You’re right! This email is three days early, but since it’s a Thanksgiving story, it seemed appropriate to send today.

Ever seen a Native American totem pole? That fellow at the bottom of the pole who’s holding all the other totems up; he’s called the blame catcher. As the youngest of five kids, our hero, Gus, had always been the blame catcher. For his entire youth, his three much older sisters had devised evil schemes and persuaded his slightly older brother to carry out those schemes. When it came time to pay the devil his dues, it was Gus, the bottom totem, who caught the blame.

Gus’ final year living with his parents was a glorious year because all those heavy totems Gus had been catching the blame for were gone. Apart from Gus and his parents, the big house was empty except for holidays, when it was filled with most of the totems, their love-interests, and Gus’ three aunts.

Actually, the aunts were his mother’s aunts and they were a dynamic trio. Hattie, Minnie, and Myrtle had been born around the turn of the twentieth century and they had seen it all — the Great Depression, two world wars, and at least a couple of husbands apiece. As Army nurses during World War Two, they had experienced their share of suffering and death. None the less, they were resilient and were always joking, laughing, and playing pranks.

One of their grandest pranks was giving each other power of attorney over their estates. Since none of them were particularly fond of their multiple step-children, when the first aunt died, the other two confiscated her estate — homes, cars, jewelry, the funds from multiple life insurance policies, and any keepsakes — before informing the far flung step-children that she had died destitute and homeless. When the second aunt died, aunt one repeated the process.

Thanksgiving
By 1973, only two of the famous aunts were alive and able to attend Thanksgiving dinner. Still, there was a big crowd and everyone brought food. Whereas adult men play poker and golf as passive competition to establish pecking order among their peers, women seem to view cooking, especially during the holidays, as the determinant of social position. Even women who hate cooking the rest of the year, tend to get caught up in the competition. The aunts’ chosen event in the holiday cook-off was the pie competition, and they were the frontrunners.

Both aunts showed up to Thanksgiving dinner bearing deep-dish pecan pies that would make a five-star chef insecure. Even at their advanced ages, they could still out-pie any woman on the planet. And nobody on the planet was a bigger fan of their pie talent than Gus. He could put away three pieces of that pecan pie without even having to lay on the couch and recover.

Now, all families have their quirky traditions and Gus’ family was no different. Since the family kitchen was packed wall-to-wall with women of every age, using every inch of counter space for last-minute preparations of whatever food entry they brought, all the pies (and there were more than a few) were stored atop the idle washing machine and dryer in a small utility space just outside the kitchen. Sometimes, there was barely enough space to hold all those pies.

Once everyone with lack or foresight had gorged themselves on ordinary turkey, dressing, yams, cranberry sauce, gravy, fresh rolls, and various casseroles, the moment of glory would arrive, and the desert masterpieces would be displayed upon the dining table. Now, some of those fools were too stuffed to even taste the deserts before lying about pretending to watch televised football for the next two hours. Gus was not among them. Like one or two of his kin, Gus had saved room for a slice (or two, or three) of tasty pecan pie. Football watchers could eat the leftovers.

On that particular Thanksgiving Day, in 1973, after all the touchdowns had been made, the televised talking heads had earned their salaries, and the sated diners had digested enough of their lunch to smack their lips and dig into the menagerie of tasty deserts, there arose a crisis of biblical proportions. One of the pecan pies had gone missing! And not just any pecan pie; it was Myrtle’s famous pecan pie.

First, there was the head scratching, then there was the great search (including Myrtle’s car trunk), then there were the whispers of dementia — had she really forgotten to bring the pie — then came the nasty accusations and finger pointing. It might well have ended in a domestic disturbance meriting a visit from the police had not all the participants been too full of the Thanksgiving menu to exert any violent efforts.

Gus, channeling his Sherlock Holmes avatar, pointed out that the pie could already have been eaten while most potential witnesses lay sated upon every cushioned seat in the house. After a long and uncomfortable silence, the lethargy of gluttony took over and the aromas of other deserts further diffused the tension. Everyone dug in, to the point that someone began channel surfing for another televised excuse to re-retire to the couches.

By late that evening, the dishes had been washed, after-snacks had been consumed, the good tablecloth and napkins had been unceremoniously dumped into washing machine and guests had all gone their way. The house was finally quiet. The following Monday, Gus was once again the king of his domain and once again free from the burden of totems with greater status. All would have been well if he’d exhibited the self-discipline to make his bed that morning. It was on Monday evening that Gus’ mom, returning from a tiring day at work, noticed the half-eaten pecan pie under the side of his bed.

A meeting of great minds who think alike