Every Thanksgiving I
think of Huw Lewis-Jones
of Liverpool, England. He’s
a cousin of my late first
wife, and he and his wife
Catherine, both doctors,
are dear friends to Anne
and me.
Huw’s a radiologist, and
he comes to mind at
Thanksgiving because of a
radiological truism he
shared with me. (Thanksgiving,
by the way, has been
imported to England as a
holiday, complete with traditional
meal, Pilgrims, Indians,
etc. Go figure. . .)
Huw says that, just before
Thanksgiving and again
just before Christmas, he
and other x-ray docs see a
rash of patients with broken
toes and sometimes
squashed feet.
Why? Because people
have lost their grip on a frozen
turkey and dropped it,
a dozen pounds or much
more, smack on a foot. One
foot, if they’re lucky.
For comparison, think of
the average ten-pin bowling
ball, about ten pounds.
Dropped from chest height,
imagine what that that
would do to your toes or
metatarsals. (I saw that
happen once at a bowling
alley. The guy’s howl sounded
like a chainsaw.) Now,
imagine a solidly frozen
turkey weighing half again
as much, or twice as much.
Oh, my. That could take
the edge off a holiday.
The above, then, is a
caution, courtesy of Cousin
Huw, who, though he and
Cath practice in Liverpool,
is a 100% Welshman. He’s
a native son of Dolgellau, a
name not pronounced nearly
as the letters would suggest.
Its last syllable, a
``thee,’’ must be expelled
out both sides of one’s
mouth. I can’t say it yet
without spattering standers-
by.
Like most Welshmen,
Huw’s a gifted story-teller
and, God bless him, loves to
make himself the butt of
the stories. Here’s a memorable
one that I once shared
in part with you:
Huw, then a young dad
of Tom and Gareth, five
and three respectively, was
driving them home from
playschool. They were secure
in their car seats, and
between them were their
two Border collie puppies,
Moss and Meg. (I knew the
dogs in their later years,
both of them still rollicking
and puppy-like. And the
boys, now both in college,
grew up just fine, too.)
As Huw tells the story,
he was driving along happily,
humming to himself,
with suddenly Tom spoke
from the back seat. I should
add that both boys, growing
up in Liverpool, always
sound to me uncannily like
the Beatles: that odd Liverpudlian
monotone, with a
drop of a minor third on
each sentence’s last syllable.
It was in such a voice
that Tom spoke:
``Dad, the dog is going to
be sick.’’ The drop in pitch
on ``sick’’ made the prospect
seem even worse.
Huw, though a doctor, is
self-admittedly squeamish.
His first reaction was to
minimize. ``Now, Thomas,
he’ll be all right. Just lower
the window a bit and give
him some air.’’ But then:
``Dad! He’s going to
spew!’’ And Huw, wincing,
heard the sound every dog
owner knows, that convulsive
``Erk! Erk! that makes
them snatch the puppy up
from the carpet and plop
him, at very least, on a floor
of vinyl or tile.’’ But, too
late:
``Dad!’’ came Tom’s
mournful, frightened cry.
``Dad, he’s spewing on the
floor!’’ And worse: ``Dad! It’s
worms! Dad, he’s spewing
worms!’’
Cringing, Huw glanced
into the mirror. His two little
boys were pasted against
the far sides of their car
seats, right up against the
windows. Tom himself was
now gulping and hiccupping,
and little Gareth was
sobbing and wailing, both
at once.
Well, Dad pulled over on
the road’s verge, as they
say, and unwillingly opened
the back door. On the floor,
at his poor boys’ feet, was a
tangled mass of strands of
white, mixed in some red
liquid that Huw tried to ignore.
With gritted teeth,
the poor man bent up the
sides of the floor mat and,
holding his breath, carried
it over to some shrubbery.
Then he upended it and
cleaned as best he could on
the grass. He then put it in
the car’s boot.
On the way home, Huw
stopped at a market and
comforted the boys and
himself with ice lollies; we
call them popsicles. Then
he drove home and loosed
the still sober boys and the
rollicking dogs into the
back garden.
Catherine was in the
kichen. Lovely Cath, who
now manages Liverpool’s
largest Hospice with serene
grace. She was stirring up
supper. Huw, still whitefaced,
sank into a chair.
She glanced at him and
said, ``What on earth is
wrong, Huw?’’ She knew it
wasn’t the boys since she’d
seen them out the window,
now restored and chasing
the dogs.
``Oh, Cath, it was horrible!’’
gasped Huw, hoping
for a big outpouring of sympathy.
``We were driving
home and — and Moss
spewed on the floor, right
in front of poor Tom and
Gareth. And, Cath, it was
worms! Awful, squiggly
worms, in some sort of reddish
effluent! And I had to
clean it up!’’ Huw has an
actor’s face, and he looked
at her with woeful eyes. ``I
almost gagged, too,’’ he
added, still waiting for
``Poor baby!’’ or the British
equivalent.
Cath sat down beside
him, smiling. ``Huw,’’ she
said evenly, ``you’re a dear
man, but a proper fool
sometimes. The dogs’
breakfast this morning was
last night’s spaghetti Bolognese.’’
No need to say more. Every
husband knows how
Huw felt. But never mind.
He’s still a very bright man
and gives excellent advice.
And so, remember his
warning and, when you lift
that heavy turkey out of
the freezer, use a damp
dishtowel. It will adhere to
the plastic wrapper and
give you a secure grip. And
pay close heed to what
you’re doing.
Keep on your toes, and
you’ll keep your toes on!
(That last advice is mine,
not Huw’s.)
Read about Jim Atwell’s
book, From Fly Creek--Celebrating
Life in Leatherstocking
Country, at JimAtwell.
com
Columns
Jim Atwell: Keep on your toes!
- Columns
-
-
From Fly Creek: Revving up for spring
Time to bring you up to date on Fly Creek’s happy clambering into Spring. First, the eatery scene. “Is Jerry’s open yet?” The answer is, “Oh, yes!” The porches are freshly stained; the lawns a uniform green, and the hop vines are already climbing the posts on the covered side deck. Blue and I went up there to lunch earlier this week, and I celebrated spring with my traditional bacon, onion and Swiss cheese hamburger. We two sat on the deck, enjoying the broad view and some spectacular clouds marching across, up toward Schuyler Lake.
Continued ... -
In These Otsego Hills: More from 1986 ...
This week we continue with the discussion of telephone service from the pre-dial days. On March 12 we noted that: “No one has yet produced a telephone directory from pre-dial days, but Doug Preston of New Hartford recalls that some business (which one?) in the village had the phone number 7.”
Continued ... -
Home Notes: Celebrations abound at the Thanksgiving Home
April was a month of celebrations and much to appreciate. We had a 90th birthday celebration for Wanda Noyes on April 4 including her family and friends. Personal care staff Dee Bouck worked with residents to hand paint Easter eggs for the tree in the activity room.
Continued ... -
In These Otsego Hills: 1986 continues ...
This week we continue our journey through the columns of 1986 with the answer to the question “for whom, according to tradition, was Hannah’s Hill named?”
Continued ... -
Book Notes: Baseball book features local contributors
Baseball is part of the nation’s fabric. Most kids have a memory of the game either from playing Little League, attending a major league contest or meeting a favorite player. In Cooperstown that feeling is magnified since we are the official home of baseball. We get to see firsthand what has made the sport the national pastime.
Continued ... -
From Fly Creek: Ya really wanna know?
SETTING: Fly Creek General Store. CAST: Assorted seated geezers, drinking coffee. [Door opens, enter heavy-set geezer; walking slowly with wide stance, maybe prostatitis.]
Continued ... -
In These Otsego Hills: Returning to 1986 ...
For the past several years now we have undertaken sharing some of the area’s oral history we have collected over the years that we have written this column. Therefore, this year, we would like to go back to 1986 to share that rather unusual year. Those who were here then no doubt remember that it was that year that the village celebrated the bicentennial of its founding.
Continued ... -
From Fly Creek: For reasons unknowable
[Jim’s reached back to 2002 to share one of his favorite columns.] My father was born as the last century began into a river village in tidewater Maryland. He told me once of a man there in his boyhood who, like so many, made a thin living tonging for oysters in the cold months and, in the hot and humid ones, crabbing and raising vegetables.
Continued ... -
In These Otsego Hills: CCS balancing act ... side two
Last week we shared a number of activities in which students at CCS can participate. We thought it was an impressive, if not overwhelming, list. And we are indeed pleased that the young people of our area have these opportunities. However, we think it is also important to keep in mind that these undertakings do have a cost associated with them. They are not free. In fact there are, no doubt, those who would say they do not come cheap.
Continued ... -
From Fly Creek: A graceful crowd
Make of this what you will, friends. I feel I’m really meant to share it with you. Despite good medication for my Parkinsonism, every four or five weeks I can sensethe symptoms building up on me, giving me more than ordinary trouble. Lately it’s been falls, and last week brought a typical one. I’d gone out to get the paper, moving along with penguin steps on the snowcoved ice patches, and usingmy spike-tipped cane the waya climber uses an ice axe. But circumstances overcame me. Parkinson’s wipes out the possibility of multi-tasking.
Continued ... -
In These Otsego Hills: This and that and the other side ...
We note that the CCS Class of 2012 is presenting its senior class play, “Snow White” by Tim Kelly, this week with performances 7:30 p.m Thursday and Friday, March 29 and 30, and at 11 a.m. and 7:30 p.m. Saturday, March 31. All performances will be at the Nicolas J. Sterling Auditorium at the Middle/High School.
Continued ... -
In These Otsego Hills: That green thing ...
Of late we have noticed that our email inbox has been much busier than usual. In fact, we find ourselves hard pressed to keep up with all the various messages we receive. As a result we suspect we have not answered some in as timely a fashion as might be thought appropriate.
Continued ... -
From Fly Creek: What you need to know
In their last Sunday’s bulletins, all 84 churches of Otsego County were to have carried announcements of an important meeting; most of them did. But because the announcement is so important, and not just to the churched, here it is again.
Continued ... -
Book Notes: Living the magic of ‘Hoosier’
A lot of people consider “Hoosiers” the best sports film of all time. The 1986 classic follows the exploits of a fictional small town Indiana high school basketball team in 1952 as it attempts to achieve the impossible dream of a state championship. The story is inspired by the true life achievement of the 1954 Milan team, who with an enrollment of only 161 students shocked big city power Muncie Central on a last second shot to win the state title. It’s the kind of sports story that represents something that is hard to grasp unless you live in a small town.
Continued ... -
In These Otsego Hills: The most perfect village... home to heavy industry?
We suspect we would get a whole lot more accomplished if we spent less time thinking, pondering and musing about things. In fact, there is a good possibility we might actually have completed our goal of cleaning the basement if we only focused on the task at hand, instead of trying to figure out the world around us. It almost makes us wonder if it is possible to think too much about things. We certainly hope not because should that be the case, we are in deep trouble.
Continued ... -
Up On Hawthorn Hill: The past in the present
Clichés abound about the value of photographs. Most are probably true at least to a certain extent. What I do know about an image is that it represents something of the past that is not the pastitself. But that is the power of any image. It represents something that once was. The beauty of an image, revisited, is that it functions as a catalystfor reliving in the present a past experience. My own view, one that I thank the Spanish writer Jorge Luis Borges for, is that all we ever can experience is the present.
Continued ... -
Home Notes: Workshops held for Thanksgiving Home residents
We welcomed Linda Keller, Ph.D. of the Bassett Research Institute and Ida Baker of NYCAMH who presented a six-week workshop for residents and staff.
Continued ... -
From Fly Creek: Late-winter hamlet news
Well, at least I’m “guessing” it’s late winter now — in the winter that wasn’t. But, if not snow, I can provide a flurry of Fly Creek news to share with you, scooping Associated Press, Reuter’s, and United Press International, not to mention all local news services except our General Store.
Continued ... -
In These Otsego Hills: Waiting for spring to have sprung ...
Difficult as it to believe, both January and February seem to have flown by and we find ourselves turning the calendar over to the month of March, which we have long thought is one of the more dreary months of the year. Of course, as in the pastthere are signs of spring as reflected by the tapping of the maple trees. For many years, the trees sprouted buckets to capture their all important sap. However, we now know to look for the sap collection lines that are strung from tree to tree.
Continued ... -
Book Notes: Kennedy: a unique individual
It’s been almost 50 years since the Kennedy assassination shocked the nation. Since then much has been written about President John F. Kennedy and whether he would have achieved his destiny (whatever that may have been) if he had lived. It is said he inspired young people in a way that has never been equaled. And there is the notion of Camelot, espoused by his widow Jackie, that there will never be a time of hope and promise like that again.
Continued ...
-
From Fly Creek: Revving up for spring
