verge (vʉrj)
the edge, brink, or margin (of something): also used figuratively the verge of the forest, on the verge of hysteria

to tend or incline (to or toward)
to be in the process of change or transition into something else; pass gradually (into) dawn verging into daylight

Friday, November 27, 2009

Maeve Hits Her Mark (et al.)

Thanksgiving Day is the Magnum Opus of Corgi-hood.  Maeve, like Twyla Tharpe, choreographed the day with stunning success, bringing forth various textures, themes, tastes and tales with unparalleled artistry and verve.   A good corgi does this instinctively, but Maeve is a virtuoso, the Yo-Yo Maeve of her breed.  As her flock gathered for the day, Maeve whirled with poetic grace, greeting each new arrival with euphoric expectation while simultaneously managing more acrobatic maneuvers such as supervising the lifting of the turkey from its pan and onto the carving board, and catching crumbs before they hit the floor.  But Maeve's real magic took place beneath the surface, transcending the technical demands of the day and lasting well beyond.

Maeve's magic comes from knowing her charges and tending to the uniqueness of each one.   This flock is a diverse cast of flock-ees, a cacophony of rather contumaciously-infused characters (and that's putting it lightly).  There's Dave, who glides in on a blues riff, all jammin' and jivin' to the sound of ssssound. We have babes Molly and Nell, quiet, clever, and like, wickedly cool.  And then there's Genilson.  HelloGenilson (liquid in leather) whose warmth makes you believe he would hold your hand forever. Avery weaves time into gold and gold into a stunning web of silky loominosity while ever-generous Mark flew from Turkey (for turkey),  bringing exquisitely beautiful Mark-like soaps to his fellow flock-ees.

Maeve is most attentive to the senior members of the flock, the Nana and the Gramp, who require the most supervision and guidance.  While Nana has perfected the Art of Detail, it's hard to imagine where she would be without Maeve's steadfast presence in the kitchen at critical times.  Maeve watches ever so closely, studying each nuance of Nana's tone or gait and then with artistic genius she sets the stage for Nana and Gramp to tango (and tangle) in their own dance with the stars.   Maeve hovers over Gramp--he is her primary charge-- and only when she is sure he is safely settled in for his dinner or nap does she lean against him to admire her work. You know all is well when Maeve wraps around Gramp's feet.  That's how we know.

So the day unfolded and the magic happened.  We were all well fed and well heard.  We each turned a little older and a little better.  We took our time and we noticed each other. And as we all stood to leave, Maeve started her usual clamor, circling us and calling us each by name, shouting thank you for being here, thank you for coming!  And her spirited cheers were silently echoed deep in our hearts and memories, quietly woven into the fold.

Thank you, she says.  Thank you...

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