Corpus Christi Caller Times Caller.com - It was definitely a Thanksgiving to remember

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Brooks Peterson

Brooks Peterson's column is published Mondays. Brooks also sits on the Caller-Times editorial board and can be contacted at petersonb@caller.com

Monday, November 29, 1999

It was definitely a Thanksgiving to remember

Corpus Christi Online

So, all right. Maybe it wasn't a Thanksgiving miracle . . . exactly. Far as I'm concerned, though, it'll do till something flashier comes along.
   Truth to tell, this year's installment of America's national gratitude-a-rama got off to a slightly shaky start at our house.
   Well, not at our house, precisely. This year, as for several years running, we rented a condo out on North Padre to accommodate our Thanksgiving observances. It's a nice place - smack on the beach, with a killer view of the sun rising over the Gulf.
   Since the other members of the family don't have to work on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving (hey, somebody has to shovel copy into the great gaping maw of the metropolitan daily), the plan, as usual, was that we would proceed to the island in two waves: Everybody else Wednesday afternoon, and the newscreature Wednesday evening.
   Well, wouldn't you know it: Things got a little sticky. What with grinding out the requisite verbiage for that ol' maw, and then having to resolve a transportation anomaly which revolved around my having an extra test vehicle to drive for the car column, I wound up the day with two cars and only one of me to get them home. The solution involved public transit; it was budget-friendly but time-consuming.
   At any rate, I arrived home, threw a few things (everything except the stuff I really needed, naturally) into a bag and headed island-ward with the hammer down.
   So there I was, at 12:30 of the a.m., staggering across the parking lot into the courtyard in the teeth of a howling gale . . . only to encounter a locked gate on the other side. No problem: I retrace my steps, take the alternate route . . . and blunder smack into the sprinklers watering the greenery. Sodden and ever so slightly out of sorts, I made it to the appointed door and, after pounding on it for five minutes or so, managed to persuade my family to admit me.
   Thence it was off to bed for some serious consultations with Morpheus. (After the crew of hyperactive sumo wrestlers above us settled in for the night, I should add.)
   Came the morning, and the outlook was still a bit grim . . . made all the moreso by the knowledge that this Thanksgiving one of our number would not be with us.
   The College Man, you see, would be spending the holiday up in Michigan. We had all agreed that, what with the fiscal realities, and with his planned arrival here in mid-December for the Christmas break, it wouldn't make a lot of sense to ship him back here just for Thanksgiving.
   Of course, that was then. In the cold gray light of dawn, the absence of the College Man had us feeling a bit wan. Even (dare I suggest it?) his sister. We had visions of him sitting forlornly in his dorm room, gnawing on a two-day old pizza and heaving great, lonely sighs, his (Midwestern) roomies having repaired to their respective homes. He was brave about it on the phone (wotta guy!), but we knew that, deep down, there would be that little ache - the tug of South Texas, the siren call of Home.
   Comes Thursday afternoon: The bird is in the oven, the San Antonio contingent is on the way . . . and we are more or less reconciled to making the best of the situation (next year, the kid comes home) . . . when I hear a commotion out front, and something that sounds suspiciously like a shriek of delight from my spouse.
   And there (you're way ahead of me, I'll bet) stands the College Man, who utterly unbeknownst to us, has been treated to a trip south by his ever-lovin' Aunt Alma.
   You could've knocked me - all of us, for that matter - over with a (turkey) feather.
   But there he is. A careful inspection makes it clear that this is not a cunning hologram: It is the College Man himself, giving every indication of being reasonably pleased to rejoining our little company.
   And get this: no tattoos, nothing pierced. (Not that we were too worried on that point, given his distinct lack of enthusiasm for needles. Still, you never know . . .)
   Is it coincidence that the weather turned downright glorious about then?
   I think not.



Brooks Peterson

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