Aha! Please Pass the Cranberry Sauce

Opening wide the front door, I was greeted with eager eyes and toothy smiles. Puffs of savory as well sweet poured out the door coating everyone with holiday goodness.

Anticipation was running high as everyone burst in with the hope of luscious bites to tease their tongue and satisfy their tummies. Engaging conversation would then swirl and entice setting a happy tone as well as ear-deafening noise. The tummy swell would later peak with coffee and whipped-cream-topped pumpkin pie while taking in the final minutes of the football game.

Ah, the perfect day. That is if everything goes as planned. Sometimes the “Opps” factor creeps in.

Like when my younger brother stepped in the doorway and awkwardly just stood there. Expectant faces fixed on one another. He knew that I knew and hoped all was good. With a quick wink, I ushered him in. Quickly he slid by my shoulder and entered our apartment.

Hmm…

You see, there was an interesting situation the night before. My husband and I were newly married.  We were excited to host our first Thanksgiving together. We planned and anticipated for days by writing lists, cleaning the apartment, shining the real silverplate and, of course, shopping and shopping. Then, the eve before the table was festively set, the sides were prepared for a fast cook, the deserts ready, the turkey thawed, and the roasting pan was cleaned and set atop the stove. Turning off the lights, we headed to bed to get a good night’s sleep.

Later, the telephone rang and we woke with a start. You know, the old wall-phone that was a lovely olive green with a nine-foot cord.

The phone continued ringing some more. Grabbing the phone, the quivering voice of my sixteen year old brother asked us to pick him up at the police station two towns over. He was caught painting slogans on a sixty-foot water tower near the high school football field. This was where his school would play an archrival in the next few hours.  He was caught in the woods nearby after police arrived at the tower.  He still had paint on his hands.

It was 1:30 a.m. when my husband rescued him, Thanksgiving morning. Ugh.

He so desperately wanted to be rescued. But some bargaining went on.

My brother really disliked turkey… no, he absolutely hated it. But he made a promise to be present at dinner with us later in the day. He would even eat the turkey dinner.

And he did. With family gathered and heads bowed in Thanksgiving prayer, he willfully joined in.  He wasn’t shy about digging into his plate full of turkey, gravy and cranberry sauce.  All was peaceful in our cozy apartment. But the best and the worse was still to come.  You see the day was not yet over. 

Yes, the afternoon had softly wanned into the darkness of night with full stomachs and good cheer.  Everyone left except for my husband and my Dad. So, we got to it with the cleanup.

The men brought in the dishes to wash and put aside the folding chairs and extra card tables. I cleared the leftovers and then rolled up my sleeves to tackle the turkey.

My hands sunk into the huge black roasting pan clawing leftover turkey bones, stuffing, and terribly greasy whatnots. Oh no! Coming up for air, I shook the yuck off my hands.  Something wasn’t right.

I gazed at my left hand… What? Both my diamond wedding ring and gold band were gone!

I ran over to the special crystal cup where I would leave them when doing messy chores. Not there!

For a moment all was quiet.  Then an explosion of adrenaline prompted a quest of all quests. As a mighty trio we all kneeled, bent over, and crawled about looking in every conceivable place. Then we searched the couches, shook rugs, turned over side tables and stacks of newspapers. We even checked the pile of shoes at the door.     

 “Hey, everyone stop,” yelled my Dad who was standing with a half-full garbage bag in hand. 

"If I am thinking right, I recalled that there was another black bag. It was full to the top and kind of oozing. It’s not here…I believe someone may have taken it out to the dumpster."

"That would have been my brother, I said. "He wanted to help, so I remember asking him to throw it away.

The room went silent.

Throwing on my shoes, I flew out the door.  Screaming no, no, NO! Out to the DUMPSTER.

The evening darkness surrounded the yard, very scary before I heard the click. The back-yard apartment light flickered on.  And there was the dumpster, its ugly metallic form flooded with light and patches of shadow. An artistic delight…but quite intimidating. Springing into action, I pulled its door open and jumped in!  

“Oh.” This had to be the most unexpected experience of my life.

Heralded by a mound of smelly bags, I seemed to float on their shiny black puffiness. There were so many of them.  Which one was mine?

Hoping for a clue, I moved them about, thinking it could be this one or perhaps that one. Maybe I should just decide and open it! Then maybe not. Hey, what is the possibility that I would find even one ring let alone two rings?  

This was quite an interesting situation. I grabbed a bag and tore into it, my hands shaking, and nose quivering.  My husband saw and heard me crying from our bedroom window.  I was whimpering and making terrible screeching sounds.

The rings were not there.

Suddenly, an excited voice of my father called out to me. “Come back inside!” I found them!”

“What?”

“I have them both in my hand.”

“Where were they?”

“On top of the refrigerator, in the tray and under the recipes, stuck to an old scotch tape roll.” 

Jumping from the dumpster, I ran like a track and field star inside to our apartment. I grabbed the rings with my smelly hands and slid them on my ring finger through some slimy goop. 

“They’re ok and they feel just right,” I said as I did a victory dance around the living room.

My Dad kept smoothing his hair back and laughing. My husband sliced a huge piece of pumpkin pie loaded with ice cream.

What about me?  I went off to have the best bubble bath ever followed by a huge piece of decadent chocolate and a good book.

I then realized with a grateful heart that there were three hundred and sixty something days until next time.

… “and that’s how I live it.”