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