Pappy Turkadee

Yesterday Brad and Charley went shopping for our Thanksgiving dinner. I could have gone, but I have more sense than to get between the two of them in a store. Somewhere in the midst of their shopping spree, Brad’s phone rang, and he turned his back to answer it.

You know those phones that will time out on you, or loose your connection when you are in a building? Yep, that best describes our phones. So, we walk around waving the phone in the air until we get an extra bar that means we might just keep the connection, please, just a minute more. Brad did that. He waved, and talked, and waved, and then the phone call was over.

He turned back around to Charley, and good luck with that, because Charley was gone. Proof that some people are not as thrilled that you’ve gotten a call, which can be interpreted as “Let the marathon begin.”

Meanwhile, Brad set out on his own marathon to find Charley, canvassing the store, yelling his name. Looking, searching, around this corner, around that. But Charley was nowhere to be found. Panic set in and he called me. “I can’t find Charley,” he said.

“Keep looking,” I said.

Sure enough, when he caught up with him, Charley had a basket overflowing with items we never use.

“I done, Dad,” he said.

Well, not exactly. He’d forgotten the potatoes, the green beans, and the cherry pie.

Brad looked through the basket. “Where’s the turkey?”

“I want kicken bones,” Charley said.

“We are NOT having Kentucky Fried Chicken, Son.”

“Yes I are, Daddy.”

“What’s all this stuff?” Brad said.

“I helpin’ you, Dad.”

He sure did. He helped fill the cart with shrimp (keep em’). Oysters (Put em’ back). Cherries, chips, (or “ships,” as Charley calls them), fried fish sticks ala Mrs. Paul’s, sardines (no thank you), a variety of cereals, pot-pies, bleach, you name it, it was there. Even the celery and the onions (keep em’). Later we learned that he’d participated in cooking Thanksgiving dinner as a class project for school, and that his part was to help make the stuffing.

Brad and Charley arrived home with the goods. Charley was proud of himself for his excursion, and on the way in the door, he put his arms around our necks. “Gwoop hug,” he said, “Misgibbing.”

Brad and I hugged him and exchanged glances over his head. “What?” It’s the look we give each other when we aren’t sure what he’s tying to say. “Say it again, Son,” Brad said.

“Misgibbing.”

Misgiving?

Speaking CharleyEase is a way of life in our house, but I have to admit, he had us stumped.

“Pappy Turkadee,” he said to Brad.

“Turkey?”

“Yeah. Misgibbing.”

Oh. I get it. Happy Thanksgiving.

And when we look at his face, how could we celebrate anything else?

From the Palmer family, and in CharleyEase, Pappy Turkadee everyone!