Lousy Thanksgiving

Man has terrible Thanksgiving

Lousy Thanksgiving


In 1974 Kristina (God rest her soul) was living with me and that morning asked me if I wanted to go with her to her mother’s house for Thanksgiving. Well, no, I didn’t want to have dinner with the WEET-DOO lady, which is what we called her. Jimi Hendrix was popular then, and in the song Foxy Lady, right after he said the words, he gave out with two screeching notes, twice, as a matter of fact. 

“Foxy Lady,….weet-doo, weet-doo.”

Kristina was the black-sheep of the family and her mom was always keen about ragging her, and had a voice, well, let’s just say it was incomparable.

“No, not this time. I’ll go to my parent’s house.”

I had two sets of parents growing up, but one of them passed away while I was in my early twenties, and this set of parents, the ones left standing, were always good for Thanksgiving.

She got ready, gave me a peck on the cheek. 

“Don’t forget your coat, it’s cold and wet out,” I mentioned, and she left.

After an hour I gave them a call. No answer. After another hour I gave them another call. No answer. It was getting cold now, even in the house. The floor heater was out of commission. A new one with forced air heating was in the middle of being installed. Not because I was rich mind you, but because I’d found out that they gave you a five-hundred dollar rebate on the total cost. I intended to use the money as an investment in my South American field trip next month to cop a bunch of souvenirs. Silver, Lapis, Alpaca, wall-hangings, woven stuff.

By the end of December that 500 would turn into 5000 and I could pay for the forced-air monster in full. Thought I was a cleverest fellow on the face of the earth. You know, the idiot with unbridled enthusiasm. Yet somehow, when I didn’t plan ahead enough, like in this case of Thanksgiving, I screwed myself in the process.

Even my Afghan Mahmood was giving me looks. When an Afghan with so much history in his purebred blood gives you shaky looks, you know you're heading for trouble. They sense what’s up, even if you don’t.

“Don’t worry, Moody,” I told him,"We’ll have our own Thanksgiving."

I grabbed my pea-coat and his leash and we headed outside.

“We’ll go to the 7-11 on University Avenue and get us a Thanksgiving dinner.”

Grey clouds and spots of heavy rain began to tear up the sky. Wind buffeted the coat. I figured we’d score a Swanson’s Hungry Man TV dinner, turkey, what else?

When we got up there all the Hungry Man dinners were gone. Even the Not-So-Hungry Man TV dinners were gone. ALL the turkey TV dinners were absent!
I was distraught! I was morose! (whatever morose is) I was let down!

“There’s got to be something here that’s Thanksgivingy,” I thought, and there in the refrigerated cabinet it was. Ocean Spray Cranberry Juice Cocktail.

Oh goody.

I grabbed the last bottle and we headed home. It started to rain in torrents. Icy winds pierced the coat. Two blocks later we were soaked to the human and dog bone.

The house was cold so I made a fire in the fireplace. It was so feeble it was pathetic. I could barely smell the wood burning or see a tiny spark. Instead I my nostrils were picking up the scent of wet hairy dog, and I suppose, when you think of it, I didn’t smell much better. I unscrewed the cap to the Cranberry Juice Cocktail and gestured a kind of toast to my hairy Afghan comrade in dismal arms.

“Here’s to you, Old Buddy,” I said, and took a great gulp. "Happy Thanksgiving.”

Then I tripped the light fantastic to the stereo and put on Hendrix’s Foxy Lady, blasted the Infinity speakers, and pretended I was with Kristina.

Weet-doo! Weet-doo!

©Steven Hunley 2013

https://youtu.be/Ue0UpQBmA5s Wayne's World Foxy Lady

Author's Note

get to it

Reviews

[tanmay7551]

Wow! For those out there far away and on occassion like this, missing out is just a beginning. But they live with it and find solace in different things. Sometimes imagination works sometimes not!

Lucky to have been here reading one of the best I came across in recent times. Thanks Steven!