Going to the Dogs

As we sat around the Thanksgiving table yesterday, the stories began to flow, reminiscences of our past. Hunting stories, fishing tales, and tales about Uncle Dale began to circulate. Small mobile enclaves moved through my sister Kathy’s house. A cluster would form, talk, listen, and then move to another cluster of people. The topics and stories were as varied as the food itself.

We had cranberry salad, but the green leafy one was rendered inedible by the shattering of its glass container. The roughage would have been welcome in our aging body, but it was scarcely missed in the mélange of the food brought to be shared. I was responsible for the ham, so I went a step further by making ham potpie. That one dish was my sister’s favorite. I baked three pies: pecan, pumpkin, and added apple to my usual contribution to the meal.

Photographs were pulled from Kathy’s archive. Someone asked if I had pictures of my grandfather Raymond Miner’s family. Doug made copied of some and I took cell phone copies of others. I shared some last evening on Facebook.

Eventually we talked about the dogs we had as kids. My brother Ken talked about two special dogs that he owned, Sam a docked Doberman Pincher and Bella, the Pomeranian that he owns now. Frisky was a black miniature poodle that Grandma Becky owned. It was a ball of energy and always underfoot. I mentioned the Great Dane my mom and dad owned when I was small. Our home was near busy Rt. 711 and if I’d stray too close, that beast would grab me by the seat of my pants and return me to the safety of the yard. No family dog story would be complete without mentioning my mom’s favorite, Bimbo. He was an intelligent, brown and white Rat Terrier mix. His playful antics could always make Mom laugh.

The direction of conversation changed into other memories of the past, and so it was until the annual Thanksgiving Beck feast was over, except for the dividing of the leftovers.