Last night it rained. I could hear it on the roof and windows. The warm day disappeared into a colder night, but it didn’t last. The morning is beautiful, a fall morning with sun, a strong breeze and a beautiful blue sky. The high will be 49˚, almost tropical for this time of year.

When I was a kid, I didn’t count the days until Thanksgiving. I reserved my counting for the days before Christmas. Thanksgiving was a half week of school and dinner. My father and grandfather always went to the local high school’s traditional Thanksgiving game though none of us even went to school there. I don’t remember about my grandfather, but my father loved football. He was a Giants fan before the Patriots existed. I remember him watching the game on Sundays on our old black and white TV. The only name I remember is Y.A. Tittle.

Last night, or rather when it had just turned into today, at 12:30, the dogs went out. I watched from the back door, and when I noticed Nala stayed on the deck, I went outside to encourage her. Henry finished and went inside then Nala went through the dog door into the house. I went to follow but the door handle had locked. This has happened before, but I was inside each time it did. I banged the door handle but nothing happened except my frustration grew. The dogs were inside watching and listening. The front door was locked. All the houses around me were dark, no help there. I looked for something to use as a screwdriver so I could get the handle off but had no luck. I tried to take off the dog door but couldn’t. Nala joined me outside and watched, highly entertained I suspect. I banged the handle and screamed in frustration. All I could figure was I’d need to break a window on the cellar door. I screamed again and banged the handle three or four times. I envisioned being stuck outside on a cold night with the dogs inside comfy and warm. I pulled at the bottom of the door knowing it would do no good, but I had to keep trying. My hand hurt from banging the hands over and over, but I banged it again then tried the handle. Give me a halleluia! The door opened. A Thanksgiving miracle! I’m taping the lock.

The morning is a delight. At 62˚, the day has a September feel. A warm wind is blowing. The set of chimes hanging from a low branch are tinkling and sweetening the air. My backyard is covered in pine needles and leaves. When the dogs run, I hear the crunching of dead leaves under their paws. Nala is faster and noisier.

I have sad news. My slippers have gone to their heavenly reward. The holes had gotten bigger, the backs stayed flat, and my big toes were totally exposed. Reluctantly I put the slippers in the basket. They served me well.

Other than a lab test for Gwen tomorrow, my dance card is empty. The usual, laundry and trash, can wait for the meantime. Neither needs attention. I have a couple of books waiting to be read, and I even have bonbons.

When I was a kid, I loved the holidays. We had traditions for each of them. Thanksgiving meant watching the Macy’s parade and snacking on tangerines, mixed nuts and M&M’s. My mother put the turkey in the oven early. Her sage stuffing jutted out at one end. I later learned it was the butt end, not the neck. I thought that was gross at first, but the lure of the stuffing was greater than the butt end. My mother stayed in the kitchen most of the morning. She peeled vegetables and opened the can of asparagus for my father. I remember the aroma of turkey filling the house and the windows in the kitchen steaming. I remember one pot which usually held the potatoes. It had a few dents. I can even remember where the dents were. That pot moved with us.

Thanksgiving, of course, wasn’t celebrated in Ghana, but we celebrated. We even had a turkey, the first one I ever remember seeing in Ghana. The farmer didn’t want to part with it but gave in for the money, a good amount of money. We also had a few chickens. We piled them in a big trough like pan and began to pluck them, a skill I haven’t used since then. I’ll never forget when the chickens, without their heads, jumped out of the trough. It was the adage come to life. I knew it was their nervous systems, but that didn’t make it any less freaky. For the rest of the meal we had fufu pounded by students, whatever veggies we could find in the market and pies. That was the first time I ever made a pie. I made pawpaw pies. They were delicious.

This Thanksgiving I have ordered dinner to be delivered, but I’ll start my day traditionally by watching the parade and eating tangerines and M&M’s.