It’s Thanksgiving…Where’s Francis?

Of all the holidays, Thanksgiving is my absolute favorite. We celebrate it with my mother’s family—a herd of 50+. They’re large, loud, insane, and wildly hilarious. You can bet that there will be enough food to feed a small country, five times more dessert than turkey, and at least five renditions of jell-o salad with marshmallows. Mormons sit elbow to elbow with the anti-Mormons, the Jehovah’s Witnesses, the atheist, and Kelly, who worships home-brewed beer. At some point during dinner, Aunt Francis will disappear, sliding under the table to crawl around and pinch people from below.

My mother will hide all the matches from my cousin Camille, who likes to set things on fire. My father will hide himself from Camille, as she likes to kiss everyone on the lips almost as much as she loves to set things on fire. Some will watch football, and some will write out a plan of attack for the next day’s shopping. The smokers will be in and out of the back door constantly, the kids will invariably break something valuable, and sometime during the day my mother and sisters will perform a kick line while singing a Beach Boys song (loudly) to embarrass Kelly. All in the name of tradition.

Not conducive to writing papers, though. I’m in serious avoidance mode. I don’t have a basement to paint, but I just may reorder the bookshelves or something to put off these final papers and projects. Which reminds me… now is a really good time to visit your favorite English professors as they are cleaning out their offices for the big move to Elizabeth Hall. You wouldn’t believe how many discarded books I’ve collected in the past couple weeks—all without begging. It’s fabulous! (Couldn’t talk Dr.Rogers out of his Robert Browning, though.) A suitcase with wheels would be a great idea.