“Of course we’ll have Thanksgiving at our house this year, Aunt Ellen! I’ll write notes to everyone and tell them!” Mom hung up the phone with a crooked smile and began to sing softly to herself;

Oh where did I leave that bottle of Scotch
The bottle of Scotch, my sweet bottle of Scotch?
Oh where did I leave that bottle of Scotch?
It’s half past nine in the morning…

Great Aunt Ellen had just explained that for the first time in a generation she and Great Uncle Charlie could not host the family's annual Thanksgiving get-together. It seems that over the weekend Great Uncle Charlie tried to repair a drain in the kitchen sink, and the federal hazmat teams will not be finished with the house until mid-January.

This news did not make Mom all that happy. The last time she was in charge of hosting a family get-together was the Christmas best remembered for the Canine Culinary Calamity in which the humans dined on canned corned beef from the Speedway while Carl the Dog and Bernie The Schnauzer feasted on the spiral-sliced ham that was forgotten at the bottom of Grandma and Grandpa’s garbage bag of gifts. 

"Must prepare. Need help. Everyone coming here in a week. No time. Oh God. No time." 

"Mom," shouted Todd Junior from the upstairs bathroom, "Do we have more bath towels?"

"Why Dear?" 

"Because there are only nine in here, and it doesn't look like that's going to be enough to soak up all the toilet water on the floor." 

I might be the only male resident of Michigan who is not spending these early days of November stockpiling ammunition and Slim Jims in anticipation of deer season. It’s not that I object to hunting; I just don’t care to do it. And I don’t have anything bad to say about hunters. Of course, this is partly because I make it a rule never say anything bad about people with guns.

I think most of my reluctance to blast woodland creatures goes back to when I was about twelve years old and my dad, also not a hunter, decided to take me out to shoot some rabbits. Two things made him decide to do this:

1.     He had inherited a single-shot 12-gauge shotgun from his Grandfather, who had told him that it was good for rabbit hunting.

2.     He believed that that we could probably figure out what to do with some rabbits if we happened to get any.

So one bright Saturday morning my dad handed me a burlap bag for “the kill” and a small red box of shotgun shells, A.K.A., “the bullets”. Then he piled me, the shotgun, and our dog, a plump little brown female mutt named Scamp, into his white Volkswagen Beetle and we headed out. Scamp kept watch with her head out the window, alertly smashing bugs with her nose and forehead.

Well, it's another Autumn here in Michigan. Tigers fans are trying to get excited about watching the Yankees and the Phillies in the World Series; hunters are polishing their bullets and stockpiling Slim Jims in anticipation of Opening Day; soggy maple leaves are clogging up all the rain gutters; otherwise sane and rational mothers are wiggling into Sexy Firefighter, Sexy Pirate, or Sexy Investment Banker costumes for the neighborhood Halloween party; and the annual pitched battle over who is going to eat Thanksgiving dinner where and with whom is about to get underway.

Oh yeah, and the Flu is here.

October in Michigan is a magical thing. The leaves are beginning to change, the nights are cooler, and the kids are back in school. From the football stadium, the festive sounds of the marching band, the referee’s whistle, the tearing of ligaments, and the snapping of bones fill the crisp autumn air.

We’ve all been spoiled by a long wonderful summer of warm-weather activities, when we could go out to the lake or the golf course or the chain gang on just about any afternoon and enjoy soaking up enough ultraviolet radiation to toast a bagel. But now the boats are snuggled away in their shrink wrap and the old nine iron is resting peacefully on the bottom of that pond near the green on number twelve. It’s time to switch over to Fall Fun.

One thing I always like to do is visit the neighborhood Cider Mill And Yellow Jacket Wasp Preserve. This is a place where you can enjoy cinnamon donuts, caramel apples, fresh apple cider, and stinging insects motivated enough to swipe a Coney dog right off your paper plate.

Well, they pulled it off. My son and my New Daughter (that "in-law" stuff seems like a pretty impersonal way to talk about the love of my child's life) have joined hands and become husband and wife. And I'm here to tell you that their wedding was absolutely, positively the most beautiful event in the history of the world.

The plan was really amazing. The whole thing was held outdoors on the grounds surrounding the country home of their friend, Timmy. There was a "chapel" set up with bales of hay making up the pews and an arch beautifully decorated to form the altar. On the other side of the house there was a giant tent, decorated as elegantly as any banquet hall, to house the reception. There were neat signs, hand-painted on driftwood, and other clever details everywhere, all perfectly designed to make the wedding uniquely theirs.

OK, if you want to be technical about it, I'll admit that there were a few unexpected hitches in the celebration. Some elements did not come off exactly as planned. There were a few bumps in the road, a little sand in the peanut butter.