Gobblepalooza

After a week of rain and gloom, the sun finally

broke through late in the afternoon. Although we weren't that far 

outside town, it was a pleasure to look across the fields, 

to see an expanse of space where pale winter light reflected off

the trees and farm buildings in the distance.

At the back of the house, a low wood fence edged 

a creek where the water ran cold into the woods. 

They are endangered scenes, threatened by the 

encroaching city, pushing against my back with words like 

"development" and "suburban living," eating the open land.

Two hundred years ago, the place where I stood was a forest

before it became a farm. Now the open space felt like 

it was an island, with an ocean of concrete and asphalt

swirling around, constituting another "threat to the peace."

Grand niece Savannah watches as her Aunt Fran, on the left,
and Grandma Rita prepare chicken and noodles. 

It was a nice Thanksgiving, spent in the company of 

my brother and his family, a total of eleven adults 

and seven children under age four. Frankly, the table was

much too laden with food; it didn't interest the babies and

was more than the adults could manage. A turkey had been 

sacrificed for the occasion, as had a ham (somewhere 

a three-legged pig was missing one of his hips).

Mr. Turkey shoulda known better when the men 

in white coats came after him with that box

of red pop-up thermometers, one just for him.