Thanksgiving 2005 in Review
It finally happened. This Thanksgiving, I actually fell asleep before dinner. Apparently, Molson now contains tryptophan. We had the big celebration at my brother’s house. The turnout included my second cousin Boris, who’s a physicist and inventor. My mother’s side of the family had all escaped from the Ukraine by 1913, except for Boris’s brood. They got out a little later…1992. He’s not bitter. But he has a bitter accent, despite living in Canada for several years. Boris started to describe his latest invention, but I quickly interrupted with my own ideas for designing a really kick-ass tankini.
Well, you get the right people in the room and drama will inevitably unfold. In this case, the crisis took on the face of my mother’s missing pedometer. I know what you’re thinking. “Ben, it’s been done. At the heart of every Hollywood whodunit is a missing pedometer.”
By the way, a pedometer is a device that counts your steps. A jogger who knows the length of his stride might use one to measure distance. For Mom, it’s a tool for determining when she’s overexerted herself. Kind of like a pitch count in baseball.
Well, somewhere between the third quarter of the Lions/Falcons game and my brother-in-law admitting that the affair isn’t over, my mother announced that her pedometer was MIA. Someone suggested that Boris could build her a new one. Someone did not get a laugh.
A cursory investigation revealed that my mother was not hallucinating – despite mismanaging the dosage of her blood pressure medicine. This meant we had a bona fide crime scene. But who was the culprit? Thanksgiving had suddenly turned into “Ten Little Indians” (except for the mass murder thing).
I would’ve taken part in the ensuing deliberations, but my back was acting up, so I crashed in the TV room with a heating pad. Now, I don’t know exactly what transpired while I was snoozing, but apparently, Boris suggested that I had the most motive. You see, my messed-up back bothers me more when I’m on my feet, so he purported that I might benefit from the fruits of a step-counting machine.
I was at a loss. This guy was basically accusing me of stealing from my own mother—a little forward for his first Thanksgiving with the family. I mean, he’s only a second cousin. By all rights, he should’ve been sitting at the kids’ table.
Not only that, but while I was sleeping, I had missed “the picture.” You know, the group shot, the one my grandson will look at 40 years from now and remark with a yawn, “Hey, who’s that guy sitting next to Grandma Holly?” Boris, that’s who! The dude was straddling my branch on the family tree.
Then, my diabetic sister declared that her insulin pack and syringes were missing. And everyone looked at me! One alleged petty larceny and suddenly I’m a needle fiend.
But the turkey was good and the Cowboys lost, and that’s all that’s important. In the end, I think, as a Canadian resident, Boris was impressed that I brought Canadian beer. I don’t think he was impressed with my drinking ability. But we hashed out our differences. He even recommended a good chiropractor…in Ottawa. It sounds like a hassle getting up there, but maybe not. I’ve recently come into a like-new pedometer.