Thanksgiving Reveries

Thanksgiving is a bit of a mixed bag for me.

Growing up, Thanksgiving was definitely the little Christmas. We always did Thanksgiving with tons of family, each nuclear family congealing in some central house, bringing at least one of their own prized dishes. The house always smelled amazing as everyone put their stuffings, casseroles, potatoes, pies, cakes, macaronis on the counter, and the parents spooned out platefuls of goo and yum for the gaggle of children at their own special kids’ table. One year, I was about 14, and we had Thanksgiving at my fake-Aunt Yolande’s house. My fake-Aunt Yolande is a special kind of crazy, the kind of crazy that is endearing and wonderful, never maddening. That was the year she tried to bake a cake using my mother’s baby formula because she was out of milk. I don’t know if I need to tell you that it didn’t turn out, but it didn’t. (She claimed it would have worked fine if it weren’t for the iron in the baby formula. Me, I think the fact that baby formula stinks and in no way resembles cow milk by any stretch of the imagination might have had something to do with it.)

That Thanksgiving was my first spent with fake family, and it was awesome. And by fake family, I mean a blend of my immediate family, friends of my immediate family, my stepfather and his brother and his kids and fake kids (and I’m not even sure in which way these kids were fake. Most black families I know have a tendency to call people by familial relations that don’t, in fact, truly exist, and good luck trying to sort it all out.) At any rate, there was food for days. My fake-Uncle owned a barbecue restaurant, so there was barbecue along with turkey, about eleventy billion side-dishes, and enough dessert to give all of south Los Angeles type 2 diabetes. We ate until we could hardly move, at which point the grownups commenced to drinking Chivas Regal and being overly loud, and the teenagers…

Well, ostensibly we were going for a drive to look for something to do. And we weren’t all teenagers. The oldest of us was in his early twenties, and the youngest of us was about eleven. If I recall correctly, the true objective of our mission was to find a store selling wine coolers so even us littles could partake in the fun of the day. We drove around for about an hour before giving up. Every shop was closed. That’s the lame part about holidays — once the holiday part is over, there’s nothing to do, and in our case, no alcohol to drink.

Another year, my father decided he wanted to take me and my brother to visit his family for Thanksgiving. This was a first for us — my brother and I scarcely knew our paternal relatives, and the idea of flying to St. Louis to have Thanksgiving in a hotel appealed to us. To our mother, not so much, but to her credit she did nothing to dampen our excitement. We packed bags and got on a plane and made our first (and last) trip to St. Louis.

Here’s another thing about Thanksgiving. It’s in November. You probably know that, but see, I’m from Los Angeles. Not much difference in Los Angeles between September, October, and November. It’s all pretty much the same, which is to say it’s pretty damn warm.

It’s not warm in St. Louis in November. In fact, it was snowing. And in further fact, I had packed a suitcase full of mini skirts and not a single jacket to my name. When my Dad found out, he was furious, and had to take me and my brother shopping for coats, which of course was fine by us. Getting to go shopping is what makes having divorced parents kind of worth it.

We arrived at the hotel in a taxi, and upon arrival my grandfather pushed a box of chocolates into my hands. “Here, take these,” he says, as he struggles to pull luggage out from the cab. The box is white and glossy, wrapped with a red ribbon. Fancy chocolates! My brother and I look each other over with glee.

Up in our room, we tear open the box of chocolates and start to devour them, only to discover that they are the nastiest chocolates on the face of the earth. “Yuck,” my brother says, spitting the caramel into the trash. “Where did he get these chocolates from?”

“I don’t know,” I said, shuffling through the box. I pulled out a round chocolate with pink stripes. “Let’s try these.”

Nope. Nasty, too. How about the light brown ones with the crunchy things on top? Okay, the dark brown with the green drizzles?

We tried them all before giving up.

When my grandfather returned later and asked us for his candies, were were dumbfounded. His candies? You mean they weren’t intended for us?

“You destroyed $100 worth of diabetic candy!” My grandfather raged. We didn’t feel bad, because we didn’t know they weren’t ours. And what kind of person hands a box of chocolates to two young kids and expects them to hold onto it for safe keeping? I thought that was stupid then, and I think it’s stupid now, and I can say that, because the grandfather in question is dead so he probably doesn’t remember this incident, anyway. 

That Thanksgiving, I learned to french kiss (with the one kid there that wasn’t a relative. At least, I don’t think he was a relative. I think he was someone’s step-son. I guess I’ll never know, and yeah, that’s kind of gross, but I was in junior high. If I walked around regretting every stupid thing I ever did in junior high I wouldn’t get a hell of a lot done.) I also saw Alzheimer’s up close and personal for the first time. My father’s grandmother, who raised him, was at the table, frail and oblivious to everyone and everything. She couldn’t control her body well, and she ate with her mouth open. It wasn’t a pretty sight. She seemed sad. Everyone seemed sad. They seemed to both want her there and not. But I guess that such conflicting emotions are probably very common in these circumstances.

Dad never asked us to Thanksgiving with his extended family again. Honestly, I don’t think he went either. I think that particular trip down memory lane was enough for him.

I mention these two particular Thanksgivings to illustrate a larger point: that my childhood holidays were bustling, filled with adventure, people, misadventure, laughter, turmoil, and joy. And so while I harbor a soft spot in my heart for this holiday, a part of me is sad, too. My adult Thanksgivings are spent with my husband and two children. That’s it. We have no family close, and all our friends have other places to go, other family to visit. We have each other. And while yes, I am very grateful for that, I do miss the extended huggings and kissings, the trading of boisterous stories, the passing of plates down the tables rows, and the drama. I do miss the drama. I miss all the things I’ve come to associate with family holidays.

And so this year, as I’m standing in my kitchen baking buttermilk pie or kneading the bread dough for the stuffing — everything from scratch for Thanksgiving! — I will think not only about how grateful I am for the people in my life now, but also for the people that were in my life then, who gave me such wonderful memories, who filled me with joy and laughter that I can draw from now, in the quiet contentedness of a drama-free Thanksgiving household. I will toast to them and think of them, and hope that in some way I have and will continue to fill someone else’s life with the same images, warm feelings and sacred stories that everyone needs to live a full, happy life.

Happy Thanksgiving :)