There’s comfort in the familiar. On every trip “home” for the Holidays, GPS insists on routing through Mississippi, Tennessee, then Kentucky. I ignore it for the first part of the journey–it’s been a tradition for several decades.
Four hours to Birmingham, two more hours to Nashville, then another five hours. Rest stops, unforeseen traffic delays, add another hour or more.
Why, now, have rush-hour delays in Birmingham and Nashville become unacceptable? Except, for the first 45 miles, it’s all interstate highway. Google maps promised to cut an hour off the trip. The prospect of new routing at 4 am departure time is less than thrilling.
Leftovers from Thanksgiving: Why did three major St. Louis Metro grocery chains not carry my favorite orange juice with pulp? Yes, I like my orange juice lumpy and pulpy. Different strokes.
The same three major chains did not carry “Grands” frozen biscuits–the pre-formed, patted out kind, unlike the ones in a tin. They taste better, have a more flaky texture–almost like the ones grandma made from scratch. Maybe I’ll take my own OJ and biscuits with me next time? That’ll show ’em.
Call of the crow
Everybody was satiated like stuffed ticks–even the dogs. Turkey leftovers scattered across the floor in a minor mishap–to the dogs delight.
Maybe our extended family is not typical. There were no arguments over political or other family dysfunctionalities.
With the exception of my bro-in-law not accepting an invite to the festivities, and later falling ill, requiring hospitalization.
That illness took up most of the time following Black Friday. Nothing worse than sitting in the emergency room with a loved one, and subsequently, in ICU–not knowing the diagnosis.
Nevertheless, it’s Thanksgiving and I’m thankful for family and friends, good health, a comfortable place to live, and much more.
Food preparation began in earnest, yesterday. A new dessert entrée–pumpkin donuts. They were delicious this morning.
Looking forward to the main course with all the trimmings later today.
Count me out of the Black Friday melee. There’s nothing that important, to risk life and limb among desperate hordes of shoppers.
Happy Thanksgiving everyone!
A nice breakfast started the day. Then off to the grocery mega-mart.
It wasn’t long until I lost my job as shopping cart driver. Where I currently reside they’re called “buggies” and not shopping carts. While staying in the upper Midwest do “as the Romans do.”
My spouse wasn’t aware of it, she piloted the cart in circles, instead of straight lines. The shortest distance between two points was a straight line. All in the name of efficiency. Why should I care? I’m retired, have nowhere else to go, nothing to do.
Shopping’s done. Cooking will be done by the experts. I’m the official turkey carver. That’s the view from here–the day before, the day before Thanksgiving.
Talk to “Old Bob” when he first got to work, and a folding chair could be tossed in your direction. “Old Bob” talked, when his hangover-fogged mind was good and ready. “Old Bob” was a hard core construction worker and one of my trainers.
Another Bob lives across the street, in my daughter’s new neighborhood. Whether that’s the crabby neighbor’s name, is not important. He fits the “Bob” profile. For clarity, he will be referred to, as “New Bob.”
New Bob has a nice RV, kept cleaned and polished. New Bob Jr. has a shiny Mustang–he loves the sound of its powerful engine. New Bob introduced himself by complaining about barking dogs.
Every neighborhood has Bobs. Bobs make your business their business. They’re neighborhood crabapples–the get off my lawn people.
Too many Bobs lead to bored pets and pet owners. Bobs expect to be indulged after late night partying. No courtesies are ever reciprocated.
New residents find out who their Bobs are in due course–faster, if they have children and pets. Potential residents would be well-advised to ask the question, “Who are the neighborhood Bobs?” “Are they manageable?”
Old Bobs, New Bobs, Bob “wannabees”–This Thanksgiving, I’m grateful to have all my Bobs in a row.