket instead.

But the benevolence in those eyes reaches for us as a people.

I learned yesterday that for parents who know what it will mean, this is the moment - when that hand reaches out - that you decide whether you are all in or not for your child's equine pursuits. When that tiny hand made contact, I bit my lip and felt my shoulders tense.

I can't pick her road for her, or spare her any part of mine. Horse sports are a good ride, but not without hurt and disappointment. What is? This is going to hurt like hell, I thought. I don't truly know what that means, it is just something behind my waking thoughts when it comes to riding: Pain is the heart of the sport. If it doesn't hurt, it doesn't work, trainers always say.

Without nostalgia it seemed like every ride of my own passed before me once. Every conversation with my Dad. Can old saddle sores and rein blisters throb anew? I swear mine did.

But knowing what I do - that she might suffer, that I'd relive it all with first-hand fears - for her and myself, my mind was clear: Okay. Do what you're going to do.

We're not here to stop our children, only to steward, past danger and our ourselves, I figure.

Pleased to meet you. My dog killed your chicken.

And that is how I met my neighbors in the hulking chateau on the hill.

Yah. So that was fun.

When you think of chickens - those white things flopping around in crates about to be table scraps, this chicken was not that sort. This is Middleburg: The chicken was a large, tonally-greyed, luxurious, queen of an egg-layer.

The kind of chicken whose arrival as a chick at Martha Stewart's Cantitoe would have been covered by three TV crews and about whose development we would have read eighty blog entries. At state fairs, this is the bird a lot of guys in CAT hats gather around and say things like, "Now, that's some hen. Wish I had one like that! She's a beaut, Fred, I tell you..."



Yah.

Her attacker, my dog, is black, perfectly fluffy, snuggly, and conversely, very brave and ferocious and is on staff here strictly because he is the last word in security around the place. He does a fine job in that regard: When you see him defending his family, you will think twice about dealing with him. He is not going anywhere except to a taxidermist when his long, long days are done, so don't get any ideas about how to "handle" the problem.

Anyhow, then I met the neighbor's best friend at the market. I introduced myself and she grabbed my arm and said, "Oh, yes! Chicken killer!" Fabulous!, "I can tell you how to fix this, it involves a shock collar..."

This is a problem for which everyone in a rural community has a different solution, like the common cold. None of them are particularly humane for the dog; as if the chicken had it all that great. I am still working that out.

Hunting is in some dogs instinctively. Like any good fox hunter will tell you, a dog is either a pet or a hunter, never both. One lives in the kennels, the other in the house. One is honed, the other has to be trained out of his instinctual habits.

Now, you might be thinking that here in fox country, the dog is not the chicken's only predator and possibly the chicken needs a different pen, which may be true. But you see, this dog of mine, his abilities are remarkable. Why, just today, he caught this Corgi.



Oh, alright. He catches her several times a day.

(That patch above his eye is from misjudging a fence post at top speed on his way to chase a cat. He's having a tough week.)