29 Turkeys

I woke up to my house wrapped in strong white string.

“MOM! Don’t open that door! You’ll RUIN IT!”

Puck raised his hand during the time of congregational thanks, and said, “I’m thankful for the beautiful day He gave us,” then continued drawing a robot graveyard on the back of his hymnal insert.

Also learned after the service that Francis thought Las Vegas and California were the same place …

We spent a couple of hours at the Silverspoon’s over pork tenderloin, crackers with brie and raspberries, and a slice of “peanut pie” (pecan) for Puck. He ate one bite.

Florissant was hopping with family ready for food.

“Happy Turkey Day!” Uncle Bobs announced in his friendly Aussie way.

Uncle Mo eyed the candied bacon on the table, impressed, another Carrie dish. “Lucia try this,” he said. “It’s the bad stuff. This is the bad stuff.”

The boys were taking Grandma’s Fit on a test spin. Grandma, who had already offered Puck a caramel apple sucker. That’s the good stuff too.

Uncle Mo brought out his school folder from 1965, including his crayon-drawn story book about how he apparently, as a kid, watched cowboys shoot guns every night.

Puck plopped himself on Carrie’s lap, until he cut off the circulation in her legs. Francis chased him around the backyard. Linus snapped photos.

“Linus stop!” Lucia protested. “I’m not even KIDDING!”

“Did you hear that they’re putting an IKEA in?” Grandma asked the girls.

My sisters were not impressed.

“I would buy dish rags at IKEA,” Rose announced.

“Yes,” Carrie agreed. “I would go that far, to buy dish towels. And I would buy furniture there to furnish a prison cell.

After one of the much better turkeys I’ve ever had over a Thanksgiving, and a few more arrivals from Australia, the evening concluded with homemade pies and brownies, and another game of tag for Francis, Puck, and their canine friend, Mila, in the long-dark backyard before we left shortly after seven o’clock.

On the ride back home, Puck requested that the now-allowed-to-hear Christmas music be switched off. I turned down the dial on the Santa-themed song to hear him better.

“Besides,” he said, “they’re just singing about a man who is not real.”

Puck’s Blog: Day #7

Crackers has been a “bad bants.” That means a bad pants. Because she was destroying my string world. You know how cats are with string, you know.