The Best Thanksgiving EVER!

Last year, Thanksgiving Day got off to a bad start. The turkey had been roasting since early morning, but our alarm clock failed to reawaken us when it was time to check the bird. Eventually, the shrill piping of the smoke alarm did.

My wife and I stumbled into the kitchen to witness the oven door puffing rhythmically, as it belched out the smoke and cinders that filled the air. The turkey, well past jerky stage, had become a crisp lump of stuffing-filled charcoal. Even the pop-up thermometer had melted, causing a lava-like flow down one side of the bird.

Our guests would be arriving in a few hours, and my wife started barking instructions as I removed the cremated carcass from the oven.

I was to drive east, she would drive west – we would stop at every grocer until one of us found the Thanksgiving Day Holy Grail – a whole cooked turkey.

I was a poor choice for this mission. I have no patience for shopping - she knows this, and sent me anyway.

I failed to find a turkey at the first store, but I had the good sense to pick up a bag of croutons for a new batch of stuffing.

I was en route to the second grocer and already losing interest. I stopped for breakfast at my favorite diner, bought a lottery ticket at a convenience store, stopped at a pond to watch some ducks, took my pickup to a car wash, and returned to the pond where I fed croutons to the ducks. I was thinking I should phone my wife to report that I wasn’t having any luck finding a turkey… when inspiration struck.

I hurried back to the first grocer - then dashed home to save the day!

By the time my frazzled wife got home, most of our guests were already there. I gave her a wink, and her questioning look turned to one of loving appreciation as she darted to the bedroom to dress and fix her hair. She joined us just as the last guests arrived and I was inviting everyone to be seated at the dining table.

The room became quiet with anticipation as I placed the covered platter on the dining table. Holding my carving knives in one hand and triumphantly removing the cover with the other, I was alarmed at the chaos and pandemonium that erupted!

Mother-in-law - What did you do?!? (You is her pet-name for me)

Sister – (Uncontrolled laughter)

Wife – (Mouth agape, look of dread-horror)

Eldest son – Gross!

Me - (defensively) It’s a SPAM-turkey!!

Someone to my left – Oh, Carl… No!

Brother-in-law – This is the Best Thanksgiving EVER!

I won’t be lending a hand in the kitchen this Thanksgiving. I wouldn’t... even if I were allowed.

My brother-in-law, Scott, is the only one who appreciates the complexity and skill required to sculpt 27 cans of SPAM into an impromptu, 20-pound replacement turkey, just minutes before guests arrive.

No, this year my wife plans to stay up all night - to stand watch over the bird, and both entrances to the kitchen… in case I try to help.

I hope she doesn’t get suspicious if her brother and I don’t seem to have an appetite – we have plans to sneak off to the shed, where I’ve already positioned the gas grill. I’m preparing two Cornish hens, one for each of us.

I’m a little worried about grilling in the shed… did I mention they’re SPAM Cornish hens?

Mouse Attack

My 75-year-old Uncle Jon and I were running late for a meeting. As we sped along the freeway. I noticed several partially-eaten mints on the floor of his car.

“Dieting?” I asked as I pointed to the scattered remains.

“No, I think a mouse got in here,” he replied, “I’m pretty sure it’s gone now.”

I was taking in the scenery, when from the corner of my eye I saw something dart past my foot.

I watched for a bit and, sure enough, saw it again. It was a mouse alright - a fat, brown field-mouse.

I didn’t say anything except, “Maybe you shouldn’t leave any food in here for awhile.”

Several miles passed quietly before I saw the flash of brown fur again, this time at Jon’s feet! I was about to sound the alert when the mouse darted up into his pant leg.

Jon bounced a little in his seat, and his eyes widened, before he began stomping his foot in an effort to shake the critter free. Of course the harder he stomped the more hysterically the mouse scratched and clawed to hold on.

I was laughing as Jon, now dancing in his seat, frantically stomped his foot. A passing carload of teenagers flashed big smiles and give the elderly Jon a thumbs-up, which made me laugh even harder.

Jon now grasped his pant leg with one hand as he tried to stem the rodent’s ascent. The mouse, having other thoughts on the matter, amplified its frantic efforts to scale his leg.

I was laughing to the point of tears, until Jon’s stomping began to alternately threaten to mash either the gas pedal or the brake.

Sensing the danger, but unable to stop my laughter and the tears that were now rolling down my cheeks, I gasped, “Pull Over! Pull Over!”

He managed to bring us to a safe stop before spryly leaping out of the car, kicking and writhing toward the back of the vehicle. I watched as he unfastened his belt and unzipped his pants with one hand, still gripping his pant leg with the other, and dancing a jig that would make a Scotsman blush.

His gyrations became even more jauntily erratic when his trousers dropped to his knees. I continued to watch until he disappeared around the back of the car and, though my lungs felt ready to explode from laughter, I hauled myself out of the car - not wanting to miss the rest of the show.

My tears were thick as I struggled to make out the form that now sat alongside the road behind us… but there was no mistaking the flash of blue and red lights.

Thankfully, as Jon flailed madly at the side of the freeway, the mouse ejected from the top of his pants and scampered off into some tall grass - all in plain view of the state trooper.

It was becoming apparent that we were going to be late for our meeting when Jon, now fully dressed and seated behind the wheel of his car, asked the trooper if we would be much longer.

Not appreciating the humor that I was so thoroughly enjoying, Uncle Jon was even less amused when the trooper replied, “Keep your pants on; I’ll be back in a minute.”

Fence Fixed... almost

Last weekend, I coerced my sons into helping with a long overdue fencing project. There were a number of reasons for pressing them into service.

1) I couldn’t do the job without assistance - I needed the help of at least one good man, or two indifferent teens.

2) My friends and neighbors all told me they would be away for the weekend - strangest thing too, every one of them gone on the same weekend!

3) Forcing the boys to suffer some manual labor would “build character.” I know this because it’s what my dad repeatedly told me when I was their age.

There we'd be, grubbing out a forty-inch tree stump with a never-sharp axe, and a shovel we continued to use long after the handle broke - when I would ask, “Dad, why can’t we just pull it out with the tractor?”

His growled reply: “It builds character! Now get to work, we haven’t got all day.” As it turns out we did have all day... and most of the next day, too.

So it was the boys and me - and I admit, I made some mistakes.

First mistake:

We started early Saturday morning.

Experts in the laws-of-nature have established that: “A teenager will be in the foulest of moods and exhibit their maximum teen angst-and-attitude between the hours of 6 am and 11 am. Do not, under any circumstance, awaken a teen before 11 a.m., particularly on the weekend!”

I broke the law… I didn’t just break it, I foolishly flaunted my disregard for it by waking two teenagers.

Second Mistake:

I unplugged them.

In order to keep the job moving, I implemented a policy prohibiting phone calls, text messages, internet alerts, or music-thingies wired to their heads.

Every idle moment would result in arms flapping and hands flailing as the boys nervously searched their pockets for missing electronics and groped about their head and neck for errant earbuds.

They were completely disoriented by this forced return to 20th century living, and they exhibited both curiosity and concern with the unfamiliar sounds and the bright light (singing birds and morning sunshine).

Third Mistake:

It was past lunch time, and we were nearly finished. I hadn’t noticed the glances the boys were exchanging, when the younger one asked, “Can we get something to eat?”

Without looking up I said, “Naw… let’s just finish up here, we’ll be done in an hour or so.”

This, of course, was in direct conflict with Section III, Article IX of the Local Teen-sters contract.

I was immediately confronted by my eldest son who, acting as union steward, presented me with a formal grievance.

Looking to my left - I saw his younger brother sitting with his back against a fence post, both hands limp on the ground at his sides, and a listless look in his eyes. I knew I had to feed them, or be faced with a wildcat strike.

I tried to bribe them with a 10% increase in wages, but even in their emaciated condition they recognized that 10% of nothing would offer little improvement to their financial position. That’s one of the problems with free labor.

I was forced to meet their demands and resolve the grievance.

After lunch one of the boys had an important appointment to keep - he assured me he had told me about it weeks before.

The other had homework that was to be completed that afternoon or he would fail the class, be spurned by college recruiters, and forced to live under my roof for the remainder of his life. Faced with this threat I temporarily suspended the project.

I’ve had to tell my wife that it’ll be a few more weeks before we can finish the fence. It will take me that long to reconsider my misguided parenting ways…and the boys need some sleep.

Fixing Fence

I’ve got a big job to do this weekend. The old field-fence along the driveway needs to be replaced - it’s needed to be replaced for the past several years.

My wife was the first to bring it up: “Looks like that fence is in pretty bad shape,” she mentioned one morning as she was looking out the kitchen window, sipping a cup of coffee.

“Yep,” I said, “It’s lookin’ a little tired.”

Several months went by and a bit more pointedly she said, “I think we need to consider replacing that fence.”

“I suppose you’re right,” was my only reply.

Recently, more than a year after her first mention of the fence, she said, “Are you going to fix that fence, or not!?!” That's what I had been waiting to hear… the Call-To-Arms!

What she doesn’t know is that over the past several months I’ve been carefully laying out a plan for the job. There’s a lot to take into consideration – weather, tools, labor, materials, site preparation, engineering, permits.

Okay, I don’t need a permit to replace a section of farm fence. My point is that you can’t jump into a job like this too quickly. A job like this requires careful planning. Never mind that it’s only a 40 foot section of fence, you can’t rush it—who knows, it might take care of itself. Things like that have happened before, I read about it in Ripley’s Believe It Or Not!

No, a job like this requires some thought and, most important—proper timing.

It would be ill-advised to do the job during tornado season or winter - after all, a tree might blow over and fall on the new fence, then all the work would have been for nothing.

There’s frost-heave, spring flooding, and holidays to consider. You can’t have the place all torn up when guests might be stopping by to visit.

There will be some wood posts involved, so I can’t discount the hazards of the woodpecker migration, either.

No, this job requires precision timing. I figure I have two opportunities to get it done - either this weekend, or sometime after we know just what we’re up against with this whole global warming thing.

Besides, up until I got the “Are you going to, or not?” question, I wasn’t sure I had the job. Men learn these things after a few years of marriage. If I had jumped right in and replaced the fence after her first mention of it she likely would have said, “Oh honey, I wish you would have fixed the faucet in the bathroom, instead.”

If I had initiated the job after the second mention, it would have been, “I thought we were going to talk about putting in a wooden fence.”

Nope, you’ve got to wait until the problem matures to the ultimatum stage, when you know that no matter what you do, there won’t be any second guessing. This is important because (recently married men take note) when the job is done and your last two posts are only eighteen inches apart, or you’ve installed the fencing upside down, she won’t say a word about it. Not to you anyway.

Oh sure, she’ll let all of her friends know - but this is a good thing because her friends are now thinking that you’re not too handy around the house. When it comes time for their husband to tackle a job that requires some assistance, they won’t suggest that he get ahold of you. And there’s no lasting shame in your wife telling all of her friends because she’ll always end the conversation with a wistful, “Well... at least it’s done.”

So it looks like I’m replacing the fence this weekend. Unless?… I wonder if the Farmers Almanac has anything on fencing by phases of the moon.