Thanksgiving is a time for tall tales to be told. All of us in one room eating turkey and listening to Uncle Ed. Or Aunt Rhonda, or Grampa Smith, or little Anne, but mostly Uncle Ed. I don’t even know who’s uncle he is. Certainly not mine, maybe he belongs to the Hunts across the street. We all sit down and eat piles of food together, except for Ed. He never eats more than one small serving at Thanksgiving. I think he does it because it gives him time to talk while the rest of us stuff our faces. He attacks when we are at our weakest. Uncle Ed’s tales are always the tallest. When Anne’s bunny can see through walls, Ed’s dog can see the future. When Grampa’s knee predicted the early winter, Ed’s kneck predicted both el Nino and la Nina. If Aunt Rhonda grows a tomato the size of her dessert plate, Uncle Ed will grow a potato big enough to feed a family of four for a week.