Sam,
This’ll get to you Thanksgiving morning, so you’re probably still in bed. Get up. Your mother needs help putting the leaf in the table.
When I was your age we drove four hours to Aunt Ruth’s in a Buick with no heat, six of us kids under one blanket. She made a green Jell-O thing with walnuts in it. Nobody ever ate it. She made it again every year.
The year our oven quit, your grandpa carried the turkey across the street to the Petersons’ in the roasting pan, oven mitts on, in the snow. He didn’t drop it. We still talk about that turkey more than any one that came out right.
Keep the wishbone going. Let the little ones win. I always did.
Grandma