Thanksgiving on Oasis Avenue

Thanksgiving is about family - no one can deny that.

And when family is as intense and plentiful as I enjoy it, Thanksgiving comes with a ton of memories. Some are unique to our family, to be sure - most probably involve gravy, football games and John throwing some kind of food while protesting his innocence.

But a lot of these memories are generally shared by many other families - things like cranberry sauce cleverly molded into the shape of a can; a card table for little kids; all the excitement about the big 'ol meal and the knowledge that Christmas was a mere five weeks away.

Some of my early memories involve the little kids table. Even when I was older, as a teenager, I was sometimes condemned to the folding card table with children ten to 12 years my junior for my meal of thanks. And the indignity was compounded by molded thin plastic plates - or worse yet, paper - and plastic silverware that would never cleanly cut the meat, but managed to mar the plate to the point that the gravy and other wet foods on the plate drained out and into your lap.

Let us not forget that the sawing action required to make those utensils cut amplified the rickety wobble the table made anyway from the inevitable shorter leg. At times, I was tempted to balance the table leg out with a wedge of turkey or a hardened biscuit.

The turkey - of course, Mom made sensational birds. And the joy of Thanksgiving led to the bliss of the leftovers, like turkey sandwiches and all kinds of other delights in school lunch sacks.

I used to think there could be no bigger windfall in Turkey Land than to get the leg. All that meat! And the delightful roasted skin ... you betcha! But as I got older, the leg gave way to the breast, of course.

I am still talking about turkey here, and not a college date.

These days, I love the dark meat of the bird, the thighs and such. I enjoy breast meat if it is not too dry, and making the bird with juicy white meat is a legend right up there with Bigfoot.

A few years ago I discovered the delight of deep fried turkey. I have fried up a few birds in my day, and they were lip-smacking good - the skin, at least. Imagine a few dozen sets of fingers pulling at the gobbler before it is even sliced ... that is the fascination with the fried bird.

Of course, you lave to lower the bird into the hot - and I mean smoking hot - oil very slowly. Imagine what is going through my head as I stand arm's length away from the hot cauldron, lowering an 18-pounder into the pot as the gas-fed fire burns inches from my legs.

What am I thinking? I am thinking this: "If that oil spills out into that flame ... I will be the first to die. "

Mary Jo will not let me fry a bird. There is a danger involved, as fire department reports from across the south have chronicled. The key to safety? Drying the bird out so there is no moisture on it pre-dunk. Hot grease and water are volatile. And frying a frozen bird is just stupid - so of course, about 6,000 idiots try it every year.

I will not be joining the crowd at Mom's this year, nor will we be part of the Tennessee celebration at Mary Jo's parents. It's her and me this year, after she gets off work. I have a twelve-pound Tom tucked into the fridge, slowly defrosting. I have several pounds of sweet potatoes and the makings for a pumpkin pie, as well as the ingredients for green bean casserole and cranberries galore.

And I am the chef, since Mary Jo will be working. I had better do a good job for her.

Because when she comes through the door and smiles at me, I know what I am thankful for.

A moving experience

Funny thing about this blogging exercise. If you want to do it right, there is sort of a discipline to it. Each blog needs to present the reader with the desire to want a little more, so they will come back and read it more.

Apparently I have that part down. The only thing I lack is the drive/incentive/ability to do it on a consistent basis. I could have sworn I just wrote my last entry, and apparently it has been a few months.

Sorry to the thousands - OK, in reality, two or three - faithful readers who have e-mailed me with messages that begin "WTF?" One day, I will master all this Internet jargon and find out just what WTF means. I swear. Soon.

I have been a bit busy, which I know is the universally accepted excuse of bloggers everywhere who would actually watch reruns of "Rescue from Gilligan's Island" than do their Internet duty. But I have been busy. I have a job, such as it is, to do nearly every day, and I do take a little time for my own selfish interests. That Mary Ann looks good even in her sixties.

My wife has kept us busy almost from the moment we arrived in Dallas with dreams of getting a house. And we have jumped through so many hoops in the attempt to buy a house that there are no more hoops to be had for the rest of you.

Those who have use for a hoop, anyway.

When we arrived here, we got a nice apartment, which we are currently living in. From this base of operations, and with our house in North Carolina on the market, we optimistically began the search for our dream home.

We looked at townhouses. We looked at patio homes, the patio of which clearly does not deserve top billing. We looked at foreclosed homes, short-sold homes, unsold homes, homes with pools, homes with fences, homes with pools and fences, pools with homes.

And we waited for our house to sell. It did, and as anyone out there who has sold a home in this "economic downturn" can attest, we lost money.

But we got over it, and without the encumbering mortgage to hinder us, we search for a home in earnest.

I use the term "searched" in a limited  menaing of the word. I use the word "we," however, in much more general terms.

Mary Jo was the hunter, and she was the big-game hunter when it came to houses. She spearheaded the sojourn for a home from the word go, lining up realtors, talking to anyone who would listen, leaving countless phone messages and e-mails. She was a warrior.

My part was as active as I could make it. But in my fifty-plus years of living, I had never before bought a home. I bought a mobile home, to be sure, and spent 15 years-plus in it. But buying a mobile home is nothing compared to the purchase of the stick-built kind. Funny how that works. A mobile home salesman will tell you every six minutes that "this beauty is built to stick-built home specifications." All the while the realtor is laughing at him and feeling sorry for you.

More on that another time.

Anyway, Mary Jo hunted and hunted for a home in most of the neighborhoods of the Metroplex - Trophy Club, Lewisville, Irving, Las Colinas, Cedar Hill and may others.

Finally, though the efforts of a broker who has actually become quite a good friend, we looked at a new home in Grand Prairie. Mary Jo was smitten. I was smitten (three-car garage, four bathrooms, and a media room!). We bit the bullet, and will sign the note tomorrow.

Buying a house is one slow process. It is supposed to be. It's the biggest thing most of us will ever buy. I know it is the biggest thing we have ever bought. I know this because as much as my wife loves to shop, she hates being in debt. As a result, she has essentially bought nothing since we arrived in Dallas.

She was saving up for the big present.

We love our house, and one small reason why is that it is brand spanking new. There is something special about buying something no one has ever had before you. I have never bought a new car - until we got here. The feeling is one that cannot help but make you feel good about yourself. We are not having to deal with someone else's home problems, their bad repair jobs, or the skeleton that might be hidden in the wall.

I have to quit watching bad horror movies - or CNN.

So we are packing up the apartment tonight and tomorrow, and the movers come Saturday. Since we left North Carolina, this will be the first time all of our things and us will be in the same home at the same time. And it is exciting.

My nephew just moved - I know this because he shamelessly pandered for housewarming gifts. I am not doing this, since we have a little dignity. We also have enough stuff.

I thought of my bachelor nephew, in his twenty-somethings, moving his belongings to his new place. Probably took two truckloads and about 3 hours. Jeff Foxworthy was right - if a bachelor throws a party in his place and everything he owns is broken, he out about 15 bucks.

I envy my nephew the speed of his move. Mine will not be as rapid. But we will, one day, be cuddled together on our coach in our living room, watching the roaring fire.

We'd be watching TV, but I am betting the installer won't make it in time.

If you come to Dallas, be sure to drop by. Now, we have room for you all.