We went to my parents’ home in West Virginia for the festivities. Thanksgiving morning, I decided to head out for a walk. I invited my husband to go with me, but he turned me down.
“I’ll go!” my older daughter said. “Can I bring Charlotte?”
When my younger son saw us step outside, he begged to be allowed to come, too. Feeling extravagant—I already had a girl and a dog coming with me, so why not add one six-year-old to the mix?—I said yes. (I forgot to tell anyone else that he was coming with us, though, shame on me, so my husband was worried the whole time. But not worried enough to catch up to us, I might point out.)
The sun was bright, the air crisp, the ground frosty. We walked and I took pictures and my son held my hand and told me knock-knock jokes.
Here I am rocking the hunter safety orange. Why in the world do they make the orange camouflage? Doesn’t that kind of defeat the purpose?
We walked the whole way up to a little church that has a spring in it. The handwritten signs couldn’t have been more appropriate.
On the way home, we encountered a lot of fresh blood sprayed all over the middle of the road and I was reminded that I was indeed in West Virginia in the middle of hunting season.
And thus ended our picturesque Thanksgiving Day walk.
Update: My husband read this and then offered a correction. “I wasn’t worried. I was just curious if he was up in the woods about to get shot.”