Thanksgiving

How can I tell you the day is beautiful without sounding cliché?  The day is bright and crisp; frost in the morning, patchy snow that reflects blue of the ultramarine sky.  There is no wind, there are no clouds.  We have the day to ourselves and hope to have a quiet meal with food to celebrate the harvest from our garden; squash pie, fresh mashed potatoes and the last of the japan truffle tomatoes with a baked chicken.  It is impossible to stay inside when the weather beckons us outside.  We usually have snow of considerable amount by now and some past Thanksgivings have required snowmaching out to the highway to get to friends. This day is a blank check. 

Gary runs of course, he chooses to run down Fox Creek Road, 'Maybe to Penny and Jim’s' he says.  I keep the dog inside, more than five miles is hard for him.  We will walk as soon as Gary is out of sight.

He is later than he thought he would be.  I make the pie to distract myself but when it is ready for the oven I decide to drive to find him.  Kaycee, the dog, is eager as well.  We haven’t driven a mile when I see a car coming.  Traditionally our road is one that isn’t busy, today it is even less traveled.  I stop the people to ask if they have seen a runner. ‘Yes, he is just behind us.’  I see him in the curve where Maggie lost her husband so many years ago. He smiles and waves.  ‘I'm sorry to have worried you.’  Guilt is a driving force in his life.  ‘What did you see’ I ask.

There were cougar tracks, bigger than his fist and many.  He also saw a number of dog prints, larger than any dog we know on the road.  'Maybe' he says, 'it is a wolf'.  And he saw neighbors.  There was Carl and Joanne, sixty-year old brother and sister, who were bicycling down the road to Wood’s Landing.  Carl is missing a lung and in sore need of a replacement for the remaining one so it is good it is a downhill ride.  His daughter follows behind in a pickup to take them back to ranch when they reach the highway. ‘Thanks for bringing Mom the mincemeat pie, she’s already eaten half of it’.  Gary’s mincemeat is famous in a very small circle, it is made with fresh apples, buffalo, raisins and plenty of rum.  She has already eaten half of it, they laugh. As of late her appetite has diminished so it is a welcome change. They converse, coasting their bikes alongside Gary for awhile then ride ahead.  Next there is Penny and her grandsons ‘We are so proud of you’ she says.  She came to the house when Gary broke his back eight years ago, bringing nursing and oil paints.  She knows the pain Gary had from a burst vertebrate and from the doctor's diagnoses that he would have to give up his lifestyle because of the injury.  Today she wants to teach her oldest grandson to drive, he is twelve and the empty road is perfect to learn.  Gary warns them of the cougars and tells the boys to carry sticks and yell loudly if they see one.  ‘It will eat up and shit you out up there’ he points to a copse of trees.  Kid-correct language is not one his strong points and the boys nod seriously.  ‘And’ he tells me ‘I made it to Highway 12’.  Eight miles each way and three miles more than he had planned.  He will have to get farther to be ready for the race in March but for now it is enough.