The majority of my Thanksgivings in my formative years were at my grandparents' farm, with my mom in charge of the meal. The traditions were magnificent. We were a close family. Very close.
I can recall at least two years as an adult, when I was wending my way south to the farm on the night before Thanksgiving, when I wondered if I could get there. It was snowing and nasty. One time, I gratefully followed a salt truck on I-55, hoping that I could arrive in one piece. I did.
We were a Navy family. There was always a pre-dinner Happy Hour. My parents were drinkers; my grandparents were not, but participated. One year, my grandmother got silly after one martini. My grandfather got silly after two. He came to the dinner table, ate a whale of a meal, retired to his recliner thereafter to nap. When he woke up, he asked when we would be eating "the boid". He didn't remember eating his Thanksgiving dinner!
One year, when my grandparents were still living, my father left the Thanksgiving table after the meal and headed out to go rabbit hunting on the farm. After some time, we heard a KA-BLAM. Expected Dad to come in with a rabbit or two. What he came in with was a shattered pinky finger. He had seen a rabbit, shot and winged it. The rabbit headed toward the granary. Dad didn't want it to go beneath it and die there, so he started to run after it, tripped over a clod of dirt, and fell on his shotgun, crushing his little finger. For reasons known only to God, the gun did NOT discharge, or this story would end quite a bit differently. He came in, showing us a finger that he could not hold upright because the bone structure was shot. He broke a clothespin and splinted his own finger. A few minutes later, Mom asked, "Where's your dad?" Uh...I don't know. We looked. His car was gone. Without a word to anyone, he had driven himself in to the hospital ER. He came home with a professionally splinted finger and the admonition that the finger was badly broken and would probably need surgery if it was ever to work properly again. He was told to see his doctor when he got home on Sunday, which he did. They surgically pinned the bones in his finger back together, then kept him overnight. Only my father would think he could outrun a rabbit!
Another year, the snifter of martinis got to my mother. She was cooking and very, very happy. In fact, she was sooo happy that we began to wonder if dinner was actually going to make it to the table. It did, and it was delicious, but the rest of us had to step up and make sure it happened.
My father always ordered fresh turkeys from the local grocery--the bigger, the better. He grew up hungry. We never had less than a 25-lb. bird. Mom had it in the oven by 5:00 or 5:30 AM. When we got up, the house already smelled wonderful! When that turkey came out of the oven, my father would oooh and aaah like a child in a candy store. Later, Mom pushed dinner time for later in the day, which began the family tradition of putting out a table of hors d'oeuvres so she could cook the feast without having to stop and make lunch for everyone. That table consisted of shrimp and cocktail sauce, pickled herring, raw oysters, cheeses and crackers, and California Onion Dip and potato chips. It was wonderful! (Except for the raw oysters which only my mother and grandfather--and later my husband--enjoyed.)
For a couple of days before Thanksgiving, whole loaves of bread would be open and spread out to get stale for dressing/stuffing. Mom broke the stale bread into pieces and mixed it with sauteed onions and celery, with butter and broth and sage before she stuffed the bird. She also fixed a separate dish of oyster dressing.
And...just for the holiday...Mom always used REAL butter instead of margarine in her mashed potatoes. OMG! The wonderful tastes!
Then, in late October of 1986, my mother had a "mild" stroke. She was hospitalized, with the left side of her body somewhat paralyzed. She was doing well in rehab and was just about ready to be sent home when she had some kind of a relapse. They sent her back to acute care just before Thanksgiving. She told me she didn't think she could stand not being home for the holiday. Dad, of course, was going to make sure that Thanksgiving would still happen, so I took over. He was in no condition to do what needed to be done. It was an abbreviated Thanksgiving. My sister and family couldn't be there. She was in Missouri, helping her daughter with her newborn son. I was fighting with my husband over things that had been festering for a month. It wasn't a particularly happy time.
On Thanksgiving that year, I was sick. I even wore a mask around my mom because I didn't want her to catch whatever it was that I had. My brother, who had been there for the holiday, went home the day after. My husband had gone to Indiana to visit his parents with his children from his first marriage, against our earlier agreement that we wouldn't split those poor kids among three families in four days. (Very long story.)
Sparing the details, our mother died suddenly on the day after Thanksgiving that year. For a long time, Thanksgiving was never quite the same. Fortunately, time has healed the unhappy memories in favor of the happy ones. My sister and I have kept the traditions, as best we can. Our parents, grandparents, and our baby brother have all died.
Thanksgiving isn't all about past memories. It's about NOW. Today, I'm thankful for what I have. Today, we are blessed and need to be thankful for that. Today is the beginning of tomorrow.
Whether or not we are religious people, we need to express gratitude to whatever powers that be for all that we have. When we turn our backs on thankfulness, we open ourselves to negativity. May that never happen!
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!
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