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[at-l] some yarnin'

With Felix in Hot Springs, I will have to take up the slack a little.

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We were in our last year of high school when we realized that maturity was
closing in.  In September, we'd been young enough to think a year would
last forever.  By Thanksgiving, a small fear was starting in us all,
because, even though we didn't want to believe it, we remembered  that once
the holidays were over, it wasn't really long until Easter, and after
Easter, school was nothing but a whisper and a flash.

"But at least we'll have one more Thanksgiving, one more winter, one more
spring," said Peter Collins.  "We ought to make this year as special as we
can."

"I can't make Thanksgiving very special," I said.  "I'll have to sit across
from Liz and watch her snare the white meat.  I'll have to listen to Aunt
Margie tell how thankful we should be for all that lovely turnip and those
luscious onions."

"We don't have much luck in raising onion,' said Peter.

"Nobody around here has much luck with onions ... except Uncle Waldron.  He
can't raise an ear of corn, hardly.  He can't get his seed back from his
potato patch.  But he drops six onion seeds and he gets about fifty bushels
of onions.  I hate onions."

"I know something special we can do.  My old man works on Thanksgiving,
just like any other day.  We have our big dinner at night.  You invite me
to your house at noon and I'll invite you to our house at night.  We'll
have two dinners."

We arranged that with our parents.  Nobody cared.  What was one more place
at a Thanksgiving table?

On Thanksgiving morning, Peter showed up with his gun.

"We'll go down to the flow and see if there's a deer around," he said.
"That'll be special, if we find a deer."

"Good," I said. "Come in a second while I get my rifle."

On the way out of the kitchen, Peter, holding the door with his free right
hand pushed, against the storm door with his left.  Before he pushed, we
had a small pane of glass in our storm door.  After he pushed, we had
splinters.  My father swore.

"Now George," said my mother, "it's Thanksgiving day... glass can be fixed.
 Just sweep it up, boys.  Don't worry about it."

"I'll get a shovel or something," said Peter.  he stepped backwards and
kicked over the whole bucket of pig mash.  "Golly," he said.  "What can I
clean that up with?"

"Let it go," said my father.  "Let it go, for goodness sakes."

"I want to help," said Peter.  "Oh, here's something right on the floor."

He had a piece of cloth in the middle of the mess, wiping vigorously before
my mother could stop him.

"Please," she said.  "That's my new linen dishtowel.  You knocked it off
the rack with your gun."

Peter stopped wiping.  "Golly," he said.

"Come on," I said to him.  "Let's get outdoors before you find a way to
ruin the turkey."

As we cleared the porch steps, I could hear my father.

"Thanksgiving or no Thanksgiving," he said, "that kid out to be confined. 
He's a menace."

"All boys are capable of clumsiness," said my mother.

"Most of them though," said my father, "don't' work so hard to prove it."

We didn't find a deer.  But we were almost back to the road when Peter
pointed.  "Partridge on the thorn plum," he said.  "Bet you can't hit it in
the head."

I fired.  The partridge dropped.

"Good," said Peter.  "We'll take this to your father.  That'll give him
something to be thankful for."

But we met Jubal Dean, the warden, as we emerged from the woods.

"Hey," said Jubal.  "The bird season's over.  You boys know that."

We had known it, too.  We honestly had forgotten.

"I'll have to walk over and see your father," said Jubal to me.  "This is
going to cost somebody a little money."

My father listened to Jubal.  "Who shot the thing?" he asked.

"I did," I said.

"I kinda told him to," said Peter.

"That figures," said my father.  "All right, Jubal,  We'll see you Monday
night at the Justice."

My father didn't look happy when we started eating.  "That bird will cost
five dollars," he said, "and the window..."

"Stop it," said my mother.  "Think of Thanksgiving.  Think of something to
be thankful for."

"I just did," said my father.  "I'm thankful that I've got ten thousand
feet of green pine boards that need to be stickered and piled.  I'm
thankful these boys have vacation tomorrow."

"There," I said to Peter.  "You wanted to do something special.  The
frost's in the boards.  They'll have to be pried apart.  Not many people
get to pry lumber apart and pile it on their Thanksgiving vacation. 
Tomorrow'll be special enough for anybody.  Do me a favor.  Stay away from
me on Christmas."

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