Suzy Says

Happy holidays, everyone! We’re planning to spend the day in the traditional manner — at the movies. Hope you all have a happy day.

Even though (or maybe because) we aren’t celebrating Christmas this year, my thoughts keep turning to the past. We usually went to my mother’s parents for Christmas. I suppose at some point we must have stayed home, but in the selective way of memory, we always seem to be at my grandparents’ big white Victorian house in a small town in New York state. In my memory, it’s always snowing.

My grandparents’ house had a big double parlor, separated by pocket doors (sliding doors that disappeared into the wall if you wanted to throw the rooms together). In the front parlor, they set up the Christmas tree. The ceilings downstairs were 12 feet high, and the windows themselves were seven feet tall. So there was scope for a truly grand tree. The tree would be decorated and lit up, and then my grandparents would open the sliding doors to reveal it in all its glory.

From the front door, which you can see in the picture, you could look down the street to the town square, where the town’s big tree was lit up and decorated. We went to church on Christmas Eve night, which was quite exciting because we never went to church otherwise, and it was fun to be out late, under the cold stars, with the anticipation of Christmas morning still to come. When we got home, we could each open one present before going to bed. On Christmas morning, we woke up to find our stockings, filled with little gifts and candy, waiting on the foot of our beds. There was always an orange in the toe.

We had to eat breakfast before we could open the rest of our presents. Nana always made her own sticky buns for Christmas morning, baked in a Christmas tree shaped tin, but we just raced through them to get to the presents, while the grown-ups sleepily drank their coffee and thought wistfully of going back to bed. We played with our new toys by the fire, presided over by the glittering tree, completely happy. There’s nothing like Christmas when you’re a child.

Happy anniversary to us!

Eleven years ago today, we were married at my father’s house. Here’s

Dad and me after the ceremony. It was such a happy day. I didn’t have the slightest fear or worry, just happiness.

Dad gave a charming toast to us — short and affectionate. Here are his notes, written in his own hand, and the text of it is as follows:

“Complaints were once made to Theodore Roosevelt about the conduct of his daughter. He replied, “I can run my daughter, or I can run the country, but I cannot do both.” Environment Canada has just launched its comprehensive Green Plan. I talked to my minister about my problems and we came up with Rufus.

Susan does [have] some good points — long pause — she likes good wine, — short pause — good food, and can cook. She also has her faults — takes out stacks of file cards — but you don’t want to hear me talk all evening while the champagne gets warm and the food cold. So I will just wish the newly married couple every happiness.”

Last year, we went on our grand tour of Europe for our 10th anniversary. It was the honeymoon we never had, and it was a wonderful trip. We spent the day itself in Paris, and Dad called me that morning to wish me happy anniversary. And a year later, the day is here again, but he isn’t.

But I am so glad he was there to give me away at my wedding, and to share our joy that day, and to know how very happy we are together. Of the many things we had in common, perhaps the best was that we both were so happily married. And I will always have the memories.

Although my brother, sister and I agreed immediately after we got back from London that we wanted to spend Thanksgiving together — and we had a great time — we also agreed instantly that none of us could bear to have Christmas this year. No debate. So I am being very Grinch-like and trying to stop Christmas from coming, at least into my house.

Chez moi, the only way you can tell that this particular holiday is hovering on the horizon is the dozens of Christmas cards arranged haphazardly around the living room, where they are constantly being knocked over by our four curious cats. Other than that, it could be any other time of year, the illusion being helped by the fact that the seasons don’t really change around here, or at least that the change is quite subtle.

OK, so I thought I was pretty Grinchy. But on my way home from work yesterday, I saw a Christmas tree abandoned on the sidewalk. Now, I’ve seen them huffed on the street the day after Christmas, sometimes even the morning of the day after Christmas (which is just so depressing), but never four days before Christmas. Now, that’s weird.

An abstract Christmas tree: the unbroken line of cabs with their little roof lights lit up, waiting at a red light on the steep Union Street hill in the dark, early this morning.

Thanks to all for your advice and support on the Dallas debate. I am pretty sure now that I’m not going to go. My sister Megan agrees with all you guys that it’s not worth the stress, especially for something that I don’t want to do. I haven’t actually cancelled my reservations, but just the thought of not going has been a total relief, which should tell me something.

Megan also suggested that I try hypnosis to get rid of my fear of flying, and I think that’s a great idea. I’ll call and get a referral today (after all, it’s free, so why not?). It really is something I need to get over, since I do want to go to Maine next summer and I should go to England and Canada, too. Hopefully I’ll have enough time to pack it all into one year.

So I guess I have some early New Year’s resolutions. Wonder if that has anything to do with how eager I am to see the end of this horrible year? Here they are:

1. Try to conquer the fear of flying.

2. Go and get a damn check-up, even though they will tell me that I’m 4 feet tall and weigh 300 pounds, and the Pap test will completely freak out my entire bod.

3. Get another mammogram. I haven’t had one (or a damn check-up) for three years, so I better do it. Possibly even four years. Also would rather have 10 mammograms than one Pap test, so it’s not like I’m scared or anything.

Here’s to a fearless 2002 for Suzy!

My brother and I decided to get the all steel carport for Josephine. We think it will be a better shelter for her, and cheaper than replacing the plastic covering of the other carport for the next 25 years. Thanks to Babs for her advice.

Here’s my dilemma du jour.

In January every year (inconveniently coinciding with MacWorld, so I can never see Candi and Brian if they come here for it), we have a meeting of our staff from around the world. It’s a huge, wasteful expenditure as far as I’m concerned — our bonus pool is at 35%, and they’re holding the meeting at the Four Seasons Resort in Dallas, where the rooms are $300 a night — and basically just an excuse to drink. I have absolutely no interest in getting toasted with co-workers, local or foreign. And believe me, if you do, you never live it down. People still laugh at the guy who got so drunk one year that he peed in the manager’s office of a bar, being temporarily unable to distinguish it from the men’s room.

I hate to fly at the best of times, and the last time I flew was home from my father’s funeral. It took 3 valiums and a bottle of champagne to get through that 11 hour joyride, only days before the September 11 disasters. So I’m not jumping for joy at the prospect of flying to Dallas, the site chosen for January’s annual debacle. No good has ever come of going to Dallas. Just ask JFK. Also I have managed to avoid Texass, as my friend Dawn calls it, my whole life, and I don’t think I’m missing anything.

My boss came into my office yesterday and asked me if I was going. I said I wasn’t sure, and she said that if I don’t go, it will look like I’m not a team player, don’t care about what our firm does, it will create a negative perception about me within the company, etc. Now, I do consider myself a team player and I take pride in doing my work well, but it is just a job to me. But that’s not why I don’t want to go to Dallas. I don’t want to go because I’m afraid to fly, and I feel too emotional right now to be able to make a rational decision, but I have to, before the end of the month.

So I just laid it on the line with her, and told her about the demons I’ve been fighting since August 18, what my days and nights are like, the things I have had to go through, all this while not missing one single day of work, even when I break down crying. She was pretty floored, and gave me a really big, sincere hug. I was ready to let go before she was. Wow. Then she said it was completely up to me, she’d understand whatever I decided.

So that’s the problem. I can get out of it now, but don’t know if I should. The flight to Dallas is just a little over 3 hours, so it could be a good way of easing into flying again, especially since I will be doing a fair bit next year. I’d like to go to Maine for my 40th birthday in June, and at some point we should visit Rufus’ folks in Ontario, Canada, and finally, I will need to go to England at some point next year, so I should try to get over it. But it does scare me, a lot. I hate having to act like a grown-up. I still don’t feel like one, and I don’t know what to do.

Today’s soundtrack en route to work: Red Elvises’ “I Wanna See You Bellydance”.

Seen en route: at a corner store (with a remarkably wide range of wine displayed in a plate glass window), an apparently permanent shrine to Mary against the far wall, but with a charming holiday twist. She is now framed with a huge lighted wreath, topped with a giant red bow and flanked by two plastic Santas, lit from within. All the bases are covered, right there.

For those of you wondering how my sister’s kittens are doing, they’re doing fine. They got home on Saturday evening, and the two other cats are pretty much disdaining them, but the kittens have each other to play with, so they don’t care. I wonder if they know they are finally home. They went from Mom’s neighbor’s place to being left in the street to being rescued by Megan and staying at Mom’s, then stuffed into a carrier and brought here on a plane, then at my place for a few days, then stuffed into the carrier again and driven to the country. I know I’d be confused. But just wait until they realize this is home. They’re going to be so happy!

Last year, I lost my parking place in the building next door, and I couldn’t find another one within a 12 block radius, so I drove my adorable car Josephine up to my brother Jonathan’s place in the country, where she has been living ever since. Jonathan has done a bunch of work on her and also has the fun of driving her, so it’s worked out pretty well.

Jonathan came back from a trip to Mt. Shasta on Monday to discover that the supposedly waterproof Goretex cover we bought last year had sprung a leak, and there was about a quarter of an inch of water sitting inside. This was especially annoying because Jonathan had taken Josie to the beauty parlor in the summer and had the whole inside steam cleaned, the top UV proofed, and the rest of the car cleaned and waxed. Now she’s just getting all mildewed and it’s very depressing.

We have decided that we have to get a carport for Josephine. The question is which one. We can get an all steel one for $1,500, or one with an aluminum frame with a domed plastic top and plastic sides, which costs about half of that. Basically, it’s a tent for your car, and they say it really is waterproof, unlike the stupid Goretex thing. It does have a two year warranty, too. I can’t decide if we should just spend the money and get one that is guaranteed for 25 years, or spend half of that and possibly have to replace the plastic coverings one every few years.

Any thoughts or ideas on this?

For some reason, a lot seems to happen in and around my life on December 17. For example, today is the 25th wedding anniversary of Rufus’ brother Mike and his wife, Charmaine. It’s the day I passed my driving test. It’s the 7th birthday of my friend Cammy’s son Cole, her only child and one she waited so long for. Dad and Margaret should have been arriving today to spend the holidays with us. But, most important of all, Rufus and I met 14 years ago today. And three years and a week later, we were married.

And after nearly 11 years of marriage, I am proud to announce the arrival of Rufus’ very first novel, under the nom de plume of Jack McCallum. Check it out!

On Friday, I went to Macy’s in Union Square, braving the Christmas shopping maddened crowds and the selling frenzied saleslady at the Clinique counter to try and buy a replacement for my favorite lipstick. I had managed to lose it the week before and I wanted to wear it to dinner with Megan and my aunt that evening. It’s the one I wear the most (I’m wearing it in the picture of me in my bio), and imagine my horror when I discovered that the powers that be at Clinique had decided, in their infinite wisdom, to discontinue it.

So instead of being able to just grab it and go, I had to spend 15 minutes trying various other shades, which weren’t as good as the one I had lost, before finally selecting the least disappointing imitation. Why do cosmetic companies always discontinue the shades I like?

We had dinner that night at the historic Fort Mason Officers’ Club, which has one of the best views in the city from the dining room. The dining room is shaped in a semi-circle, with the curved part being windows which overlook Aquatic Park, Hyde Street Pier, Alcatraz, and pretty much the whole Bay, looking east toward the Bay Bridge.

It used to be that only officers, retired and active, could dine there (with, of course, friends and family). My aunt’s husband had been a Lieutenant Colonel in the Navy, and had served on the base at Treasure Island. We used to go to the Club with him. He passed away nine years ago in January, but we still keep up the tradition of having dinner there a few times a year. Since the Presidio has been de-commissioned, as have so many other military bases, there are fewer people to eat at the Club and keep it going, so they now allow the general public to have dinner there and admire the view. Just call ahead for reservations and dress nicely, and you too can enjoy one of the best views of the Bay.

My sister Megan arrived not only safely, but a few minutes early yesterday, along with her two kittens. This is unusual for Megan, whose every flight seems to be delayed. For example, on her way down to San Diego to visit Mom last week, her flight was delayed exactly as long as the actual flight. I have noticed this often happens when flying within California.

At first, United tried to tell Megan that she couldn’t bring both the kittens in one carrier, etc., but eventually they relented. They provided the kittens with their very own tickets, and didn’t even glance at the health certificate they had demanded Megan obtain for the kittens before they would be allowed on the plane. Once the plane was in the air, most of the passengers couldn’t resist checking out the smallest passengers. Megan said that from staid businessmen to kids, they were all absolutely charmed by the little cats. The carrier not only fit neatly under the seat in front of Megan’s, but also has metal bars across the top so you can see and pet the kittens without opening the carrier. So the flight, barely over an hour, passed very quickly, what with all the petting and cooing and mewing.

Anyway, when I got home yesterday, the kittens had both made themselves at home. They looked as if they had always lived here. The silver kitten, Harriet (in honor of the heroine of the classic Harriet the Spy) was sleeping on a chair in the kitchen. The brown kitten, Ramona, named for the irrepressible (and brown-haired) Ramona Quimby of the Ramona the Pest series, was happily playing in the living room.

Our Siamese cat, Jack, who thinks she’s so tough, was just horrified by the kittens and was hiding. The other cats were completely uninterested in the guest kittens. Maybe they could somehow tell that they are guest kittens and will be out of here soon.

But in the meantime…kittens to play with!

Whoever invented Walkmans (Walkmen?) is a genius. It’s like having a soundtrack to your life. And it does make walking to work alone less boring. Today it was Lou Reed, both in his Velvets incarnation and later, keeping me company.

I always have to be distracted from the boredom of exercise, and I don’t think I’m the only one. Gyms are full of people listening to music, watching TV, and reading books to keep their minds off the dreariness/pain/horror of their hamster in a cage activity.

I think I have finally figured out why I hate exercise so much. Partly it’s because my body was issued without the endorphins package (if only my parents had gone for the deluxe model!), so I never get that “high” that people say they get from it. If I feel good after exercising, it’s because it’s over and I don’t have to do it anymore..that day.

And there’s the rub. It’s never over. You might be done for today and can feel virtuous about it, but tomorrow, as Scarlett O’Hara observed, is another day, and with it the requirement of exercising yet again. I don’t like things that are vague or infinite. I definitely like things that are, well, definite and can be completed, checked off the list, over and done with. Knowing it’s looming on the horizon, day after day ad infinitum, ad nauseam, is very depressing. It’s just so Sisyphus, and remember, that was a torture of the damned.

They say to find something you like doing, but there really isn’t anything I like doing. I hate that hamster in a cage gym thing, and anything that requires changing out of my clothes and then getting back into them later. Getting dressed once a day is more than enough for me.

I also absolutely despise sweating, for which there is only one good reason, and it ain’t working out.

So the best I can do is walk to work, up and down the hills, for almost two miles. I’d rather walk than deal with Muni anyway. Some days I walk home, too. I mean to every day, but sometimes I’m late, or have errands to run, or just plain don’t feel like it. But then, tomorrow is another day.

As promised, the charming storyette about the birth of fettucine Alfredo. Like most births, this was preceded by a pregnancy. The pregnancy of Roman restaurateur Alfredo di Lelio’s wife in 1914, to be precise. Signora di Lelio, like our friend Carrie, whose baby is due on Christmas Eve (but will he/she fit under the tree?), didn’t have much of an appetite during the first few months.

Now, this is something that no Italian, let alone a restaurant owner, likes to see. So Alfredo decided that he would invent a dish that his wife could not resist. So he went into the kitchen, mixed together Parmesan, butter and cream and put it on pasta. His wife loved it and legend says she cleaned her plate. Just a few months later, along came Alfredo II, born in the di Lelio’s apartment above their little restaurant. So that’s actually two births for one pregnancy. Not bad.

And PS: Alfredo’s restaurant is still there, owned and operated by Alfredo III, of course. So when in Rome…

So we had a new waiter at our favorite little hole in the wall restaurant last night (though our usual guy stopped by to say hello & make sure everything was up to the usual high standard), and I’m pretty sure I’d be a happier girl today if we’d had the usual guy.

Practically no-one can finish all the food you get there at one sitting. Brian had some pizza and the specialty of the house bread to eat on the plane, thereby making sure his trip home, though late at night and into the early hours of the morning, was much better than anyone else’s on that plane. Rufus had calzone for a late night snack. I had chicken fettucine Alfredo, or so I thought (sometime, I’ll tell you about the origins of Fettucine Alfredo. It’s a charming story), which I was planning to have for lunch today. I confidently opened the container, only to faced with wilted salad, complete with dressing, which enhanced its depressed demeanor, and which oddly included what appeared to be salami.

This begs a couple of questions. Why would you get a doggy bag for salad, which notoriously does not age well and is about the last thing one would wish to have in the way of leftovers? And who has my fettucine?

Damn.

It was great seeing Brian. The time just flew, and before we knew it, he was off to the airport. One of these days, he’s got to bring Candi with him! Maybe for MacWorld?

Good deed for the day: lent/gave my sister money to pay for getting two neglected kittens their shots and certified to bring home with her from San Diego on Wednesday (the airline requires a certificate showing the cats have had their shots before they can be brought onto the plane); also, the money required by United to allow the cats to travel in a carrier under her seat.

The kittens belonged to a couple of 19 year olds in Mom’s apartment building, who got tired of cleaning their litter box and feeding them, so they left them outside, not feeding them and leaving them at risk of being hit by a car or killed by coyotes (as Mom’s cat was, earlier this week). When Megan saw them playing in the road, she just went and got them, talked to their owners (who were happy to give them up), called her husband (who was happy to get them) and then made all the arrangements to bring the kittens back to her place in the country. If she left them behind, they would definitely die, and she just couldn’t do that.

This will bring her cat population up to four, all rescued: Greta, who had lived in a shelter for her entire lifetime of 5 years before Megan adopted her; Luna, who was left in Megan’s house by her previous owners when they moved; and now these two little littermates, Olivia and Ramona. Come to think of it, Megan and I both have 4 females and our brother Jonathan has two male cats. Hmmm.

Well, it’s finally sunny, and warmer, too. I was hoping the weather would clear up, since we’re getting a visit this evening from the wonderful Brian (also known as fabulous Candi’s fianc?), who has a few hours to kill before his late-night flight home to his sweetie. I always feel bad when people visit and it’s raining and/or cold. So hopefully it will stay clear until sometime after midnight. Seeing Brian will be the most fun we’ve had all week!

It’s been raining the past couple of days. If I could control the weather, I’d only have it rain when most of us were asleep — say, between the hours of 11 p.m. and 4 a.m. Seems completely reasonable to me, but I’m sure it wouldn’t seem that way to confirmed night owls.

It was raining hard enough that I took the bus in to work this morning. Every time I take the bus, I remember why I stopped taking it in the first place. The waiting. The stinkiness. The crowdedness. The boring conversations. The breathtaking rudeness of one’s fellow passengers. Note to self: walk or take a cab.

Yesterday, I had about an inch and a half cut off my hair. Good-bye, trailer trash split ends! I hadn’t had my hair cut since June, so I had to fill Mauro in on all my bad news. He was really sweet — he lost his own father a couple of years ago, so he understood and just gave me a big hug.

Mauro, on the other hand, had wonderful news. He’s getting married next year! The last time I saw him, he was bubbling over about his new girlfriend, a fellow (sister?) Brazilian named Juliani. He’s dated a *lot*, and even then I thought “This one’s different.” And so it is. Of course, since it’s Mauro, there is a tiny bit of scandalousness attached to his getting engaged to a lovely, church-going girl. She’s 20 years younger than he is. Despite my mother’s disastrous second marriage to a guy half her age, and Hollywood grandfathers teetering on the edge of the grave fathering children, I do think that in some cases it’s the person and not the age. I hope these two have a lifetime of happiness ahead of them.

I know it’s really bad that I haven’t had a check-up, including a Pap test, in three years. Basically, since I no longer need a birth control prescription, I don’t go. My niece, on the other hand, at the wise old age of 19, had an appointment scheduled today for her very first Pap test. She lives in England. Here’s her e-mail to me describing what happened:

“You won’t believe this. I went to see the nurse today for my Pap test and she said she wouldn’t give me one because I’m too young. She said that I have to be 21 to have a Pap test and that when I’m due for it I’ll get a letter in the mail. You are basically only allowed a test if you’ve had the letter or you’ve been referred by your doctor because you’ve had some unusual discharge, etc. She also said you’re only allowed to have them every three years.”

Now, here’s a young woman who is trying to take care of herself and is being refused care by the national healthcare system (NHS). Apparently they are unaware that cervical cancer is a young woman’s disease — I know two women who got it, and they both got it before the age of 25. They both also discovered it through, you guessed it, their annual Pap test. And both women had it treated immediately, and years later, have no recurring symptoms. The American Cancer Society suggests that a woman start getting Pap tests at the age of 18, or upon becoming sexually active, whatever comes first. They further recommend that everyone, including me, get a Pap test once a year.

My sister Beth, who is my niece’s mother, asked her doctor about getting a mammogram when Beth was 37. That year, our mother had a radical mastectomy, and gave all three of her daughters the medical records, so Beth brought them with her when she met with her doctor. Her doctor told her that she couldn’t get a mammogram before the age of 50, no matter what her family history was. Compare that to what happened to me. I was 35 at the time. I went to my doctor with the same medical records, and she scheduled a mammogram for me that week. She said the guidelines in the US recommend getting a baseline mammogram before the age of 40, and having them every 1-2 years until the age of 50, when they should become annual. Given how bad my mother’s cancer was my doctor felt it was wiser to err on the side of caution, and I’m thankful for that. By the way…my Mom’s fine and has even finished her chemotherapy.

It just blows my mind that all English women, including my sister, are getting this kind of misinformation and poor medical treatment. Come to think of it, my niece’s boyfriend’s mother died of cervical cancer before the age of 40. Someone should get the message to these women that the English healthcare system is completely unacceptable. But what can they do, since the healthcare system is government-run?

Today is my sister Beth & her husband Harry’s 20th anniversary! They are spending it in Italy (they live in England, so getting there takes them about the same amount of time as it takes me to get to LA), and I hope they’re having a happy, romantic time. Like you can have a bad time in Italy.

Harry said he would get the train tickets to London, where their flight left from, but he didn’t. Instead, he booked a limo with champagne, chocolate, flowers, the works! Any trip that starts out that way has to be good.

I’m really glad for them. They got married when they had both been 20 for a month, Beth was already expecting Catherine (born the following July) and they were both still in college. They’ve been through a lot, but have two wonderful kids and a happy life together. Quite an achievement!

Oddly, both of my sisters got married when they were just 20. It was the furthest thing from my mind when I was 20. I was still shopping. And the thought of being legally bound to any decision I made when I was 20 years old, let alone one as important as that, just fills me with horror. So my sisters must be much more mature than I am, because they are both still happily married. 20 years for Beth & Harry today, 10 years for Megan & Rob this past July, and 11 years for me and Rufus next month. So far, so good. And I can personally tell you: romance and passion get stronger with the years.

I finally picked up my adorable watch, now repaired October 23 entry). It took a million years for it to be fixed, because the guy who usually does it is on a trip to China and hasn’t come back (hmmm). So a replacement guy was doing it, and he was very, very slow.

Since it took so long, I bought a replacement watch while I was waiting. By the time my original watch was repaired, I had gotten quite fond of the Other Watch. But when I picked up the Original Watch, not only fixed but with all its diamonds cleaned, I immediately remembered why I loved it so much. This must be an emotion experienced by many cheating spouses. Like them, I think I’ll keep the Other One around, just in case. And in the meantime, I can enjoy being all sparkly again.

I have to start working on my willpower, though. Currently, I don’t have any (or patience, either), and while picking up my watch I was unable to resist buying a pair of earrings. They are little studs set in matte silver, small, and set with raw unpolished opals. I’m wearing them right now. I think it’s going to take me some time to get used to this nouveau pauvre thing. In the meantime, I will try to stay away from jewelry stores, no matter how much I need retail therapy.

I wonder why we don’t have Thanksgiving Eve in the same way we have Christmas Eve. Both of these holidays are preceded by a whirlwind of activity and preparation for just one day, and then it’s over. Maybe we don’t have Thanksgiving Eve because everyone’s on the road or in a plane. After all, it’s the biggest travel day of the year.

This has been the worst year of my life, even worse than the twelve month period when I lost all of my grandparents. Even if I won the lottery tonight, it would still be the worst year of my life. My 69 year old mother, a breast cancer survivor and in poor health, was left completely penniless by her heartless second husband. My beloved father and friend passed away suddenly, a loss I will never really recover from, and less than a week after I returned home from his funeral, the September 11 tragedy occurred, forever removing the remaining vestiges of innocence from our existence. This week, Thanksgiving week, Rufus was laid off from his job, after working there almost a decade.

But despite all this, I feel that I have a great deal to be thankful for. During this terrible year, I have become closer to my mother and my older sister. I have had an outpouring of love, support, and encouragement from family and friends all over the world. I had a remarkable friendship and deep bond with my father, and that will always be with me, even if he is not. I have the most wonderful husband, who makes me laugh no matter how bad things get, and who is the foundation of my life. I will be together with my family and surrounded by love at Thanksgiving. For all this, I am truly thankful. And I am looking to the future with hope.

Happy Thanksgiving to all of you.