Thanksgiving Feast

The Thanksgiving feast was ready, spread out before us in all its splendor. The sights and smells were glorious. Once we all got seated with our heaping plates of food at the dinner table, savoring each bite, the conversations continued to flow really well…until Uncle Bob had to chime in.

“The turkey is dry,” he said with a solemn voice.

He just couldn’t keep it to himself like a respectful person. He always chose to be the brutally honest, outwardly opinionated one. Besides, everyone knew a little gravy could help matters, but it really wasn’t that bad. And even if it was, there was always the option of having more helpings of ham as an alternative.

I felt bad for mom because of the uncomfortable silence. I mean, it was nothing but crickets. In hopes to make her feel better, I chose to interject.

“It has very good flavor!” 

“Thank you,” mom said.

I thought that grandma, (aka Great Grandma—GG) who sat next me, probably was just happy to have family over and enjoyed the fact that she was still vertical. Earlier, just before the first guests arrived, she had lost her balance and crashed against the hardwood floors. Her left arm and hip still ached from the tumble. She was now 90 and lucky to still be with us. And we were lucky to have her. She had her full faculties and still remembered everyone’s birthdays better than anyone else in the family.

The next mishap would later be referred to as the pie eating contest.

The dogs started smelling the tantalizing aromas of the meal and then got antsy enough to jump the gate that was supposed to block them in the family room. Shortly after they hurdled the gate like skilled athletes in a track and field event, they ran into the dining area and bumped the legs of the dessert table. Two pies went flying.

There was one apple pie that Abby started eating. She loved apple slices that GG sometimes fed her, but not usually this good with crust and cinnamon to go with it. She devoured about half of it by the time I got out of my chair to grab her by the collar and pull her away from the pan. Jay-Jay went for the pumpkin and only got two bites out of it before my brother, seated closest to the desserts, hurriedly snatched the pie and moved it to high ground.

Mom let the dogs outside (it wasn’t that cold) in the fenced in backyard after their rowdy display but animals would be animals. Uncle Bob, who acted like an animal, didn’t have an excuse; unfortunately, he stayed inside.

We all knew Uncle Bob got 3-sheets to the wind because he used the bathroom often, using this private time as an opportunity to take a few more swigs from his whiskey flask that he otherwise kept tucked away in his inside vest pocket.

After about his sixth trip to the bathroom, and after we had migrated to the cozy living room with its many overstuffed couches, Uncle Bob plopped himself down and immediately brought up the past—he lived there often. He looked at no one in particular when he flapped his lips.

“I remember when Jack, who couldn’t have been too young at the time, crapped his pants and everyone wondered where the smell was coming from. I first thought maybe someone overcooked the sweet potatoes, you know, burning the marshmallows or something. But here to find out, little Jack filled his diaper. Hah-hah-hah-hah!”

Uncle Bob was the only one laughing, though he did get some fake smiles from a few of the family members who made eye contact with him.

My mom spoke up. “Sometimes boys take a little longer to potty-train, Bob.”

“That don’t make it any less funny, Sharon!” Uncle Bob slurred.

Uncle Bob never had children. Which, in my opinion, was probably a good thing. Sometimes you just had to roll with it when he was inebriated. Everyone at least knew he was having a good time, and any excuse to drink like a holiday gathering was all he needed.

It wasn’t the first time he picked on my brother. Their personalities just clashed for whatever reason, maybe because they had one trait in common—neither one gave up. He had embarrassed my brother the Thanksgiving before too.

I could see that Jack was biting his tongue, trying to keep things civil, but he was also turning a little red. One true difference between Jack and Bob was that Bob was passive aggressive in that he liked to belittle people with his words, whereas Jack wasn’t much for talking if he didn’t have to. Jack liked action, not words.

Then grandma, being the realist, spoke up. “Bob, I remember changing your sheets up until you were about 13 years old since you were still having accidents. You were what we southerners like to call a late bloomer.

It was Bob’s turn. His face went beet red.

I looked and noticed Jack had a big grin on his face.

Later, when Uncle Bob fell asleep, snoring away on the leather recliner from his combination high-carb meal and his version of a turkey buzz, Jack reached into his inside vest pocket and grabbed the flask. I looked up from my cell for a second but didn’t say anything. The kids were busy gaming and the ladies were cleaning up the kitchen. 

Jack went to the bathroom, closed the door, and dumped what little remained and replaced it with toilet water. He then carefully and quietly, like a mischievous elf, placed it back in Uncle Bob’s pocket. His breathing changed when he snorted a few times like a Pug, and then maintained his norm which was that of a raspy quality since he also used to smoke.

Luckily, Uncle Bob was the first one to leave. Maybe it was partly because he was stunned for a change, like a dog with its tail tucked between its hind legs—but probably not that much as he was too high to care. He also, fortunately for others, walked from his house as he lived just down the road about a block away. He would have been too cheap to call an Uber anyway. He would rather inconvenience someone else than pay out money for someone rendering a service.

When he left and the coast was clear, Jack told us what he did. I of course already knew about the first part but didn’t know the part about the toilet water.

Mom looked at my brother sternly. “Jack, you’re better than this!”

“Hey, I’ve caught the dogs drinking out of the toilet before, and they’re still fine.”

Mom couldn’t help it. She instantly busted out laughing, in part because Jack’s act also served as sweet revenge for her too since Uncle Bob had commented that her turkey was dry.

Then the rest of us laughed.

“Well,” my Aunt Patty added, “with the amount of booze he consumes, any germs will be neutralized.”

This made us all laugh even harder, some of us even in tears.

Uncle Bob could certainly be a real pain and deserved what he got for how he treated his nephew, but we also loved him since he was family. We also knew we wouldn’t have as much to laugh about if it wasn’t for his shenanigans.

Later, after he staggered to his front door and fumbled with the key to let himself in, Uncle Bob pulled out his flask and downed the entire contents. He thought it tasted a little funny, but didn’t think much on it since he needed to relieve himself. He headed for the commode.

Moral of the story: Be careful how loud your bark is, as you might just get bit.