Husbandry: Thanksgiving edition

Holidays

“Thanksgiving.  Bringing out the best in family dysfunction since 1863.” – another famous quote from Anonymous

My favorite holiday is Thanksgiving.  Expectations are very low.  No one knows when the turkey will be done, so a pre-dinner drink can begin at any time.  Thanksgiving dinner in our family is pretty formulaic; there is very little change from year to year.  The biggest change factor is how dry the turkey will be. 

The problem with Thanksgiving in our family was, whose parents do we celebrate Thanksgiving with?  Or, to put it another way; whose mother do we piss off the most?  Unlike Christmas where you can celebrate Christmas eve with one family and Christmas day with the other family, Thanksgiving requires a conscious choice of disappointment.  Never-the-less, once the decision has been made, it is still my favorite holiday.  You might think we could agree to alternate years, spending even numbered years with my parents and odd numbered years with Linda’s parents, but that level of reasonableness simply didn’t exist and it was quite clear that not only were we expected to spend Thanksgiving with Linda’s parents, there would be hell to pay if we did not.  So, Thanksgiving dinner was nearly always spent with my in-laws. 

Linda had six sisters and while it was rare to have all six sisters home at once, it was still quite a houseful of people once all of the husbands and grandchildren were counted into the milieu of constant chaos in the smallish three-bedroom home.  Linda’s mother, Thelma, and her father, Dan, would often invite their close friends, Art and Harriet, to dinner as well.  I think they were invited because Harriet made the best dinner rolls.  Gathering people to the dinner tables for this annual feast of feasts was a remarkable, nay, miraculous event.  Kids were outside playing in the rain that needed to be dried out and their mud soaked pants changed, there was always a baby or toddler crying, there was always at least one brother-in-law who was on his third whiskey that needed to be guided to the table, the house was always about 20 degrees too warm, there were puzzles that had to be moved in order to use the puzzle table for food, the TV was always on having been left on since the airing of the Macy’s parade on Thanksgiving morning, followed by football games. 

But somehow or another, once the food was on the table there was a hush as people gathered around the table.  Grace was said.  And the passing of food began.  The clanking of silverware, the clinking of wine glasses, were like a symphony of gluttony.  Then, from the end of the table, came the call for service that was all too expected.  It happened every year.  We all knew it would happen.  Even the timing of the request was predictable.  “Thelma, where is the cream for my coffee?”, Dan would say.  It was never just a question.  It was not quite a demand, but it was said with a level of annoyance that Thelma must have not put the cream on the table just to piss him off.  Honestly?  I think he may have been right.  Every year.  Year after year.  Holiday after holiday, the question was the same, “Thelma, where’s the cream for my coffee?”  As the premier husband in the room, it never occurred to him that he could actually go to the fridge, remove the carton of cream, pour it into a pitcher, and place it on the table.

After dinner there was a crowd in the kitchen, washing and drying dishes, packaging of the leftovers, etc. so I would always retreat to the family room to watch the rest of whatever football game was on; usually the Dallas Cowboys versus someone else.  Dan would join me.  He was not much of a conversationalist and neither was I, so there was often a somewhat uncomfortable silence as father-in-law versus son-in-law bonded over America’s pastime. 

Finally, the clattering and chattering in the kitchen would die down and Thelma and her kitchen elves would join us in the family room.  Thelma would sit in “her chair”, the TV would be switched to whatever pre-Christmas movie was on, typically Miracle on 34^th Street, and the post-turkey drowsiness would begin.  Despite watching Miracle on 34^th Street for at least 50 times, I’m quite sure Thelma has never seen the whole movie.  Minutes into the movie her head would tilt back, her mouth would open slightly and the snoring would begin.  Her grandkids lovingly referred to her as “old snores”.  The rest of us would suffer through, yet again, another viewing of the movie, with no one daring or brave enough to change the channel lest “old snores” should awaken from her slumber.

Then with an enormous snort, Thelma would wake herself up and without missing a beat, and as if she hadn’t ever nodded off, would brightly say, “would anyone like pie?”  And of course we all would and back into the dining room we would all file.  After pie, around 9:00pm Dan would loudly announce that it was time to go to bed and he would exit the room.  Clearly his expectation was that everyone would do the same in order that the house might finally quiet down a bit so that he would be able to sleep.  His expectations were always dashed.  100% of the time.  But eventually it was time for the rest of the family to call it a night.  Those who lived close by, piled into their cars and left.  Those of us who had travelled a long way to celebrate this very special day of giving thanks, grabbed blankets, pillows and sleeping bags and claimed whatever sofa or bit of floor space was available and then, mercifully and thankfully the house became quiet.  Only the soft and gently snoring from the bedroom at the end of house could be heard.