Chad photo by @gala_san on Unsplash
Thanksgiving for us meant a trip to the family farm in Kentucky where Dad’s aunts lived. One year Dad decided to go hunting while we visited and packed his guns and his hunting dog Chad for the trip.
Bright and early on T-day we headed out to the Farm. Dad and my brother returned around 10 AM with multiple pheasants and quail (which we’d have for Christmas) and shortly thereafter dinner was served.
There were 13 of us including the grandparents, great aunts and assorted second and third cousins and there was enough food for at least 50 people. The aunts had been cooking for days. Turkey, cream gravy, ham, deviled eggs, green beans with bacon, collards, dilled green beans, piccalilli, tomatoes, corn, cranberry salad, Jell-O salad, mashed potatoes, candied sweet potatoes, custard drink, coconut cake, pecan pie, pumpkin pie, ice cream, seven layer cream cake, plus coffee, tea, water, milk, and that’s just the stuff I remember.
It was stupefying. You were expected to have multiple rounds of food during the visit.
There was nothing to do at the farm but eat and talk. It was hotter than hell in there too because the only heat was provided by 2 coal fire grates glowing bright orange. Everyone fell asleep at some point and the moment you opened your eyes, the aunts were encouraging you to eat more food. After rounds 2 or 3 of eating we begged to go for a walk down to the river.
Eventually it was time to head home and while we’d been walking the aunts had been wrapping up boxes of food for us. Dad carried out the boxes and set them on the tailgate of the Jeep. We all went back inside for hugs and kisses and thank yous and see you soon.
It was when we walked back to the Jeep to leave that we discovered than in our short absence, Chad the wonder dog, had raided the boxes and eaten the ham, the turkey most of a coconut cake, part of a pie, the green beans and assorted other food. I believe he ate some of the tin foil and some of the plastic wrap in his haste.
Dad was pissed. No cursing in front of the aunts so he gritted his teeth and nearly bit through the stem of his pipe. While the dog gagged next to the car, the aunts quickly wrapped up some additional food for us, but it was a pale comparison to what Chad had just eaten.
The long trip home was a silent one. At least until Chad began to fart. Then Dad would squeal to a stop by the roadside and we’d all bale out of the car to avoid the stench. He’d get the dog out of the back, now freely cursing the dog’s mother, father, existence on earth and stupidity. After the airing out, all of us piled back into the car until the next silent but deadly bomb went off. The ride home took forever. Chad never again went with us to the farm for Thanksgiving.
Drop me a line about your favorite holiday fiasco. You know, the one where your Christian Temperance grandmother drank your mom’s glass of pink pineapple juice and vodka and no one had the heart to tell her what was in it. Go ahead and comment. You know I love to hear from you!
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