How our Thanksgiving goose got cooked
By Pam Palmer
[Editor’s Note: Originally published on July 20, 2013 as a Third Saturday Fiction. Sharing this wonderful story by Pam Palmer at Thanksgiving has become a tradition of Moristotle & Co., and we are grateful to Susan C. Price, in her execution of Ms. Palmer’s estate, for conveying the story to us, and for her wry stories about her friend.]
“We should have roast goose for Thanksgiving,” Martin said.
It was 1976, and David, my husband, and I had just bought a house across the street from our long-time friends, Martin and Joan. Two weeks after we moved into the house, David left for a six-month stint on a research ship in the Antarctic. It would be my first Thanksgiving in my first house and I felt overwhelmed. Of course, I could go to my in-laws’ house but it was a long drive from Long Beach to Mission Viejo by myself. My parents were going to the desert so having dinner with them was not possible.
How our Thanksgiving goose got cooked
By Pam Palmer
[Editor’s Note: Originally published on July 20, 2013 as a Third Saturday Fiction. Sharing this wonderful story by Pam Palmer at Thanksgiving has become a tradition of Moristotle & Co., and we are grateful to Susan C. Price, in her execution of Ms. Palmer’s estate, for conveying the story to us, and for her wry stories about her friend.]
“We should have roast goose for Thanksgiving,” Martin said.
It was 1976, and David, my husband, and I had just bought a house across the street from our long-time friends, Martin and Joan. Two weeks after we moved into the house, David left for a six-month stint on a research ship in the Antarctic. It would be my first Thanksgiving in my first house and I felt overwhelmed. Of course, I could go to my in-laws’ house but it was a long drive from Long Beach to Mission Viejo by myself. My parents were going to the desert so having dinner with them was not possible.
How our Thanksgiving goose got cooked
By Pam Palmer
[Editor’s Note: Originally published on July 20, 2013 as a Third Saturday Fiction.]
“We should have roast goose for Thanksgiving,” Martin said.
It was 1976 and David, my husband, and I had just bought a house across the street from our long-time friends, Martin and Joan. Two weeks after we moved into the house David left for a six-month stint on a research ship in the Antarctic. It would be my first Thanksgiving in my first house and I felt overwhelmed. Of course, I could go to my in-laws’ house but it was a long drive from Long Beach to Mission Viejo by myself. My parents were going to the desert so having dinner with them was not possible.
How our Thanksgiving goose got cooked
By Pam Palmer
[Editor’s Note: Originally published on July 20, 2013 as a Third Saturday Fiction.]
“We should have roast goose for Thanksgiving,” Martin said.
It was 1976 and David, my husband, and I had just bought a house across the street from our long-time friends, Martin and Joan. Two weeks after we moved into the house David left for a six-month stint on a research ship in the Antarctic. It would be my first Thanksgiving in my first house and I felt overwhelmed. Of course, I could go to my in-laws’ house but it was a long drive from Long Beach to Mission Viejo by myself. My parents were going to the desert so having dinner with them was not possible.
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| Pyre for Pammie 3.17.10 |
By Susan C. Price
Pam was a friend of mine. We met in the early 1970s, working for the State of California reviewing welfare paperwork of the counties. In remembering how and why I was drawn to her, I’d say it was the level and tone of her intelligence, education, and ironic sense of humor (all of which matched mine). Also, I admired and envied her oh-so-chic personal style.
Her life had many twists and turns, ups and downs, and geographic moves. We managed to stay friends for over 30 years. About 15 years ago, she had a falling out with a friend she had named as executor of her will, and substituted me. By the time she lost her mind, I was the only old friend still in touch, and willing and able to be her guardian as well as her executor. The following is the first in a series. Due to the...um...nature of some of the “Pammie Stories,” as we and she have always called them, they won’t all be published publicly.
How our Thanksgiving goose got cooked
By Pam Palmer
“We should have roast goose for Thanksgiving,” Martin said.
It was 1976 and David, my husband, and I had just bought a house across the street from our long-time friends, Martin and Joan. Two weeks after we moved into the house David left for a six-month stint on a research ship in the Antarctic. It would be my first Thanksgiving in my first house and I felt overwhelmed. Of course, I could go to my in-laws’ house but it was a long drive from Long Beach to Mission Viejo by myself. My parents were going to the desert so having dinner with them was not possible.
How our Thanksgiving goose got cooked
