Thanksgiving with the Lavarells

It was that time after Thanksgiving dinner when digestion, normally a secondary task that can be accomplished while you attend to something else – working, walking, doing the dishes, etc. – requires your full attention.  The Cowboys were beating the Raiders on TV, and we sat in a semicircle watching them in various states of somnolence.  Those of us who occupied reclining seats with poke-out footrests stuck our feet out in front of us.  At least one set of eyes was closed.  But I have always been a quick digester, and soon I rose to stretch.

“Where are you going?” asked one of the blonde-haired kids that had been running around all day.  I had trouble keeping them straight, but I think his name was Dylan.  It had been a long time since I’d been around so many kids.

“I’m going to go let my dog out of the truck,” I said.  “You want to come meet my dog?”

“Okay,” he said.

As I walked toward the door I passed Rebekah, who was reclining in her chair. I tapped her stocking feet.  “Would you like to come meet my dog?”

She considered for a brief moment.  “Alright,” she said.

We walked out to my truck, which was parked behind a cluster of cars.  The Lavarells, who are the closest thing I’ve got to next-door neighbors, had a big crowd over for Thanksgiving.  There were aunts, uncles, grandparents and in-laws milling around.  They had set out quite a feast, and had been kind enough to invite me over.  Turkey, dressing, sweet potato casserole, cranberry gelatin, mashed potatoes, some kind of yellow dish with bread crumbs and carrots.  All excellent.  And, because Mrs. Lavarell’s family comes from Norwegian stock, they also served a delicious fried flatbread called “lefse,” which you eat by smearing butter on it, dumping sugar on the butter, then rolling it into a tube.  The other Norwegian dish they talked about but did not serve was “lutefisk” – cod soaked in ice water for ten days, treated with lye, and served in gelatinous form.  It is, by all accounts, rank.  But I was told that some Norwegians actually eat it.  I was glad the Lavarells had elected to serve lefse.

I don't care who eats it, I'm sticking with lefse.

Out at the truck, I unloaded Duke and grabbed his tennis ball from under my seat.

“Can I throw it?” asked the boy.

“Sure,” I said, “but first let me show you how.  There’s a procedure you should follow.”

I told Duke to heel, and once he was sitting by my right ankle, I threw the ball.  I waited until it had bounced a couple times, then said “Duke” – and off he went, pounding the dirt with his paws.

“That’s good.  But will he bring it back?” asked Rebekah.  Rebekah, I had learned, enjoyed testing me.  She taught at a tribal school near Bismarck, North Dakota and was working on a master’s thesis regarding the habitat of burrowing owls.  I liked her.  I hadn’t been able to sort out exactly what subjects she taught or what field she was studying, but she knew a lot about conservation, Indian tribes, and ecology, all interesting subjects to me.  I was happy that she was testing me on Duke’s training.  That’s a battle I can win.

“This dog?  Oh, you bet.  He’s a professional.”

Duke had the ball in his mouth before it stopped rolling and came jogging back to me.  At my command, he sat at my right ankle.  “Give,” I said, and he gave me the ball.  I smiled cockily at Rebekah.

“Can I try?” asked the kid.  I gave him the ball and he chucked it about forty yards.  Duke retrieved it and brought the ball to me.

“This time, let’s do it a different way,” I said to the kid.  I knelt and covered Duke’s eyes.  “We’ll do a blind retrieve, where you throw it and then I’ll have Duke follow my directions to the ball.  Throw it up that way –” I pointed in a direction where we hadn’t thrown yet – “and I’ll send him after it.”

The kid started to rear back.  “But don’t throw it too far,” I added.

“How far?” he asked.

“Oh, about middle range,” I said.

He looked uncertain.  “Throw it about twenty yards,” I said.  The kid still looked confused.

“He’s seven, Jeb,” Rebekah said.  She was right, I guess – seven-year-olds don’t compute yardage.  I’d forgotten.  There was a time when I was good with kids, but I was out of practice.

“Oh.  Well – just throw it regular.  Not quite as far as you did last time.”

He threw the ball fifteen yards or so and emphasized that he could have thrown it further.  Males are such showoffs.  I uncovered Duke’s eyes and sent him after it.  I looked at Rebekah.  She smirked.

Back inside, Rebekah and I sat on a bench that the Lavarells had brought inside to seat the family.  Dessert time.  Mrs. Lavarell brought me a plate with slices of pumpkin pie, cheesecake, some other brownish pie and a goodly dab of ice cream.  I liked it all.  I was beginning to wonder if my palate, which had returned a verdict of “excellent!” every time I’d put any of the Lavarells’ Thanksgiving food into my mouth, had been rendered unreliable by three months of my own cooking when another blonde-haired Norwegian boy ran up to Rebekah.

“Watch this!” he said.

“What?” she asked.

“Watch me hit the golf ball,” he said as he ran out the door.  We watched through the glass.  He set a golf ball on the grass then picked up a club that was almost as tall as he was.  He grasped the very end of the black handle and took the club back as far as he could, bending at the ankles, knees, hips, shoulders, elbows and wrists.  It looked as though he were participating in a golf club throwing contest.  Maximum power.

“I like this kid’s style,” I said.

“He’s a baseball player,” Rebekah said.

“What a way to live, though.  Full-bore.”

“Swinging for the fences,” she said.

The kid swung and made contact.  The ball zipped sixty yards, and he ran after it.  After collecting the ball, he ran inside.

“Hey, while you were out, the phone rang for you,” I told him.  “The PGA wants you on the Tour.”

He looked confused.  “The professional golfers,” Rebekah explained to him.  She cut her eyes at me.

“He’s nine, Jeb,” she said.

“Oh.”  I smiled.  I have liked living out of my truck, but there are some things I’ve missed out on.