"Apples, carrats, artichokes, pumpkins, and garlic — you name 'em, we have 'em!" cried Bob, who also sells some wool and eggs. It was a breezy September, and Bob competes with his neighbours to attract the most customers (and profits) with his music, his cardboard art, and his warm-heartiness. Especially Dan Dylan Sr. , that tough, black-bearded fella with lots-a chunks o' wood. This whole clamour lasted from mid-morning to sundown, and even more when it's the weekend or a federal holiday. Meanwhile, while Bob sells his produce, his daughter and sons were off to college, and school, respectively, facing a new round of exhaustive (yet useful) lessons, and drama with their beaming friends and quirky trends, with discreet caution.
Then comes October, with the annual preparations for Thanksgiving out of a handful of Bob's cash-reapings. There's the occasional fishing and boating in a nearby lake, near the Boy Scouts' Camp, and bike races in town. And there's the autumnal equinox, when day retreats, and night prevails.
And then, November, "when winter creeps in." This November was worse; from its Arctic domain, winter raged and boomed into the Midwest. To the areas around Galveston in Texas, rains and fogs prompted delays, and eastward, the northern parts of the Atlantic Seaboard was blasted with icy winds and roaring snowfalls. On the fourth Thursday of the month, Thanksgiving had to be celebrated indoors.
This year, and at this very specific morning, Shelby was allowed inside, while the rest of the livestock stay put in the newly-expanded basement against the cold. As Natalie brings him by the collar, and then gets out to battle the sleet for his stuff in the stable, he would have sniffed the fine scents of pine wood, on the floors, on the stairs, on the ceiling: it is almost everywhere. He saw the constantly bright ceiling lights, thawing him like hook-bound sixes of little Suns, shining at morning and night. There is a long, mahogany-tinted table, draped with a pale cloth, with simple Thanksgiving decor. There was the fireplace, the spot Shelby slowly walked, and took his nap beside it, warming his torso and legs on the rug. He would have been more attracted to the fires' glow, than he is to the meals in the kitchen, and his ears cannot even notice the euphoniously glorious sound of violin symphonies, alternating from E-flat to B-flat and back, all in major key, like the second movement of Vivaldi's "Winter".
Natalie has just returned, seeing Shelby snore and drool by the fireside. She then draped his rug over him, cleaned her hands in the kitchen, and laid down the meals that the family prepared yesterday. Just when she was about to place the turkey, her grandfather and twin brothers, who had just finished shopping in the (New) Montchalons General Store, and a "final touches" spree ensued, with Shelby being the balmy eye of the storm of five people, groceries, and the frantic rush for "the city folk".
It was 8 a. m. when the other Bjørnsons were out shopping; it was 1 p. m. when they were done with the preparations. Ah, they could rest watching some TV (while Natalie unsuccessfully tried to wake Shelby up), until nine simultaneous honks and beeps ballyhooed them. Shelby woke up, and ran around, only to be caught be Natalie and her brothers, who put him and Bimo into the basement.
It was the seven Håkonsens in one car, the nine Haugens in another car, and the six Skjeggestads in a gray S. U. V. Twenty-two relatives are being welcomed, ad-lib, by the Bjørnsons, seeing the warm rug by the fireplace decorated with "your goldenrod pony's fur".
Nonetheless, the twenty-seven Norwegians had a wonderful Thanksgiving, firstly praising God for His protection, blessings, and wisdom; then feasting on the turkey, fruits, vegetables, pastries, and pumpkin pie, watching a football match in San Francisco, and preparing a smaller, yet heartier, meal for dinner. As the relatives said their goodbyes and sped off, Natalie gave a basket of apple slices to Shelby, the meaty leftovers to Bimo (both the collie and the horse are inside an empty room), and the rest to be stored into compost.
Of Shelby and Bimo, Shelby would be the more happier of the two, as this Thanksgiving was the best memory in his life ... lazily snoring and rolling in the warmth of the den ... zzz ... !
