Earlier this fall I collected a bunch of autumn leaves and pressed them between the pages of a newspaper, for later use, but hadn't gotten around to doing anything with them yet. And then there we were on Thanksgiving day with nothing to do (I was not required to cook anything--yay--and C. was off plugging one of his tires that had been punctured by a nail, so he could repair his exhaust, so he could go to my office parking lot and attempt to resuscitate my car, which had died on Wednesday, and which I needed to drive to Northampton for the weekend), so I got out the leaves for Thanksgiving crafts, and pretended (to myself) that I had planned it all along.
This craft fest actually involved three smashed gluesticks (f.y.i. gluestick does not wash out), some crayon on the floor and a fair amoung of bickering, not-sharing, yelling and throwing things. Not exactly the dream family creative experience conjured by some crafty bloggers. The twins did enjoy having their hands traced into turkey shapes, and M. put together a lovely book of leaves, followed by another book more aligned with his interests. It's actually fitting, in a way, since the genocide of Native Americans started, what, five minutes after the pumpkin pie was served that first Thanksgiving.
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