With both our families either being isolated or atomized in different locations because of the pandemic, putting the thanks in Thanksgiving might have seemed a threadbare task this season. But Carol found a sweet little cabin near the recently renamed Yo Semite! National Park that promised a more positive spin on the phrase “cabin fever” at the start of this inaugural Covid-19 Holiday Season.

   El Capitan and Half Dome might be the star attractions for run-of-the-mill tourists, but for Carol and me, it was the woodstove fireplace that held our attention. Spoiled by the romantic flames of our patio chiminea, we were both looking forward to the more intimately cozy warmth of an indoor fire, complete with the embrace of wine and seasons two of Outlander and four of The Crown.

   Carol even tried Googling our dilemma, but initially she was getting back responses like, Son, if you can’t figure out how to open a wood stove door, maybe you shouldn’t be trying to start a fire.

   When that special time befell us early that evening, I pulled on the handle to open the handsome and rustic Country brandof stove and…nothing. The door wouldn’t budge. No amount of effort would free it. This was terrible. I theorized it might just  be stuck or maybe rusted shut from misuse. I also theorized I didn’t know everything there was to know about woodstoves, and I resisted banging on the handle with a hunk of wood, fearing there might after all be a clasp or lock that I was unaware of and I would wind up breaking the door.

   Carol even tried Googling our dilemma, but initially she was getting back responses like, Son, if you can’t figure out how to open a wood stove door, maybe you shouldn’t be trying to start a fire.Eventually, she hit upon key words that confirmed the door was probably just stuck, and that banging on it with a piece of wood was actually a practical solution.

   Locating Netflix on the so called smart TV proved dauntingly beyond our skills, but we passed a most pleasant evening on the couch, just watching the energetic lap and flick of a wood fire through the grandly open door of the stove.

   Day one of our Yo Semite getaway found us in a mile long jam up to enter the park. As we sat, Carol fruitlessly searched the car for the park’s brochure and map that we’d need to direct us to the famed Tunnel View, featuring breathtaking views of those renowned rock formations. Lamenting that she’d left it back at the cabin (“I ordered it by mail specifically to have it with us”) I suggested she check the console. “I wouldn’t have put it there, it’s too big to fit.”

   Just to humor me and perhaps pointlessly pass the time stuck in the traffic, she opened the console lid, and Voila! there lay the brochure in all its Reid-is-right-again! glory.  It marked the third time in about a week or so that Carol had been compelled to utter to me (and the heavens), “you’re right, Reid.” The first time she found those words escaping her lips, the sound of them was so jarring to her that she brushed them away as a one-off.

   “This  ‘you’re right, Reid’ business is starting to become a habit that might prove hard to break,” I suggested to her still slightly disbelieving expression on her face.

   I have my own special thanks for this special Thanksgiving already in the bag.