And now the column where much thanks is given for the little things in life:
• I’m thankful that my dog can hold her pumpkin. Little pumpkins, left over from Halloween. They were part of a display on the dining room table. A nice, simple Thanksgiving display. Very nice. Then they started disappearing. One by one.
I thought they were going bad. That they were being thrown away. I didn’t pay it much attention. Not until I found a partially-gnawed one buried in a chair. And then a stem from another by the door. No remains. No skin. No seeds. Just a stem. Where was the rest of it? Could the dog have eaten the pumpkins? Do you know what it’s like asking yourself a question like that? Three were missing. Three pumpkins! The size of baseballs. She was once a stray. Is that what she subsisted on? Halloween pumpkins!She had watched expectantly as we carved the big one. Like I had laid a turkey out on the floor. I thought it strange when she licked her lips. But she wouldn’t eat a pumpkin, would she? Why would she eat a pumpkin?!?But she did. And now the question was when — or even how — would they reappear? You know … be “reintroduced” to the world. We all waited. Expectantly. Could the dog hold her pumpkin, or were we in for a mess of massive proportions? Thankfully, she can. The backyard? Not so fortunate.
• I’m thankful that my dog doesn’t like onions. She must have thought she scored another pumpkin when she snatched one off the counter the other day. I found it by the door … intact. To her surprise, onions don’t taste anything like pumpkins. I’m certain she was disappointed.
• I’m thankful that I remembered the smoked mullet in the back of the fridge. My dad brought some up the other weekend. “Wrapped it in two plastic bags and you can still smell it,” he said with a snicker.
“Yeah, that’s great,” I said, a plastic smile on my face. “Mind if I go bury it in the backyard?” I didn’t. I stuck it in Tupperware and sealed it with duct tape. Pushed it to the back of the fridge where we quickly forgot about it. It would have remained there for months. Eventually it would have meltdown like an overheating nuclear reactor. Burned a hole through the bottom of the fridge and deep into the Earth’s core. We would have to demolish the house, and cap the ground with concrete lined with lead. No one would be allowed back for thousands of years.But I remembered it. It’s gone now. The Tupperware burned. The fridge saved. I give thanks.
• I’m thankful for so much … like chilly weather. That way I don’t feel like an absolute lunatic playing Christmas music a week before
• I’m thankful that my daughter can be tricked into hugs. That I figured this one out. “Don’t let me hug you, child,” I say. “I refuse to hug you. I wouldn’t hug you ever … no way, no how.” WHAM-O! I get a hug. Only took me seven years to figure that one out.
• I’m thankful that the bookshelf I hung above my computer hasn’t toppled off the wall. I’m also thankful that it’s going to stay up there even though I’m jinxing myself by writing this.
• I’m thankful that my turkey defrosted in time. Or at least I hope it will. At the time of writing this, it still resembles Iceland. Frozen solid with less than 48 hours to go. Maybe I shouldn’t give thanks yet.
• I’m thankful for whoever invented s’mores and kettle corn and pecan pie with whiskey in it.
• I’m thankful that while I’m turning 40 next year, nobody knows it. DOH!
• I’m thankful for the little tears I got when I heard my daughter sing in choir. Some song called, “I’m just a child.” What happened to me? Where did that raw emotion well up from? One minute I’m thinking about lunch, the next … WHAM-O! I’m a puddle of goo.
• I’m thankful for this column … most of the time … except when it’s 5 a.m. in the morning … the day it’s due … which is every time … and I’m trying to focus … and I’m trying to write it … but I can’t … because all I want to do is go count the pumpkins … and give thanks that there’s nothing gnawed … buried in a chair … or left on a rug. So much to be thankful for this year.