A couple of weeks ago, just as we were starting to think that Old Man Winter was jogging on some remote beach in Costa Rica, we were abruptly slammed with a 20-minute snow apocalypse that deposited .015 inches of snow and shattered our plans to mow the lawn and do some weeding.
At first, we took the icy skiff as a positive. May haps it was a warning that the frosty grump was sneaking down from the high arctic to ambush and infect the aging tropical storms shuffling north with a cold virus that would ensure a hoary landscape for the holidays.
Nope. As of this writing, the week’s forecast throughout the Thanksgiving weekend looks as promising as an NFL game between the New England Patriots and the Galloping Gerbils from Moot Point, Arkansas. It’s not pretty. A few days of spotty snow and then a deluge on Thanksgiving. Bummer.
Hopefully, you were spared.
In recent years, Thanksgiving has been an ideal chill time to render calls to friends and family freezing their keisters off in the Lower 48 and boast how we had just finished a round of Frisbee golf and were settling in for hot toddies along with rubdowns with Costco-sized jars of Ben Gay. All in good fun of course, even when the recipient receivers are slammed down.
Once those requisite contacts were made and aching limbs tended to, the time finally arrived for us to welcome and share some totally delicious cuisine with a couple of old vets that we’ve been friends with for over three decades.
Full transparency: The only things required of me during her annual culinary expo is to ghost the kitchen and keep Willie and Turk at bay until she’s ready to present what she has so lovingly baked, fried, chopped and roasted into holiday masterpieces.
The dogs never present a problem as long as I make sure that they get time to complete their outside duties and are allowed to bequeath each other the proper backside-snuffle recognition scans that are required when they haven’t been near each other in over 30 seconds. Otherwise, they patiently assume by-the-woodstove coma positions until they feel it’s safe to launch surreptitious begging missions beneath the dining room table.
This year, things almost went wicked catawampus when I made a minor miscalculation and issued our annual feast invitation presupposing Willie and Turk had finally let their opinions cool over their political differences and candidates. I had been winter king fishing with them a couple of times and nary a snarky political jab was rendered during the outings.
I should have let sleeping idiots lie. Did I? Nope.
I gave each an invitation call innocently assuming that the boys must have finally realized that ingrained political views are never changed when intransient points are made by riled opponents unwilling to exhibit a modicum of common sense and flexibility, especially while demonstrating the debating skills of a green bean casserole.
Willie immediately fired a salvo wondering if that “Trump toady” was going to be there while Turk grumpily inquired if I had invited that “Shiffhead,” Willie. Ouch!
I quickly reminded them that the lady of the house will not show them a modicum of mercy if they commence babbling such brain flatulence and will strictly enforce her no fuss rule.
I emphasized that, if they start up with each other, she’ll verbally drop kick them over our property line and issue each a coupon for a chicken burrito from the nearest deli for their holiday repast.
Can’t say that I blame her because when those two old coots work up a squabble, the Earp and Clanton feud seems like a finger pointing pout session between Poo Bear and Piglet.
I gravely recapped the commander-in-chiefette’s attitude toward bickering and both gentlemen repeated a blood oath to acquit themselves with decorum.
I further counseled them that blood wouldn’t be a problem. Stopping its flow might be if they shot their mouths off. They assured me that they’d raise hell only if my dog Howard passed gas when the food was served.
I reminded them that we tracked the last year’s incident to Willie.
They reiterated their pledge of peace.
I’ll let you know if they ended up with coal in their Christmas stockings when we meet again in late December.
Nick can be reached at ncvarney@gmail.com where he is, hopefully, still enjoying a political-free zone for the holidays.
