Thanksgiving leftovers are the gifts that keep on giving. We’ll be sifting through the shrapnel that exploded on our dining room table for days with the exception of the fruit cake we discreetly hid away in the freezer. That thing will be there for a month of Sundays or the next blue moon, whichever comes first.

The cornucopia of sustenance that spread across two rooms was too wide and far too deep to have been captured by even the widest of fish eye lenses. It looked as if our Dining Room had been decorated by Paula Deen. Oh, the smells were wonderful. I told the First Lady, “don’t you dare turn on that hood vent!”. I wanted to savor the aromas. I also didn’t want the neighbors to know the feed bag was on lest they come lookin’ for some of my ham gravy.

As I gazed across the fruited plain of bowls, platters, and gravy boats, the variety of colors, shapes, and sizes of foods were overwhelming. Ham, turkey, corn puddin’, mashed taters, and sweet ones too! Lima beans, homemade rolls, and cranberry sauce, the type that makes a sucking sound when it shimmys from its can, was a crowd pleaser. Homemade cheesecake, pecan, and Chocolate Chess pie with whip cream made from scratch. Lawd, have mercy on me! I broke out in a sweat. My mouth was declared a flood zone. I was like Pavlov’s dog anxiously anticipating that first morsel of deliciousness to pass my lips.

Because I’m a Southern gentleman, I elected to fill my plate last. I was in such an irrational state, I wondered if any crumbs would be left upon my turn. Even our little pooch was able to partake, from her food bowl, of course, as we do not allow the passage of table scraps from finger to mouth.

Ugh, I’m full! But, one more big goblet of egg nog I shall drink before I lie down and go to sleep. By the end of it all, the table at which we sat looked as if it had been ravaged by a herd of Squirrel Monkeys. Nonetheless, as we all loosened our belts a notch or two and acknowledged what gluttons we had become, we sat content, not because our bellys were full, but because we had just broken bread, and a lot of it, together with those we loved.

So, as each day passes and it seems impossible to swallow another turkey sandwich, I’m reminded that, unlike all the leftovers in my icebox, which may eventually spoil, the thankfulness for the blessings in my life never will.

14Bobbie Osborne, Ben Griffith and 12 others1 CommentsLikeCommentShare

Like eager hound dogs tethered to the hand of their owner, so too are these pants, which when released from the confines of my closet, tromp through fields and forests alike, searching, as if determined children chasing an ice cream truck, for that which draws their curiosity.

Each pair could tell a story. As a palm reader might, she could decipher every mud stain, errant paint splatter, fish smear, or piece of tattered fabric, most likely from a beaver swamp briar patch, yard chores, or simply from a life well lived.

Like a proper spouse, a loyal pair of pants will never leave you, nor forsake you. I have some pairs older than my children, but because they are now threadbare, like all good things, they must relinquish their hanger upon which they’ve lived all these years. However, some things are just too painful to let loose of.

Like a treasured hunting dog, they deserve a proper burial, but instead of being placed in a landfill, most will forever live amongst old love letters, trophies, and school pictures somewhere at the bottom of my chest of drawers. The only difference is, it’s ‘bout near impossible to replace a good hunting pair of pants.