I’m sure I’m blocking all the tension and stress, but in my holiday filtered memory, Thanksgiving was fun. 

         The best part of Thanksgiving is that it was like a Sunday in the middle of the week. Sleeping in, waking up to good smells from the kitchen, everyone home, including dad. He may have gotten up early to go to church and I can’t remember him being particularly visible, but his presence was felt. That must have had a calming effect, because unlike Christmas, I don’t even remember mom being particularly anxious.

         I do remember trying to stay out of the way. I might have been in charge of the kids as usual, but we were all plopped down in front of the TV and I was so engrossed in the Macy’s Parade, I can’t remember fighting or yelling. Mom always made it sound so special to “Go watch the Parade”. It was like it was our job to carry on that tradition. Looking back, I think she just wanted us out of the kitchen and to sit still for a while. But I waited with baited breath for the Rocketts because when they appeared, we knew what came next- Santa! And once Santa made his trip from the beautiful float to his throne in Macy’s, the holidays could begin.        

         I know preparations for the Thanksgiving meal started days ahead and we all had to pitch in. Bob’s job of shining the silver, reminded us of the tradition of the occasion. Those ancient forks our ancestors used to gobble turkey before us. We used certain dishes and linens and a leaf in the table. I’m not sure whom we were trying to impress. I only remember grandma and Aunt Clara coming a few times. Mostly I think it was just us. We made a full table ourselves. And although the setting made it special, paper plates would have worked just as well. But I think it was mom’s way of trying to make magic. She had her dreams and had her vision of Rockwell’s American Family. And maybe if she could get the picture just right, we would be like the people in the novels she loved to read, with a happy ending.

         And of course, I remember food and lots of it; Mashed potatoes and a decent gravy, dad’s crusty crunchy stuffing, mom’s sugar coated sweet potatoes and the moist, hot turkey, something we never had on any other day. I don’t know why.  Turkeys weren’t that expensive and you got a lot of food out of it. It surly would have been better than those stringy roasts we had. But again it may have been tradition and Thanksgiving wasn’t a time to argue about that.

         I can’t remember a single conversation or interaction of that day. It comes to me in still pictures. A shot of us lined up on the green couch in front of the TV, like The Simpsons’ opening credits. Panning the living room into the kitchen I capture a shot of mom at the stove, a Betty Crocker commercial. Then, a table covered in food, like the Last Supper, surrounded by people, a blur of activity a hum of voices. Jostling for positions conversations on the side. Until stuffed like the turkey, tired and satisfied, we waddled to the sink and dishes then made our way back to the TV to fall into a tryptophan induced stupor content to fall asleep and dream of the next Holiday.