Kymberly Foster Seabolt

Obviously, I’m an adult, but like, not ON PURPOSE. I didn’t realize how little I understood the time change until I attempted to explain the science behind it to a very bossy, small dog. I assure you that Nova Grace does not care what the government thinks, she knows what time breakfast is. Setting the time back an hour does not change the settings on her stomach.

Last week was my birthday. I don’t sweat it. I’ve said for years that every birthday I celebrate is one that was denied to some of my peers. Anyone who has lived this long knows people forever frozen in childhood, teenage or young adult years. I’ll take aging and all that comes along with it, thank you very much.

I’ve been hosting and making Thanksgiving dinner for roughly 25 years. That’s a lot of turkey. Accordingly, you would think I would have it down to a science. You would be wrong. Every year without fail I make lists and check them twice. I wander the grocery aisles like I don’t understand how the most basic menu works. It’s meat and potatoes with some carb-laden side dishes. Undaunted, or more like VERY daunted, I will simply revert to the ways of my people and make enough food to feed roughly 100 hungry mouths — even if we are hosting eight people.

Like most people in the days before a major holiday, I am preparing to embrace the reason for the season by completely freaking out. Will there be enough food? Chairs? Spaces so tidy it’s more “Pottery Barn” catalog and less “we actually live here.”

I’m no pro, but I’m fairly certain it is NOT in the spirit of the season to be cursing our Christmas tree. Although, to be fair, one dear friend opined that perhaps that very much IS the spirit of the season.

“Christmas is forever, not for just one day, for loving, sharing, giving, are not to put away like bells and lights and tinsel, in some box upon a shelf. The good you do for others is good you do yourself.”

We are all just products of our environment. In the case of our children, raised in an old house, under near-constant restoration, our children were raised in an environment that was basically old plaster, paint and more than a fair amount of sawdust and sweat. As they grew, language arts included terms like “crown molding,” “Phillips head” and swearing (optional) if plumbing repair was involved.

So, yes, it’s me again, back to say that I have next to no intention of making any sweeping “resolutions” to carry into the new year.

‘Tis January. The holidays are behind most of us at this point or almost so. They were heavenly, blessed and also absolutely exhausting. So, how do we restore our bodies to the original factory settings? Is it kale? Please don’t say it’s kale. It’s definitely not cookies and pie because I consumed copious amounts of each and I’m still feeling a wee bit tired.

The sturdy cardboard box plucked on the thrift store shelf was slightly larger than the palm of my hand. The print on it was faded with a kind of dusty haze you get when something has sat out on a shelf for decades. It was blue with gold trim on all the edges. The box itself was a piece of decor. I pried open the lid and inside were soaps. Just soaps. Seashells, starfish and somewhat incongruously, little ovals with roses pressed into them. All these decorative soaps were poured in the prettiest sea glass hue. Blues, greens and ivory. Every one of them entirely unused and dry as dust. Cracks fissured through the designs. Any scent long faded to only a faintest whiff of powder — and then only when I first opened the box. It appeared to have been five to six decades since this soap had been manufactured and here it sat now, unused on a thrift store shelf.