Our Thanksgiving dinner invitation list included favorite poets Lewis Carroll and Robert Frost. Neither accepted, but places were set.
Set, just in case of late arrivals.
Hoping for Mister Carroll’s presence, for days prior to Thanksgiving lines from “Oh, oysters come and walk with us… along the briny beach”… chanted frequently around our cheery home.
It didn’t work.
It didn’t work, even though we ordered a fresh pint of the delicacy from The Dough Hook and informed our poet friend of the menu: Oyster Stew.
The only sign of Mister Frost on Thanksgiving morn was a dusty residue of white stuff on the lawn.
