As you know, we live in a town where freeways catch fire. At one local supermarket, I noticed that they patched a pothole with a bunch of duct tape, so I have zero doubts that Los Angeles is up to the task of repairing a simple blown-out freeway.
What they’ll do, I presume, is look for a guy like that John Wayne dude who quickly fixed the 10 freeway after the Northridge quake.
Either that, or they’ll go down to the Home Depot and hire a bunch of those guys hanging around looking for day jobs. Tell you what, those would be the hardest-working laborers you could ever find. And they’ll show up too – on holidays, or when it storms. Not sure you could say the same for Caltrans.
And onward we go, looking for hope and concrete.
Meanwhile, I hear malaria is making a comeback, and dog-sized lizards are reportedly threatening the South. Don’t panic. You never know how these things are going to turn out.
I mean, remember when we thought it would never rain again? Or that Britney Spears’ memoir would be a huge disappointment? I mean, has Britney even read a book? Now she has the No. 1 bestseller.
America, huh?
Sometimes our expectations can backflip us into humbleness. Sometimes not.
Let me just say, I’m happy for Miss Spears. No one is much good at handling fame, let alone a teenager from Louisiana, hip-thrust into the limelight at such a tender age and suddenly hanging out with Justin Timberlake. No kid should ever suffer that.
As you know, margarine is only one molecule away from being paint. Similarly, America is only one molecule away from being a complete mess. Always been that way, always will.
So why are so many people insistent on coming here? The Pilgrims for instance? And the Irish? And the Australians most of all?
As I like to point out, no one is really from America. The very first humans came over on a land bridge linking Asia and Alaska. We’re all relative newcomers. We’re all pledges. And the hazing! It’s never easy being the newcomer, we all know that.
Great books will see us through. Props to all those who have supported Miss Spears’ literary marvel. Similarly, thanks to those who have purchased Steve Searles’ terrific memoir, the one I have blah-blah-blah’ed about for several months now. It offers truth and insights too, though we somehow left out a chapter on Steve’s time with Justin Timberlake.
If I knew then what I know now, I’d have also included a chapter on Taylor Swift’s favorite ice cream. Also, some info about what Taylor likes in men (apparently everything).
Taylor Swift’s dating checklist:
–Is he breathing?
–Does he have a car?
–Can he grow a mustache?
Honestly, I admire Taylor Swift quite a lot, as I’ve said before. For many people, she is magic. And the world needs more magic.
We also need more books.
Unlike us, books breathe forever. To me, they are the most beautiful form of eternal life.
That’s why I’m so drawn to writing, as well as to bookstores and libraries. They are cathedrals to me, with the same resonance, the same connection to big ideas and to faith.
Faith is everything. The older I get, the more I believe that faith is everything.
Next week, we will gather to celebrate faith again. Not necessarily the Zarathustras or Martin Luthers of the world. Or anything written down really, not the Scriptures, though they often speak meaningfully to our hearts and minds.
What we actually celebrate at Thanksgiving is the resounding idea that, in America, everything will turn out OK. That it will deliver on our dreams. Maybe not as it once did. Or maybe, for some, better than it ever has before.
In the spirit of all that, the lovely patient older daughter is hosting a grand feast for friends and family. To ensure laughter (and abundant beer), she has even included some Aussies, who will play the part of grateful Pilgrims.
Like her late mother, my daughter is a very talented chef. She cooks in octaves of flavor, when I only know a few lousy notes.
But I have offered to bring along some Cornish game hens, splashed with Grand Marnier (Suzanne’s idea). I’ll smoke them over red oak in my backyard, another place of magic and faith.
My daughter is thinking about it. In fact, given her love for food, I suspect that is all she is thinking about right now.
Boom! I’m on it, kiddo.
From our home to yours, Happy Thanksgiving.
Please join me today at Flintridge Bookstore, 858 Foothill Blvd. in La Canada, between 1 and 3 p.m. (Nov. 18), where I’ll be signing “What the Bears Know,” the wise and warm life story of “Bear Whisperer” Steve Searles. You can also find signed copies of the book at {Pages} in Manhattan Beach, which will wrap and mail your copy. It’s also available at Vroman’s in Pasadena, or online by clicking here. Also, Steve and I will be chatting about and signing the book Dec. 5, 6-7 p.m., at the Santa Monica Library, 601 Santa Monica Blvd. The event is free.
The Dec. 2 Calabasas hike is still on. Details going out this week. To join, please email me at Letters@ChrisErskineLA.com.
Just when you think it’s hopeless for America to get its act together (see: US Congress), someone comes along like a Steve Searles, a Chris Erskine, a Catty Cakes, and you remember why there is always hope for us. Happy Thanksgiving to you, Chris. Keep the inspiration and the smiles coming! We are thankful for you.
Thanks Caroll. I am very grateful for your friendship. Happy Thanksgiving.
Chris, I picked up an autographed copy of What the Bears Know at Pages in Manhattan Beach last week. Great store with loads of interesting books to recommend – plus they really like you there!
Del, thanks so much. Glad you found Pages. It’s like a bookstore out of that Meg Ryan movie. Everything I like about books is contained in that amazing shop.
Happy Thanksgiving to you, Suzanne, & your family! You are blessed in having so many who love you
Congratulations on the book! It’s a real page turner. I’ve been to Mammoth many times since I was a kid learning to ski. I love hearing about the Cask and Cleaver and his exploits. I asked my students what are they are thankful for– I’m thankful for you warming up my Saturday mornings, your wit, and all those fun hikes. Happy Thanksgiving to you.
Thanks Stephen. Grateful to all the readers who have become true friends over the years. Aren’t I lucky? Happy Thanksgiving!
My day is always made when I open my phone and see your messages. So enjoyable and family oriented. Have a great holiday with the family. Caryl Cohn ccohn22@aol.com
It would be lovely if you’d see to Once Upon a Time bookstore having copies of your book.
Yes, they are Montrose, oldest childrens’ bookstore in America.
Please pretty please.
Thank you.
Chris: Please consider coming out to south bay ~ torrance ~ to the Sandpiper Bookstore ~ we would love to see you out here for a book signing ! ~ kr
I love reading your column, so many thoughts lots of us have but can’t write them as beautifully and clever like you !
I love Cake’s crazy wardrobe taste, just like my granddaughters! She’ll never be in a fashion magazine (good!). She won’t wear anything but rain boots. Happy thanksgiving!
This is a fine place to stop by on such a cloudy indifferent November Saturday morning, pockmarked as it is by brief cold snits of rain. Yes and yes to the Britany—Taylor ravings, and all the rest. Its mood is amiable and spacious, spiritually warm. And that picture of Cakes…What is cooking in that lovely head? There is more than one intriguing cook in the Erskine tribe; food for thought this Thanksgiving Day while basking in the fumes of Grand Marnier. I’m with Suzanne, who has such delicious editorial culinary taste. You should always listen to her..
Spirits Rise
One’s ghosts gather for the holidays
To come, as Fall continues to fade
Loose piles of leaves swishing restlessly
Under the tattered Sycamores
Maples having flamed, burned, died out
As the firs look on, passively
Their blade-thin needles squinting in
The failing light, looking for glints
Of ice in the ever-cooling breeze—
Signs the grand dark opus of Winter
Has begun to play its frigid themes
On the crisp sound system of the wind;
At this time of year spirits gaze
In the windows, hide in the shade
Flare in the vast flocks of birds that fly
Like angry smoke on the borders
Of perception, on a wild-haired route
To some chaotic destiny;
Yet, as rhey sweep and soar they begin
To seem like entities, cloaks that hint
Of a body’s motions, outlines that seize
The imagination, a soundless purr
Of memory in pale morning dreams
Now, haunting thought as time rescinds
Autumn’s promise of largess in slow
Erosions of ease, a great feast’s vertigo
Ahead. As off to Winter we go
Old spirits melting in the snow
More love ahead, for all we know…
May the warmth and pleasure of the holiday enrich and comfort you. We have so much.
And in the same leafy vein…
A New Lover at The Door
The Sycamores are busy rusting out
In the dusty faded weakened slants
Of November sun, and the first
Big rainstorm of cold wet blowing
Achiness is said to be bearing
Down on us with an ominous
Darkness that is almost always
Magnified in the mind by virtue
Of its contrast with the genial
Warmth and mild tenor of Autumn;
Winter rarely muscles in without
Some preliminary incidence
Of warning, be it frost or thirst
For moisture, or a wan dry slowing
Of daylight, the rouge sunsets tearing
The crimson sky apart, purple blush
Along the horizon’s grainy haze
The first sign that light that ensues
Will come apart, that things will fall
As they have promised since the first strum
Of Autumn’s golden locks by Winter’s hands
Unleashed the icy chill of their demands;
Light like hair flowing down and thinning
Trees newly bare send their leaves spinning
Like old love, through cool indifferent air
With the sense now change is everywhere
Just over the horizon—on the run
Unable to capture the fleeing sun
A brisk new lover at the door
Demanding heat, who could ask for more?
Chris, you are correct, the world needs more magic and that’s why you are so beloved. Seriously, you brighten up my day! Happy Thanksgiving to you, Suzanne and the family, I’m certain the Cornish hens will be a hit.
Everything will be OK. And if America does not deliver on our dreams, and if we don’t give up, it somehow grants us a dream we did not know we had. Thanks for your wisdom and laughter (hip-thrust into fame!), and Happy Thanksgiving, Chris.