To Grandfather's House

It's not very often that I read a story that makes me laugh out loud, but this one did. Steve and I were visiting his parents last evening and they always have an edition of "The Fishwrapper" lying around which I often pick up and browse through. I didn't get a chance to read it there, so Mom insisted that I take it along home. This morning, I started reading the first article and nearly spewed out my coffee as I choked back laughter. I was chuckling as I read and then when I got to the last sentence about the wife/grandma who was propped up in bed with a cold towel on her head I just burst out laughing. I don't know who this K.N. Hardin is that wrote the story but I think all grandparents will find this very humorous.

It is titled "To Grandfather's House-When the Children--and their children--Arrive for Turkey Day" The story was written by K.N. Hardin. Enjoy!

     When Thanksgiving rolls around, it's over the highways and through the traffic to grandfather's house they come. Not that I object to being host at family dinner, you understand. If it has to be somewhere, I'd just as soon have it at our house. Because twice we tried having it at our married daughters' homes, and frankly, I had indigestion both times.

     The first time we ate with our newlywed younger daughter and her husband in their compact little apartment. She sat us on cushions tossed on the floor, and served us enchiladas.

     It had been ten years since I could sit on the floor with any degree of comfort, and five years since I could digest enchiladas without a bicarbonate soda chaser. And to top it all off, my dinner partner turned out to be my son-in-law's large boxer, who kept trying to steal my enchiladas as I ate from the coffee table. When I gave him an argument, he replied by blowing repeatedly in my face.

     The next year our older daughter and her husband invited the entire family to their place for Thanksgiving.

     "Dear, you'll go to too much trouble," my wife objected.

     Eloise assured us that she wouldn't. And she didn't.

     We had cold cuts, potato salad, congealed salad, assembly-line bread and soda pop. My congealed salad melted through two layers of paper plates and onto my absorbent tweed trousers, and I crumpled three paper forks before I finally escaped to the local cleaning establishment.

     So you can easily understand why I don't object to having Thanksgiving at our house, although, to be perfectly honest, it usually turns out to be a pretty hectic affair.

     Take last Thanksgiving, for example. Our younger daughter and her husband and family arrived first. Then our older daughter and her pack next. However, it was quite some time before our son and his outfit got there. Because Boone--their two-year-old--took off his shoes and threw them out of the car window, and they had to turn around and go back and find them.

     Then it started!

     Little people darting here and there, the kitchen a bedlam, and women calling out at frequent intervals, "Watch the children!"

     There was a momentary calm while everyone sat down to the table and I said grace, which turned out to be a duet featuring myself and my five-year-old granddaughter, who knew quite a few rather lengthy blessings.

     Ordinarily, when grace is over, people begin to eat. Not in our household. It's a signal for the feminine members to jump up and down from the table like puppets on a string. The biscuits have to be taken off the oven, the coffee has to be warmed, and vegetables have to be passed around. I complained once. But my wife informed me that only a butler and cook would remedy the situation, so I've kept quiet about it since.

     The meal was fairly uneventful. Only four glasses of milk were turned over, which is about par for the course. There was a lengthy debate about whether Roger (my nine-year-old grandson) should be allowed to have a fourth serving of turkey and dressing. And while they were debating, Roger helped himself and polished it off before they decided.

     When dinner was over, I tiptoed to my bedroom to sneak a nap, but just as I was turning the doorknob my younger daughter called out sharply, "Daddy! You can't go in there! I just put the baby down on your bed."

     "Oh. I was just going to take a nap," I explained lamely.

     "I guess you could sleep with him," my daughter said reluctantly.

     I replied, "Thanks, but I've misplaced my hard hat."

     You see, I had the misfortune once of taking a nap with one of my grandbabies and made the mistake of going to sleep before he did. But not for long. I got clobbered with a milk bottle.

     "I'll just go upstairs," I told my daughter.

     "Frank is putting the twins to sleep up there."

     "How about the sewing room?" I asked hopefully.

     "The cousins are cutting out paper dolls in there."

     The only place left was the living room, where my 13-year-old grandson was playing his favorite music, at a higher volume than my head could handle. I already knew a headache was forthcoming!

     I put on my overcoat and hat, and stalked out to the patio--which was colder than I expected. I bravely stuck it out for half an hour. But nobody noticed I was gone, so I finally went in and discovered that naps were over and everything was in full swing again.

     There was a game in progress in the family room, and a family singing group in the living room. I went in and listened to the singing for awhile, but Roger threw up right in the middle of the song and that broke up the musical interlude.

     I considered it a rather propitious moment for everyone to take his leave, but my younger daughter was busily organizing a game of charades.

     The game was especially entertaining to the grandchildren. Particularly when my son rolled on the floor in a valiant attempt to convey "The Wreck of the Hesperus" to his team. The younger grandchildren got down on the floor and rolled with him, and my 13-year-old grandson called out, "Dead dog! Dead dog!"

     And then it was time to go. But leave-taking is a pretty involved thing with my family.

     First, all the snowsuits had to be sorted and assembled. Then the diaper bags had to be packed. And no one travels heavier then my grandchildren. They bring with them a mountainous assortment of toys, blankets, pillows and stuffed animals that have to be located at the last moment. And one little five-year-old packs a tiny steamer trunk that has to go through customs before we allow her to leave. For she sometimes empties out her treasure and fills it full of stuff picked up around the house.

     It is a remarkable thing to see my children assemble their children and herd them into their respective automobiles. How they end up with the right ones is a mystery to me!

     My older daughter called out that we could have Christmas dinner at her house, and she wouldn't go to a bit of trouble. And I called back that if it was all the same to her, we'd just have it at our house.

     And then it was quiet. Of course, there was still much cleaning up to do and the pictures on the wall were askew, but it was quiet!

     I wearily stretched out on my bed, ignoring the fact that the mattress had been thoroughly dampened by its former occupant.

     But after my children and grandchildren had been gone for a little while a strange feeling came over me. Now, mind you, I'm not one to indulge in maudlin sentimentality. But, you know, the children were cute rolling on the floor. And as for Roger throwing up on the living room wallpaper--well, I never really cared much for that wallpaper anyhow.

     I turned to  my wife, who was propped up in bed with a cold towel on her head, and said, "Dear, that's a great bunch of children we have. We should ask them over to dinner more often."