Yesterday evening we met with the priest about my grandnephew's baptism, which will be on Saturday. I've been working like crazy to fit in that trip, the holiday and an extended stay in Samsonville. I always resolve to get some things done when I am there, but that rarely happens. It is even hard to find time for my Kindle when I am there!

I returned a batch of assignments yesterday. I think the last midterm, the one that was so bad it made me mad may have been a harbinger! It isn't the same class, but about half of the assignments from yesterday were terrible. It's the weakest class in terms of writing that I can remember. There was a respite last week when the on campus sections made presentations - the majority were excellent. But still, yesterday's results were beyond alarming.

Something I've been meaning to note here but keep forgetting is that November 2 was the 12th anniversary of Penny Poodily's death. This mean that early next month we will have had Sophie for twelve years. Hard to believe.

I can't stand all the television commercials about so-called Black Friday. Why would anyone wait in line so they can buy a crappy flat screen at 4 am? What's the matter with those people? I've searched the recesses of my mind and discover not a shred of explanation (or understanding). I find the Target ads especially annoying, keep fantasizing some awful tragedy falling upon that irritating woman in them. Shallow is celebrated -- makes me sick. Full disclosure is that of all the big boxes I hate, Target is way up there on the awfulness scale.

So in honor of Thanksgiving, here is my 10-year-old self:

November 25, 1971

Dear Gina,

I heard from my neighbor, a cranberry sauce can, that I was invited to your house for Thanksgiving dinner. I was delighted! The thing I didn't know (I heard it from my never-lie Cornish Game Hen neighbor) that I was the dinner. She said not to worry, everyone's time comes. She said that was the reason I was born (to eat). The Grand Union sells you, and after that some hungry person buys you. That's how they live, she told me. I didn't like your way of living. You live on the innocent little helpless creatures. To make things worse, first, you put us in a freezing cold box, then in a boiling hot box. It's not fair. How would you like it? I don't. I don't like the idea at all. I just won't be eaten and you better do something about it.

Yours Truly,
Tom Turkey