But First, Thanksgiving . . .

Christmas notwithstanding, we cooked out last night.

Or rather, our son and his wife did, and they brought their 16-month old along with them.

The 16-month old didn't help with the cooking, although he was free with his opinions about the food: he especially liked the bun and the sweet potato, and the fresh pineapple made his eyes shine and his mouth water.

It was a warm afternoon, with the possibility of storms. The yard had a good supply of sticks, thanks to a windy storm the night before, and the 16-month old had fun picking the longest sticks up, balancing them in his hands, throwing them into the creek, even as his daddy's hands were hooked firmly into the back of his pants so he wouldn't go swimming, too.

The sky was that bright brittle blue of autumn, and every now and then fluffy white clouds, framed by heavy grey ones, would go skidding across the sky.

We took a walk around the yard. We picked up sycamore leaves big enough to be hats, and visited with a neighbor from across the street. We checked out a pile of dirt where a squirrel had been trying to bury a nut.

The hamburgers and brats were juicy and tasty, and the grilled sweet potatoes toasty and delicious. We were out of catsup, so someone made a quick trip to the grocery store – what good is a hamburger without catsup?

Some days are so busy I hardly notice the color of the sky or clouds. I take little note of whether or not there is water in the creek. I really couldn't tell you much about whether or not the squirrels are busy burying nuts in the front yard.

And some days, like yesterday, are for savoring. When Thanksgiving comes, those are the days I'm thinking especially about.