Giving Thanks

Although the National Football League and three television networks have made it difficult, Thanksgiving may be the one day a year when American families sit down together at the dining room table. When we were kids, aunts, uncles and cousins joined the five of us around our Ping-Pong table sans net with a couple of large sheets serving as a tablecloth. Detroit, which was flush from another successful role out of gas guzzling automobiles, celebrated by being the only NFL franchise to host a football game, and it was usually against the Packers. So, as loyal Wisconsin fans, we digested while watching. However, nothing took precedent over the lavish feast of turkey, gravy, candied yams (We called them sweet potatoes.), cranberry relish, and pumpkin pie.

We gather to give thanks--nobody is left in the kitchen.

While my parents raced to have everything prepared in the kitchen prior to the first relative’s arrival, my sister, brother and I gathered in front of the massive 16-inch black and white screen displaying the Broadway star-studded floats, highflying balloons, and monophonic sound of marching bands at the Macy Parade. We turned the TV off at the final commercial immediately prior to the float with Santa Claus. It may have been because we were Jewish, but I can remember times when our parents let us join with the other kids and have fun sitting on the big guy with the white beard and red suit’s lap—especially if the line was short. More likely, however, the end of the parade signaled time to set the table and give some thought to why the whole mishpacha was coming to our house on this day.

You can see the thanks written on our faces.

This year, as with most Thanksgivings during the past two decades, I placed two leaves in the pecan wood dining room table, roasted and basted the turkey, and glanced at the first of the football games while getting all the trimmings ready. Mother, sister, brother-in-law, nephew, two daughters, one daughter’s boyfriend and his parents replaced aunts, uncles and cousins. Like the pilgrims that survived that first winter and the Wampanoag, who not only shared their knowledge of native crops but also celebrated the first harvest with them, we expressed our gratitude for being able to share our abundant good fortune.

There's plenty of food and none of us feel a need to shop.

Yet, there was something different about this year. Long before the media dubbed the day after Thanksgiving Black Friday, based on its significance as the day most Americans initiated their Christmas shopping, its role in retail marketing was evident. In 1939, the National Retail Dry Goods Association influenced FDR to move Thanksgiving a week earlier to extend the buying season. When the Internet became a haven for consumers who wanted to avoid being trampled in the Black Friday stampede, they invented Cyber Monday. Ever ready to make things “better for consumers,” retailers started opening at five A.M. and then, midnight. But, that wasn’t good enough. Enter Gray Thursday. That’s right, this year a few—you know who they are—stores decided you can end your thankfulness, leave your family gathering at five P.M. and get to their place by six for the super sales of everything you’ve always wanted to give to someone who already has too much, but is appreciative because it’s your patriotic duty as an American consumer to buy as much as you can on this newly invented bastion of the marketplace as the center of all that we are thankful for in the world.

With all these great deals it was hard for many Catholic consumers to understand why their new pope was arguing against unfettered capitalism. Apparently he was upset that the death of a homeless man from exposure didn’t receive as much attention in the media as a surge in the market. I wonder if any rabbis feel the same way.

What Exactly is a Cheesehead?

A generic response to the question posed in the title of this post might simply state that a cheesehead is a fan of the Green Bay Packer football team. According to the dictionary a fan is someone with a strong interest in a sport, art form or famous person. The term strong interest does not begin to describe a cheesehead. Looking further, one might discover the term fan is derived from fanatic. This is getting closer.

We train cheeseheads before they can walk.

First, there is the unparalleled nature of a professional football in a working class community of slightly more than 100,000. Recent expansion of Lambeau Field, where the Packers play, makes it possible to hold more than three quarters of these citizens at each and every game. Few high school stadiums can make such a claim. Not only is the city of Green Bay, the smallest city with a major sports franchise, but also the team is owned by a group of stockholders, mostly residents of Wisconsin, rather than an individual. Many of these stockholders are some of the most notable cheeseheads.

The "G" is for Green Bay, not General Foods.

Second, cheeseheads are incredibly loyal. Real cheeseheads don’t turn in their jerseys for Jets or Vikings paraphernalia just because one of the players who retires decides to return, but decides he won’t compete to get his job back and deserts his fans for cities that hand the car keys over to the whiny kid. In the same way, they continue to cheer for their team even after three straight losses. Such is the case this week. It comes as the result of an injury to their star quarterback, Aaron Rodgers, who was one of only 3 quarterbacks to start for the Packers during the previous 340 games (approximately 20 years). With the loss of Rodgers, the team was led by the third starting quarterback in as many games. Many young cheeseheads have never endured a losing streak like this before now.

Packers Helmets as well as Cheeseheads
are always in style.

Third, some cheeseheads have been through ups and downs, and downs and ups and are as tough as Wisconsin weather in winter is cold.  Those of us, like myself, who grew up with Vince Lombardi (fondly remembered as St. Vincent), have the Packer sweep, which was both a running play that rumbled for long yardage and a winning a series of winning streaks that ran for several seasons, emblazoned on our cheese coated cerebral cortexes. We endured the likes of Don Horn, Jerry Tagge, Scott Hunter, Jim Del Gaizo, John Hadl, Jack Concannon, Lynn Dickey, Carlos Brown, David Whitehurst, Jim Zorn, Alan Risher, Randy Wright, Anthony Dilweg, Mike Tomczak and Don Majkowski starting at quarterback for the previous two decades, and that’s not to mention the three guys who only started one game apiece. During this time period these quarterbacks set records for the number of times they found themselves flat on their backs due to the gaping holes in the offensive line. After enduring such a devastating drought, veteran cheeseheads find themselves prepared to hunker down and await the return of the usually durable Rodgers.

Finally, a cheesehead is a person who thinks he looks distinguished wearing a pie shaped slab of foam rubber with holes carved in it to resemble Swiss cheese, but dyed to a bright yellow reminiscent of cheddar.  Whether attending mass at the local Catholic Church, sitting on a stool with a shot and a beer at a nearby tavern, or standing over a Hibachi grill turning bratwurst in the parking lot, the cheesehead is properly attired with foam wedge on his or her head.

            So, look out Vikings. You may have the greatest running back ever to play the game, but no matter how many guys you dress in those silly horned helmets, they’re no match for the cheeseheads.

Becoming an Author

An Untarnished Moon-photo by D. Kabat-Silverstein

A few months ago I bored you with my analysis of What Kind of Idiot Writes (August 22, 2013). Those readers that actually read to the end of the post know my conclusion was writers write because they must. They don’t have a choice. Like their fellow artists, actors and musicians, they can choose whether they express their skill as a means of finding continuity or spirituality, or they seek to share their expression with other people. A final decision regards trading on artistry as a commercial enterprise. A few brave or foolhardy souls choose to make a living from such craft. The writers who actually enter the world of selling words to the few willing to pay for such nonsense are called authors.

It is hard to say at what point in my life I first realized I was obsessed with the insufferable need to write. Throughout junior and senior high school I chose sports and part time jobs over writing for the school newspaper. In college I took both expository and creative writing classes, and filled notebooks with some mediocre poetry. My conversion to wanting to write for the screen came during my years in graduate school, so I took a course in television writing. None of these courses, in my opinion, made me a better writer. This didn’t stop me from writing two horrendous and one fairly good screenplay. I even pitched the latter to a few Hollywood producers.

Paradise in a Bird's Eye-photo by D. Kabat-Silverstein

Two years ago last February, while continuing to earn a living as a teacher, I began work on my first novel. A year ago last May, after fifteen months of constructing a world of my own invention, I shared Fermentation with a few friends and family members. Wanting to take the next step, a friend led me to a mutual acquaintance that had recently become an author. Actually, he had published a few nonfiction stories before writing his first novel, which was then published by the same publisher that published his nonfiction books. He informed me I needed to have my writing edited by a professional before submitting it for publication. Fortunately, he connected me with his talented editor. His agent, however, was unavailable.

Putting the Final Touches on It
-photo by D. Kabat-Silverstein

So, as noted in last week’s post detailing what I had done during my month long hiatus in October, after a year of having agents decline my work, I went back to the proverbial drawing board and painstakingly revised my manuscript. Late Tuesday night (it was Wednesday morning in Michigan, where she currently resides) I received the newly revised tale along with her brilliant recommendations for additions, omissions and changes. With few exceptions, I have already accepted most of her grammar alterations.

As I set to work incorporating a major change my editor proposed, which will elevate this novel to a level that will put agents and publishers who pass on it at risk of losing their status in the community, if not sizable income, my confidence grows. At the same time, once this revision is complete and I return this second final draft for tweaks to make it shine, I will not rest and until I have secured an agent for representation and found the right publisher to make me an author.

So, Where Ya’ Been?

Dear Fans,

I want you to know how much I appreciate both of you being consistent followers and contributors to Hi Oh Silver. Having taken off the entire month of October, I knew I could count on your loyalty to bring the viability of this blog back to the forefront upon my return this month. More than likely, you have been asking yourself what happened to me during my absence.

First, I revised my novel. Since its completion in the spring of 2012, my first novel has received professional editing and over thirty passes by literary agents. This revision, which is currently being scrutinized by my editor, removed flabby language, changed passages from passive to active voice, and tightened the plot. I am confident the perfect literary agent for my work is only a hundred more passes away.

Colors along Lake Michigan--October, 2013

Second, I traveled to Wisconsin and Minnesota. For those of you who have accidentally stumbled upon this blog and are not as familiar with the idiosyncratic nature of its author, it might not seem apparent that I have not lived my entire life in Southern California. Although my demeanor may seem to bear the marks of a laid-back sun bleached dude floating on the carefree Santa Anas, my true soul is grounded in the industrialized angst of the frigid Midwest. On the second day of the month, we touched down in my native Milwaukee, and spent the first night in my daughter, Beth’s new home, a few blocks from the shores of Lake Michigan.  The next day we drove north to Freedom, a rural community between my wife, Debbie’s native Appleton and Green Bay, home of the Packers and shrine to cheese heads everywhere.

Road through Wisconsin--October, 2013

What made this trip different were the colors. For the previous fifteen years that we lived on the West Coast, we were limited, as teachers, to trips during the spring, summer or winter. This time we were able to once again experience the changing colors of autumn. While I visited with my friend, Mike, a couple dairy farms with thousands of cows—it is the Dairy State; Debbie began her collection of a thousand photographs. After a Friday night fish fry, where we were treated to breaded lake perch, something rare in other parts of the country, we ate dinner at a different sister-in-law’s house each of the following three nights. Then, we drove across the state to Minnesota.

My Three Daughters with Deb and Me--October, 2013

Anoka, where Deb and I started our married life and Heather was born, sits along the northern banks of the Mississippi River about twenty miles from the twin cities of Minneapolis-St. Paul. Our old neighbors, who we stayed with, moved a few miles further to the less densely populated Dayton. A couple nights later we drove back across Wisconsin and spent the remainder of our time visiting family and friends in the Milwaukee area.

Third, Beth came to defend her dissertation at the University of California—Riverside. Not ten days had passed since we returned home that Beth came from Wisconsin and Courtney from Arizona. Heather, who lives in Irvine, joined us the next day. It was the first time Deb and I were with our three daughters at one time since Heather graduated from law school in New York.  Although the extended weekend was all too short, it was a wonderful end to a beautiful month.