A Feast to Remember
Lee Murray
Thanksgiving dinner was always a big tradition in the Rand household, and one young Wesley had witnessed for his entire 13 years.
Late Thanksgiving morning, the familiar cast of characters started to arrive. There was Uncle Morris with his familiar three-strand-comb-over along with his litany of corny jokes that he enjoyed telling at the top of his lungs, especially after a few glasses of the bubbly. Morris loved laughing uproariously at his own jokes which made Wesley want to run screaming out of the room.
Uncle Amos was next to show up with his pencil thin mustache. He was a nice fellow but a non-stop motor mouth which got under Wesley’s skin. Typical dialogue with Amos went like this:
“How ya doin’ buddy? Man you’re gettin’ big, aren’t you buddy? How’s school goin,’ buddy? Betcha got a girlfriend now, don’t ya buddy?
Oh brother, thought Wesley, when is this day going to be over?
More relatives arrived and pretty soon there was a horde of people in the Rand’s modest little home.
Wesley’s Dad, Fred was a super jovial guy who just loved to see his guests have a good time. He mixed a pitcher of martinis which was dispatched quickly. To Wes’s delight, the jokes were starting to get a little off color and the laughter loud and raucous and he soon found himself having a great time.
Meanwhile, out in the kitchen, Mom, Arlene, was preparing the turkey with all the accoutrements. She was not happy that her husband had invited over so many people and she was the one stuck doing all the work while husband was out yucking it up with all the invitees. To make matters worse, Arlene scorched her hand pulling the roasted turkey out of the oven. It wasn’t her nature to curse much but there are exceptions and she let loose with a loud owww followed by a four-letter doozy. It caused the house to get suddenly quiet. Fred went into the kitchen to inquire about his wife.
“You okay honey?” he said tentatively to Arlene
“No Fred, I Am Not Okay!” she said through clenched teeth. “Next year someone else can cook this blasted dinner or we can just forget the whole thing and order Chinese take-out.”
Fortunately, Arlene’s burned hand turned out to be nothing serious and before long, the beautiful golden bird with all the trimmings was on the table, enjoyed by all, complete with wonderful pumpkin and apple pies for dessert.
After gorging on food and drink, guests began their annual migration to the living room for football and post dinner slumbers.
And Wesley? He couldn’t wait for next Thanksgiving. Despite his initial reluctance, he’d really enjoyed himself this year witnessing all the goings on. And if Mom made good on her threat to order Chinese next Thanksgiving, he was good with that too. A plate of chop suey with fried rice and a fortune cookie suited him just fine.
Acceptable Remarks
Sandy Ilsen
One evening I was driving my children home some time between 5 and 6 p.m., thinking the term “five o’clock rush hour” was a complete misnomer. Perhaps it should be renamed the “five o’clock standstill.” My eleven-year-old son was sitting up front, while my eight-year-old daughter was in the back seat. In the car immediately ahead of us a dog was sitting in the back, hind quarters pressed against the rear-view window with its tail up. Being in our direct line of vision, needless to say, this sight was rather comical, to say the least.
My son laughingly turned to his sister and said, “Heidi, look at the dog’s ass.”
I immediately admonished him for his choice of words, “You could have said ‘rear’ or
‘backside’ or ‘behind’ or ‘tush’,” were some of my suggestions.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because those words are acceptable and sound much nicer than the word you used,” I told him.
“But they all mean the same thing, everybody knows what they are, and everybody has one. So, what is the difference?” he insisted.
Indeed, what is the difference, I had to ask myself. By the same token why are some remarks we make to others perfectly acceptable while others are not? For instance, when I would take my three-year-old daughter shopping or to some other public place, invariably someone would stop to ask her how old she is. When she held up her fingers and said “this many” the individual would always smile. But, when my daughter added, “how old are you?” the person walked away in a huff saying it was impolite for a child to ask a grownup’s age. On one occasion my child was asked how come she didn’t have any front teeth. My daughter in turn asked that person why she didn’t have any bottom teeth. That individual called her rude. Why is it alright for an adult to ask a child any personal question and not okay for a child to respond in kind?
Taking it a step further, on many occasions I’ve been approached by complete strangers who remark, “My you’re short. Why you must be under five feet. How short are you anyway?” Apparently, to them, this is considered totally acceptable.
But suppose I were to say to some of the larger persons I encounter, “My you’re fat. Why you must be over 300 pounds. How fat are you anyway?” Without a doubt, I would be considered impossibly rude.
So, all in all, perhaps it’s not totally unacceptable to refer to the dog’s behind as an ass.
Why Can’t I?
Monty Bonello
Why can’t I sail on tall-masted ships?
Why can’t I take adventuresome trips?
To trek through jungles, across burning sands
To seek hidden treasures in far-away lands
Why can’t I blast off and travel the stars?
Why can’t I explore Jupiter and Mars?
To see things that no one has ever seen before
To stand by red oceans on blue sandy shores
Why can’t I take wing and fly through the air? Why can’t I glide and soar without a care?
Paddle down rivers flowing as quietly as a sigh Climb the tallest mountains reaching up to the sky
Why can’t I find the abominable snow man?
Why can’t I ride camels across a desert land?
Why can’t I paint pictures better than Van Gogh? Or run in the Olympics, or star in a show?
Or grow up to be president, or play quarterback? Or be a ski jumper, or swim to London and back? Or build soaring buildings, or explore under the sea? Or pitch for the Yankees and win the World Series?
Why can’t I?
Why can’t I?
Why can’t I?
A million reasons you’re told
You’re too young, you’re too bold
It’s too hot, it’s too cold
The water’s too deep, it’s raining too hard
It’s much too dangerous, just stay in the yard
It’s getting too dark, you’ll get your clothes dirty
It’s beginning to snow, be home by four-thirty
It’s simply not done, something children can’t do
You wouldn’t understand, but what I’m saying is true When you grow up you’ll see, nothing’s easy as it seems So go out and play, and forget all these dreams
But, Ssshhh, children listen
What’s that? Soft as a sigh?
There’s another voice inside, inside you and I Don’t cast out your hopes, or let the dreams die
But listen…listen from deep down inside
That voice isn’t saying Why Can’t I?
It’s saying…who knows?
I might if I try.