The Thanksgiving Left Right Story

Aunt Marguerite left home at dawn on Thanksgiving morning with a turkey buckled into the back seat and directions she had scribbled right on the back of an envelope. She turned left at the water tower, right at the old feed store, and left again where the road runs along the river.

By the time she got there, the kitchen had gone completely wrong. Uncle Ray had left the oven off. The rolls were rising right out of their pan. Cousin Dee had left the cranberries in her car, and the car was right where she'd left it, two blocks over.

Everybody got a job. Ray was sent left to the garage for the folding chairs. Dee went right to find the good serving spoon. Grandma stood right in the middle of the kitchen and directed traffic, sending people left and right until nobody knew left from right anymore.

The table was set at last, and it was not right. Two places on the left had no forks. The gravy boat was right where the baby could reach it. And the turkey, which had been left to rest, was still sitting right there on the counter, not carved at all.

Uncle Ray picked up the electric knife. "Carve from the left," said Grandma. "Carve from the right," said Dee. Ray carved from the left, then the right, then somewhere in the middle, and what he finally put on the platter looked like it had lost an argument.

Nobody minded. The plates went left. The rolls went right. The butter went left and never came back. The sweet potatoes made it right around the table twice, and the green beans, which Ray had left in the microwave, were never seen again.

When the plates were cleared, Grandma brought out one wrapped gift and set it right in the middle of the table. "Pass it," she said. "Left when I say left. Right when I say right. Whoever's holding it when I stop, it's theirs."

So it went left, and right, and left, and right, and left again. Past Ray, who tried to hang on to it. Past Dee, who passed it right along without looking. Past the baby, who very nearly kept it. Right the whole way around, and then left the whole way back, and then left one more seat for good measure.

Some years the turkey is dry. Some years the cranberries are still sitting right there in the car. But every year somebody goes home with something they didn't come with, and everyone agrees that's the one part they always get right. Happy Thanksgiving. Keep what you're holding.