Thanksgiving

                I walk into my Aunt MaryAnn’s and Uncle John’s house, carrying an apple pie, just to have it almost have it knocked out of my hands by a rambunctious, running mutt, Cooper, a half Border Collie- half Corgi.  “Get him upstairs!” My Aunt MaryAnn mutters through her teeth to my cousin Jack, who is viewing the spectacle with an expression of amusement from the top steps.  I stroll through the dining room, where the dining room table is covered in white table covers and silver wear, the same my aunt uses every year.  The scent of baked ham wafts through the house.  Entering the kitchen the framings of charming drawings catch my eyes, one being an invitation for “tea time;” an illustration of a cup of tea with smoke wafting from it.  The kitchen has high ceilings, a bar-style counter with stools drawn up to it, and a kitchen table hidden in the back with a number of appetizers on top.  A draft of cool air hits me just after my Uncle John closes the glass door to the porch.  He says he is cooking the turkey outside. 

                More and more people arrive.  My grandfather sits at the front of the kitchen, as is tradition, since he is the leader of the family.  Hugs are shared, desserts, dishes and appetizers are passed on to my Aunt MaryAnn who accepts them with her every-blushing face.  Cooper manages to find his way downstairs again and weaves his way through the crowd.  A small television blares the football game from one end of the stove, and this has a good number of the adults intrigued while my cousins and I catch up in the living room on the school and work.  My family shares the true essence of the season, in our disorderly way, as I lead the conversation of the third generation of my family.  The ceiling fan whirs and the lunar light finds its way into the O’Connor’s living room just before dinner is served.