An Alabama Thanksgiving, plus your personal invitation to Shakespeare’s Pub to see me sample the last of their 80 different beers.
By Hannah Wallace
“As God is my witness, I thought turkeys could fly.” -- Arthur Carlson, WKRP in Cincinnati
I imagine an 80-degree Thanksgiving with fresh orange juice and a post-dinner stroll on the beach would be a novelty for most people. For me, the novelty was this year’s northern migration to Huntsville, Ala. to toast the turkey with CCB’s family amid fall foliage and 30-degree weather. I actually called my parents at one point to gleefully exclaim, “It’s sleeting!”

This was the first Thanksgiving I can remember spending outside of Florida, and it was packed to the gills with pot luck and po’ boys, gumbo and rocket ships, minor-league hockey and whiskey-pouring rock bands. And, of course, the rabid tumult of the Auburn/Alabama game—a Florida gal thrown into the Rolling Eagle-Tiger War Tide, or whatever the hell it is they’re cheering for up there. I managed not to get trampled, which is as much as I could’ve hoped.


FUEL’S ERRAND: I’m dwarfed by a full-size replica of the space shuttle at Huntsville’s U.S. Space and Rocket Center.

(The highlight of the holiday? When a nephew walked up to my dear, dear Cheetah Club Boyfriend—otherwise known to his younger cousins as “Uncle Buck”—and addressed him as “Uncle CCB.”)

Of course, nothing brings you back to the grind like a 14-hour drive home. Thankfully, CCB and I have a similar vocabulary when it comes to describing holiday traffic, so there were no virgin ears to offend. Yes, the spirit of the season is upon us—now get out of the damn left lane, ya jackass.


SEVERE TRAFFIC: Fat lotta good the sign does mid-gridlock. CCB is not amused.

So onward to the chaos of shopping. (And you’d better believe I slept straight through that Black Friday madness.) When I was a kid, Christmas seemed an interminable distance from any day of the year, Thanksgiving included. Now, Thanksgiving distracts me with its food and its four-day weekend while December 25 sneaks up behind me and ganks my purse. Here comes Santa Claus, here comes Santa Claus…aaaand there goes my savings account.
Other dates approaching even more quickly:
Dec. 1: All right, kiddies, this Saturday is the big day: I arrive, Jules Verne-like (that is, bloated like a balloon), at the end of my journey through Shakespeare’s 80 beers. If you’re reading this, you’re invited to swing on by the Pub (Osprey Avenue and Siesta Drive) Saturday night—that invitation includes any real-life friends I might not get in touch with between now and then. Heck, you don’t even have to talk to me; just come support the quality pints and iambic pentameter. For this, my pride, I gladly give my wealth: / Immortalized for drinking to ill health.
Man, I am a geek. Whatever, I’ll be over here in the corner by myself, drinking the cheese dip.
Dec. 9: I’m assuming everyone will be at the Atomic Holiday Bazaar ( a week from Sunday. Be sure to check out the whimsical handmade jewelry (bead and wood) at the Twinundated booth in the far left corner of the auditorium (and say hi to Copy Editor Megan while you’re back there). I’d volunteered to hock my twin sisters’ wares at AHB before I realized my hockey skills would be needed elsewhere that day. Fortunately, Megan graciously volunteered to man the table. (Nothing’s over $20—make sure she doesn’t gouge you.)