In the United States, Thanksgiving Day this year will be officially celebrated on Thursday, November 28, 2013.

Years ago, the Pilgrims reached the coast of the present-day state of Massachusetts. After about 65 days of mostly rough weather at sea, land was sighted on November 9, 1620. Despite the misery they had endured on the long voyage across the Atlantic Ocean, the passengers stopped and recited together a prayer of thanksgiving to have reached the shores of the Americas.

Of the102 passengers who had joined in that voyage from persecution to freedom, two died enroute and one, the child Oceanus, was born. From their sailing vessel, the Mayflower, 101 colonists disembarked in the cold and wet of November, 1620 to land and step on Plymouth Rock.

By the end of that first winter in March of 1621, only 47 of the Pilgrim band remained alive.

Spring presented little prospect for thanksgiving. Very little food remained. The surviving settlers had seed and drive, but the new arrivals possessed little knowledge of their surroundings and no experience with the planting and raising of the native corn. The Wampanoag did. This was their home. They watched, they waited and they approached. The native peoples helped the newcomers to plant the crops and hunt and gather from the lands of the Massachusetts.

The Wampanoag had little cause for their generosity. The tribe had been decimated by European diseases, and many of their members had been sold into slavery by European traders. Yet, without expectation of return, they extended the strength of their hands, the knowledge in their heads and the kindness of their hearts. This land was their home. They knew its ways, and the natives showed the new ones how to make the land theirs.

A harvest was made, and it was a harvest of plenty.

No one knows the date of that first thanksgiving on the shores of the Americas. I like to think it was on the anniversary of the Pilgrim’s arrival, and unlike the cold and wet day in 1620, this day in November of 1621 was a warm sunny day, a day of Indian summer along the New England coast.

They all gathered: the Pilgrims, the crew who were now colony members and the Wampanoag. Each brought what they could to that first celebration. The bounty was spread on the tables and on blankets across the ground. It was more than enough, much more.

Family, friends and neighbors spent that day together sharing what they had in common, smiling, watching the children run and play, tasting each other’s special dishes, trading stories, exchanging keepsakes, napping in the warmth of the afternoon, waking, stretching, gathering up the empty dishes and full families, waving across to the departing groups, and in their various languages wishing each other well as they returned happily to their homes in the fading light thankful that from the turmoil and trials of the past year there could be such a simple day of Thanksgiving and hoping for another day to spend together the next year.

In this land of the United States, we will spend that day together soon on November 28^th. I think all the lands and all the peoples of this globe have their special days of Thanksgiving. All peoples have suffered, encountered generosity, and been rewarded with good harvests and new friends — perhaps not always bountiful harvests, but always true friends to help us on our ways. Perhaps it is these shared experiences and faithful companions, as much as our good fortunes, that cause us wherever we live and on whatever the date to stop and whisper “Thank you,” gather and hold our own special Day of Thanks.

May the bounty of the land and the warmth of friendship greet you on your Thanksgiving Day,

Grandpa Jim

Wikipedia defines a “kolache” as a “a type of pastry that holds a dollop of fruit rimmed by a fluffy pillow of supple dough.” Well said, but the real thing is so much better than the definition.

My wife’s great grandparents arrived in Central Texas from the Czech Republic around 1890. They came seeking new farmlands and they arrived with old recipes. In the small Czech village of Verovice in the province of Moravia, they had baked kolaches as a special treat for weddings. In the new country, the times were hard and the work long. They needed a treat to brighten the days and encourage their labors between weddings. So, on the weekends, the families would bake kolaches on Saturday and share them with relatives and friends on Sunday. They’d sit together, kolaches in hand, smile, laugh and remember the old with the new. Like any good memory, the kolache caught on, became a part of the expanding communities, was tasted and accepted enthusiastically by the neighbors, and earned a special place in the hearts and on the tables of the citizens of the growing State of Texas.

Except . . . she took the recipe with her!

When my wife’s mother died in September, she left without having written down the family kolache recipe. The seven daughters and four sons were in a dismay. Something must be done. It is generally recognized that one cannot go long in the State of Texas without the bite of a good kolache. Something had to be done and done quickly.

A couple of Saturdays ago, the First Annual Kolache Recipe Recreation and General Family Bakeoff was commenced at an early hour in the Building next to the House at the old family farm.

The newly devised secret recipes were written down and arranged next to the ingredients being mixed.

Uncle Joe and Brother Charles had purchased a new commercial oven and a heavy duty restaurant mixer to assist the efforts of the family throngs rushing into the Building to help and observe.

The first batch was concocted and carefully placed in the electronic mixer.

Removed, the precious dough was hand-kneaded under the close supervision of seasoned veterans.

To rise, the rounded globules rested in assorted pans between the heat of the oven and the warmth of the stove to allow the dough to double and triple in size.

Fillings were patiently prepared from the peaches of Grandma’s old tree next to the house and the ground poppy seeds you see here from the home-grown poppies she had hand harvested herself – all with plenty of butter to go in, on and over everything (butter is the great comfort and sure secret of the friendly family kolache).

The risen dough is pinched into balls that are flattened. Fingers push a depression into the middle of each. Fillings are spooned into the shallow cavities, and the pastry sheets of prepared kolaches are lined on the tables to await their turn . . .

. . . to slide into the oven for the bake and watch and wait.

Extracted burning hot with just a touch of brown, more butter is sladled onto the tops and around the sides to relax the the fruit fillings and glisten the rims of the pillowed dough.

Transferred to cool on paper towels, the tables are massed with baked kolaches by the 100’s!!!! On that one day, the army of relatives baked some 600 kolaches, around 50 dozens with all manners of fillings, toppings, stuffings and cinnamon swirls.

In the midst of that plenty, the great joy is not the many, but the single warm beautiful kolache in hand waiting for the first welcome bite home.

Yes, the consensus was, every kolache from every kolache recipe was the best ever and must be made, tried and eaten again the coming year at the Second Annual Kolache Recipe Recreation and General Family Bakeoff.

Thank you, Mom, Grandma, Great Grandmother — you are the best.

We couldn’t have done it without you.

See you all, next year,

Grandpa Jim

In honor of the night of October 31st, Uncle Joe Stories is posting a Halloween story on the Home page.

“Uncle Joe and All Hallows’ Eve” is a dandy of a story with a visitor who is sure to surprise, and a scare or two lurking near the dark waters of the stock tank. What is the mark on the newborn calf’s forehead, and who is Boomer related to? I just reread the tale and can assure you the answers to these questions and more can be discovered by those with the courage to read on.

Have a safe and fun Halloween and keep an eye out for. . . .

Grandpa Jim

A pumpkin is a squash.

Pumpkins are round and smooth and orange. Orange is my favorite color. And, pumpkins have these little ridge lines or dents running from top-to-bottom over their thick smooth skin. And, they have this kinda’ brown handle on the top, where they were connected to the vine, but don’t try to pick them up by the handle, because once the pumpkin is harvested that handle dries, and it’s no longer strong enough to support the pumpkin (if it every was), and that brown stem will probably snap if you try to lift it there, and you will have to catch that pumpkin before it hits the floor and smashes open and all the seeds spill out.

WHEW! That was close.

But, don’t worry, if it breaks open you can make pumpkin pie filling from the pulp inside the skin. Pumpkin pie is my favorite pie. And, you can invite me over to eat the pie while we make Jack-o’-lanterns out of some of the other pumpkins in the patch. Places full of harvested pumpkins for sale are call pumpkin patches, and that is where you see a lotta’ pumpkins.

Every pumpkin is different, and they all make excellent Jack-o’-lanterns. You could say that once you’ve seen one pumpkin, you’ve seen them all, but every Jack-o’-lantern is different, and you never see two Jack-o’-lanterns exactly alike, because every person has his or her own way of pumpkin carving, and you just can’t carve two pumpkins the same, even if you really try.

My Dad was an excellent pumpkin carver.

I still remember the process: slicing out the top hat with the handle, scooping out the icky insides with a big spoon, drawing a face on the outside (it’s hard to draw over the dents), carefully cutting the face pieces (curves were the hardest), popping out the eyes, nose, mouth and ears (we made ears, and we stuck our hands inside and popped all the pieces out from the inside), making a little place in the inside bottom of the pumpkin for the candle, putting the candle in, trying to figure out how to light the candle, lighting the candle, turning out the lights and screaming.

The face was so cool. It really wasn’t scary. It was so cool.

We’d take the Jack-o’-lantern (pumpkin no longer) outside and carefully place him near the front door. Then, we’d run to the sidewalk, look back, and see how it looked from this angle and then that direction. Placement and appearance are very important to pumpkin carvers turned Jack-o’-lantern designers. We’d smile and laugh and think in our kid heads that a carved pumpkin is fun, a good friend and a scary guard. Maybe it wasn’t much of a guard, more of a magnet actually, but it certainly was a friend to warm the cold of a fallish evening as we ran and played and waited for that special night that all kids know will be coming soon after they see that first carved and glowing Jack-o’-lantern.

Those are good memories.

Soon, I will be walking the streets with my grandchildren, who I may not recognize because of their costumes. We will come to a house in the dark, look up and see him, the Jack-o’-lantern. We’ll all shiver and hug and say, “You go first, I’m not going up there.” Then, a brave child will carefully slide up the walk, ring the bell, step back as the door creaks open, and yell timidly “Trick or Treat,” with one eye on the candy in the outstretched hand and the other on that scary old Jack-o’-lantern with the big flickering smile. As the others see it’s safe and run shouting for their loot, I’ll walk up slowly behind them, reach out my hand, bend down and pat Jack on the head.

It’s always good to see an old friend . . . again.

Happy Pumpkin,

Grandpa Jim

The word “reprise” derives from a French word that means to take back, as in taxes owed on an estate (“Give that to me, right now!”), or to do over or repeat, as in the replaying of a musical interlude at a later place in the same work (“I remember that tune!”). In parts, this blog post is being taken back from last year and repeated here. It is a reprise. But, will it be of the same size and shape as it appeared last, will it be dressed in the same clothing, and why would a scary figure jump out and scare the audience on the night of Halloween?

The word “Halloween” is a form of “All Hallows’ Eve.” To “hallow” is an old English verb meaning to make holy or to “sanctify.” When used as a plural noun, “hallows” refers to all those who have passed from this life and are now holy persons or “saints” in the next world. So, All Hallows’ Day is All Saints’ Day, and the evening before that day is All Hallows’ Eve or Halloween.

If the saints are on All Saints’ Day, November 1^st, who is on All Hallows’ Eve, October 31^st, the night before the saints? Who is being reprised, taken back and repeated, and why do they jump out in the dark of the night and try to scare us?

All Saints’ Day was originally introduced in the year 609 AD by Pope Boniface IV. At that time, it was celebrated on May 13^th. In 835 AD, Pope Gregory IV moved the feast day, the festival, to November 1^st. This change in dates was apparently made so that All Saints’ Day would coincide with the Celtic festival of Samhain.

Samhain (which can be pronounced Sah–win or Sah-ween), November 1^st, is one of the most important days in the Celtic calendar. Samhain is half-way between the autumnal equinox (the first day of our fall when the day and night are of equal length) and the winter solstice (the shortest day and longest night of winter). On Samhain, November 1^st, the Celts of northern Europe celebrated the start of their New Year. Samhain marked the transition from the warm months of the sun to the cold months of the dark.

In ancient times in the Northern Hemisphere, the cold months were the sad months because without the heating systems of today, many of the elderly, the sick and the young could not survive the days of snow and ice. Sadly, they passed on. On Samhain, the cold time of year began, and the Celts remembered those who were no longer with them. As such, Samhain coincided well with All Saints’ Day. Both feasts remembered those who had passed to the next life.

In Celtic thought, October 31^st, the night before their New Year, was a “thin time.” Those early people saw it as a night when the boundaries that surrounded the worlds of the living and the dead somehow mysteriously moved closer together, touched and thinned. In those thin places on that night, it was thought one might see and even move through to the other side, and those in the other place might do the same. Perhaps a part of this view was a wish to remember and see again loved ones now in that other land.

To prepare for the night, children were sent house-to-house to request wood and food for a party. This procession of children knocking on hut doors may be the origin of the trick-or-treating we find at our front doors. With the wood, bonfires were lit, brightening the night and inviting friends and family to gather round. In the light of the dancing flames, the food was passed and the treats shared. Neighbors laughed, feasted and enjoyed memories as they waited for the dawning of the New Year.

As the flames dwindled and the night darkened, the storytelling began. Stories were the movies of the early ones. On that night, remembering those passed from view into the next land, the picture show became spooky and scary. This was a night when strange things might happen and strange shapes appear. Suddenly, a costumed figure jumped out from the smoke, sounded an eerie and frightening SCReeEEECH, and sent everyone screaming and covering their eyes.

Now, that was a good story and a good effect.

Well, the next year folks arrived around the bonfire wearing their own costumes. Perhaps, they wanted to be part of the show. Maybe, they wore the costumes because it made the night feel friendly, safe and welcoming to be dressed like the actors that were going to scare them. Or, maybe, they were dressed like the ones they had lost, the ones they wished were there to share the New Year.

We’ll never know for sure when the trick-or-treating began and the costumes started. Mystery surrounds the night of All Hallows’ Eve. The eve of Samhain is a time when forms can and do appear different from who they might otherwise be. I think there will always be that which is not fully known or understood of this night.

One thing is clear and should be remembered: When you answer the door on Halloween and hear the children shouting “Trick or Treat,” act scared (Ohhhh, I’m shivering), compliment the costumes (My, you are a nice looking frog — I’ve never seen such a furry . . . tree?) and hand over the candy (Take all you want and see you next year).

Have a safe and fun All Hallows’ Eve.

And, be ready for a . . .

Reprise surprise.

Boo!

Grandpa Jim.

The most popular tourist site in Texas is an old Spanish mission in San Antonio. It was never much to look at, and it’s not much of a site today. A sprawling complex with a few buildings and a chapel. The chapel has been restored, and the grounds are meticulously maintained, but the place is still not much to look at.

On March 6, 1836, 189 Texans died there.

In the early morning hours of that day, March 6th, President General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna of the centralist government of Mexico ordered 1800 of his men to assault the Alamo Mission. Above his command station, a red flag flew. The defenders had been declared “pirates.” As such, no quarter could be given. It would be a fight to the death.

Because Alamo defenders were related to soldiers under his command, Santa Anna did excuse those relatives in the Mexican forces from joining in the attack. It was a little mercy.

The remaining Mexican soldiers and officers followed their orders. They attacked the mission from one side and were repulsed. Another attack was launched from the other side, and that was thrown back. Finally, a third attack of the combined forces was made. Overwhelming the defenders with their greater numbers, the Mexican soldiers breached the outlying walls. Uniformed attackers poured into the Mission compound, firing their rifles and stabbing with their bayonets.

Some weeks earlier, the Commanding Officer of the defenders, William B Travis, had couriered an urgent message “To the People of Texas & All Americans in the World.” Perhaps the most famous part of that letter is this: “I am determined to sustain myself as long as possible & die like a soldier who never forgets what is due to his honor & that of his country. VICTORY OR DEATH.”

Recognizing that attack was imminent and his forces could not prevail, on March 5th Colonel Travis gathered the defenders and explained their circumstances. The position was hopeless. The Colonel gave each the chance to escape or stay. At that time, Travis did not know that three days earlier, on March 2nd, the delegates to the Texas Convention in Washington on the Brazos had voted and declared independence from Mexico. The commander and the volunteers facing him were fighting for a new country, the Republic of Texas. Although they did not know Texas was a sovereign nation, those men knew who they were. They were Texans. The vast majority were from other states and other countries. A share were of Spanish descent. Whatever their origins, they were one and all Texans. And, they were fighting for their homes, their families and freedom. Each made his own decision. They stayed.

There is little glory in the aftermath of battle. The bodies are collected and buried . . . or burned. Many fell that chilly winter day in the new State of Texas. All the defenders lay on the cold ground. They were joined by many young Mexican soldiers who knew little of why they had fought. Brave men died that day – on both sides.

On April 21st, at the Battle of San Jacinto near present-day Houston, General Sam Houston and his army took General Santa Anna and his army by surprise and defeated the invaders in 18 short minutes. No red flag flew that day. When the captured General presented himself before Sam Houston, Santa Anna asked that the Texans “be generous to the vanquished.” General Houston was. The captured General and his troops were allowed to return to their homes. In granting mercy, Houston did reply to the Mexican Commander, “You should have remembered that at the Alamo.”

“Remember the Alamo!” is a cry that echoes still over the old Spanish mission in San Antonio. The buildings themselves may not be much to look at, even with the tender care they receive by the Daughters of the Republic of Texas, but they do not go unnoticed. The blood of brave men stained the soil there. The visitors remember and they come. They come because men did not leave that mission. They stayed, they fought, and they died for what they believed.

Remember the Alamo.

Grandpa Jim

Today, October 6^th, is the last day of the 2013 Oktoberfest in Munich, Bavaria, Germany. The Műnchen Oktoberfest is the first and original Oktoberfest. You see Oktoberfests all over. They sprout up as quickly as the fall leaves drop. I have enjoyed everyone I have visited, but my first and always-will-be favorite is the grand daddy of them all in Munich, Germany.

Crown Prince Ludwig fell to his knees on the leaves of the forest floor outside the family castle in Bavaria, reached out the ring (Wow, that’s a big stone!), and asked Princess Therese of Saxe-Hildburghausen, “Will you marry me, please?” “Promise to be King?” she asked, shyly. “For you, anything.” What could she say? “Yes.”

On October 12, 1810, a Friday, Prince Ludwig (later King Ludwig the 1^st) married Princess Therese in the open field outside the city gates of Munich. The marriage was celebrated as a festival for the whole of Bavaria, and everyone was invited to the party. As the happy guests left the marriage fair grounds, they laughed, jostled each other, waved goodbye and shouted, “See you next year on the ‘Theresienwiese.’” In prompt good order and loud acclaim the citizenry of Munich and Bavaria had renamed the nuptial grounds, “Theresa’s Meadow,” a joyful site to remember and revisit.

And, they have ever since.

In that year, 1810, one hundred and three years ago, the Oktoberfest was born.

In 1819, the City of Munich assumed responsibility for festival management, allowing the royal family to attend to royal business. Of course, there was always a standing invitation and a special place for Theresa and her nine children, as I am sure there is today for their descendants. And, even today, the locals refer to the event, not as Oktoberfest, but as the “Wiesn,” for Theresa’s Meadow and the memory of that first marriage festival and the Princess who became their beloved Queen and friend.

Things are much expanded on the Wiesn these days. There are now fourteen large tents and twenty small tents, seating and serving over 75,000 festival goers at any one time. Visitors from all the lands of the world attend the fair, which now starts earlier to take advantage of the longer and warmer days at the end of September. This year’s Oktoberfest began on September 21^st and ends today, Sunday, October 6^th. The first Sunday in October is the usual finish of the fun. And, fun it is. Good food and, of course, good beer. The festival opens with a twelve-gun salute and the tapping of the first keg of Oktoberfest beer by the Mayor of Munich with the happy cry “Ozapft is!” – “It’s tapped.” The race is on and the time is aldays too short on Theresa’s Meadow.

As the visitors leave, they still smile and yell across to each other, ““See you next year on the Wiesn.”

Next year, on the Theresienwiese.

Until then,

Grandpa Jim

A gust of wind on Thursday last caused the early unveiling. The State Fair of Texas opened the next day, Friday, September 27, 2013. Fair officials had planned to drop the curtain at 2 pm on Friday with all the fanfare and hoopla the event deserved. Nature intervened, as it had last fall.

On October 19, 2012, as last-year’s fair neared its close, Big Tex, the tall cowboy who had greeted fairgoers for sixty years, was severely injured in a fire. Badly burned, the long frame was carefully lowered to the ground. Covered with a huge blanket and flanked by ranks of Dallas police at silent attention, the big Texan was escorted from the fairgrounds through the crowd of sad-eyed followers and removed to a secret location. It was not known if the booming voice of the mild-mannered superhero would ever be heard again above the throngs of fall fairgoers. There was a long sadness in the empty avenues of Fair Park.

No more. On Thursday, high winds billowed the curtain. The fabric dropped, and there he stood. At the chicken stand across the way, Kristi Blakeslee, who was preparing for next-day’s opening, glanced over and up. With a smile and tear, she said to the reporters who flocked to the scene, “He looks really good.”

He does, and it’s good to have him back.

No one knows for sure who Big Tex is or where he really came from. Some say he had an early life down in Kerens, Texas. No doubt, there are parts to that story that are true. In a way, parts of Big Tex are from all over Texas. You can see the hard sun from the open range in the lines of the worn face, the heavy-lifting of someone who has no fear of hard work in the barrel chest and long arms, the swagger of the oil fields in the glint of the eye and the turn of the head, the pride of a job well done in the shiny belt buckle and fancy boots, and the presence of a friend who knows his place and is never far in the kind smile under the wide brim of the cowboy hat. I think Jacqueline Floyd said it well in the Dallas Morning News: “It’s the Tex-ness that really matters.” It’s not where he hails from or the places he’s been and all those he’s reached with a helping hand. It’s not even because he’s so big. It’s because Big Tex is Texas, ever fiber of him, and we love him for it.

After the rest and recuperation, he’s even bigger.

For the statisticians among us, Big Tex has some truly amazing facts. From heel to hat, the rangy cowboy stands a neat 55 feet tall. That’s a long, tall drink of branch water reaching up to the bright Texas sun. There are no guy wires holding up this big fella. No need. Coming off his new training programs, Big Tex weighs in at an even 25,000 pounds. With that weight, he’s able to stand in those boots in hurricane-force winds. Yep, Big Tex has new footwear. Modeled after the Texas State boot, the rugged and colorful boots are each 10 feet 6 inches long, 11 feet 9 inches tall, and tip the scales at 900 pounds each. To wear those shoes, you gotta have big clothes. Big Tex’s cowboy shirt is made of 150 yards of material, weighs about 130 pounds, and has a 200-inch neck and a 325 inch in-sleeve. It doesn’t stop there. His denim jeans consumed 100 yards of fabric, weigh 100 pounds, and fit well on the 240-inch inseam and 434-inch waist. Around that trim 434-inch waiste rides a big belt and a big belt buckle for a big cowboy. And, from his off-season training programs, our old friend has some new moves to greet and catch your eye as you enter the fair grounds and stare up in amazement.

Enough. It’s time for a visit. There’s enough of Big Tex to go around, so don’t be shy and stop by, if you can. There’s something special about the voice of a 55-foot cowboy echoing out and over the grounds of the State Fair of Texas. Something special from someone who’s very special to Texas and the world.

It’s good to have you back, Big Tex, and “Howdy, Howdy, indeed.”

Grandpa Jim