Our friend, Roy Pitt, who volunteers with Jim at the Ft. Worth Veterans Memorial Air Park, sent this note after reading my "Toys for Tots" story. Thank you, Roy, for giving us a glimpse of what it's like to deliver to the kiddos.

Our local Marine Reserve station here [Texarkana] doesn't do drive-by’s [toy and fund collections]. They do a tent at our two Walmarts (one on the Texas side and one on the Arkansas side); we volunteers help out there. Our biggest job and best time is the hand outs. We old Corps guys man the hand-out station and do deliveries. Seeing the kids scream, cry, and generally run around like wild Indians is absolutely the best.

Roy Pitt, USMC Vietnam Vet

The Christmas Gift

At last I’m sitting down and sitting still long enough to write. For the past three weeks, whenever I thought about writing, my inner nag would remind me of something I needed to do to get ready for Christmas.

My Christmas was wonderful and I hope yours was also. Robert came home on Monday before Christmas and stayed until the following Sunday. Jim has been home since the 22nd, even after getting stuck in London an extra day with scheduling and routing problems with his airline. In the old days, when he was a junior pilot with little seniority, he would have been lucky to hold a schedule that got him home the day after Christmas. With age does come some perks.

While I’m most grateful to my family and my friends for their generosity and hospitality this holiday season, I’d like to tell you about a wonderful gift I gave myself.

On Saturday, December 12, Jim and I, along with our friends Gerry Fix, Judy Haag, and Sandy Wroe, volunteered to help collect for the United States Marine Corps “Toys for Tots” program. On behalf of the Ft. Worth Veterans Memorial Air Park, we manned a very busy intersection near the Hulen Mall in Ft. Worth. For four hours, we waved our collection buckets and dashed out into traffic when someone offered a donation. That may not sound very long, but be assured that age 60-plus feet, knees, and backs are getting a real workout in those four hours. Avoiding getting run over, and hopping over curbs and fire ant mounds, made for an exhausting, but truly rewarding adventure.

Sandy and I worked with a handsome young man who said his name was Ambrose. I asked him if that was his first name or his last name and what would he like us to call him. He said we could call him Lance Corporal. I respectfully obliged, but as I recall, Sandy called him “Sweetie” the whole time. He didn’t seem to mind. Sandy and I were all bundled up for the drizzle and cold weather we had that weekend, while Lance Corporal Ambrose was in his dress blues only. Surely the U.S.M.C. has heard about silk long johns from L.L.Bean. The kid was freezing. After a couple of hours of running out into traffic, Lance Corporal Ambrose announced to me, “I feel really happy and kind of wired.”

“I think it’s the carbon monoxide,” I told him. “You need a break.” He had less than an hour to go, so he stuck with it—with a smile, a “thank you,” and a “Merry Christmas” to everyone who donated.

The Debrief

When our stretch ended, Jim took us girls to lunch at Chili’s. The five of us talked and laughed and rehashed the experience and the people we encountered. We all agreed that the Marines were amazing young men and women. And we all agreed that we had observed these three things:

• The more expensive the vehicle, the less likely the driver was to make a donation. Perhaps the drivers of the Jaguars and Hummers that roared past us with the windows up had already given all they could. I say that with equal parts sincerity, wonder and sarcasm. We all found that fascinating.

• Conversely, the more beat up and run down the vehicle, the more likely the driver was to give something. And often the drivers of those old clunkers would let their tiny children drop a few coins into our buckets. Many folks emptied their coin-filled ashtray for us, apologizing that it was all they had. We also found that fascinating.

• And finally, we discovered that begging on a street corner is a humbling experience. We caught on quickly that a window rolled down as a vehicle approached meant we would receive a donation. But it was also nice when a driver would smile and wave as they drove on, windows up, without making a donation. We learned that a smile and a wave are gifts of kindness and humanity, too.

All five of us had aches and pains in one area or another afterward, but we all agreed it was an uplifting, truly rewarding experience, and we’ll gladly do it again next year!

Happy New Year to all,
Donna

The Tale of the Turkey

How was your Thanksgiving? Robert was home, so ours was perfect—except for the fire and all.

We had a little trouble with our ancient turkey fryer equipment. The first signs of a problem were the hissing sound and smell of gas in the air on the porch. There was a broken O-ring on the hose that connected the propane tank to the burner. Jim quickly replaced the O-ring, fired up the burner, and came inside to give the oil in the fryer a little time to heat up while he watched some football.

After a few minutes he went outside to check the temperature of the oil and discovered the propane hose had now separated from the burner and was on fire. As anyone who ever prepared a Thanksgiving dinner knows, an hour and a half before dinner is not a great time to discover that you can’t cook the turkey. Never mind the fact that the flaming hose was still attached to a full can of propane gas.

I had timed everything to perfection. While Jim and Robert worked on the outdoor Christmas lights, I pulled the turkey out of the fridge at 1400 and set it in the kitchen sink. After rinsing and drying, I injected that baby with a mixture of Shiner Holiday Cheer beer and a little Tabasco sauce. It sounded dangerous to me, but Jim’s hairdresser swore by it. Jim was to start heating the oil at 1430; it would reach 350 degrees sometime between 1515 and 1530, at which time the 13.8 pound turkey would go into the oil. Forty-eight minutes and twenty seconds later, the turkey would be done. After resting for 30 minutes, Jim could carve the beast and we would sit down to eat at 1700 (5:00 pm for non-airline/military types). Unfortunately, faulty outdoor Christmas lights and football on TV was too great a diversion for Chef Jim.

After taking care of the potential propane bomb, we fired up the BBQ grill, set the huge pot of peanut oil on the grate, and prayed that the grill would not collapse under the weight of three gallons of oil and a 13.8 pound turkey—and that the oil would heat up. It did. A half-hour later the turkey went sizzling into the hot oil and forty-eight minutes and twenty seconds later Jim brought a beautifully done turkey into the kitchen to rest.

Eventually, everything was under control and dinner was served—only an hour and a half late. That really wasn’t too bad considering the “little snags.” Also, it seems my son had told his friends “Don’t be late because my mom goes a little crazy over Thanksgiving dinner.” What crazy?! I had announced that dinner would be served at 5:00 pm. I had everything under control. Both of my son’s friends had arrived by 4:00 pm to ensure that I did not go crazy. And I did my very best to appear totally calm and in control, (the wine helped). Does anybody know if Golden Corral is open on Christmas?

Happy Holidays!
Donna