Small Town Thanksgiving - From 2011

Thought I’d share my original Thanksgiving story from 2011. 

I’m sure most of you have never read it and if you have, I’m sure you’ve forgotten it. It’s one of my personal favs, mostly because it was written at a time when I actually knew how to use a semi-colon.  

But does anyone really know how to use a semi-colon?

Social Insecurity

The government is doing everything in its power to make me feel old.

And I’m not talking about the endless mind numbing, word bending, brain freezing, back bending, gobbledygook that comes out of Congress and the White House every minute of the day.

Or the watching paint dry, snail’s pace at which things do or do not progress and are or are not resolved.

I mean, one of these days they’ll make that Nixon fella pay for what he did…or didn’t do.

No, I’m talking about something on a more personal level…something that really matters…at least to me.

If you recall—and why would you, even though you should—I turned 65 earlier in the year.

65…that magic number which evokes images of broken-down cattle, lumbering out to pasture, spending their remaining days munching on bean curds, or whatever it is old cows munch on.

65…the age your grandpa hung those risqué posters of Betty White, down in his rumpus room.

65…the age when people politely say you haven’t changed a bit, since High School, which makes you wonder how bad you must have looked in High School.

65…the age the government says you must begin to reap your Medicare benefits; in whatever part of the alphabet you should choose…be it A…B…C…or D.

Pick a letter, any letter…just pick one…or two…or three…or all the letters you want.

They’ve got a letter for everything.

Once you’ve deciphered all of that and you’ve gathered—you think—all the letters you’re gonna need to cover that unexpected goiter removal at age 75, you’re now ready to take on Social Security, which, in my case, I can begin receiving at age 66, my full retirement age,

which is just a mere third of a year away.

Of course, if I were a year younger, I’d have to wait another 2 months, past age 66 to rake in the moola.

And if I were two years younger, I’d have to yet endure an additional 2 months…etc. etc. etc.

So, it appears there are times when younger isn’t necessarily better.

Back Then - Right Now

With Halloween’s ghosts and ghouls well in the rear view, we now commence gobbling up bushels of November days, trotting ever onward toward Thanksgiving.

See what I did there?

I incorporated as many cliched, Thanksgiving references I could stuff into a single, festive serving.

There…I just did it again!

Not easy….

No indolent MeleagrisGallopavo, am I.  You won’t catch me sitting idly by, bogged down in cranberry jelly dodging Turkey shot.

Uh uh…not me…

Besides the fact, I prefer lying, idly by, I’m always on the lookout for new and exciting gobbledygook to confuse the issue and keep you, the reader, scratching your head.

How’m I doing?

So, we snuck in another Halloween, last week; complete with several Billion little holiday revelers pounding on our front door. It was a bit touch and go for a while, whether or not we would. The weather was an issue, most of the day, with a threat of heavy rain in the evening. Luckily, except for a few isolated showers, it held off and we shoveled out a couple of truckloads of “Fun Size” candy bars.

Although, as I queried,last year, what’s “Fun” exactly about teeny weenie candy bars.

So I’ve started a campaign aimed at all the major Willie Wonkas among us, to rebrand these “Fun Size” confections more appropriately as “Terribly Life Crushing, Disappointment Size”.

Which—besides the fact, I used the same line last year and it still sounds a bit harsh—I believe is more appropriate.

Why sugar coat it…so to speak?