Thanksgiving | Saying nothing in particular

Unlike New England or even Jolly Old England, here in California we generally have two seasons: Green and Brown. Right now we’re between the two. Cold, dry days but not enough rain for our season of green to commence.

Last night my husband said to me “this was the worst Thanksgiving ever.” Considering that he generally has to be dragged to holiday celebrations and makes faces when I invite guests over to share “his” turkey, it provoked a sharp response from me. “You bloody hypocrite!” But in truth I’ve always known he doth protest too much. If he doesn’t get at least five requests for his famed Mac and Cheese recipe at holiday events, his year is ruined. Last year my best friend’s children fought over the leftovers and he spent the whole next day typing meticulous instructions (three pages long) to email to them all. He was a happy man.

Joel’s pumpkin pie – he makes three of them at Thanksgiving.

This year, although he wasn’t “forced” to share his pumpkin pie, he realized maybe it’s not so much fun to eat it all by himself. A good lesson as that’s what the holiday is supposed to represent. Not the massive gathering of family during which deep seated resentments are bound to leave at least one family member hurt. Or hosting large gatherings that leave you cleaning the house for days afterward. But just simply sharing.

Speaking of families, the “children” of my Red Squill (seen above at its most glorious) continue to sprout at her withered base.

The eldest is above and below the youngest.

I know it’s greedy but I’m hoping she will have many more children who will somehow survive the coming winter and rise again in late August 2021.

What do you do with pictures of people you’ve never met but who were special to someone you loved? It’s a icky, sticky, wicket to those of us who inherit our grandparent’s photos and memorabilia and guess what folks? As the eldest grandchild on my mother’s side of the family all those boxes and albums are in my possession and my siblings and cousins couldn’t be happier!

Hello people I don’t know. You seem fine and dandy and I do love your photos but I can only guess at who you are. Or were. Or are.

So what will I do with all these pictures of folks I don’t know? Invite them to some ghostly Thanksgiving seance so they can tell me their stories? What would you do?

And now – the truth about what really happened to Beauregard

I tried to think of a funny Thanksgiving story to tell but the only thing that came to mind was the year my father decided to confess at the dinner table. I believe his aunt Katherine was in attendance as well as his cousin Jim and recently widowed sister Helen Betty. And of course, his adult children. The table was set to perfection. The entrees ready to go. Everything … but the scalloped potatoes. They’d been delayed by Dad’s two inept and half-drunk divorcee daughters and we were in Deep Shit. The air was icy; the perfect dinner ruined and so Dad in some half baked attempt to save his daughters from eternal damnation rose and admitted he’d lied. On a recent hunting trip, Beauregard, his wife’s favorite basset hound, hadn’t been hit by a car and killed.

Dad had mistaken the dog for an elk and shot him dead. We tried not to laugh, we really did. Poor Dad. The things parents go through for their children.

Happy Thanksgiving – and please remember to turn on the oven before you start drinking the wine.