Thanksgiving in Toomsboro

I’ve written about my paternal grandfather (not to be confused with my infamous step-grandfather) before. Pop Pop Boone was a master storyteller with incredibly bad judgment and questionable character. Not surprisingly, we were close. Most Thanksgivings were spent in Toomsboro, where my dad grew up. It wasn’t even a one-stoplight town, and even natives like my grandfather refused to rise to its defense. He once told me he’d rather cut my hands off  than have me take over the family newspaper, as a great-uncle hoped I would: “There’s nothing to do in Toomsboro but die.” He was dying a slow death married…

my sister’s rehearsal dinner

(a rambling anecdote, of no real purpose) When my sister married the rich guy, families from opposite ends of the good fortune chain uncomfortably merged. His was born into inheritance; hers (mine) born in holes, equipped with shovels. The rehearsal dinner was at a navy blue-blooded private club in a Buckhead high rise. I was seated next to my late Aunt Babs, a truly gifted color analyst and functioning alcoholic. Had Zelma not been with him, I would’ve probably ended up beside my grandfather, born, bred and buried in Middle Georgia. He liked telling stories about his miseries, failures and misdeeds; his effortless folksiness, and usage of discarded colloquialisms…