I thought I had posted this yesterday – but it’s not here. Maybe something distracted me or maybe it was a lot of senior moments all in a row. I do the Peyton Manning system of pill delivery: Open the mouth and fire that baby on a bullet pass right down the throat. As the vet’s says, “… Haven’t choked a dog yet that way.” Yesterday morning I took him to the fairgrounds and there was a spring in his step, an enthusiasm to his trot. And he’s been eating and drinking, although I have cut way back on his food . . . and now those milkbones look really tasty to him.

Monday was a strange day. The appraiser came in and spent about three hours going through the house and outbuildings. He was very nice and respectful and at one point said, “She certainly liked to read.” We came across Aunt Sara’s opera glasses from way back when and I found the library society’s booklet from 1900 about the bylaws of Lima High School’s book-lending procedures. At the back they listed the former presidents and secretaries. Men were always the president. But I recognized names in the secretary column: First Grace Wisler, then Anna Wisler, then Sara Wisler, then Jessie Wisler – three great-great aunts and a grandmother.  Also listed were alumni classes – about six per class. I guess Old Doc Wade must have been too young to have made that edition – must have graduated in 1901.

Years and years later, he would tell Grandma, “Jessie, your heart will never kill you.” He was right. And when Grandma broke her hip, he was there in the operating room and made the orthopedic surgeon repeatedly re-set it until it was just right.

The guys from Miller’s Garage in Middlebury pulled the 1981 Oldsmobile diesel out of the basement garage and hoisted it on a flatbed and took it to Max Myers for evaluation. It’s black and long and, well, just big. Daddy bought it when Quentin was born, because he bought a new car when Robert William was born. Who knows, maybe we’ll get it revved up and I’ll show up on Quentin’s doorstep – hope his driveway is nice and long.

I’m rambling.

Sometimes you are just so fooled by a dog –  or maybe it’s that you want to be. Yesterday, the vet drew blood to test enzymes for pancreatitis and gave Sydney and antibiotic shot and a pain shot, along with more pills to of the same purpose. Do you remember how Sydney wanted to do his job and get Alison to work even though he was feeling pretty rough; I don’t think we remembered enough because when he really perked up from the pain shot, we figured well, we’d just go up to Mother’s for a short trip. He’d like that.  We should have kept him in bed, I think.

We went and on the way back Sydney couldn’t get comfortable in the car; then he got home and vomited . . . and has continued to do so throughout the night.

So today we are going to sit right here all day and see if he won’t cuddle up on the sofa – Maybe he will content himself with giving us “looks” and nagging “woofs” to get us to do our jobs.

I’m old enough to have lived with a generation of people who called a refrigerator an “icebox” because that is exactly what it was; and then there was the generation who kept calling refrigerators iceboxes out of habit; actually, I still sometimes refer to it that way and my grandkids understand what I mean.

Well, today I have a refrigerator in my kitchen that is packed with square Rubbermaid containers to the point that it is basically a cube. Getting something out is akin to a Chinese puzzle and if you get it wrong, you are playing a version of pick-up sticks.

The good thing about this scenario is that it reaffirms my faith in Rubbermaid’s Premier Series of see through/great lids storage units. I may even go out and get a couple more. I may establish a shrine to them. And Pyrex baking dishes with their super-duper lids can’t be far behind.

We have stacked in the icebox jell-o salads, mashed potatoes, au gratin potatoes, green bean casserole, sliced turkey, beef roast for Sydney’s special diet, yams, baked beans, deviled eggs . . .  and so forth.

There’s another icebox memory of this Thanksgiving: right before we ate, I opened the door and some sort of sauce in a tall narrow bottle fell off the top shelf and the force blew the top of the lid off and sent the sauce up under my skirt. I cursed I think. Then I slipped my slip off and wiped my legs . . . and it’s kind of a blank after that. Not one drop got on the floor; well, I can’t truly be certain – a little might have dripped off of my legs.

Of course, Mother wasn’t there, but we knew that was going to be. And we switched the seating around. And Quentin was in Texas, so I filled in for him by stretching out on the sofa right after dinner.

Sydney had Kroger’s rotisserie chicken ’cause a chemical in turkey is bad for dogs; he was going to have buffalo steak, but at the last minute Robert got the chicken because that is what his grandmother had done for the past couple of years. Oh, yeah, the chicken and buffalo are in two of the slim little containers.

Alison did the clean-up. I fell asleep during the History Channel’s program on the Pilgrims and Der Bingle had to take my glasses off.

And now it is tomorrow – well, I mean today. Unless I slept through Friday.

YES! Tuesday is 6% off at Scott’s (Kroger’s) for senior citizen – that would be 55 and above. Well, yesterday I was in the store with many other Thanksgiving shoppers – not just senior ones – and I was just being my own little self, thinking of thawing times and onions and yams – Yuck – and finally got in line to check out.

I chat with the new cashier and she gives me my total and then  . . . Oh yes oh yes oh yes . . . says it’s Tuesday and I almost took 6% off out of habit. In shock, I say, “I’m 61.”  She hesitated for a split second and then said okay and gave me this discount. My first instinct was to crawl over the counter and hug her, but cynical moi asked if she were just trying to make me feel good. And I think she was serious when she said no.

I told her she had made my day.

It’s probably the hair color . . . but whatever the reason, I feel something bubbling up:

WOO HOO!!!

Aha! It is after eight o’clock and the delay has not been extended; Summer was betting they would close, but I the all-knowing grandma who just happens to have interviewed Craig Ream about delay/closing procedures am wise to the fact that if they haven’t changed status by 8, it’s not going to happen. Sooooo, it looks like it is just the two-hour delay.

Let us sing:

Little Summer Vance

Going off to school

In her blue jean pants

Doing  a little dance.

Let’s see, is the chorus HO HO HO or HA HA HA?

I hear no laughing from her end of the house, so I think I will batten down the hatches and wait for her to yell at the TV, “You stupid East Noble jerks  . . . . ”

The main question today is will we have two turkey roasters going or just one? I’m thinking: Hmmm, well, we can put an 18 pounder in one and a turkey breast and those enormous turkey legs that are sold separately in the other. (Visualize Henry VIII) Then, again, I hauled roaster two up from Mother’s basement on the steps from Hell and I think it doesn’t look like the roaster I remember her using before. In fact, I am thinking I am sure of it. So did I find an errant roaster that won’t work and is the other roaster somewhere else amongst her collection of kitchen appliances – new and ancient? Behind the shelves of Wolfgang Puck soups? In the middle basement, not the first?

Okay, first things first – let’s see if the roaster fires up. Update to come.

But what is really stumping me is where she put the metal wand that goes up the turkey’s stuffing area into the breast to aid internal cooking. Yes, here at the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse, even hard-bitten grown men run out of the kitchen when it is time to “insert” the wand. If I find it, maybe a picture is in order.

Der Bingle and I are going to mix up two jello based salads tomorrow – one old recipe and one new. The potatoes are waiting to be peeled Thursday morning, boiled, riced and mixed with real milk and butter and the warming crockpot is waiting. The beans are waiting – we’re going to try a diced Granny Smith apple in them. There’s a small crockpot for them to keep warm.

Yankee Candles are ready to be lit.

And pumpkin pie? Well, I don’t care for it, so someone else will have to come to the rescue.

Yesterday, out of necessity, I set about getting the dining room slightly ready for Thanksgiving, which is about the level that I do anything – slightly. Got out the better silverware, washed it and put it out on a side table and threw a napkin over it – a cloth one, probably from Faith Methodist Rummage Sale. Looked at a couple of recipes that are easy, easy and easier . . . and set up the Pilgrim Tree.

Yes, the Pilgrim Tree. We haven’t had one for a couple of years since the little Pilgrims went missing, but I found them last summer in one of my old cigar boxes with the sliding lid. They are tiny and I will take a picture soon, but I’m not going to go traipsing in there now. Ah, the tree, I forgot to mention it is of the alpine persuasion – tall and narrow; this one is also primitive – scraggly little branches with greenery that is not so much needles as shrub-like. Obviously, I will need a picture of it to make this clear.

We set it on a table and put a mirror behind it and hung a garland of stringed gourds and scattered the pilgrims around. I snuck a tiny Santa on the back – sort of like a scout. Then we looked at it, really looked at it . . . from afar. And you know what? It leans, noticeably. I gave it a few nudges that did nothing and then pronounced it had thrived in a strong wind . . . and strong wind makes strong timber. Heck, it sounds good, and lots of times things that sound good raise my spirits.

We put some autumn things beneath it on the golden tablecloth on which it sits and called it done. I told Summer that soon we would replace the golden cloth with a green one for Christmas and redecorate the tree, and maybe I will follow through with the green. But I know I am going to feel sorry for the little Pilgrims and let them stay on the tree even when the garland changes to maybe tiny pine cones.

Then I guess it will be back into the cigar box.

Actually, this may be what he eats today in his finishing up years of high school. Sam is LZP’s second son; the first son just earned his second stripe in the AF. I don’t know what Joe – the second-striped first son eats – but from 4th grade, here are Sam’s recipes, which are (gasp) peanut butter free:

Captain Sam’s Tuna Salad

Put some ice cream in a big dish. Let it get kinda melty. Take some cookies and smash them up and dump them into the melty ice cream. Stir it all together. This is best while watching Star Wars or monster movies in the summer.

When Mother passed away – and right before – there was quite a bit of paperwork. I remember thinking many times, “I will put this in a SAFE SPOT” or “I will put this HERE” or “I’ll remember I’m putting it in this cute little wooden box, drawer, shelf, elf’s pocket . . .” Well, you don’t have to guess what; you know what:

WHERE IS EVERYTHING??

And my friends at the tables in the Peanut Butter Cafe & Roadhouse reply, “Why, AmeliaJake, everything is in its place.”