Turkey Tom [FICTION]

With coke bottle glasses and unruly, curly hair, my cousin Melvin epitomized every conspiracy theorist ever written about. By tacit agreement, almost everyone in the family avoided getting him started on any of his pet theories. Uncle Mort, however, loved to try to start new ones with Melvin’s help. Usually, Melvin regarded our uncle with skeptical eyes before pushing his glasses back up on his nose, sniffing disdainfully, and turning away or outright explaining why he didn’t believe a word Mort said. Either way, Uncle Mort’s raucous laugh drowned out all conversation for about five minutes.

This year, Uncle Mort decided to start a little more subtly. He stepped up to the window and peered outside. He maintained this silent vigil for ten minutes before Melvin finally took the bait. He tentatively stepped over to peer around our uncle’s prodigious stomach.

He whispered softly, “What do you see out there?”

“Huh?” Mort feigned being startled and looked down at Melvin with a gleam in his eye. “Well, boy, the neighborhood strays are up to something, so I am watching them watch us.”

At that announcement, I had to come peer out the window, too. My mother shook her head at me and rolled her eyes at her younger brother’s antics. I persevered in joining the gawking. When I finally found an angle to see outside, a small horde of cats gazed back at me with bored yet intelligent eyes. At their center sat our own wild cat, Tom. His head titled just so as if he saw me, and I smiled.

“They know we have turkey,” Uncle Mort intoned, “And they mean to have it for themselves.”

Melvin elbowed me gently in the side, “Molly will share with them. Every cat knows she is an easy mark.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but I couldn’t deny that I have snuck bits of turkey to any cat I could lure close enough since I could walk. I knew my my mother would proudly pull out photographic evidence of my infinite cuteness and slavery to cats multiple times during the evening. I clamped my mouth shut and offered him the closest version of a sneer that I could muster while holding back a smile.

He didn’t notice. His focus alternated casting quizzical looks at the cats with suspiciously regarding my uncle. He finally decided to pop out the front door and peer under the bushes along front of the house. The cats found this too much to bear and disappeared. My uncle found this hilarious and snickered in self-satisfaction. As Melvin turned back toward the house, he stifled his good humor and wandered into the kitchen to sneak any food that was ready before the turkey.

He returned with a roll, which he promptly stuffed into his face as Melvin approached him with that look that foretold questions followed by more questions. Melvin opened his mouth to speak and Mort held up one hand to silence him while pointing at his chipmunk cheeks with the other.

“Later then,” Melvin narrowed his eyes and returned to the window.

I peeked over his shoulder to see that the cats had already returned. I shivered a little as all those intelligent green eyes turned my way.

“It really does look like they are casing the place,” I whispered.

Melvin shook his head, “You know how Uncle Mort kids. If you want to know about a real conspiracy, I offer you the assassination of…”

“Oh crud. I was supposed to help mom with the gravy,” I conveniently remembered.

I doubted Melvin believed me. I wouldn’t have. But I had heard every one of his conspiracies so many times. I could share them as succinctly as he does and even offer proof of my assertions, well, his assertions. I shuddered and hurried to the kitchen. To my chagrin, my mother accosted me in the doorway.

“Just in time to stir the gravy, darling,” she offered me a wooden spoon and beelined for the back door. “Whew! I need some cool air in here.”

My aunt mumbled something about “hot flashes” and earned a dirty look for her commentary. My mother opened her mouth to respond in kind, but my youngest cousin’s squeals of horror brought the whole house running to the front door.

“Tom. Tom. Are you okay?” She cried out.

We gathered around to watch her pick up the giant tabby cat, who normally discouraged such effrontery with claws and teeth. As she cradled him to her chest, his eyes opened a fraction but quickly closed again. We crowded around her. My mother reached over and took him into her own arms. Mother was his favorite and he snuggled happily into her arms. He instantly began purring loudly.

“He seems fine to me,” mom said.

A crash from the kitchen brought the concerned congregants rushing in another direction. We converged on the kitchen to find the turkey roaster overturned on the kitchen floor. The runt of Tom’s litter, Tiger, straddled the cooling turkey and dragged it as fast as she could torward the back door where the rest of the watchers waited to help her. Tom chose this moment to extract himself from mom’s embrace and join the feasters on the lawn.

“Well, there goes Thanksgiving,” my mother said sadly as we watched the turkey disappear except for a trail of grease leading to the lucky hoard of soon to be over-stuffed cats.

“Finally got one right,” Melvin patted Uncle Mort on the back while gazing up at him with new respect.

Mort stood with his mouth open. No teases or guffaws preceded from his gaping maw—just borderline hyperventilation as our Thanksgiving dreams became feline reality.

~~~

Watch out for those tricky kitties. They will get your turkey if you let them! Hope you have a fabulous Thanksgiving and are grateful for all that you have.

Piece of the Pie [FICTION]

Grandma Ellie’s Thanksgiving feasts were legendary. Most ended with the whole family passed out due to tryptophan and excessively happy taste buds. A couple ended with cousins not talking to each other for daring to back the team that defeated theirs, but they usually got over it before the next game of the season aired. One memorable year gets its story retold every year as we gather together to commiserate as we long for Grandma Ellie and her many talents.

As a newly minted teenager, my thirteenth birthday fell three days before Thanksgiving that year. That might be why I determined to be as difficult as possible that Thursday. My mother’s continued encouragement to get ready to go to grandma’s house fell on stubbornly deaf ears. When my dad finally intervened, he ended up lifting me from the comfortable nest of blankets on my bed and throwing me over his shoulder.

“You’re not too old to spank, you know?” He asked as he gave me a firm spank on the bottom to make his point.

“Yes, daddy,” I agreed but the petulance crept out and earned me an extra spank for good measure.

Those were the last words out of my mouth until I stepped past Grandma Ellie’s front door with its peeling white paint and faded fall wreath. Then the warm scents of love laced with roasting turkey, savory herbs, and, most importantly, every little nuance of pumpkin spice. Those memories make me understand how that scent took over many a millennial heart every fall years later. It certainly softened my pre-millennial heart. Had that not melted a little of my teenage angst, being wrapped in my grandmother’s arms would have turned me into the butter necessary to begin a good roux.

She settled me in at the counter-height table with a healthy slice of pie and everything else faded away for the next three hours. I didn’t shy away from my mom smooching me on the cheek though she abused the privilege and kept coming back for more. I even let my younger cousins braid my hair. I regretted it later when I had to brush out burgeoning dreadlocks. 

The highest praise of my grandmother’s magic touch lay in my polite and almost witty conversation at dinner. My mother beamed proudly at me over platters heaped with every dish anyone ever longed to see on the Thanksgiving table. We ate our fill. Then we nibbled some more. Then we watched some old family footage until we had just enough room for the coup de grace.

My grandmother’s pies were pure perfection. From the flakey, buttery crust to the smooth filling just sweet enough to make the spices pop, to the homemade whipped cream that contained the secret to happiness, no one could pass up a piece. Even Aunt Mel happily devoured at least one piece knowing full well the cinnamon would turn her into a rashy, red, itchy beast.

But no one loved Grandma Ellie’s pie like her two boys. If Uncle Fred ate three pieces, so did Uncle Ted. If Uncle Ted asked for another dollop of whipped cream, Uncle Fred insisted he needed two.

Disaster would have been averted if Uncle Ted and Aunt Mel’s daughter Viv hadn’t been the only child old enough to bring a sweetheart home for the holidays. Or if I hadn’t already enjoyed a slice upon arrival. But however it came to pass, the last pie produced an uneven number of slices. And neither of my uncles was going to be the bigger man—not in that way.

“I’m the oldest. It’s mine,” Ted declared with certainty.

Fred grinned wolfishly and his eyes focused on Viv’s boyfriend, who was still nibbling away at his piece. “I’d say you already had yours, big brother.”

He reached for the pie then, but Ted knocked his hand away. “Mine!” He roared.

At this moment my tiny grandmother stepped between her two tall sons and snatched up the plate. “I shall just cut this piece in half,” she paused to give each of them a disapproving look, “and you can share it like civilized human beings.”

“Yes, mother,” they both demurred with downcast eyes, but even while they both counted floor tiles, the challenge in both sets of eyes remained obvious.

They spent the rest of that holiday and every one that followed looking for moments to challenge each other where their mother couldn’t intervene. One year, they arm wrestled while grandma put finishing touches on the turkey. Fred won a broken nose. The following year, they stumbled outside to play basketball while the rest of us drowsed. Again, neither of them won since they both ended up with sprained wrists. The injuries became as much a family tradition as our shared pie addiction.

Grandma chided them each time they hurt themselves or each other. But the hijinks didn’t stop. Over time, they even got bolder and initiated staring contests and other foolishness in front of Grandma Ellie. She began carrying a spatula around for the express purpose of whacking the foolishness out of her sons. Even she knew it was a hopeless cause but I think she enjoyed the sounds they made when she snuck up on them for a little discipline.

When Grandma Ellie passed away some years later, everyone accepted her distribution of her few earthly assets with more magnanimous decorum than the verdict over that last piece of pie. Of course, had they realized she bequeathed her recipe for that pie to me over years of learning at the rolling pin of the master, that life event might have echoed the story I just relayed. I think my mother has guessed my secret, but everyone else still maintains that no one bakes a pie like Grandma Ellie. (Oh, and I invite Ted and Fred on alternating years. I could never get by with whapping either of them with a spatula.)

~~~

Hope you are preparing for a fabulous turkey day, surrounded by loved ones and enough whipped cream for the perfect pumpkin pie. And if you could send some positive energy for me to catch up on my National Novel Writing Month word count, that would be awesome.

Lightless house [FICTION]

Morning dawned unseasonably warm. Then a front blew through from the north and temperatures dropped. The sleepy little town remained relatively unaffected. The townspeople bundled up and stoked their fires. Little could disrupt the calm of the hardworking people of Lighthouse, Maine. 

As night fell, however, the calm air began to stir. The decades old edifice that had blessed the town with its name remained dark. Though none of the town’s residents made their life on the sea in this modern age, they still basked in the comforting glow that brought sailors home safe. Lured by a darkness unknown for over a century, the townspeople grabbed flashlights and lanterns and fearfully gathered at the base of the darkened beacon of light.

“Help me,” a feeble voice called out from inside the unlit building. 

As others glanced anxiously to those around them, young Officer Jace Stone stepped toward a narrow door. It gave admittance to the narrow winding stairs leading upward toward the light—a shining salvation of ships that no longer glowed. As he pulled the door open, a familiar figure tumbled out at Jace’s feet. The younger man fell to his knees, fueled by his training, he began assessing the old man as he called out with authority beyond his years.

“Call an ambulance.” Then he lowered his voice to talk to the older man, “Mr. Clemons, what happened?”

“I’ve never missed a step in my life, son. It felt like something pushed my foot off its safe foothold,” his pale eyes watered as a rasping cough overtook his words.

“Shh. Don’t try to talk,” the officer gently took his hand and held it, holding the old man’s gaze until the ambulance arrived.

The medics rushed forward, waving the gathered throng back as darkness fell deeper around them. As they attended to Mr. Clemons, the crowd broke off into little groups to murmur worriedly. One of the groups featured gnarled old veterans. Each proudly wore a faded ball cap with his branch of service emblazoned across frayed fabric. A few still possessed enough hair for a few grey tendrils to wave from beneath the band. As they yelled loudly in the direction of ears that didn’t all sport a hearing aid though they all should, the rest of the crowd quieted to listen to the wisdom of experience.

“The only man in town who can mount those stairs safely at night is James Clemons.”

The aged eyes of our would be heroes turned toward the prone figure being gently lifted into the ambulance. Concern flickered across each grizzled face. Most looked down at their feet afterward, unwilling to meet the eyes of their fellow men at arms.

“I know how to use a flashlight. I’ll go,” John Cabe straightened his stooped shoulders and reached for the keys that Officer Stone held in his hand.

A few voices rose in protest but he cut them short with one intense look from his haunted grey eyes, “I survived Hanoi. I will survive steep stairs and tricky doors.”

He still hesitated as he turned toward the door. His shoulders visibly straightened as he took another bracing breath and stepped forward. His withered body blocked the rest of the townspeople from seeing how his hand shook as he reached for the doorknob and pulled the door open, but the wavering light from the flashlight in his hand betrayed him as it bounced around the coarse walls and shallow steps worn by years of light keepers tending to the flames. The thought of those flames spurred him on and he took his first shaky steps into the enclosed staircase. He allowed the door to slam closed behind him before taking another deep breath.

“Come on, John. There’s nothing waiting for you but a light that needs serviced,” he whispered to himself as he continued to slowly mount the stairs.

Outside, the town waited. All eyes looked up toward the now defunct light, waiting for it to beam out its comfort and protection once more. As time stretched on, they huddled closer together. The smaller groups that had broken off were drawn back into the whole as they waited anxiously. The occasional whisper of concern or question quickly faded under soft shushing.

The silence without seeped into the walls of the lighthouse and made the stony silence deeper. John’s heart hammered in his chest and echoed in his ears, but he soldiered on, mounting each step slowly and deliberately. He shone the flashlight into every shadow before moving forward. As he neared the last turn, light reflected back from one beady black eye. The body of a tiny wren lay mangled on the step, right where John and presumable old man Clemons would place their foot to mount to the light.

John cursed softly and reached into his pocket, “Good thing I have to walk Millie’s dog later,” he muttered to himself as he extracted a plastic bag and scooped the tiny corpse into it with practiced ease.

Then he stood tall and made his way into the room  below that which housed the light. Here the original lighthouse keeper would have went through a series of complicated preparations and steps to get the light going again. Luckily, James Clemons had accepted the moving of time and technology. A large blue button invited John to push it as soon as he stepped out onto the landing of the watch room. He obligingly did.

Light poured out from the lantern room above, cutting through the darkness and the tension. Applause erupted from below. The old man shook his head as a satisfied smile crossed his thin lips. Then he turned back toward the stairs with his light and the culprit behind the evening’s discomfort in one hand, so he could keep the other firmly on the handrail for his return journey.

When he finally exited the narrow door, only a handful of people remained to congratulate him and pat him on the back. He noticed those who stood watch to  give gratitude had all served in one of the recent wars and appreciated the sacrifice that went into such service. No matter how long it has been since their war ended, veterans always volunteer to be the first into the fray and remain to proudly welcome their brothers and sisters home.

~~~

Sometimes, my posts get forgotten in the joy of trying to get my word count up for National Novel Writing Month. Luckily, I managed to remember to post this one. Yay for us!

Retro Friendsgiving [FICTION]

Sadie growled under her breath, earning a startled look from Mittens. Until this moment, Mittens had been ignoring her human’s sounds of frustration by grooming her already smooth, shiny coat. But when her human stole feline sounds of distress, the regal tabby took action. She leaped onto the desk and plopped herself down on Sadie’s keyboard.

“No, baby, mama needs to send out these invites, or no one will make it to Friendsgiving,” she lifted the cat up and placed her back on the cushioned throne next to her desk. “I just need this site to work properly.”

Before Sadie could sit down again, Mittens leaped back onto the keyboard, purring loudly. Her feet connected with a sequence of keys. Her tail swished dangerously behind her. The computer monitor flickered and went black.

“No, Mittens! No!” Sadie cried in exasperation before dramatically sitting down, folding her arms, and burying her face in the crook of her elbows.

Mittens rubbed her human’s head gently with her own before prancing across the desk to a pile of skinny card boxes. The top of the stack was covered in a fine layer of dust. She pawed through them until one with watercolor pumpkins surfaced and then meowed insistently. When Sadie finally raised her head, Mittens swatted the box with her paw.

“What do you have there?” She picked up the box and tapped it to her chin. “I guess you aren’t in as much trouble as I thought.”

Moments later, Sadie sat back down at her desk. Ignoring the blank screen, she picked up a pen and began writing out invites the old-fashioned way. As she penned her name on the last one and began flexing her now weary hand, Mittens returned to the desk. This time, she deftly held a book of stamps in her mouth.

“Good girl. My friends are going to love our retro Friendsgiving.”

Mittens purred agreement as she rubbed her head on Sadie’s arm. “And so are you. Aren’t you?”

As Sadie devolved into baby talk, Mittens showed her tail and returned gracefully to her cushioned throne for a hard-earned nap. 

“Well,” Sadie declared in mock annoyance as she grabbed her invites and headed for the mailbox.

~

A week later, the group texts rolled in:

Joan: Got your card. How retro.

Marcie: I love it.

Alice: Count me in.

Jan: I’ll bring the pie.

Sami: I’ll bring a lockbox for our phones!

Lauren: Retro Friendsgiving this year!

Sadie: Shouldn’t you be sending me these RSVPs by mail to be truly retro?

Jan: Who has time for that? I have a pie to make.

~~

Sorry so short, but I think I may still be sad about October being over. Or it could be the bug one of my children seems to have shared with me for Halloween. Hoping it doesn’t linger as long as last year’s trick because that one plagued me into December. Anyway, I am hard at work for National Novel Writing Month, so feel free to send treats, encouragement, or magical creatures to clean my house.