By Wendy Bauder
When Thanksgiving rolls around every November, we are called to remember those things we are blessed with all year long. This year a silly snippet from my youth reminded me of the many things I take for granted.
I was eleven years old the year my Dad’s side of the family held Thanksgiving at the tiny Fire House where my Uncle Chet was a volunteer fireman. That year was notable for two reasons. There was a fire call that night and the ladder truck in sirens and full regalia was one of the coolest things I’d ever seen. The second thing I remember was Uncle Chet’s dinner blessing.
Uncle Chet volunteered to save people’s lives but he made his living as a Preacher, working to save their souls. Like any good preacher, Chet could pray longer than any normal person could concentrate and this year was no exception. Chet’s dinner prayer became a lengthy litany of things I’d never given a second thought to. In a restless attempt at humor, my cousin whispered words in my ear that forever defined the moment: “And God bless the mashed potatoes.” Now, well into my adult years, those words have become a token phrase to signify a belaboring of the obvious.
Two days after surgery on my Achilles tendon I attempted to wash my hair by balancing on the edge of our bathtub with my good leg and using my casted leg as ballast to keep me from falling in. The results were fair with a most of the water going toward scrubbing the linoleum. My husband bit his tongue and mopped up the water. Two more days went by before I used the kitchen sink to lather up my tresses. I could have used another set of hands; two to hang onto crutches and two to wash my hair. I also discovered that if my good leg could speak – the one supporting all of my body weight – it wouldn’t be saying nice things to me.
My Orthopedic surgeon gave the A-okay for me to travel for Thanksgiving so six days after surgery my family braved the highways and enjoyed the amenities of hotel living. Since my husband has had to juggle the roles of nursemaid, cook and manservant since my injury, I hoped the temporary respite from most of those duties would put him in a good mood when I asked for his help to wash my hair.
Our hotel bathroom had a large, vertical safety rail mounted on the tile next to the tub. I figured I could hang onto the bar with both hands, lock my elbows and lean as far back over the tub as possible while keeping my plaster cast out of the spray of the shower nozzle. My husband aimed the shower head above me and set to work lathering up my hair. At the end of the exercise, in which both of us worked up a sweat, my arms were a quarter inch longer but my hair was clean. I thanked my husband for the assistance and sweetly asked him to let his fingernails grow a little for better scrubbing power. He grunted, mopped his brow and mumbled something about cutting my hair when I wasn’t looking.
All this to suggest that the next time you wash your own hair – by yourself – stop and give thanks for the obvious. And God Bless the mashed potatoes.
