Every Thanksgiving I
think of Huw Lewis-Jones
of Liverpool, England. He’s
a cousin of my late first
wife, and he and his wife
Catherine, both doctors,
are dear friends to Anne
and me.
Huw’s a radiologist, and
he comes to mind at
Thanksgiving because of a
radiological truism he
shared with me. (Thanksgiving,
by the way, has been
imported to England as a
holiday, complete with traditional
meal, Pilgrims, Indians,
etc. Go figure. . .)
Huw says that, just before
Thanksgiving and again
just before Christmas, he
and other x-ray docs see a
rash of patients with broken
toes and sometimes
squashed feet.
Why? Because people
have lost their grip on a frozen
turkey and dropped it,
a dozen pounds or much
more, smack on a foot. One
foot, if they’re lucky.
For comparison, think of
the average ten-pin bowling
ball, about ten pounds.
Dropped from chest height,
imagine what that that
would do to your toes or
metatarsals. (I saw that
happen once at a bowling
alley. The guy’s howl sounded
like a chainsaw.) Now,
imagine a solidly frozen
turkey weighing half again
as much, or twice as much.
Oh, my. That could take
the edge off a holiday.
The above, then, is a
caution, courtesy of Cousin
Huw, who, though he and
Cath practice in Liverpool,
is a 100% Welshman. He’s
a native son of Dolgellau, a
name not pronounced nearly
as the letters would suggest.
Its last syllable, a
``thee,’’ must be expelled
out both sides of one’s
mouth. I can’t say it yet
without spattering standers-
by.
Like most Welshmen,
Huw’s a gifted story-teller
and, God bless him, loves to
make himself the butt of
the stories. Here’s a memorable
one that I once shared
in part with you:
Huw, then a young dad
of Tom and Gareth, five
and three respectively, was
driving them home from
playschool. They were secure
in their car seats, and
between them were their
two Border collie puppies,
Moss and Meg. (I knew the
dogs in their later years,
both of them still rollicking
and puppy-like. And the
boys, now both in college,
grew up just fine, too.)
As Huw tells the story,
he was driving along happily,
humming to himself,
with suddenly Tom spoke
from the back seat. I should
add that both boys, growing
up in Liverpool, always
sound to me uncannily like
the Beatles: that odd Liverpudlian
monotone, with a
drop of a minor third on
each sentence’s last syllable.
It was in such a voice
that Tom spoke:
``Dad, the dog is going to
be sick.’’ The drop in pitch
on ``sick’’ made the prospect
seem even worse.
Huw, though a doctor, is
self-admittedly squeamish.
His first reaction was to
minimize. ``Now, Thomas,
he’ll be all right. Just lower
the window a bit and give
him some air.’’ But then:
``Dad! He’s going to
spew!’’ And Huw, wincing,
heard the sound every dog
owner knows, that convulsive
``Erk! Erk! that makes
them snatch the puppy up
from the carpet and plop
him, at very least, on a floor
of vinyl or tile.’’ But, too
late:
``Dad!’’ came Tom’s
mournful, frightened cry.
``Dad, he’s spewing on the
floor!’’ And worse: ``Dad! It’s
worms! Dad, he’s spewing
worms!’’
Cringing, Huw glanced
into the mirror. His two little
boys were pasted against
the far sides of their car
seats, right up against the
windows. Tom himself was
now gulping and hiccupping,
and little Gareth was
sobbing and wailing, both
at once.
Well, Dad pulled over on
the road’s verge, as they
say, and unwillingly opened
the back door. On the floor,
at his poor boys’ feet, was a
tangled mass of strands of
white, mixed in some red
liquid that Huw tried to ignore.
With gritted teeth,
the poor man bent up the
sides of the floor mat and,
holding his breath, carried
it over to some shrubbery.
Then he upended it and
cleaned as best he could on
the grass. He then put it in
the car’s boot.
On the way home, Huw
stopped at a market and
comforted the boys and
himself with ice lollies; we
call them popsicles. Then
he drove home and loosed
the still sober boys and the
rollicking dogs into the
back garden.
Catherine was in the
kichen. Lovely Cath, who
now manages Liverpool’s
largest Hospice with serene
grace. She was stirring up
supper. Huw, still whitefaced,
sank into a chair.
She glanced at him and
said, ``What on earth is
wrong, Huw?’’ She knew it
wasn’t the boys since she’d
seen them out the window,
now restored and chasing
the dogs.
``Oh, Cath, it was horrible!’’
gasped Huw, hoping
for a big outpouring of sympathy.
``We were driving
home and — and Moss
spewed on the floor, right
in front of poor Tom and
Gareth. And, Cath, it was
worms! Awful, squiggly
worms, in some sort of reddish
effluent! And I had to
clean it up!’’ Huw has an
actor’s face, and he looked
at her with woeful eyes. ``I
almost gagged, too,’’ he
added, still waiting for
``Poor baby!’’ or the British
equivalent.
Cath sat down beside
him, smiling. ``Huw,’’ she
said evenly, ``you’re a dear
man, but a proper fool
sometimes. The dogs’
breakfast this morning was
last night’s spaghetti Bolognese.’’
No need to say more. Every
husband knows how
Huw felt. But never mind.
He’s still a very bright man
and gives excellent advice.
And so, remember his
warning and, when you lift
that heavy turkey out of
the freezer, use a damp
dishtowel. It will adhere to
the plastic wrapper and
give you a secure grip. And
pay close heed to what
you’re doing.
Keep on your toes, and
you’ll keep your toes on!
(That last advice is mine,
not Huw’s.)
Read about Jim Atwell’s
book, From Fly Creek--Celebrating
Life in Leatherstocking
Country, at JimAtwell.
com
