A Thanksgiving to Remember

I’ve got to be honest. It took me forever to think of a decent story that revolved around Thanksgiving. And calling my story decent could be a stretch. But I’ll let the reader decide its fate. So, here’s my entry into the free Thanksgiving story fare. Enjoy it, if you dare.

If you enjoy the free stories, please check out these blogs for more great stuff. Joe Shaw at josepheshaw.com, Joseph Courtemanche at commotioninthepews.com, Kathy Kexel at kathykexel.wordpress.com, Jamie Greening at JamieGreening.com, Rob Cely at beyondthesteelwall.wordpress.com, and Paul Bennett at afallofsparrows.blogspot.com.

          It was the custom of the Robin family to enjoy an hour long excursion right after the big Thanksgiving Day meal but before the desserts were enjoyed. Grandpa would always retrieve his sturdy Oak walking staff from its residence in the hall closet while the other family members would adorn appropriate footwear with nary a discouraging word to be heard, even from little Christopher who always complained about the hike, but never within reach of Grandpa’s ears.

          When Grandpa’s insistent clearing of the throat went unheeded for the second time, he wasted no time but headed straight to his secret weapon.  “So, will it be me and Christopher all alone, walking through the woods on this fine Fall day while the rest of you layabouts swill around like Hobos after a weekend bender, or will you eschew the effort to tear your eyes away from the football festivities long enough to accompany this old man who will, more than likely, not make it even one more year round?”

          Mentzville rolled his eyes but dutifully began to rise to his feet.  “Oh father, how you do go on.  Why you’ll likely outlive us all.”

          Laurel, his wife, echoed the sentiment.  “Too true, Mentzie.  Why I do believe that Grandfather is abundantly more spry than the whole family, put together.”

          Young Christopher, however, disregarded the antics of the adults and tugged willfully at his grandfather’s cardigan.  “Oh please, grandpa.  May we just go?  For I do fancy a stroll today, even if it is just the two of us.”

          “Nonsense,” blurted Grandpa.  “There is absolutely no reason why we all shouldn’t partake of this lovely romp.  Wouldn’t you agree, Parcy?”

          Parcy, recently divorced and into her third cup of sherry, slid her eyes downward and nodded her head dutifully.  “Of course, father.  Why, what would our traditional feast be without our annual exercise.  As you always say, father, a little stretching of the legs aids abundantly in the digestive process.”

          Grandpa nodded accepting.  “And it’s true.  Why have you seen your Uncle Herbert lately?”

          But no one wanted to go down that path, so Mentzvile quickly cordoned it off.  “Oh father, let’s leave poor Herbert to his own misery.  Now, we are all adorned in our appropriate athletic gear as it were.  So, let us be off to attend the wonders of nature and glory in its abundant goodness.”

          “Quite,” agreed Grandpa.

          And they leisurely made their way from the little cottage to the footpath that began at the back gate and ended only God knew where.  It was path heavily trod by Mentzville and Parcy from the moment their little toddler legs could carry them onward and upward.  And before the path had known the gentle brush of babies feet, it had known the plodding yet stern feet of Grandpa himself alongside grandmother when she had been known by this world.

          Truth be told, it was to honor the memory of grandmother that grandpa had continued this tradition.  Heaven knew that if it were left to the wiles of Mentzville and Parcy, the traditional Thanksgiving hike would have went the way of the horse and cart along time ago.  But grandpa, noting how little Mentzville and Laurel cared to donate to their youngest son Christopher’s education within the natural and humanistic endeavors, sought to fill that gap with his own tutelage. 

          So, having recently reached the age of retirement, and wishing to fill his empty days with more than just the reading of published literature and the occasional brandy and cigar, Grandpa had taken young Christopher under his wing as it were.  And often, their interactions had culminated in a long afternoon hike down the well trodden, yet hospitable path that led from his back gate and to a world of unimaginable wealth.

          But did his own children notice this hidden world, overflowing with adventure, mystery and limitless opportunity? Hardly.  They were probably more interested in wallowing in their lowly ponds, plotting only how to achieve the greatest success in their lowly microcosm and forgoing the plentiful, the over-abundant wonderland that lay outside their own front doors. 

          He failed them, Grandpa concluded as his feet, which knew these paths probably better than his tired old mind, led him onward past hill and dale and over twig and leaf.  And maybe the fight was long over before he had come to realize just what the battle had been about.  And to his mind, perhaps unbidden, but always lurking behind that deep, recessive door came a memory of his old school mate, Joseph.    

          Now as far back as he could remember, Joseph had possessed a wellspring of creativity.  Always the foremost to scheme a game of pirates and settlers or to become the first to formulate a new game that appeared a hybrid of Hopscotch and dodge ball, there was no creativity that Joseph could not harness, not twist into his own brand of captivity.  And where had that embodiment of his Creator taken wonderful, brimming with possibility Joseph? 

          As a man, Joseph was the consummate salesman.  The wonderful family he had conceived in aspiration and hope was soon overrun by that greedy harlot known as business.  Disillusioned, his wife and children had deserted him for he had long deserted them.  Taken to longer and longer trips oversees, especially to the North of France to an especially lucrative department, known as Manche, Joseph knew more of away than he knew of home.  Following the estrangement of his wife and children, his fellow salesmen took to ribbing the poor fellow mercilessly, proclaiming that Joseph could never court a woman, but could certainly court a…

          Suddenly a shot disturbed the quiet of the early evening serenity.  How very odd, thought Grandpa.  There were no hunters usually within miles of these woods.

          And  the shock of the sudden gunshot was broken by a scream.  Grandpa turned to see Laurel, kneeling down beside his son, Mentzville, who lay splayed across the path, his head lying halfway in the nearby shaw, which is what his neighbor, Mr. Ronsforth always called those small thickets that lay at the edge of the path. 

          Meanwhile,  the infernal woman continued to bale like a banshee. 

          “Oh come now,” started Grandpa, attempting to slice just an ounce of sense into her pitiful wail.  “It can’t be worth all that.  What’s Mentzville done this time, tripped on his own…”

          At that point, Grandpa had made it he couple to find Laurel still howling and his son, his only son Mentzville his a hole in his forehead the diameter of a dime and a pool of blood slowly spreading out under his mop of head. 

          “Quick Laurel, what happened?”  Grandpa’s military training had immediately assumed control of his demeanor.

          “I…I don’t know.”  She gasped through sobs.  “One moment we were walking, then I heard that awful noise and he just fell over into the brush.  I laughed, thinking he had tripped.  But then he wouldn’t get up and there was so much blood.”

          Grandpa’s eyes scanned the area to account for his family and to identify any potential for harm.  Christopher, his precious grandchild was waving a branch around farther up the path.  His daughter, Parcy, was just now reaching near.

          Suddenly, that awful crack of air being fractured by a bullet and Parcy gasped.  Her eyes escaped into the back of her head as the spray of blood erupted from the burgeoning hole in her forehead.  Slowly, as if she fell through yards of gauze, Parcy slid to her knees and then face forward onto the path.  She would not rise again.

          Grandpa’s mind paralleled the vastness of Laurel’s face,  He could fathom nothing until the innocence of his grandson centered his mind.

          “Grandfather,” yelled Christopher from a bit of distance away, “what has happened to my father?  And why is Aunt Parcy lying down in the path?”

          Grandpa took a deep breath.  “They’re simply exhausted, Christopher.  Now, I want you to hurry down the path and wait for us at Mr. Ronsforth’s residence.  Don’t come back to us.  Just run until you reach Mr. Ronsforth.  Do you understand?”

          “But Grandfather…”

Grandpa fought to keep his anger and anxiety in check.  “Christopher, just do what I say.  Immediately.”

          And because Christopher had spent a good amount in grandfather’s presence, it was to his credit that he took off down the path and didn’t stop until he reached the front step of Mr. Ronsforth. 

          Laurel, however, was nowhere near as calm.  “What?  What is going on?  What’s happening?”

          And then, following the first two, there occurred a third crack that split the silence and Laurel fell beside her husband to also rise no longer.

          Without a moment’s hesitation and finally alone, Grandpa slipped into the nearby shaw until he was comfortable that he could not be seen.  Plodding but soaking in every detail, his eyes scanned the surrounding thicket, but there was no movement.  Nothing disturbed the peace of the woods but his harsh breathing.

          And then there was a fourth crack and pain exploded from his shoulder down his arm and backwards into his chest.  With his free hand, Grandpa felt the sudden wound and brushed the flow of blood as it made its way down his chest.  No longer enjoying strength, his legs folded and he sat upon the earthen floor. 

          As his eyesight began to dim and unravel at the corners, the swollen brush in front of Grandpa’s face slid apart and the mouth of a rifle poked through.  That gaping hole held his attention for seconds, until he steeled himself to look past that article of offense and to the owner beyond. 

          Two bulging eyes regarded him in his last moments as the owner of the rifle’s beaked mouth rustled to and fro over a toothless maw.  Under the beak dangled a blood red snood, waving in the wind like a flag above that feathered trunk.

          With his final breath, Grandpa wheezed out a solitary question.  “Why?”

          The turkey winked at the old man for the last time and whispered from a mouth reeking of death and the faint smell of cranberries, “Retribution.”