Thanksgiving has always been one of my favorite holidays, which is odd when you consider that it’s often been a disaster at my house.

  Who doesn’t love Thanksgiving? The seductive aroma of turkey roasting, the annual gathering of friends and relatives from near and far, the uniquely American-ness of it all?

  True, Thanksgiving is celebrated in other countries, but nowhere is it enjoyed more universally, or ravenously, than here in the U.S. It’s a documented fact that Americans eat more food on Thanksgiving than any other day of the year, as anyone who has downed an after-dinner Alka Seltzer and groaned through a quarter or two of football can attest.

   Last year, after cooking and hosting Thanksgiving dinner forever, my wife ceded the job to one of our daughters, who has a bigger kitchen and is a wonderful cook. It’s less work for us, but it wasn’t without mixed feelings. We missed hosting the dinner – the anticipation, the crowded kitchen, the joyful chaos of it all.

  That said, no other holiday has been so apt to run off the rails for us.

It’s been that way forever.

   I was four the year my mother hosted Thanksgiving dinner in the dilapidated, two-story house where we lived at the time. She’d invited, among others, my great grandmother and her last husband, who lived in Notus. (She outlived three husbands, but that’s another story.)

  We were having dinner when Grampa Chandler slumped over. My last memory of him is of the medics carrying him out on a stretcher.

   It was sad, but he’d lived a long life, it was his time and Grandma Susie seemed to take it in stride. They hadn’t been married long and she was nothing if not resilient. She remained the upbeat, jovial woman she’d always been, and the story of her last husband’s last Thanksgiving went on to occupy a unique place in the family lore. Little did we know that it was the beginning of a long run of Thanksgiving misadventures.

  When it came to hosting Thanksgiving dinner, my mother was a perfectionist. Everything had to be just so. The dining table had to be carried to the living room, which was larger than the dining room, to accommodate the guests more comfortably. Out came the best tablecloth, used only on Thanksgiving, the crystal, the best dishes. And woe to anyone who interrupted the cook while she was preparing dinner. The meal, especially the turkey, had to be absolutely perfect.

  It’s a myth that domesticated turkeys can’t fly. No one who was there when it happened will forget the time my mother’s perfect turkey decided it was a swan. She was taking it out of the oven when the roasting pan slipped and the turkey took flight as if jet propelled. It flew, dove and skidded halfway across the kitchen, leaving a grease slick and a trail of dressing. My mother locked herself in her bedroom and cried.

  We cleaned up the mess, carried the ruptured turkey to the table and talked her out of the bedroom to join us for an imperfect but delectable feast enjoyed by all. Even Mom was quick to see the humor of it. It was a Thanksgiving remembered and laughed about for years to come.

  The flight of the Flightless Turkey was a predecessor to the belly flop of the Flaming Turkey. No one was sure quite what what wrong, but when my wife opened the oven door the turkey ignited.

  Instant panic. Everyone shouting at once.

  What do you do with a turkey doing a highly successful imitation of a bonfire? Luckily, it was one of those rare Thanksgivings with snow on the ground. It’s safe to say that we were the only family in Idaho that year whose Thanksgiving centerpiece ended up smoldering in a snowbank.

  Fire was also the centerpiece of a Thanksgiving disaster narrowly averted. My mother was getting up in years by then, and her eyesight wasn’t what it had been. The dinner table was decorated with little bowls filled with oil and floating wicks. The burning wicks lent a festive touch to the proceedings – until my mother tried to drink one of them. The flame was almost to her lips when a collective shriek arose, preventing a trip to the emergency room.

  That came the following day, when I choked on a turkey sandwich. The doctor recommended a procedure that involved swallowing a scope with a light and a camera. The drugs he used made it such a pleasant experience that I asked him if there were any leftovers. He glared, muttered something under his breath and told me to stick with pumpkin pie.

  Thanksgiving doesn’t even have to be at our house to backfire. We were visiting relatives in neighboring Washington one year when a storm hit and the power went out. If it had happened after dinner, it might have been fun. We could have built a fire in the fireplace and remembered it as a cozy, candle-lit Thanksgiving. Unfortunately, the power went out at about noon, with the turkey barely warm in the oven.

   Power outages in western Washington can last hours, even days. After waiting an hour or so for the lights to go back on, the hosts decided that waiting was futile and opted for an alternative method to cook the bird.

  A Hibachi.

  It was all they had.

  It was a sorry sight, all those ravenous people standing around a hibachi with a pitifully small bed of glowing coals struggling to cook  a lily-white turkey. We drove away in a howling storm that night, still hungry and hoping to find an open convenience store with Jojos or overcooked hot dogs.

  This year it will be another Thanksgiving at our daughter’s house, where everything will be perfect. 

   But in a way I miss the old days, when turkeys flew, crash-landed in  snowbanks, and each Thanksgiving held the promise of delicious disaster.

Tim Woodward’s column appears in The Idaho Press one Sunday a month, often more frequently, and is posted on woodwardblog.com the following Mondays. Contact him at woodwardcolumn@hotmail.com

TROY, Alabama – The scene:  a motel on the outskirts of Troy, Ala. In the parking lot, a black Dodge Charger that practically screams Boise State University football.

  Stretching the width of the front windshield are the words “Boise State,” across the top in blue and orange letters several inches high. Painted on the rear windshield:  “#Game Day Bound! #Bleed Blue.”

  Blue and orange dice hang from the rearview mirror. Two BSU flags dangle from the back windows. The rest of the car is all but wallpapered with Bronco logos. Its license plates are in BSU frames.

  It was the opening day of what was expected to be the Broncos’ dream season, before Oklahoma State and San Diego State downsized the dream. My wife and I and some friends had traveled to Troy for the season opener. We assumed the car belonged to someone else from Boise who had driven there for the game.

   Until we took a closer look at the plates inside the Bronco frames. No Rocky Mountains; no red, white and blue.

   The plates were from Alabama.

   They belonged to Alabama native Micah Burney. He and his girlfriend, Judith Sanders, had driven to Troy from their hometown of Muscle Shoals, Ala., for the game.

  It’s an understatement to say that Burney is a Bronco fan.

  “Huge!” he said. “Most people in Alabama root for Alabama or Auburn. I’m diehard Boise State. I like the fact that they beat bigger schools, and it’s cool that their coaches suspend even really good players if they break the rules. Not all schools do that.

  “I watch all of their games on TV and go to at least one game a year. I went to the games against Georgia and Virginia, to the Ole Miss game in Atlanta, the Fiesta Bowl against Arizona State … ”

  He says “we” when referring to the team.

  “We played great against Oregon in the Las Vegas Bowl last year. …Someday I want to go to a game in Boise and see what that’s like.”

  Burney’s dedication to a team so far from his Alabama home and roots  came as something of a surprise. Even knowing that the Broncos’ games are nationally televised, it hadn’t really occurred to me that they would have diehard fans wearing the colors and decorating their cars with Bronco paraphernalia well beyond Idaho. This, after all, was Boise State – not Alabama, Notre Dame, Michigan or another major program with instant national name recognition.  

  Yet here were Micah and Judith, who live 2,000 miles from Boise but were proudly sporting the blue and orange. 

  To fully appreciate how far Boise State football has come, you have to go back quite a ways. At the first Bronco game I attended, with my sister who was a decade older and then a freshman at Boise Junior College, the number of people on the field was almost as large as the number in the stands. It was played on a grass field lined with wooden bleachers. BJC was playing Dogwater Junior College.

  OK, I made that up. But the Broncos in those days did play small, obscure colleges, at venues resembling those of lower division high school  games today. 

  A sea change came the first time the Broncos played the University of Idaho. Boise’s little college had recently progressed from Boise Junior College to Boise College to Boise State College. U of I students decorated Bronco Stadium with banners that read “BJC, BC, BSC, BFD,” and “Welcome to the Big Time.”

  The Broncos won, 42-14.

  The program continued to grow. BSC became BSU. The turf turned blue. The team played bigger, higher profile schools and began making a name for itself beyond Idaho. 

  Fast forward to 2011. My wife and I were having dinner while traveling through Memphis,Tenn. when a man asked where we were from and, upon hearing the answer, replied, “Boise? What’s Coach Pete puttin’ in the water up there?”

  A reference to then BSU Coach Chris Petersen and his team’s successes  against some of the big names in college football.

  But it wasn’t until the Troy game that the extent of BSU’s national reputation hit home. It wasn’t just Micah and Judith, either.

  Mellanie Chorney and her daughter Emma traveled over 200 miles from their home in Kennesaw, Ga. to be at the Troy game. Both were wearing blue and orange BSU T-shirts and carrying Bronco stadium chairs. Emma had orange paint on her legs and blue and orange Scrunchies on her pigtails.

  Both had painted their fingernails blue and orange.

  “We stay up till 2 a.m. to watch Boise State games on TV,” Mellanie said.

  Why would someone from Georgia, which hardly has a shortage of good college football teams, be that interested in Boise State?

  “I like their chemistry,” Mellanie replied. “They aren’t a big school, but they play like one. Their boys aren’t recruited by the Georgias and Ohio States, but they’re good football players. I love that.”
  Steve Carew and his family also were decked out in blue and orange. A pharmacist who lives in Birmingham, Ala., he seemed mildly surprised when told that I lived in Boise. As if all of the blue and orange-clad fans at the game were from someplace besides Boise.

  “I grew up in Indiana, and ever since I was a kid I thought Boise would be a cool place to live,” he said. “I honestly don’t know why. But I did live in Meridian for a while before getting a job offer I couldn’t refuse in Birmingham, and I think Boise is one of the most beautiful cities and Idaho one of the most beautiful states in the country. I’d like to get back there someday. And it goes without saying that we always root for the Broncos.” 

  Ryan Williams traveled to the game from his home in Navarre, Fla.

  “I go to as many BSU games as I can,” he said.

  One thing that stood out, in addition to all the Bronco fans who don’t live in Idaho, was the hospitality of the Troy University fans. Even after the Broncos had defeated their team 56-20, they remained gracious, welcoming.

  “Thanks for being here,” several of them said as we filed out of the stadium.

  “Welcome to Alabama. It’s great to have you here.”

  The next morning, back at the motel, Micah and Judith were packing his Boise State billboard-on-wheels for the drive back to Muscle Shoals.

  “Great game, wasn’t it?” he said. “We played really well.”

  Then, a bit wistfully, “Maybe I’ll see you at a game in Boise someday.”

  Here’s hoping he gets his wish. And, if that happens, that Bronco fans will   give him the sort of welcome their team’s distant but dedicated fans deserve.

Tim Woodward’s column appears in The Idaho Press one Sunday a month, often more frequently, and is posted on woodwardblog.com the following Mondays. Got a column idea for him? Contact him at woodwardcolumn@hotmail.com.

   A.A. changed my life.

   No, not Alcoholics Anonymous. I’m referring to a publication called Advertising Age. Journalism students at my college were encouraged to read it. I was then a student in the advertising option of its journalism program.

  Most of A.A.’s pictures were of advertising executives in suits standing around with cocktails in their hands. The cocktail part sounded okay. I was, after all, a student at the University of Idaho, where drinking beer was practically the school sport. It was the suits that bothered me.

  Did I really want to spend my life in a suit and tie, mingling with other people in suits and ties, talking about the hottest trends in underwear and mouthwash commercials?

  It led to one of the best decisions of my life. I decided it made more sense to do what you do well and enjoy doing than something that will pay you a lot of money but make you hate going to work every day. My advisor spluttered and fumed when asked if it was possible to change majors as a senior, but he made it happen. The rest, as they say, is history. I went to work at my hometown newspaper, The Idaho Statesman, and spent 40 years there.

  Now, here I am at The Idaho Press.

  The reason for changing horses way past midstream is simple. I did what I do best and enjoyed doing for most of my time at The Statesman, including writing columns in semi-retirement. Recently, that changed. I was limited to writing once a month about “people in the community.”

  Not that there’s anything wrong with writing about people in the community. But personal columns are what readers have been telling me for years are their favorites. Being told not to do them was a little like telling a piano player to use only one color of keys.

  So, when Idaho Press Editor Scott McIntosh told me he believed in hiring good people and getting out of their way to let them do what they do best, what could have been a difficult decision became an easy one.

  And here I am.

  I owe The Statesman a lot. It gave me a career that was almost never boring. It opened doors to meeting scores of colorful Idaho characters, interviewing famous people, traveling the world. Lifelong friendships began there.

  You don’t leave a place where you spent most of your working life  without some reservations. But it was the right time, the right fit. The Statesman is focusing heavily on digital; the Press is more committed to print. It’s signed up 5,000 new subscribers since June, a  circulation percentage increase few newspapers anywhere can claim. I’m a print  guy. Most of my readers are print readers. And in a way, this brings me full circle.

  My first job at the Statesman was in the Canyon County Bureau. Those were flush times for newspapers. The Statesman had full-time bureaus in Canyon County, Twin Falls, and Ontario and Vale, Ore. Canyon County’s was in a corner office in downtown Caldwell.

  It was an ideal place for a rookie reporter to learn the ropes. I covered city council and school board meetings, cops and courts when the other bureau reporter was off, wrote business, general-assignment and feature stories, took photographs, pretty much everything.

  It yielded some memorable moments.  No one who witnessed it will forget “the Underwood Incident,” in which a reporter in a fit of rage hurled her prized, vintage typewriter across the Caldwell bureau office. Journalism could be pretty colorful in those days,.

  One day my editor sent a message asking the bureau folks to be on the lookout for weather photos. I happened to drive by a Caldwell golf course that afternoon just as two elderly golfers were teeing off in a snowstorm. They were dressed head to toe in Scottish golf outfits – kilts, tam o’ shanters, the works. The snowflakes were the size of quarters. It was the perfect weather photo, 

  Only it never made the paper. A few days later, my negatives were returned with a message that read, “These are great shots of these golfers, but the negatives are covered with black dots.”

  The black dots, of course, were snowflakes – which would have been obvious had anyone gone to the trouble of making prints of the negatives. (I can tease my then editor about it now because he’s a longtime friend.)

  I’d been on the job less than a month when he asked me to review a symphony orchestra concert at the College of Idaho. I was ridiculously unqualified and said so.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he replied. “Just go and describe the concert and get some quotes from people in the audience.”

  It seemed to work until, a week or so later, a letter to the editor described my review as being “egregiously bad.” Only after looking it up did I realize that that meant extraordinarily bad. Flagrantly bad. As bad as a review can  possibly get.

   A retired College of Idaho teacher influenced me for life. Margaret Sinclair was a master grammarian who wrote to say she enjoyed my stories but had noticed that I didn’t always use the language correctly. Would I mind if she sent me an occasional lesson?

  Mind? She taught me more about the finer points of English usage than all of the textbooks combined.

  I owe a lot to the late Margaret Sinclair, and to the late Canyon County Bureau. A new reporter couldn’t have had a better grounding. 

  Now, a few thousand columns later, I’m back, doing what I love and looking forward to sharing some of your Sundays with you. Sometimes one Sunday a month, sometimes more. 

  And, like any good piano player, I’ll be using all the keys.

Tim Woodward’s column appears in The Idaho Press on the first Sunday of each month, often more frequently, and is posted on woodwardblog.com the following Mondays. Got a column idea for him? Contact him at woodwardcolumn@hotmail.com.