On Thanksgiving day, my father wanted to carve the turkey, so Robert and Eric stood behind him and held him up while he gave it a valiant attempt. My father used to be a butcher. In fact, that’s where my mother met him, behind the butcher’s counter at the local grocery store in Chicago, in the 1940’s.
Robert and Eric spent about 15 minutes helping him get a sliver off the poor old bird.
We had a lovely time at my sister’s house. I treasure that moment in time.
Sunday, when we went to my dad’s for our second Thanksgiving, I was sitting next to him when he asked me for more cranberry sauce. “You already have seven pieces on your plate,” I said. I turned his plate so he could get a better look. He wasn’t convinced he had enough, though. The nursing home dining hall still lingers in his mind. Since we brought dad home, he can pretty much have what he wants, whenever he wants – within reason.
“Here, dad,” I said, “you can have another piece. Now you have eight.”
He looked at me with those big brown eyes and said, “They used to call me Cranberry Kid.”
“Right dad,” I said. “What they do? Name you that last week?”
Oh, Grandpa is a creative storyteller, for sure.
