It’s eight days until Thanksgiving. The neighbor’s house is buzzing. There are vehicles lining the street. Minivans, trucks, SUVs, Fords, Kias.
My neighbor’s family is in town to celebrate an early holiday. His grandchildren just arrived from Georgia. They’re playing in the front yard. I overhear them screaming, “TAG! YOU’RE IT!”
“I’M NOT IT! YOU’RE IT!”
“OUCH! I’LL KILL YOU!”
“I DARE YOU TO TRY!”
Just yesterday, a cantankerous elderly man up the street asked if I would help hang his Christmas lights. I reminded him that it’s too early. He insisted. So, I pointed out that I’ve had two back-surgeries, one tonsillectomy, and I’m Southern Baptist.
He is Pentecostal and doesn’t believe in tonsillectomies.
It took three hours on a ladder to hang those god-forsaken lights. He stood below and preached my ear off for the entire time.
When we were through, I was sweating. He opened a garage refrigerator and asked if I wanted an ice-cold chocolate milk.
“That depends,” I said. “Is it manufactured by the Anheuser-Busch Company?”
Some Pentecostals can’t take a joke.
“Chocolate milk will be fine,” I remarked.
comes earlier each year. It wasn’t but a few weeks ago that children in pirate costumes were at my front door, panhandling for candy. Now it’s Christmas lights in November.
And if you ask me, the holidays can’t get here quick enough.
My wife has already started cooking to get a jumpstart on Thanksgiving. She’s practicing. Our little home is alive with aroma. It smells like cornbread dressing, allspice, and sweet potato pie.
There are candied pecans on the counter—fresh from the baking sheet. My wife will brain any man who ventures near them. This I know from the trial-and-error approach.
A ham is in the oven. And a poundcake is in the immediate vicinity. I sampled both without permission this morning and got neutered with a melon baller.