In Which a Daughter Abandons her Mother on Thanksgiving

I'm having Thanksgiving with the sisters today. My mom gave me a lot of guilt for this, maybe half-jokingly, but I can't help enjoying their company, even if they are always telling stories about people I don't know.

I've decided that key ingredients of community life are stories (repeatedly told...are they tapping into an oral tradition?) and traditions. Today, as a sort of belated initiation, I will experience two traditional rites to which Sister Kathi typically exposes newcomers.

The first is a movie called Brides of Christ, a six-part series about religious sisterhood that Sister Chris and Sister Kathi can recite by heart.

The second is the performance of poetry for multiple voices. (Yes, I'm getting it now...just like minstrels or tribal gatherings--spoken word and song!)

My mom and I always batter the ears of familial guests with a piano duet at holiday gatherings. Maybe this year I'll suggest that we perform a poem.

I tried to teach my mother how to read poetry once. We were in the kitchen, attempting lemon bars. My mom sprung upon the recipe as a found poem, and it was a good one, too. But she couldn't master the dreamy affect it required, the pacing, the flow. When I demonstrated, she grabbed the video camera and tried to tape me. Certain blackmail. We were so loopy that night. I think we ended up as heaps on the floor, sides splitting and the lemon bars unbaked.

Maybe I shouldn't have left her home alone today...