The air smells of leaf piles and wood smoke. And tastes of pumpkin pie. 

And yeast rolls and dressing and cranberry sauce.  And broken bits of candy cane. 

The still-sandy Coppertone bottle begins its annual migration toward the back of the bathroom shelf. Cut offs and flip-flops and swimsuits and diets get boxed up ’til next year. 

Coffee tables are littered with catalogs, pages dog-eared. Items circled.

The door opens and cold barges in, sending tumbleweeds of dog hair skittering down the hall, past dusty stacked boxes of Christmas decorations, ambitiously brought out even earlier than previous years. (What heightens the holiday spirit better than tripping over unopened boxes for nearly two months?) 

It’s a time of red kettles and hand bells. Construction paper chains. Nut rolls and cream cheese icing and cards from every imaginable service provider wanting to make sure they aren’t forgotten.  

And time to recall my favorite Thanksgiving prank. One I’d give anything to have thought of myself, but it comes second hand, courtesy of an anonymous friend. 

“One year at Thanksgiving,” the story goes. “Our family was invited to dinner at my sister’s house, where she planned to prepare her first-ever holiday feast. “My sister Patricia is sweet, blonde, and innocent, and totally inexperienced in the kitchen-all qualities that made her an irresistible target for our mother, who prided herself in being a top-notch practical joker. 

“Mom waited until shortly after the turkey went in the oven, then told my sister she needed something from the store.” Since they were unfamiliar with the area, they convinced Patricia to run to the store to get the item for them, while they kept an eye on the bird. “As soon as my sister left, Mom took the turkey out of the oven, removed the stuffing, then shoved one of those small Cornish game hens deep into the turkey, then she restuffed the turkey and put it back in the oven. 

“Patricia came back with whatever it was Mom had asked her to get, and we continued preparing for dinner. When it was time to eat, my sister pulled the beautifully browned turkey out of the oven and proceeded to remove the stuffing. When her serving spoon hit something hard, she looked puzzled. She grabbed a pair of tongs and used them to reach inside and grab hold of the object. Once she got a good grip on the thing, she yanked. Out came the little bird. 

“That’s when my mother, with a look of total horror, exclaimed, ‘My God, Patricia! That turkey was pregnant!’ 

“My sister, of course, shrieked–and then started to cry. It took our family nearly an hour to convince her that turkeys lay eggs.” 

Making me think how funny it would be if, this next Thanksgiving, they sneaked out the stuffing and refilled the bird with hard-boiled eggs. 

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