Douglas of Boomer's Musings brings today's post. It's a rich description of his fondest childhood Thanksgiving memories and a treat to read.
Douglas is a creative guy blessed with a brilliantly dry wit. His posts and comments on others' blogs are often amusing and thought provoking. But this story stands out, because it offers a rare glimpse into his heart.
Thanks, Douglas. I am honored you chose this forum to share this with us.
(oh. and did I mention he wrote this while he was feverish with the swine-flu?)
Please enjoy Boomer's submission and then hop over to the man's blog and partake of his wit and wisdom.
***********
When I look back into my childhood, Thanksgiving Day was special. In my small town, stores would take down the Halloween decorations of images of ghosts and witches and replace them with images of Pilgrims, sheafs of wheat and hay, and the occasional American Indian. The weather changed, the days colder, the leaves all changed color and now lay mostly on the ground.
Back then, you could burn the leaves if you wished. No burn permits needed. The smell of smoke from these fires would be in the air. Days were shorter and colder, nights crisp and clear.
We would go to my maternal grandparents' house in Queens about once every couple of months for family get-togethers but Thanksgiving would be special. More cousins, more aunts and uncles, would be there. The house would seem to overflow with people.
It was a row house, maybe what you would call a townhouse now. Brick faced, lots of rich, dark wood inside. The fireplace would never have a fire in it, though it was a fully functional one. I would immediately go up to my Uncle Eddie's room and immerse myself in the Tales of the Crypt and other horror comics he kept in his closet. Eddie had not left home yet, being the youngest of my grandmother's 6 children. Eddie's collie, Don, would keep a watch over the flock of children, keeping them from running in the house or knocking over Grandma's knick-knacks..
The smell of roasting turkey filled the house. And the youngest of us would sit on Grandpa's lap while he told the younger children tall tales of Indian fighting and adventures on the railroad in the Old West. In truth, he never got further west than the state of New York where he lived. But we believed him and were in awe.
The grown up table would be filled with food and plates and a couple of card tables set up for the kids where plates would be brought to us. Turkey, gravy, corn on the cob, peas and/or green beans, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce overflowed the plates. Even the children's.
After dinner, the men would sit around and discuss jobs and the economy and how things were going for them, the women would all picth in to clear the table and clean up. The children would return to playing again and eventually I would usually end up back in Eddie's closet reading those comic books.
We'd head back home before the sun went down, arriving home just after dark, still full of good food and pleasant memories. I often slept most of the way home and would stay sleepy until bedtime.
And though I grew up and had Thanksgiving dinners of my own, or at my in-laws' home, none have ever quite lived up to my childhood.
Thanksgiving will always be Grandma's house in Queens.
all copyrights reserved by the original author
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Friday, November 20, 2009
Turkey Palooza (part 5): We are Thankful for Food, but Not This Food.
When I began putting together a wish-list of people I'd approach to guest-post, I added Slouchy from Slouching Past 40 with the thought there'd be little chance she'd accept. Not that she's not a kind and generous person (quite the contrary), I just figured she'd be way too busy with her family and, when she's not doing that, working her literary magic for her blog.
And a wizard of the keyboard she most certainly is. Her work is never pedestrian (I had to look that word up in the dictionary) and oft times squeezes one's heart with her descriptions of herself, her family, and her world. If, after reading this sampler, you want more, then jump over and check it out.
Thanks, Slouchy for taking part in this here little project.
********
With horror they study their plates. On each plate is a dollop of mashed potatoes, cranberry-orange relish, stuffing, corn, and perhaps three bites of turkey.
It is as if we've served them slugs and not even done them the courtesy of killing the fat, wriggling creatures first.
B. mutters, "I hate this holiday."
J. uses his fork to investigate his food. As he digs tine-sized trenches in his mashed potatoes, he recites a litany of disgust: "Eww, eww, eww, eww, eww!"
My husband pipes up, "May we remind you two that we enjoy this food and don't like hearing about how awful it is while we're trying to eat it?"
B. shudders, and in the shudder is contained the full extent of a ten-year-old's disdainful incomprehension of all things adult.
By the end of the meal, each boy has tried everything on his plate, though not without gagging, choking, and requesting glass after glass of water ("to wash it down"). B. has conceded that the liquid from the cranberry-orange relish tastes fine, but the relish itself? It's got CHUNKS. My husband and I feel as if we have run a marathon. We are that drained.
J. shrugs, happy now that the ordeal is over for another year, and manages to reclaim his amiable disposition: "At least at Christmas, there isn't such bad food!"
"Well," I sigh, "we usually have roast beef, not turkey, at Christmas."
"Gross beef?," cries J., well and truly frightened.
I laugh. "Not gross beef, roast beef!"
B. looks up with narrowed, dangerous eyes. He is scowling as he proclaims, bitterly, "Roast beef, gross beef, it's all the same."
originally published on November 23, 2007
all copyrights reserved by the original author
And a wizard of the keyboard she most certainly is. Her work is never pedestrian (I had to look that word up in the dictionary) and oft times squeezes one's heart with her descriptions of herself, her family, and her world. If, after reading this sampler, you want more, then jump over and check it out.
Thanks, Slouchy for taking part in this here little project.
********
With horror they study their plates. On each plate is a dollop of mashed potatoes, cranberry-orange relish, stuffing, corn, and perhaps three bites of turkey.
It is as if we've served them slugs and not even done them the courtesy of killing the fat, wriggling creatures first.
B. mutters, "I hate this holiday."
J. uses his fork to investigate his food. As he digs tine-sized trenches in his mashed potatoes, he recites a litany of disgust: "Eww, eww, eww, eww, eww!"
My husband pipes up, "May we remind you two that we enjoy this food and don't like hearing about how awful it is while we're trying to eat it?"
B. shudders, and in the shudder is contained the full extent of a ten-year-old's disdainful incomprehension of all things adult.
By the end of the meal, each boy has tried everything on his plate, though not without gagging, choking, and requesting glass after glass of water ("to wash it down"). B. has conceded that the liquid from the cranberry-orange relish tastes fine, but the relish itself? It's got CHUNKS. My husband and I feel as if we have run a marathon. We are that drained.
J. shrugs, happy now that the ordeal is over for another year, and manages to reclaim his amiable disposition: "At least at Christmas, there isn't such bad food!"
"Well," I sigh, "we usually have roast beef, not turkey, at Christmas."
"Gross beef?," cries J., well and truly frightened.
I laugh. "Not gross beef, roast beef!"
B. looks up with narrowed, dangerous eyes. He is scowling as he proclaims, bitterly, "Roast beef, gross beef, it's all the same."
originally published on November 23, 2007
all copyrights reserved by the original author
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Turkey Palooza (part 4): Tony's Story
Today's guest-blogger is a dude named Tony from Life with Tony.
And before we get into it, I must admit a couple of things:
I admit I don't know Tony all that well. He and I have crossed paths occasionally; commented on each others' blogs, and share a couple blog friends. All in all, he seems like a decent sort of fellow. If you are not familiar with him, check him out here. I think you will find he's got a way with a story and likes to write about family. That's what made me contact him for the "Thanksgiving Extravaganza (and Parade)". I figured he could write a little ditty about family Thanksgiving dinners that would be sure to amuse.
When I received his submission I was...well...blown away.
The story he sent me is dramatic and riveting and full of emotion. Still, he manages to turn it into a positive at the end. It's a crafty bit of business indeed. Take your time reading it. Don't skim or skip to the end; the gift in this one requires you invest a little time. And it will be worth it.
The second thing I need to admit? When I read this post I thought, this is waaaaay too personal to be offered as a guest post; it should appear on Tony's blog. But did I tell him that? No. I selfishly kept it for myself.
Am I going to hell for my selfishness? Probably. But I'm OK with that. I expect I'll see a lot of people I know. Thanks, Tony.
So, without further ado: Tony's story.
********
Every Thanksgiving after having a traditional Thanksgiving dinner my family gets together and we go to the movies. It may sound like a strange tradition but through the years it’s become a tradition of good times with good people - it’s become a positive experience, but that’s not how it started.
It all began soon after my father was discharged from the Army. We were between moves and staying with my grandparents until we found a place to live. It was a night like any other night, nothing exciting was going on - just the family watching some holiday special on television. It was the night before the Thanksgiving of my twelfth year when my father suddenly jumped off the sofa and rolled on the floor yelling that we were being attacked.
“They’re attacking! Take cover!” He hid behind the sofa, “Here they come! Incoming! Take cover!” He took the pin out of a grenade that only he could see and threw it in our direction and then ducked down behind the sofa again.
As an adult I’ve worked with veterans and I know a little about PTSD but at the time, I was just a kid and all I knew was that my father was going through something I would never understand. It was almost funny at first, almost as if he were playing a game of Army not much different from what my brother and I would play with our cousins but even as a kid, I knew that this wasn’t a game.
He took a sweater that was laying on the sofa and straddled it. “No!” he yelled as tears ran down his face. “They shot Private Young!” He started pounding on the sweater with his fists. “Don’t you die on me! Don’t you leave me! Don’t you die! God Dammit! Don’t Die!” He pounded his fist into the ground until he didn’t have the strength to pound them anymore and then he lay there crying. “Don’t die, please don’t die on me…”
My little brother stood hugging my mother; she held him as he cried. I just stood there watching as my uncle and my grandfather tried to reason with my father. “There’s nothing there” my uncle said, “You’re just imagining things and you got to stop.”
“Can’t you see them?” My father cried. “They’re going to kill us all. They killed Private Young!”
I was fighting back the tears but I could feel my eyes stinging and filling with water. This was a fight I would lose. No matter how hard I tried not to cry I found myself with tears running down my face too.
At that point my uncle turned to my mom and said the words that to this day still ring strong in my ears, “You’re going to have to take him out of here. I can’t risk him hurting mom and dad. I want you and the kids to get out and take him with you!”
“What?” my mom asked just as shocked as I was. “We don’t have anywhere to go. What will we do?”
“I don’t care!” my uncle yelled. “You just need to get out!”
My mom turned to my grandfather, “Dad,” she cried. ”Where do we go? I got the kids and I don’t know anyone. We don’t have anywhere to go.”
My grandfather stood firm and almost proud as he said, “Your brother is right. I want you to take him and get out of my house tonight.”
My mom was crying hard. She turned to my uncle, “Why…?” she didn’t get a chance to finish her sentence before my grandfather stopped her.
“Don’t you yell at him,” he said. “I want you out of my house right now!”
And with those words we were out on the street with nothing but the clothes we were wearing.
Somehow my mom had convinced my father that Private Young was not dead, only wounded, and we were taking him to the medic‘s tent, so my father sat in the front seat of the car holding the sweater, crying the whole time it took us to drive to the hospital. Every so often he would yell out to watch for the mines on the road.
In the backseat, my little brother fell asleep with his head on my shoulder. I didn’t care that he had crossed the uncrossable line that divided his side from mine. I hugged him tightly and found comfort in his rhythmical breathing. It was like the only normal thing in a world that had suddenly gone crazy. My mom took my father to a drug and alcohol treatment hospital where two men in white helped my father out of the car.
I remember my brother and I sitting in the dark waiting room going in and out of sleep until everything went black and I dreamed a dream of a magical place where mothers and fathers loved each other and grandfathers tried to protect their grandchildren, not throw them out into the night. In my dream it was the perfect place to be and I was happy to be there until the bombs started falling from the sky, exploding all around me. I tried to run, but couldn’t. I watched as fire swirled around me, and then I saw him. Private Young lay on the ground wearing the old sweater my father had clutched the entire time we were in the car. He turned, looked at me, and mouthed the words, “Help me.” I wanted to help him, but I couldn’t, just like I couldn’t help my father. As Private Young closed his eyes, I opened mine.
I blinked a few times against the bright sunlight that came through the window. I was still sitting in the hospital waiting room, but it wasn’t so dark now. The sun was out, the sky was blue and my mom was sitting next to me running her fingers through my hair. “Happy Thanksgiving kiddo”, she said with a forced smile when she saw that I was awake.
“Happy Thanksgiving” I said, as I stretched my arms. “What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know, but let’s get out of here.” She lifted my sleeping brother, which looked kind of funny because my brother was so big in her arms.
“What about dad?” I asked as I held the door open for her.
“He’s going to stay here for a while.”
“Oh” was all I said. I didn’t question the decision or the reasons, I just accepted the fact that he was going to be gone again. It was like another deployment to me. I would miss him a bit, forget that he was gone, and then be happy when he came back. That’s just the way it was. That’s just the way it had always been.
“Where are we going?” My brother asked waking up as my mom strapped him into the backseat.
“How about we go to the movies?” My mom tried to make the idea sound like it was the greatest idea in the whole history of ideas and my brother bought into her fake excitement.
“Yeah!” he shouted. “I love the movies. Can we have popcorn and Coke?”
“We’ll see,” my mom turned to me, “Doesn’t that sound like a great idea?”
I wanted to yell at her and tell her that I didn’t want to go to no stinkin’ movie! Especially not on Thanksgiving. I wanted to eat turkey and mashed potatoes and stuffing. I wanted to poke at that freaky green bean salad my aunt always made with the crispy things on top and say how disgusting it is. I wanted to go back to Grandma’s house, but I didn’t say that. I just said, “Yeah, it’s a great idea.”
I don’t remember what movie we saw that year, but I do remember that we were the only ones watching this particular movie. We sat in the middle of the empty theater and I thought how, normally, I would love to sit in the middle of the theater, but this time I hated it and I hated that we were going to watch a movie for Thanksgiving.
Every year, as far back as I can remember, my mom would ask us to say out-loud the things we were thankful for. We did this right before we ate and it seems that although we didn’t have a great Thanksgiving feast that year, my mom would continue with that tradition and she asked us what we were thankful for.
“What am I thankful for?” I was the oldest so I was first, but I couldn’t think of anything that I was thankful for that year. “I don’t know. I can’t think of anything.”
“Come on,” my mom prodded. “You have to be thankful for something. Think real hard.”
It was those words that made everything I was thinking just start to flow from my mouth. I stood up from my seat and stood in front of my mom and let it all out. “No, I don’t. I don’t have to be thankful for anything! I’m not thankful for anything. Nothing! I guess I’m thankful for nothing, yeah, I’m thankful for nothing! Grandma and Grandpa don’t care about us. They don’t even want us around not even on Thanksgiving and dad has gone crazy, and I feel like I’m going crazy too! And those are not things to be thankful for so, I‘m thankful for nothing!“ Once I started, I couldn’t stop. “And to top it all off, we don’t even get to eat turkey. This isn’t Thanksgiving. How can you have thanksgiving without having freaking turkey?” My mom let me talk until I had said all I had to say.
“Before we go any further,” she wiped the hair from my eyes. “You need to know that your dad is not crazy and you‘re not going crazy either. I don’t ever want to hear you say that again. You understand?” I nodded my head but didn’t say anything. “Your dad is trying to cope with some very terrible things from his past. I know it’s not fair to you and it’s not fair to your brother either, but I’m going to need your help, you’re going to have to be the man of the house until your father comes back and I’m going to look to you to help me with more things. I don’t know what’s going to happen but I promise you that we will make it through whatever comes.” I could tell my mom was holding back her own tears, so I held mine too. “As far as your Grandma and your Grandpa are concerned, they still love you both, but they’re scared. They’ve never been through anything like that before.”
“Well, it’s new to me too and I hate it.” I looked at my brother to see if he would agree with me, but he was too busy eating popcorn and kicking the chair in front of him to even pay attention to what my mom and I were talking about.
“I know baby. I know you hate it. I hate it too, but your grandparents are handling it the only way they know how, but I promise you that they still love you and they will never stop loving you just like I’ll never stop loving you.” My mom hugged me.
“I love you, mom” I whispered in her ear and at that moment, I realized that I was thankful for my brother because he was the one person that would always be by my side through every move, every hard time, and every good time of my life. And I was thankful for my mom who was strong enough to keep us together through it all.
“And who said we weren’t going to eat turkey?” my mom said as she pulled out three hospital vending machine turkey sandwiches from her purse. I don’t know why but for some reason at that very moment those cellophane wrapped sandwiches seemed like the funniest thing in the world to me. I started laughing uncontrollably. I was laughing and suddenly I thought of my dad and all the things we had just gone through and my laughter turned to uncontrollable sobs.
My mom held me as I cried the last tears I would ever cry for my father.
I was the man of the house now.
copyrights reserved by the original author.
And before we get into it, I must admit a couple of things:
I admit I don't know Tony all that well. He and I have crossed paths occasionally; commented on each others' blogs, and share a couple blog friends. All in all, he seems like a decent sort of fellow. If you are not familiar with him, check him out here. I think you will find he's got a way with a story and likes to write about family. That's what made me contact him for the "Thanksgiving Extravaganza (and Parade)". I figured he could write a little ditty about family Thanksgiving dinners that would be sure to amuse.
When I received his submission I was...well...blown away.
The story he sent me is dramatic and riveting and full of emotion. Still, he manages to turn it into a positive at the end. It's a crafty bit of business indeed. Take your time reading it. Don't skim or skip to the end; the gift in this one requires you invest a little time. And it will be worth it.
The second thing I need to admit? When I read this post I thought, this is waaaaay too personal to be offered as a guest post; it should appear on Tony's blog. But did I tell him that? No. I selfishly kept it for myself.
Am I going to hell for my selfishness? Probably. But I'm OK with that. I expect I'll see a lot of people I know. Thanks, Tony.
So, without further ado: Tony's story.
********
Every Thanksgiving after having a traditional Thanksgiving dinner my family gets together and we go to the movies. It may sound like a strange tradition but through the years it’s become a tradition of good times with good people - it’s become a positive experience, but that’s not how it started.
It all began soon after my father was discharged from the Army. We were between moves and staying with my grandparents until we found a place to live. It was a night like any other night, nothing exciting was going on - just the family watching some holiday special on television. It was the night before the Thanksgiving of my twelfth year when my father suddenly jumped off the sofa and rolled on the floor yelling that we were being attacked.
“They’re attacking! Take cover!” He hid behind the sofa, “Here they come! Incoming! Take cover!” He took the pin out of a grenade that only he could see and threw it in our direction and then ducked down behind the sofa again.
As an adult I’ve worked with veterans and I know a little about PTSD but at the time, I was just a kid and all I knew was that my father was going through something I would never understand. It was almost funny at first, almost as if he were playing a game of Army not much different from what my brother and I would play with our cousins but even as a kid, I knew that this wasn’t a game.
He took a sweater that was laying on the sofa and straddled it. “No!” he yelled as tears ran down his face. “They shot Private Young!” He started pounding on the sweater with his fists. “Don’t you die on me! Don’t you leave me! Don’t you die! God Dammit! Don’t Die!” He pounded his fist into the ground until he didn’t have the strength to pound them anymore and then he lay there crying. “Don’t die, please don’t die on me…”
My little brother stood hugging my mother; she held him as he cried. I just stood there watching as my uncle and my grandfather tried to reason with my father. “There’s nothing there” my uncle said, “You’re just imagining things and you got to stop.”
“Can’t you see them?” My father cried. “They’re going to kill us all. They killed Private Young!”
I was fighting back the tears but I could feel my eyes stinging and filling with water. This was a fight I would lose. No matter how hard I tried not to cry I found myself with tears running down my face too.
At that point my uncle turned to my mom and said the words that to this day still ring strong in my ears, “You’re going to have to take him out of here. I can’t risk him hurting mom and dad. I want you and the kids to get out and take him with you!”
“What?” my mom asked just as shocked as I was. “We don’t have anywhere to go. What will we do?”
“I don’t care!” my uncle yelled. “You just need to get out!”
My mom turned to my grandfather, “Dad,” she cried. ”Where do we go? I got the kids and I don’t know anyone. We don’t have anywhere to go.”
My grandfather stood firm and almost proud as he said, “Your brother is right. I want you to take him and get out of my house tonight.”
My mom was crying hard. She turned to my uncle, “Why…?” she didn’t get a chance to finish her sentence before my grandfather stopped her.
“Don’t you yell at him,” he said. “I want you out of my house right now!”
And with those words we were out on the street with nothing but the clothes we were wearing.
Somehow my mom had convinced my father that Private Young was not dead, only wounded, and we were taking him to the medic‘s tent, so my father sat in the front seat of the car holding the sweater, crying the whole time it took us to drive to the hospital. Every so often he would yell out to watch for the mines on the road.
In the backseat, my little brother fell asleep with his head on my shoulder. I didn’t care that he had crossed the uncrossable line that divided his side from mine. I hugged him tightly and found comfort in his rhythmical breathing. It was like the only normal thing in a world that had suddenly gone crazy. My mom took my father to a drug and alcohol treatment hospital where two men in white helped my father out of the car.
I remember my brother and I sitting in the dark waiting room going in and out of sleep until everything went black and I dreamed a dream of a magical place where mothers and fathers loved each other and grandfathers tried to protect their grandchildren, not throw them out into the night. In my dream it was the perfect place to be and I was happy to be there until the bombs started falling from the sky, exploding all around me. I tried to run, but couldn’t. I watched as fire swirled around me, and then I saw him. Private Young lay on the ground wearing the old sweater my father had clutched the entire time we were in the car. He turned, looked at me, and mouthed the words, “Help me.” I wanted to help him, but I couldn’t, just like I couldn’t help my father. As Private Young closed his eyes, I opened mine.
I blinked a few times against the bright sunlight that came through the window. I was still sitting in the hospital waiting room, but it wasn’t so dark now. The sun was out, the sky was blue and my mom was sitting next to me running her fingers through my hair. “Happy Thanksgiving kiddo”, she said with a forced smile when she saw that I was awake.
“Happy Thanksgiving” I said, as I stretched my arms. “What are we going to do?”
“I don’t know, but let’s get out of here.” She lifted my sleeping brother, which looked kind of funny because my brother was so big in her arms.
“What about dad?” I asked as I held the door open for her.
“He’s going to stay here for a while.”
“Oh” was all I said. I didn’t question the decision or the reasons, I just accepted the fact that he was going to be gone again. It was like another deployment to me. I would miss him a bit, forget that he was gone, and then be happy when he came back. That’s just the way it was. That’s just the way it had always been.
“Where are we going?” My brother asked waking up as my mom strapped him into the backseat.
“How about we go to the movies?” My mom tried to make the idea sound like it was the greatest idea in the whole history of ideas and my brother bought into her fake excitement.
“Yeah!” he shouted. “I love the movies. Can we have popcorn and Coke?”
“We’ll see,” my mom turned to me, “Doesn’t that sound like a great idea?”
I wanted to yell at her and tell her that I didn’t want to go to no stinkin’ movie! Especially not on Thanksgiving. I wanted to eat turkey and mashed potatoes and stuffing. I wanted to poke at that freaky green bean salad my aunt always made with the crispy things on top and say how disgusting it is. I wanted to go back to Grandma’s house, but I didn’t say that. I just said, “Yeah, it’s a great idea.”
I don’t remember what movie we saw that year, but I do remember that we were the only ones watching this particular movie. We sat in the middle of the empty theater and I thought how, normally, I would love to sit in the middle of the theater, but this time I hated it and I hated that we were going to watch a movie for Thanksgiving.
Every year, as far back as I can remember, my mom would ask us to say out-loud the things we were thankful for. We did this right before we ate and it seems that although we didn’t have a great Thanksgiving feast that year, my mom would continue with that tradition and she asked us what we were thankful for.
“What am I thankful for?” I was the oldest so I was first, but I couldn’t think of anything that I was thankful for that year. “I don’t know. I can’t think of anything.”
“Come on,” my mom prodded. “You have to be thankful for something. Think real hard.”
It was those words that made everything I was thinking just start to flow from my mouth. I stood up from my seat and stood in front of my mom and let it all out. “No, I don’t. I don’t have to be thankful for anything! I’m not thankful for anything. Nothing! I guess I’m thankful for nothing, yeah, I’m thankful for nothing! Grandma and Grandpa don’t care about us. They don’t even want us around not even on Thanksgiving and dad has gone crazy, and I feel like I’m going crazy too! And those are not things to be thankful for so, I‘m thankful for nothing!“ Once I started, I couldn’t stop. “And to top it all off, we don’t even get to eat turkey. This isn’t Thanksgiving. How can you have thanksgiving without having freaking turkey?” My mom let me talk until I had said all I had to say.
“Before we go any further,” she wiped the hair from my eyes. “You need to know that your dad is not crazy and you‘re not going crazy either. I don’t ever want to hear you say that again. You understand?” I nodded my head but didn’t say anything. “Your dad is trying to cope with some very terrible things from his past. I know it’s not fair to you and it’s not fair to your brother either, but I’m going to need your help, you’re going to have to be the man of the house until your father comes back and I’m going to look to you to help me with more things. I don’t know what’s going to happen but I promise you that we will make it through whatever comes.” I could tell my mom was holding back her own tears, so I held mine too. “As far as your Grandma and your Grandpa are concerned, they still love you both, but they’re scared. They’ve never been through anything like that before.”
“Well, it’s new to me too and I hate it.” I looked at my brother to see if he would agree with me, but he was too busy eating popcorn and kicking the chair in front of him to even pay attention to what my mom and I were talking about.
“I know baby. I know you hate it. I hate it too, but your grandparents are handling it the only way they know how, but I promise you that they still love you and they will never stop loving you just like I’ll never stop loving you.” My mom hugged me.
“I love you, mom” I whispered in her ear and at that moment, I realized that I was thankful for my brother because he was the one person that would always be by my side through every move, every hard time, and every good time of my life. And I was thankful for my mom who was strong enough to keep us together through it all.
“And who said we weren’t going to eat turkey?” my mom said as she pulled out three hospital vending machine turkey sandwiches from her purse. I don’t know why but for some reason at that very moment those cellophane wrapped sandwiches seemed like the funniest thing in the world to me. I started laughing uncontrollably. I was laughing and suddenly I thought of my dad and all the things we had just gone through and my laughter turned to uncontrollable sobs.
My mom held me as I cried the last tears I would ever cry for my father.
I was the man of the house now.
copyrights reserved by the original author.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Turkey Palooza (part 3): Not Your Everyday Gumbo
When Irish Gumbo agreed to guest-post on my humble blog, the first thing I thought was, well shit, now I've got to follow through and actually do this thing. The second thing that occurred to me was, I better hide the Scotch.
Seriously? As many of you know Irish is one helluva writer. His craftmanship and command of the language are rarely matched in the blogosphere (and are a constant source of jealousy fueled amazement for me).
Aside from his talents as a writer, he is also a splendid chap and always seems to have the time to mix it up in an exchange of witty banter through comments and emails. I appreciate his friendship and applaud his work. He sets the bar high, but not so high you can't reach your pint glass (I stole that line from him).
Thanks for everything, Irish.
*******
Yeah, so Idiot Boy keeps sending me these pathetic e-mails, all weepy and begging me to write him a guest post for his Thanksgiving series. And I’m all “Dude, please, get a grip, don’t embarrass yourself!” *. So I figured, meh, it won’t hurt to throw him a bone so’s he’ll stop filling up my inbox, at least until I can fine tune my spam filter…
Herewith, for your edification and delight, I give you…
HAND OF STEEL, HEART OF GOLD
The smell alone was tantalizing enough to want to make a bishop kick a hole in a stained glass window. It was Thanksgiving, sometime during my teenage years, when my G-maw was still on this mortal coil.
Dinner table, transformed. A groaning board of holiday foods, fragrant and heavy upon the white lace tablecloth. Me, fragrant and heavy, upon the carpet lying underneath said groaning board. It is fair to say that in those days I was quite enamored of the pleasures of the table. I was not very sophisticated, mind you, quantity usually being more important than quality most of the time. I did love me some eats. Thanksgiving, maybe even more so than Christmas, was a High Holy Day for the trencherman that I was.
The great thing about Thanksgiving, at least from an eating standpoint, it was more like a sprint than a marathon. Or maybe like packing on the calories before going into hibernation. Yeah, it was usually too much, but everything was still fresh and savory and new, without the deadening sameness of that stretch of dinners and parties from Christmas through New Years. Thanksgiving was also the first big family to-do going into winter, reaffirming the ties that bind before cabin fever turned them into the ties that you wanted to strangle someone with. Like thickheaded siblings hogging all the hot water in the mornings, or yet another demonstration of Dad’s “butt trumpet” stinking up the joint.
That particular Thanksgiving was at my parent’s house, and my grandmother was there, along with my dad, my brother and my mom’s younger brother. Green beans and mashed potatoes were dishing up, the stuffing was in its big casserole, and the ham and turkey had been sliced and plated. Pig and bird made a lovely tableau, one I was angling to surreptitiously rearrange in my quest to sneak some tidbits before everyone and everything was ready at the table. I edged toward the table, plotting my move to time it when no one was looking. I was ravenous.
I was not the only hungry mammal at the table that Thanksgiving noontime. Kiki, our resident mongrel cat, was also eyeing the pork and poultry. Unbeknownst to me, she had been sneaking towards the table from the other side, where I could not see her. I was initiating my own launch sequence when Kiki pulled the trigger on her own, springing up and onto the table just inches from the ham. I swore softly. I didn’t like competition, especially when it came to my favorite baked pig components. I dithered, not wanting to risk a hiss and a nasty encounter with Kiki’s talons.
I needn’t have worried.
With a guttural “GITGITGITAWAYFROMTHERRRE!” my G-maw swooped in on the cat, her left arm curved backward over her right shoulder as if she were practicing her tennis swing. My eyes widened and I skittered backwards, bumping into the buffet as I tried to look like hadn’t been planning my own carnivorous larceny. Kiki’s ears had gone straight up and she turned her head in surprise, only to see G-maw bearing down on her. Her hand arced forward and…
KA-POW!
(MEEEOOOOWW-rrrooo-ooo) (splat)
“Don’tyouputyourpawsonthat!”
…as G-maw backhanded Kiki like Steffi Graf tearing into a soft lob towards the baseline. Kiki flew off the table in a delicate pirouette, coming to land on her feet just a fraction of an inch from the side of the buffet, where I stood slack jawed in shock and awe. Kiki showed some kitty wisdom and took off running into the living room to hide behind the couch. G-maw stood there and harrumphed, looking at me and grumbling about animals being in the food. I smiled weakly and said “Good thing you stopped her in time!” all the while acting as if I had not been trying to pilfer the pork just like Kiki. I eventually did get my illicit slice of ham. I just made sure that G-maw was nowhere near the dining room when I did.
Later, after everyone had eaten their fill and then some, we cleared up the dishes in our typical anarchic fashion. Plates and bowls and leftovers piling up on the counter and kitchen table as my mom and G-maw cut up the remaining turkey and ham. There was a big plate and a small bowl on the counter in front of them. The plate held turkey and ham. The bowl had little bits of ham, cut up into bite-sized pieces. Bite-size, that is, for a cat. I looked down beside the counter, where Kiki sat looking up at G-maw, waiting. I paused on my way from the dining room to the kitchen. Mom turned to the fridge to put away the plate. G-maw picked up the bowl and set it down in front of Kiki, murmuring “Hey, kitty, kitty”. G-maw scratched Kiki behind the ears and I could hear the cat purring from where I stood, as she set to on the ham in the bowl. In the light from the back door, I saw them both, content and quite possibly friends.
Thanksgiving, indeed. Just don’t let her see you trying to sneak some before everyone else…
In memory of Kiki and G-maw, two ladies who made Thanksgiving, and the rest of the year, an interesting trip.
*Well, that’s what I was thinking. It is possible that what I said was (after I stopped sobbing out of gratitude), “Dude, you so rock! You are like, my hero and stuff! Thank you for making my world complete and saving me from a life of quiet desperation! I am somebody!” Or something like that (grin).
copyright reserved by the original author
Seriously? As many of you know Irish is one helluva writer. His craftmanship and command of the language are rarely matched in the blogosphere (and are a constant source of jealousy fueled amazement for me).
Aside from his talents as a writer, he is also a splendid chap and always seems to have the time to mix it up in an exchange of witty banter through comments and emails. I appreciate his friendship and applaud his work. He sets the bar high, but not so high you can't reach your pint glass (I stole that line from him).
Thanks for everything, Irish.
*******
Yeah, so Idiot Boy keeps sending me these pathetic e-mails, all weepy and begging me to write him a guest post for his Thanksgiving series. And I’m all “Dude, please, get a grip, don’t embarrass yourself!” *. So I figured, meh, it won’t hurt to throw him a bone so’s he’ll stop filling up my inbox, at least until I can fine tune my spam filter…
Herewith, for your edification and delight, I give you…
HAND OF STEEL, HEART OF GOLD
The smell alone was tantalizing enough to want to make a bishop kick a hole in a stained glass window. It was Thanksgiving, sometime during my teenage years, when my G-maw was still on this mortal coil.
Dinner table, transformed. A groaning board of holiday foods, fragrant and heavy upon the white lace tablecloth. Me, fragrant and heavy, upon the carpet lying underneath said groaning board. It is fair to say that in those days I was quite enamored of the pleasures of the table. I was not very sophisticated, mind you, quantity usually being more important than quality most of the time. I did love me some eats. Thanksgiving, maybe even more so than Christmas, was a High Holy Day for the trencherman that I was.
The great thing about Thanksgiving, at least from an eating standpoint, it was more like a sprint than a marathon. Or maybe like packing on the calories before going into hibernation. Yeah, it was usually too much, but everything was still fresh and savory and new, without the deadening sameness of that stretch of dinners and parties from Christmas through New Years. Thanksgiving was also the first big family to-do going into winter, reaffirming the ties that bind before cabin fever turned them into the ties that you wanted to strangle someone with. Like thickheaded siblings hogging all the hot water in the mornings, or yet another demonstration of Dad’s “butt trumpet” stinking up the joint.
That particular Thanksgiving was at my parent’s house, and my grandmother was there, along with my dad, my brother and my mom’s younger brother. Green beans and mashed potatoes were dishing up, the stuffing was in its big casserole, and the ham and turkey had been sliced and plated. Pig and bird made a lovely tableau, one I was angling to surreptitiously rearrange in my quest to sneak some tidbits before everyone and everything was ready at the table. I edged toward the table, plotting my move to time it when no one was looking. I was ravenous.
I was not the only hungry mammal at the table that Thanksgiving noontime. Kiki, our resident mongrel cat, was also eyeing the pork and poultry. Unbeknownst to me, she had been sneaking towards the table from the other side, where I could not see her. I was initiating my own launch sequence when Kiki pulled the trigger on her own, springing up and onto the table just inches from the ham. I swore softly. I didn’t like competition, especially when it came to my favorite baked pig components. I dithered, not wanting to risk a hiss and a nasty encounter with Kiki’s talons.
I needn’t have worried.
With a guttural “GITGITGITAWAYFROMTHERRRE!” my G-maw swooped in on the cat, her left arm curved backward over her right shoulder as if she were practicing her tennis swing. My eyes widened and I skittered backwards, bumping into the buffet as I tried to look like hadn’t been planning my own carnivorous larceny. Kiki’s ears had gone straight up and she turned her head in surprise, only to see G-maw bearing down on her. Her hand arced forward and…
KA-POW!
(MEEEOOOOWW-rrrooo-ooo) (splat)
“Don’tyouputyourpawsonthat!”
…as G-maw backhanded Kiki like Steffi Graf tearing into a soft lob towards the baseline. Kiki flew off the table in a delicate pirouette, coming to land on her feet just a fraction of an inch from the side of the buffet, where I stood slack jawed in shock and awe. Kiki showed some kitty wisdom and took off running into the living room to hide behind the couch. G-maw stood there and harrumphed, looking at me and grumbling about animals being in the food. I smiled weakly and said “Good thing you stopped her in time!” all the while acting as if I had not been trying to pilfer the pork just like Kiki. I eventually did get my illicit slice of ham. I just made sure that G-maw was nowhere near the dining room when I did.
Later, after everyone had eaten their fill and then some, we cleared up the dishes in our typical anarchic fashion. Plates and bowls and leftovers piling up on the counter and kitchen table as my mom and G-maw cut up the remaining turkey and ham. There was a big plate and a small bowl on the counter in front of them. The plate held turkey and ham. The bowl had little bits of ham, cut up into bite-sized pieces. Bite-size, that is, for a cat. I looked down beside the counter, where Kiki sat looking up at G-maw, waiting. I paused on my way from the dining room to the kitchen. Mom turned to the fridge to put away the plate. G-maw picked up the bowl and set it down in front of Kiki, murmuring “Hey, kitty, kitty”. G-maw scratched Kiki behind the ears and I could hear the cat purring from where I stood, as she set to on the ham in the bowl. In the light from the back door, I saw them both, content and quite possibly friends.
Thanksgiving, indeed. Just don’t let her see you trying to sneak some before everyone else…
In memory of Kiki and G-maw, two ladies who made Thanksgiving, and the rest of the year, an interesting trip.
*Well, that’s what I was thinking. It is possible that what I said was (after I stopped sobbing out of gratitude), “Dude, you so rock! You are like, my hero and stuff! Thank you for making my world complete and saving me from a life of quiet desperation! I am somebody!” Or something like that (grin).
copyright reserved by the original author
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Turkey Palooza (part 2): HK Brings the Love
There writes, amongst us, a delicate flower. But she wasn't available, so today's guest "Thanksgiving" post comes from a rather saucy gal, who also happens to be a dear friend of mine, HK from A Mouthy Irish Woman? Ridiculous!.
HK's recipe for blogging?
1 cup of introspection,
1 cup of wonderment
3/4 cup silliness
2 Tbsp irreverence
1 tsp lyrical playfulness
Dash of attitude
Blend and season with salty-language to taste.
After you read this post, do yourselves a big favor and head over HK's blog. I promise you it'll be time well spent.
Thanks for helping out, doll. You rock.
******
Festival of Thanks…Everyday
When you’re standing in the kitchen, cleaning up the carnage of the feast you shared with your family that honors Thanksgiving; your hands in warm, sudsy water and your eyes glazed over, what do you think of? What do you replay in your mind? What are the ingredients for the memories you will take away from this day? Is it the smells of a hundred and one things crammed into every heating device available? Is it the shining table, set to receive the royalty of friends and family? Is it the tastes and sounds of full dishes and even fuller bellies? The laughter and jokes? The inevitable spilling of something red on a white table cloth? There are so many building materials for your memories of this day. But why limit it to just this day?
Thanksgiving is defined by the Merriam Webster Dictionary as: "the act of giving thanks; a prayer expressing gratitude; a public celebration of divine goodness".
Well thats all good and well but I know for a fact that all acts of goodness do not happen on just this one day. How do I know this? I’m smart that’s how. Keep up.
Reaching back into my memories there are specific moments and things I remember attached to this day called Thanksgiving. Like the year I cupped my firstborns head, smoothing my hand against his little boy curls and thinking to myself “My life has started”. I remember all those times I sat at the kids table, playfully fighting with my sisters and cousins, spitting the icky food into my napkin. I remember those late night turkey, dressing and cranberry sandwiches made with miracle whip. I remember spending my first Thanksgiving alone with my mother and sisters, after our father left us. I remember the Thanksgiving with my father when we nixed the Turkey and instead had Lobsters, Crab Legs, Oysters…anything and everything from the sea. I remember the Thanksgiving that I was flying high on 5 xanax and dumped hot ashes from the fireplace, into the compost pile, ultimately getting us a visit from the fire department.
So many memories.
Then something started to happen. Each year of memories meant another year of age for me and the older I got, the more knowledge I have garnered and that knowledge has redefined the meaning and parameters of this day for me. Although this day started out teaching a young girl about its history? It has ended up teaching a woman the truth about living a thankful life every day. It has taught me about recognizing the gifts of my friends and family, the joy, the sadness, the life, the death, the movement and the walls. I get it. And I do my best to celebrate those things every day.
Why be thankful on just one day?
I can’t see my loved ones every day like I would like to. Instead I write and call just to say “I Love You” or “Hey! Listen to this!” And thank God I can do that. Thank God.
And so like a million other families, we gather on holidays, designated days that have historical significance when everyone has a vacation from work, and we can celebrate together. And we give thanks. Secretly though? I rejoice, give thanks and partake of re-honoring all of those in-between days that I am so thankful for too.
Now pass the gravy. And I love you.
copyright reserved by the original author
HK's recipe for blogging?
1 cup of introspection,
1 cup of wonderment
3/4 cup silliness
2 Tbsp irreverence
1 tsp lyrical playfulness
Dash of attitude
Blend and season with salty-language to taste.
After you read this post, do yourselves a big favor and head over HK's blog. I promise you it'll be time well spent.
Thanks for helping out, doll. You rock.
******
Festival of Thanks…Everyday
When you’re standing in the kitchen, cleaning up the carnage of the feast you shared with your family that honors Thanksgiving; your hands in warm, sudsy water and your eyes glazed over, what do you think of? What do you replay in your mind? What are the ingredients for the memories you will take away from this day? Is it the smells of a hundred and one things crammed into every heating device available? Is it the shining table, set to receive the royalty of friends and family? Is it the tastes and sounds of full dishes and even fuller bellies? The laughter and jokes? The inevitable spilling of something red on a white table cloth? There are so many building materials for your memories of this day. But why limit it to just this day?
Thanksgiving is defined by the Merriam Webster Dictionary as: "the act of giving thanks; a prayer expressing gratitude; a public celebration of divine goodness".
Well thats all good and well but I know for a fact that all acts of goodness do not happen on just this one day. How do I know this? I’m smart that’s how. Keep up.
Reaching back into my memories there are specific moments and things I remember attached to this day called Thanksgiving. Like the year I cupped my firstborns head, smoothing my hand against his little boy curls and thinking to myself “My life has started”. I remember all those times I sat at the kids table, playfully fighting with my sisters and cousins, spitting the icky food into my napkin. I remember those late night turkey, dressing and cranberry sandwiches made with miracle whip. I remember spending my first Thanksgiving alone with my mother and sisters, after our father left us. I remember the Thanksgiving with my father when we nixed the Turkey and instead had Lobsters, Crab Legs, Oysters…anything and everything from the sea. I remember the Thanksgiving that I was flying high on 5 xanax and dumped hot ashes from the fireplace, into the compost pile, ultimately getting us a visit from the fire department.
So many memories.
Then something started to happen. Each year of memories meant another year of age for me and the older I got, the more knowledge I have garnered and that knowledge has redefined the meaning and parameters of this day for me. Although this day started out teaching a young girl about its history? It has ended up teaching a woman the truth about living a thankful life every day. It has taught me about recognizing the gifts of my friends and family, the joy, the sadness, the life, the death, the movement and the walls. I get it. And I do my best to celebrate those things every day.
Why be thankful on just one day?
I can’t see my loved ones every day like I would like to. Instead I write and call just to say “I Love You” or “Hey! Listen to this!” And thank God I can do that. Thank God.
And so like a million other families, we gather on holidays, designated days that have historical significance when everyone has a vacation from work, and we can celebrate together. And we give thanks. Secretly though? I rejoice, give thanks and partake of re-honoring all of those in-between days that I am so thankful for too.
Now pass the gravy. And I love you.
copyright reserved by the original author
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