Shanksgiving

It's that time of year again, when snow silently drifts from the sky, bell ringers greet you outside of the grocery store, nutjobs camp out in front of Best Buy, and people cram themselves full of bird. Oh, traditions. I was reminded yesterday, when someone at work inquired, of... the Great Shanksgiving of '07.

Let's travel back in time to 2007... young Bridgette was driving home from work, two days before Thanksgiving, wearing her favorite sorority sweatshirt and broken-zipper jeans, looking forward to one more day of classes before heading home for the holiday. Enough with the third-person narrative. Three quarters of the way up an on-ramp, something flew out from under the car in front of me and shot underneath of the Supra. Something snapped. We discovered later that this was the tie-rod of the rear wheel, in my rear-wheel drive vehicle.

The Supra and I spun 'round and 'round the interstate, then shot backwards several yards in the far right lane, before spinning the opposite direction and catching a lamp post on the way down a steep embankment, over the river and through the woods, to the hospital we go.

By the time someone had made it down the hill to help me out of the vehicle, there were quite a few other cars stopped, mostly admiring the spectacle I had made of an accident, but one because the light pole I had hit catapulted down the interstate and landed across his hood.

He helped me out of the car, and down from my perch across a tiny creek. We stepped over the dismembered lamp post and I asked 'Did I hit that?" at which point a nurse, obviously more flustered than I, ordered me to sit on the ground until the ambulance arrived.

So there, in front on a solid gathering on the side of 64 West, I was strapped to a backboard and hoisted out of the ditch. I tried, in vain, to hide the fact that my pants would not zip all the way, but when your arms are duct taped to a stretcher there is not much you can do. I watched as the EMTs searched through my purse to find my insurance card, and sorted through my cell phone to find someone to call. After a few attempts they were able to reach James. "Is she bleeding?" is the only response they got. I was not.

After a brief visit to the emergency room, a $100 Advil, and an impromptu haircut by the physician, I was sent home.

Daddy came down the next day with the roll-back to scoop Supra and I up, to bring back to Northern Kentucky. We then commenced in Thanksgiving traditions.

Momma was cooking the turkey and getting the fixins ready, when I decided to attempt a shower before the meal. Not long into my shower I heard knocks on the door... *knock*knock* "Bridge... the house is on fire..." came the voices of my brother and sister.

"What do you want me to do about that?"

*silence*

*knock*knock* "Bridge... the house is really on fire." came the voice of my mom.

I got out of the shower, dripping, and jostled into the kitchen, following the whispy smoke, and noting the flashing lights outside of the house already.

Here is where you need to picture what I was seeing.

I stood, in my towel, in the kitchen, surrounded by my family and no less than two firefighters and three police officers. The oven was open, smoke still rolling out. The turkey, charred on the outside and covered in melted plastic, sat on the counter, where the dog, also on the counter, dug at the still pink, raw insides.

After the smoke had cleared, literally, we sat and ate what was left of our feast - mostly mashed potatoes. Soon enough, it was time for me to head back to Louisville, in a borrowed car. Upon my arrival home, I found my fish had jumped out of its' bowl and had dried up and stuck to the floor in my bedroom. The whipped cream on top of a Shanksgiving pumpkin pie.

And that, my friends, is why we just don't do Thanksgiving.