A geography lesson on how I came to be in Iowa for Thanksgiving

There's something about an American Mid-West Thanksgiving that makes you wish that the early pioneers had just gone ahead and quelled their hankering to see what was beyond those Rocky Mountains. "You are NOT a billy goat, Zebadiah," sighed his beleaguered East Coast-loving wife, "and the grass is certainly NOT greener on the other side of those mountains." But would Zebadiah listen? Ohhhh....noooooo. And now, thanks to him, I spend my Thanksgiving holiday greeted by a friendly pig with a looming expiration date, reluctantly settled in with a crew of cuddly canines to watch college football (Go Hawkeyes!) after plunging into a scene right out of Forrest Gump when I challenged Cousin Jerry to list off all the flavors of gelatin manufactured at Kraft. I'm calling him on his assertion that there are chocolate-flavored gelatins. When "the boys" (all well into their 40s, by the way) finished admiring all the armaments in the house, they strapped on their Carharts and trooped out to inspect the newly-installed boiler and then test-drove a skidloader. I fought my way temporarily out of the

dog pack to grab one of the fifty remotes available to view my alternatives to the game (Go Hawkeyes!) only to be waylaid by my 12-year-old niece who spotted Spongebob. The boys came back in to check the game (Dang Nevada! "Um...Amy, they were playing Nebraska."  "Oh.") and grab a snack which led to my brother-in-law's lively conversation about Amish sourdough bread. "Do I detect a hint of pumpkin," he asked Cousin Jeff's wife Shelley who has twenty loaves in various stages of production at any one time. I personally consider the Amish sourdough bread starter blob to be a pyramid scheme. Virgil then admired Shelley's mop which was immediately purchased and shipped to him via Amazon before the boys enjoyed some expensive tequila plucked from the freezer simultaneously speaking scornfully of Jose Cuervo. Before departing, we headed out to the heated garage to load up on Iowa-fed pork loins, hugged and kissed the cousins good-bye, waved a sad farewell to the friendly pig and drove off into the western sunset. "Wait a second, Amy," Cousin Jeff said, interrupting my ironic ending with a brief geography lesson. "Sweetheart," he pointed out gently, "the Rockies actually don't

interrupt access from New York to Iowa. Perhaps you might want to use the Mississippi as your symbolic landform obstacle." I stared incredulously at Jeff's topographical map and then glared at him before shrugging. So Zebadiah strapped on some floaties and navigated the mighty Mississippi...same outcome. I'm in Iowa for Thanksgiving...and grateful for that blessing.