My nephew, Stretch, spent the past semester at a strict foreign boarding school, in a sort of Junior Year Abroad program for high school students. The boys had to wear coat and tie whenever they left campus to go to town; computers and cell phones were prohibited. (Hey, it wasn't so bad -- they went hiking every day until it snowed and then they skied every day.)
The students were allowed to call home once a week, and Stretch was diligent, calling his parents every week, my parents every other week, and our house three times. In one conversation with Schpilkes he mentioned his unhappiness with missing Thanksgiving, and asked that we have another Thanksgiving dinner after he came home. Schpilkes, whose motto is and always has been "Anything for a grandchild," declared that November's festivity was to be only a dry run for the REAL Thanksgiving in Stretch's honor in December.
So. Today we're recreating Thanksgiving. Real turkey and stuffing. Real desserts. Real china and tablecloths. Real guests. Stretch wanted a full blown Thanksgiving, exactly like the one we had a month ago, all alone, without him.
Robey, who can't leave well enough alone, pointed out that, if it were to be EXACTLY like the original, Stretch wouldn't be there.
At this point my brain turned inside out like a salted snail, so I need to lie down.
By the way -- this isn't the first time we've fudged on Thanksgiving. Once when I was in college our vacation schedules didn't coincide, so we had Thanksgiving on Friday instead of Thursday. This change in scheduling resulted in the discovery of one of the most effective methods of telemarketer eradication I've ever seen: convincing them that you're crazy. You see, a telemarketer called during dinner and Schpilkes, never the most patient bulb on the porch, bellowed into the phone: "Why are you calling us?!?! Don't you know we're havingThanksgiving dinner?!?1?
