Thursday, November 26, 2015

the real Thanksgiving

On our real Thanksgiving day, it's moist, dark and warm outside. A November warm -- the kind where you don't know what jacket to wear (except if you're Ed).

Rain threatens, the indoor lights stay on, the snow has melted.

That last fact makes the cheepers really happy. They come to the farmhouse once more and beg for a handout. They get it. Happy Thanksgiving, cheepers!

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Ed and I have breakfast, but it's hardly special. Well, I eat granola and Ed looks cheerful without my prodding him to look cheerful.

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We talk about his winter allergies. I suggest cleaning the air ducts. Or cleaning the couch. Or getting rid of the couch. Or getting rid of the house and starting over, with a building that doesn't have forced air heat (in my opinion, that's the trigger). Of course, all this he rejects. Mustn't rush. If you have to post a credible logo over his head, it would be "mustn't rush."

But he does want to demonstrate that our ducts are clean. We certainly do not have mold, but I tell him that mites and pollen are often invisible. I read stuff on the Internet to lend support to my push for having them professionally blown out.

I should have remembered the equally important logo that also hangs invisibly over Ed's head: "never hire someone to do something I can do myself." And so we spend the morning taking apart ducts, inspecting them for dust (minimal), wiping down the main air intake unit, vacuuming up the basement -- in other words, setting up the system for a clean run, further improved by turning down the thermostat to 50F, switching the fans onto high and opening all the farmhouse windows. In theory, much of what remains in the ducts will blow out, out, out over the river and through the woods and leave us with fresh air inside.

At least we aren't dealing with a major septic tank issue. That belonged to Thanksgiving 2011.

While all this clearing, blowing, airing is taking place, we take a walk in the small window of time we have for any outdoor activity (at around noon, when it's not supposed to rain). Up the scenic rural road, past the lovely cattle...

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Then down a trail into the marshy lands that drain into Lake Waubesa. My, but it's muddy down there!

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The rains come down just as we close the loop of our hike. And oh, does it rain! All remaining Thanksgiving hours are drenched in rain.

We stay indoors.

When it is finally dinner time, we brave the rains and set out to our local Indian restaurant. Last year, Ed and I went to the Japanese place for Thanksgiving sushi. It wasn't a great idea. We were the only diners there and the owners couldn't wait to close shop for the night so that they could go to the stores and hunt for holiday bargains. At our Indian eatery, there is another family  eating away, even as we get ready to go home.
They're not American, I whisper to Ed.
What do you mean? He seems somewhat aghast, as if I were passing judgment. I heard them ask for a table for four.
I laugh. As if being able to speak in English confers the status of a native son or daughter.
I'll bet you they're not from here. 
How would you find out?
I'll ask.


It's rare that I have the ability to socially embarrass Ed.

We go home. We talk about couches, heaters, turkeys. The usual Thanksgiving fare.

I hope your day was equally peaceful, filled with warmth, love, and of course, good food.