Two men are dead. This is not the time for petty sibling squabbles. That's what Thanksgiving is for. - Shawn Spencer, Psych

 

Richard Nixon preparing for his 2012 presidential run.

We’re now almost ready for Thanksgiving in Houston.

Oh, sure, Thanksgiving brings (for most people) the idea that you’d be pulling on a sweater, pulling your horse out of the barn, and taking a freakishly cold ride to Grandmother’s house on a one-horse-open sleigh. You might sing, but if you did, your larynx might be frozen solid by the time you reach old man Sutter’s pond. Then you get to Grandmother’s house, and she pulls a turkey out of the oven, and you pretend that it’s good, even though she’s cooked it to the consistency of beef jerky that’s been underneath the seat of a 1964 Corvair since Nixon was president. Your larynx? Still frozen.

In Houston? We had the air conditioning on today, not because we wanted to make snow inside to create the ambiance of late November, but because it’s still hot outside. Open the window? Besides the glass keeping the legions of lizards chewing their way in through the screens at bay, opening the window just lets the moisture inside. Do you want to be moist like the inside of a Twinkie® wrapper? I didn’t think so. We all know that isn’t good.

So, my childhood memories of Thanksgiving being outdoor temperatures generally being about 20°F are now receding. Now my memories are filled with the denizens of Houston huddling together like poodles in a freezer (don’t ask me how I know what this looks like) because it’s reached the alarming low of 67°F and debating the merits of various types of parkas.

To wit: The other day The Mrs., The Boy, Pugsley and I all went to the local grocery store. We ambled towards the store wearing (all of us) shorts and t-shirts. We saw residents of Houston running, running to the store to escape the cold in parkas and snow boots. I think we had the AC on when we drove home that day.

I think that Thanksgiving in Houston is primarily memorable because you don’t have to mow the lawn nearly as often, although the hedges grow twice as fast. It’s also too cold to swim. The upside? On the nights (three so far) that it’s cold enough that I can justify a fire in fireplace, the fence that blew down in the hurricane burns nicely.

Besides the whining above, I do feel that we Wilders have a lot to be thankful for this year. I’m thankful for lots of things, but I’m not putting the list out, because this isn’t a “very special episode” of Wilder by Far. No. I’m not going to be like the Fonz when he admitted that he had been beaten by President Eisenhower because he forgot to take out the trash.

No, instead I’ll just share a “Happy Thanksgiving” with all out there, hoping you keep your beer cold and your larynx warm.