Squeak

My dad had a booming voice. You could pick him out of a crowd if all he did was clear his throat. I did not inherit that voice. My voice is more of a nasal, high pitched whine that can't cut through if there is more than three people in a room talking.

On Thursday, Thanksgiving, Mark and I enjoyed the holiday with my family. It was much as I remembered past Thanksgivings with my family, even though at least half of them weren't there. What I had forgotten about was the sound. Imagine a flock of Canadian geese, joined by a gaggle of cackling chickens, and surrounded by a gang of turkeys, and you have an small idea of what one of my family's parties sounds like. And then there is me trying to squeeze a word into the clatter of all those voices. So I get half a sentence out before one of my siblings finishes that sentence and continues on to tell the story as they remember it. Which is why  I enjoy writing these little blog posts. I get to say just what I want, without interruption (Unless Mark needs me to open a jar, answer the door, fix the television, or listen to him bitch about something Trump said.) It's a nice outlet to have, this blog. I write my ideas down, then my siblings and anybody else who wants to chime in can do so, and I get to save my voice for talking to the dogs. They love to listen to me talk.