I promised you that I would report back on Thanksgiving, learning how to cook (which was non-existent, by the way) and the weeklong adventure of being back in Fairmont. After a week of being with my family, it took me a little longer than anticipated to turn this jumble into coherent sentences, mostly because every conversation was in a mix of English-Italian and gibberish.
Now, I could write a book on my Thanksgiving break. I could tell you about how I sat in traffic for EIGHT HOURS from D.C. to W.V., how I laughed until I cried with my best friend (who was a little drugged due to tearing her Achilles tendon – casual), or how my family had a four hour passive-aggressive conversation over who in the Senate was Irish-Catholic, BUT I will choose to tell you one little story that explains my family and our holiday gatherings in a nut shell.
Let me paint the scene.
It was a cold, snowy afternoon – the type of cold afternoons that actually make Ugg boots an acceptable fashion choice. After mustering enough energy, I skedaddled over to my Noni’s to help her polish silverware, set the table, and taste-test the three different types of sweet potatoes that were to be served at Thanksgiving the next day.
My Aunt soon joined us, and then my Dad walked in shortly after. We were having a dandy time UNTIL my Aunt asked one simple question: “Where is Rosie the cat?”
**There is one small detail I must tell you before I finish this story: my Noni calls anyone and everything that has caused her grief a “sonabitch” (Translation: son of a bitch). I have heard everyone from myself to potatoes that didn’t quite mash well to the President classified as this prestigious term.
“Oh, we lost the sonabitch,” my Noni replied. “I told that cat, ‘Rosie, no one but me liked you, so it’s time for you to go die.’ And that’s what she did. The sonabitch died in my bedroom. And I swear she’s hauntin’ this place. I hear her ALL THE TIME.”
Precisely at that moment, we hear a voice from the chimney saying, “Helllooooooo! Can anyone hear meeeeee?”
“Oh ma GOD!” my Noni screamed. “It’s ROSIE!”
Knowing that this could not be the dead cat (because cats do not speak English), my Dad went outside to see what in the heck was going on. He walked to the back of the house and found my grandpa STANDING ON THE ROOF.
After much interrogation, we learned that Stanley was on the roof to repair the shingles and a big gust of wind knocked over his ladder. People, he was stuck on the roof during a snowstorm for hours.
When he came back to the house covered in tar, my Noni looked at him and said, “You ruined your sonabitchin’ pair of jeans, you sonabitch!”