The Thanksgiving holiday is quickly expiring, and all the leftovers have less than
a week of purgatory to either become the pith of a white-bread sandwich or yet
another bag of dumpster-bound garbage. I tried not to bring back so much this
year, since the majority usually suffers the latter fate. I enjoy no less than
four thanksgiving dinners every year, given my fairly disperse family and today
completed this year's tour. Besides the ridiculous amount of eating required,
I have no objections. I enjoy the sitting and talking on porches and in recliners,
though I'm not much of a talker myself, and listening to the conversation wander
down a little path of collective conscience. People check in and out, steer the
conversation and then leave for more pie. Some get lost, and feeling insecure
jump in with a question cleverly disguised to hijack the topic. Some sit and nod
and refuse to influence the path in any way whatsoever. Others will talk incessantly
on whatever topics may come down the path showing no preference for any one subject.
Even the dog performs some attention grabbing stunt that steers the conversation
to veterinarian practices and kennel preferences. In these conversations is the
character of a people, my people.