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Turkeys Past
So many folks like to talk about what they’re thankful for this time of year. I get it. It’s a seasonal time of reflection. I’m not going to do that, though. I also promise not to beguile you like some maudlin holiday telephone commercial guaranteed to induce sobs.
No.
I want to talk about the little things I remember from past Thanksgivings. Frankly, I don’t recall the holiday at all before the age of 10. That was when we moved from Atlanta to Tennessee, following a breadcrumb trail left by my oldest brother, Ben–promises of job opportunities for him and my dad.
Ben was much older than me and some confused him for my father. He, his wife, Nancy, and their boys, Tripp and Jason, are part of my earliest holiday memories. Christmas Eve meals were always at their house, and Christmas Day meals were at ours. Thanksgivings may have been alternated, I can’t remember, but mother always did the dressing and (shriek!) giblet gravy. That’s one of the things I remember most. It was delicious... after I removed all the mysterious chunks.
There was always sweet potato casserole with toasted marshmallows on top, and cranberry sauce straight out of the can, sliced in perfectly molded burgundy circles. Also jiggly, Mom made this lime Jell-O congealed salad with pineapple, pecans, cottage cheese, and God knows what else. She served it squares on a salad plate atop a crisp leaf of iceberg lettuce. The table was always immaculately set. We used the good/only china for special occasions which, apart from Christmas and Thanksgiving, remained forever imprisoned in a mid-century modern dining room cabinet.
Mom was on a ceramics kick in the 1970s–wasn’t everyone?–so we also had these little individually painted turkey napkin rings. (Santas at Christmas).
I wonder what happened to those.
The turkey was always pale and dry. Mom didn’t watch the cooking shows available then like the ones I obsess over now. It made good sandwiches, though... with lots of mayonnaise, salt, pepper, and iceberg lettuce.
My sister, Joye, and her family were always there for the holiday, visiting from out of state (she still knows how to make that organ-laced gravy!). My other brother, Larry, often opted to stay in Atlanta with his family.
This routine–I say it because that’s exactly what it was–transpired until the late 1980s. Ben divorced, and he and Nancy moved on to other states, both mentally and physically. Larry and Angie divorced, too. Mom and Dad, reeling from the loss of family, decided to move to Sandersville, GA, to be closer to my sister and the youngest grandchildren. Joye’s husband Ronnie was from Sandersville, and I still blame him for this strange detour in my life. Sandersville is a Podunk little mid-Georgia town, not too unlike my fictional Spoon, Georgia, only far less tolerant and gay-forward. I soon followed, having been an academically and financially challenged actor. In 1989, I committed to finally taking college seriously in exchange for free rent with my parents.
Despite the town, there were several things I do cherish about those 8 years I spent in Sandersville. I honed my writing craft there, published my first story, had a steady spot on the dean’s list, became chums with most of the English department faculty at Georgia College and State University, and discovered my love of Flannery O’Connor and Southern literature.
Oh, yeah. And there were more Thanksgivings.
The same routine, only a different town, and my sister’s family. These particular Thanksgivings stick out because they were the last ones with my core family. Occasionally, Ben or Larry might show up. Single (Ben never remarried; Larry did, much later, though). I have a picture somewhere from around the mid-1990s of the final Thanksgiving with my parents and siblings. Mom died the following year. Maybe Ben and Larry were there because we knew. I don’t remember. But we used the good china and had the same dressing, gravy, congealed salad, and juiceless turkey.
I moved to DC in 1998, met Dennis in Baltimore in 2003, and we moved back to where we live now in north Georgia. Dad moved in with us in 2009. He was so proud that Dennis and I were outlasting the marriages of my siblings (Joye filed for divorce in 2007).
Pieces. That’s what holidays like Thanksgiving were beginning to feel like. Sometimes Joye would come up, but mostly she was in south Georgia with her grandchildren, the first of which is now (shriek!) in college. Dennis’s mother moved in after my dad died in 2011. But Dennis was an only child, so there’s very little core family left (Ben died in 2019). We have our found family, of course. Lots of it. And we celebrate, but it’s not routine anymore. Certainly not like the way it used to be.
I don’t miss it, though. I mean, if I could go back in time for a day, it would be wonderful, and I would. But the older I get, the more I just want to be with Dennis and the dogs. Or maybe, travel during the holidays and not be obligated to be somewhere, at some time, with some dish.
Is that wrong?
I’ll stop here. I just wanted to see what I could remember about the holiday. Looks like it turned into a narrative about family–love ‘em while you got ‘em–and getting older.
At least it’s not an overly sentimental coffee commercial.
Happy Thanksgiving.
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