The HOA called and descended on my doorstep yesterday.
There was an injured pelican. And they said you’re the only person who might know what to do.
I racked my brain. FWC is useless. Duck Haven didn’t even thank me for a big donation. Audubon is south of Miami. Animal Control will gas it.
Out of my mouth comes, “If my mother were still alive, she’d know exactly who to call.”
I never told any of them she was gone. And they seemed unfazed, as they probably never even saw her while she was here.
It’s Christmas Eve. Which I know because of my Seven Fishes dinner reservation.
But … there is no magic here anymore.
Sure, there’s a tree. And the cats got presents.
But I’ll always long for the Christmas I dragged the whole fam damily to Islamorada. Mom and three cats.
I still think about the Christmas when I was like 5 and got a life-sized stuffed elephant who I named Happy. Grampy built a circus tent for him. We would conduct transactions through the window, Grampy and me. I charged admission.
I still think about how Gram had flocked trees and velvety reindeer she cherished. And gorgeous crafts she made for holidays in classes with her friend Arnetta. How she loved the color red. And cardinals.
I think about all the appetizers Gram and then mom made. So many appetizers.
Rosemarino salad.
Cherry-pineapple cream cheese on celery.
Tiny pigs in a blanket.
Bacon/cheddar/cream cheese dip in a Cool Whip tub.
Kickass deviled eggs.
Sticky wings.
Mom would always ask what was the one thing I wanted. I’d tell her. But I knew she’d make them all anyway between Christmas and New Year’s.
Never sure where the money came from, other than Grampy’s clothing allowance he got as a veteran. Mom was SO good at budgeting.
We always had a spiral ham for Christmas. That was fancy. Gram made the mashed potatoes and then Mom did.
Mom’s favorite food was her own mashed potatoes. Mine was her stuffing balls.
Of Gram’s food, pot roast was her signature. Shit on the shingles. Pasta, as she was Italian.
A friend said to me that he loves my commitment to Christmas Eve fishes. I guess I’ve talked about that before but I don’t even remember. Nice that he does.
The Feast of the Indeterminate Number of Fishes was something I grew up with.
Seven was expensive. I got up to five one year through the magic of cheap Krab.
Mom and I settled on steak and scallops with cocktail shrimp. Crab claws the final year she cooked.
This year I’ll have seven fishes.
But I’d trade it all to have Mom frying up some scallops.
To see Cocoa saunter into the kitchen, ready for her share.
Mom would cut everything “so nice” for the cats.
Three perfect napkins of diced-up turkey or ham or bacon.
Three little plates with dollops of Grandma’s mashed potatoes.
Three little bowls with a generous swirl of whipped cream or vanilla custard.
And she’d cut up her own food for when at least one of those little “Halloweeners” went up to her for seconds.
They don’t do that with me. I wouldn’t share anyway because I’m a piggy. But that was their thing with Grammy.
I wonder if the two I have left miss Mom and Cocoa as much as I do.
I always wonder, too, whether they get to meet the relatives before them who I always talk about.
Mom. Cokie. Maddie. Kadie. Gram. Grampy. Old Gram. Janna. Sia. Lenna B. Elaine.
Merry Christmas, wherever you are, family.