My first year out of college I went to visit my friend N., who had just moved to Washington, DC from Iowa City.  It was our first Thanksgiving as adults, and three out of four of the five college roommates were making the trek.

I got there late on Wednesday night. We started early on Thanksgiving morning, since we had no idea what we were doing.  We went to the store and bought five bottles of wine.  We figured that would be plenty.  We started drinking the wine.

N's oven was up on the wall - it was an old place - so we put the turkey in a disposable aluminum cooking dish.  "Now, my mother says we should be sure to add lots of juice," said N.

I took a big slurp of wine out of my tumbler.  "Great.  Let's add juice."  So we got out the juicing tube - whatever those things are called - and we juiced and juiced as we drank more and more wine.  There was some talk of gizzards.  There was some talk of men.  All the juice got us on the topic of sex, who was having some and who was not, etc.  We juiced for a long, long time.

After we got the turkey in the oven, we set about trying to make the side dishes.  Unfortunately, N. didn't really have any pots and pans, so we ended up having to make some of the sides on just normal plates.  We debated for a long time as to whether one can or should put normal plates in the oven.  We called home.  N's mother asked what the plates were made of.  C., a bit tipsy, tried to hold a plate full of food up so she could look at the bottom.  All the food fell off onto the floor.  Since there were no pets in residence, we leaned over to clean it up, after first breaking for more wine.

About this time, we heard a sizzling noise coming from the oven.  We opened the door to find rivulets of ALL THAT JUICE pouring out of the shallow dish and onto the bottom of the oven.  "Grab something to put it in!" cried N., forgetting we had used damn near every plate, bowl and cup in the house already trying to either a) make food or b) hold more wine.  We ended up holding a few empty flower pots underneath to try to catch the torrent of juice now pouring from our saturated bird.

Then, tragedy struck.

With uncooked green bean casserole still crunching under our feet, our hands fully occupied trying to catch and dump turkey juice, we realized that some of the juice on the bottom of the stove had actually CAUGHT FIRE.  Flames shot out of the oven.  We retreated.  S. in her horror poured some wine on the fire.  BIGGER FLAMES.  Fortunately, the fire was relatively contained and was easily put out by throwing flour on the bottom of the stove.  Kids:  Don't try this at home.

At this point, we were able to suction the rest of the juice from the turkey dish and throw it back in the oven. N. suggested stuffing some rice and things around there to absorb some of the juice, but that just sounded gross, so we abandoned the idea and went out in search of more wine. We had already run out.

By the time dinner was ready, I had thrown up twice and passed out.  I hear the turkey was really juicy, though.  REALLY JUICY.

The end.

This is the story of the first and only time I hosted Thanksgiving at This Old House.

Setting:  2001.  We bought This Old House on October 15.  We hosted Thanksgiving the following month.

My husband is the seventh of eight children - yes, they are Catholic - and we expected to host four families - three of them his, and my parents.  We bought approximately $600 worth of food and alcohol, including a special order of Strawberry Uncrustables, a food item of which I had never heard in those pre-angel years.  Such a food order was quite a shock to me at the time, me who has only one sister. Welcome to the rest of my life!

Staying in our three-bedroom, one-shower house were my husband's brother L. and his wife L., his brother J. , wife J. and children S. and L., mother and father.  Oh, and us and Sybil the cat.  They arrived, for the most part, on Wednesday.  Wednesday night we planned to make lasagna for the crew.  We popped it in the oven around six and settled in for the night.

So we thought.

Around seven, we wondered why those damn lasagnas were taking so long.  Then we noticed the pilot light on the oven was out.  We tried to restart the oven to no avail.  Around eight-thirty, things got desperate. 

The oven was broken.  On the day before Thanksgiving.  Uncrustables were broken out.  I had a moment of extreme trauma.  We consulted our options.  Cancelling Thanksgiving:  Too  late.

Selling This Old House:  Not the day before Thanksgiving.

Laughing and getting drunk:  Not with children in the house.

So, Best Buy.

Fortunately, my father had driven his Ford F-150, complete with matching topper, down for the festivities.  We headed to Best Buy with scant resources while my husband's family broke into the alchohol supply.  My father-in-law started making ice cream treats with Creme de Menthe.

Best Buy didn't have a lot to offer in the under-$300 range.  We finally found one lone floor model twenty minutes before the store closed.

"Sorry, you can't buy the floor model," said the Stupid Salesperson.

My eyes rolled wildly in their sockets.  "Please," I hissed.  "You don't understand.  I have in-laws.  They have special needs."

"Special needs?" he inquired.

"They wanted Uncrustables," I said.  "Strawberry."

"Let me get my manager," he said, scurrying off.

They ended up selling us the floor model, even though it was missing a knob.  We loaded it into the truck with the help of three burly men headed out into the brisk November air.

When we arrived home, our old stove was sitting on the curb, a harbinger of appliances to come during our tenure in This Old House.  The dishwasher.  The hot water heater.  The furnace.  Ah, but those are stories for another day.

Fortunately, my father-in-law and one brother-in-law are quite handy in the ways of natural gas.  The carried the new stove in and hooked it up before you could say "Make me a bad alcoholic ice cream treat." 

It was about ten at night by the time we sat down to that lasagna.  Many were already full and hiccuping mint ice cream.  The wee children were sleeping on the floor of the guest room that would become the little angel's lair.

We had to buy more liquor the next day.  But dammit, we had Thanksgiving.

Amen.

We ran out of leaf bags this weekend.  We bought sixty at the beginning of the season. I had my doubts, even then, whether it would be enough, but I decided after bagging up that many the rest could just sit on the ground until spring. To hell with them.

On Saturday, I put the little angel in the backpack thingie and raked up enormous piles.  I've been hacking away at the leaves since the beginning of October, a little here, a little there.  For some reason, I've been on a bender to get it done before Thanksgiving.  Luck was with me this weekend - since she slept through the night Friday and Saturday (until my beloved STUPIDLY tempted the sleep gods last night, forcing her to scream from 3-5 a.m. this morning - STUPID hubris, DAMN), I did not need naptime and was able to bag another fifteen rounds while she napped.

As I admired the 28 bags lining the Retaining Wall That Almost Took Down My Marriage, it occurred to me how really silly it is to have to bag them up in the first place.  I mean, they are biodegradable.  I know, they kill the grass, blah, blah, but I grew up on a farm where you just burned the dang things or pushed them over the side of the hill or something like that.  Somehow it seemed kind of silly - all that work to pick up things that aren't really hurting anything and will just come back next year anyway.  Silly humans.

Today I had similar conversations on different topics.

The plumber told me we needed a pressure regulator.  Only $269.  He also told me we wouldn't be able to sell the house without one because "the code changed three months ago."  I asked him why the guy from his company that fixed the shower six months ago hadn't said anything about a pressure regulator.

He didn't have an answer for that.

The Benovelent Pediatrican called shortly after he left me with a working shower and full use of my toilet and sinks.

BP:  "I'm calling to see how you and the little angel are doing."

Me:  "Yeah, I sort of had a breakdown on your nurse the other day."

BP:  "Yes, she brings that out in people."

We talked about whether or not the little angel's night wakings are caused by anything physical.  She did not think it is due to food intolerance or allergy.  She thought the little angel probably needs a pressure regulator.

I would pay any amount of money for one.  I asked her where I could fine one.

She didn't have an answer for that.

This Old House's plumbing is broken again.  When we were drawing the little angel's bath, we realized the cold water faucet wouldn't shut off.  We have one of those ancient screw-type faucets in the bathtub.  We had the damn things replaced less than a year ago - that time the water came out through the kitchen light fixtures.  Hopefully it won't come to that this year.

We only have the one shower.

There is no shut-off to just the shower. If you want to shut off the water to the shower, you have to shut down the whole house.

Ah, what a money pit.

Ah, I hope I don't have to go to the bathroom tonight.

This is why you keep up your gym membership.  Shower access. 

Damn.

My grandmother's name was Dorothy.  She lived next door to me when I was growing up.  It took about thirty seconds to walk across the farm lane that connected our lots to see her.  She always had oatmeal cookies in a jar and opera on the radio.  She loved the color turquoise and butterflies.  There was a big tapestry of something written in German hanging in the kitchen. I never did understand what it said.

My grandmother was a very important part of my life, especially when my mother got cancer when I was in middle school and early high school.  My grandparents were the rock that I needed when all hell broke loose.  They were the flagship of the family.  We always looked to them to see if we had really hit the rocks yet. As long as they kept sailing, we all knew we'd be okay.

My grandmother developed Alzheimer's disease while I was in college.  I went away with her knowing exactly who I was and who she was, and I returned to find someone who only occasionally recognized me.  She knew her constants, though - my grandfather, who disguised her disease by leaving notes for her - down to when to brush her teeth and who people were - and those in the family that came by every day.  I was off in Iowa City finding myself, and I think I lost her quicker than I would've if I had been next door at home.

She deteriorated over a period of five years.   My grandfather, a metal sculptor who had learned his trade welding airplanes, visited her every day after she went into a nursing home in town.  He kept up with his projects - his art, his parrots, his reading, his religion.  He came to my college graduation and counseled me regarding my move to Chicago.  A little over a year after I arrived in the Windy City, he was killed in a car accident. Poof.  Just like that - gone.  We got a call after he died from the woman who came upon the accident before the authorities arrived.  She said she held him and told him God was with him just before he died.  It makes me feel better to know that - for a long time I thought he'd died alone on the highway.  I was so angry that he was taken away from me, but at the time I didn't look at things from his perspective.  It must've been excruciating to have to watch the love of your life waste away and forget who you were for hours or days at a time.  Maybe it was better he just went in an instant. 

A month later, my grandmother was gone, too.  When they told her that Grandpa was gone, she had clarity.  She stopped eating - I suppose they said she died of starvation - but I know that she died of a broken heart.  The flagship was gone.

Last night I read an article in my hometown newspaper that my mother sent me about my grandmother.  The reporter had interviewed my aunt and uncle about Grandma.  Reading my aunt's interpretation of my grandparents' tragic love story brought back all the memories. 

It's hard to watch life cycle by.  Sometimes I think Grandma would've known what to do when the little angel won't sleep.  Sometimes I try to imagine the advice Grandpa would give me now about marriage and motherhood.  I always went to him for advice. We'd sit at the kitchen table and look out the window at the goldfinches in the feeder.  He had a way with birds, an old grizzled Snow White attracting the woodland animals.   It is difficult for me to realize my own parents are grandparents now. I resist change.  I vascillate between fearing the role of adult and embracing it.  I wish someone could tell me exactly what to do and it would work, yet I cherish the right to make my own decisions.

I miss my grandparents a lot.  They died in 1998, but it seems like yesterday when I see a butterfly or metal sculpture.  I was thinking about that this morning as I held the little angel, who just learned to say the word "butterfly."  If life hadn't changed and charged forward - despite me - she would never have been born.  For her, I know I have to accept forward motion.  If I don't, she won't get her own angels.

And so on.

Internet, do you know any children with food intolerance?  The little angel is still waking up three or four times a night.  My mother suggested she might be allergic or intolerant of something she is eating, which would cause cramping, runny nose and frequent night-wakings.

It's possible.

Of course, her body may also be taken over by nocturnal aliens who return to their spaceship during the day. 

On Sunday at the park, a bird shit in my hair.  I felt it, like a pea-shooter, sort of twhap! as it hit my head. 

"Did a bird just shit on my head?" I asked.

"No, not unless it's white," said my ever-joking husband.  But, just as when I ask, "Does my butt look fat in these jeans?" HE DIDN'T REALLY LOOK.

We played on the playground. We went to see the ducks.  We hung out at the park for a good hour.

When I got back in the car, I looked in the mirror.  Sure enough, there it was.  "Look at this!  You are so useless!" I cried.

And he laughed until he cried.

Why do we get married again?

And where is my good luck, dammit?

This weekend we did some psychiatric work on the little angel. We reviewed the Sounds That Come From the Sky and what causes them. Since the little angel first looked to the heavens and discovered the moon (one benefit of Daylight Savings Time - she knows what streetlights look like now!), she has been very interested in the goings-on of the sky.  And, since she's afraid of the sounds of helicopters, prop planes and trains, two out of three ain't bad.

As we were raking leaves on Saturday, a prop plane went by.  She looked up, terrified.  We discussed that it's an airplane, and even though airplanes seem awfully scary, they're actually very safe and almost never just fall out of the sky.  They particularly do not usually fall out of the sky into residential neighborhoods.  She seemed to buy that one.

We didn't actually see the ghetto bird go by, but we did hear it right before bed. We discussed the pros and cons of helicopter ownership for the local news stations.  I told her it's a lot easier to see traffic patterns with a helicopter, but the higher gas prices may negate the benefits in the upcoming future.  She sagely agreed.

To end our discussion of things of which we should and shouldn't be afraid, I told her some of my fears.  This is the biggest one.  We'll just be avoiding them.