A couple of weeks ago, the air down here in Florida started to look and smell a little different. I commented to my wife, that if you weren’t aware of the temperature, just by the look outside it could be fall anywhere in the continental United States. At night, windswept clouds created a desert in the sky. There’s a crispness to everything brought on by the fronts pushing down from the north, as opposed to all weather being driven by the equatorial lows out of West Africa. In Florida, we don’t enjoy the nights by the fireplace, the first snowfall, or the opportunity to test our driving skills on black ice. However, we do get to celebrate the holiday season with the same enthusiasm as those to the north.
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, a curious holiday, but one of great importance nonetheless. The first Thanksgiving school children are taught occurred in 1621, one year after the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth, in what soon would become the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. It wasn’t referred to as “Thanksgiving” per se. That first celebration might have been called “We’re really glad we didn’t die Day.” You see, forty-seven of the original 102 voyagers who boarded the Mayflower, died that first year. Had I survived, feast, schmeast; howling at the moon would not have done justice to the elation felt by one of the lucky few spared during that miserable shitstorm of a first year of settlement. But feast these folks did, if you can call crap even a vegan would turn their nose up at a feast.
Under the circumstances, anything outside of dirt was probably pretty grandiose. While the menu for these hearty souls may have left something to be desired, their spirit of fellowship was high, as it should be today. Isn’t that what holidays are really about? It doesn’t matter what the date has been referred to over the years.
First, that initial get together happened on December 12th. It would be many years before November even entered into the picture. Subsequent years following the Pilgrims whoopty-doo, different settlements celebrated on different dates; and it wasn’t celebrated as “Thanksgiving,” but Forefather’s Day. In 1755, the Continental Congress stated December 18th to be a National day of Thanksgiving. George Washington declared a day of Thanksgiving after the Continental Army victory at Saratoga during the Revolutionary War. It would not be until 1863, when Abraham Lincoln ordered the last Thursday in November be the National holiday known as Thanksgiving Day. Once Americans started buying all kinds of shit, Franklin Roosevelt moved Thanksgiving to the forth Thursday in November. I’m sure you’re all delighted that has been cleared up. It may consume more time when you have to tell your grandkids the origins of Thanksgiving, but the stories that families repeat about their Thanksgivings are what make the holiday truly memorable.
It is said, “You can pick your friends, but you can’t pick your relatives.” Depending on the results of your own personal genetic lottery, the level of enjoyment one experienced on Thanksgiving could vary tremendously. Being from a rather small family, there was only so much brain damage that could be inflicted by those present.
As a child, most of my memories have to do with the Macy’s Parade, the great food, and Thanksgiving’s close proximity to Christmas. My paternal grandmother Hazel, was a phenomenal cook. She shared her kitchen expertise with my mother. I was always thankful for that. My maternal grandmother Mary, so inept at meal preparation was she, rumor had it she often burned water. I could never understand why we never spent Thanksgiving at the home of my father’s parents. It would have been easier to just let Hazel do all the cooking. Also, all family members, extended as well, lived within twenty-five minutes of each other. It wouldn’t be until I was older, and became aware of the term “strained relationships” to see why two distinct Thanksgiving dinners were prepared in different locales. My mother’s parent celebrated with us, while we didn’t even venture to my father’s parents, where his sister and her brood gathered. As I grew older, the Thanksgiving tradition of “running around like a lunatic to overeat” became the norm.
A steady girlfriend, and later a wife, necessitated spending Thanksgiving with two families. Invariably, my mother served dinner late. Late like 6:30 late. This meant I always ate at my significant others first. The mothers of my significant others all must have gone to the same school, the University of Havesomemore. They also all did their graduate work at Areyousureyouhadenough. Stuffed, we’d make our way to my Mom’s for round two. Not wanting to hurt her felling, plus as I said, she was a terrific cook, I ate yet again. And yes, I took seconds. Loaded with tryptophan, and on the verge of an internal combustion catastrophe of epic proportions, myself and whoever went out to meet friends. After I got married, most times it was to meet for cocktails.
It was during this period of my life, my mother’s cooking started to deteriorate. My mother never went out to meet up with friends. However, she didn’t wait until after the Thanksgiving meal to have cocktails…many cocktails. This fact may have contributed to the decline in the kitchen. My first wife and I often took my mother’s lead before we ventured off to her parents, due to the unusual nature of social interaction that went on. There, while my wife’s parents drank in moderation lest the meal be ruined, we young ‘uns made it a point to get hammered. We had to endure barbs, gibes, and criticism over our life choices, appearance, lack of success etc. I was always thankful they stocked my brand of scotch. There was always plenty of wine with the meal as well, like any of us needed it, but drink we did. About fifteen seconds shy of R.E.M sleep; my wife would jostle me and whisper, “Isn’t time we left for your parents.” So off we went for my mother’s attempt at a multi-course meal.
No longer was everything made from scratch, and if it was from scratch, we had to endure my mother’s long-winded Ode to Chef’s Martyrdom about what a trial and tribulation this selfless act done strictly out of her love for everyone. Christ, it made me want to puke up everything I at my in-laws. The upside to that prospect being, I’d have room to eat enough my mother wouldn’t be able to lay a guilt trip on me about how I no longer liked her cooking, which was essentially true. After my first wife and I divorced, I was finally free of the dual dinner indulgence.
Oddly, I still spent my Thanksgivings at my ex-in-laws; having a kid brings people together, just not always the husband and the wife. After a falling out with my mother, I even tried to do Thanksgiving by myself, with mixed results. My son Cory, and I one year traveled to my father’s in Ohio to celebrate the Thanksgiving. That was the year I became the relative you wished wouldn’t show up for familial holiday get togethers. Contrary to popular belief, one’s excessive drinking does harm others. When Cory and I moved to Florida, I spent my Thanksgivings alone for several years.
I was cordially invited by friends and neighbors to spend Thanksgiving with them, but rather than share my misery at Cory spending all holidays in New Jersey with his mother, I decided to spare those kind folks and be miserable by myself. One benevolent neighbor would make me a plate from her table, and leave it outside my front door. Some years later, she became my wife. With her came new relatives in all sorts of shapes, sizes, and demeanors to share the holidays. Some have now moved away, and have not been so moved to reunite at Thanksgiving.
For Cory, the Florida-Florida State football game justifiably takes precedent at Thanksgiving. Rather than schlep five hours south just to go five hours north the following day; he spends his Thanksgiving catch as catch can. This year, he’ll be spending it with his mother at her newly purchased home in Daytona; a mere hour drive from Gainesville. He’ll be back on campus for all the festivities. Besides, he’ll be home in a little over two weeks for Christmas.
I’ll be celebrating the holiday the way I began as a child. The focus will be on Macy’s Parade, the food, and then maybe a schmaltzy first Christmas movie of the year. I am always glad to see my wife’s few relatives who remain in the area, but I don’t think fellowship is a priority for them. I will watch football, a tradition absent from my early youth. I will have leftovers, one thing missing all those years of going to two households. There was never enough turkey to satisfy me. What does satisfy me is the aftermath. The quiet reflection of gratitude for my life, the turkey sandwiches,the excessive farting,the appreciation for my abilities that remained dormant for so long, the chance to bring happiness to others, the satisfaction to know I have a people in my life whom I love, and they love me back in spite of myself, especially my wife Helen, and my son Cory. These are all the things I’m thankful for, except maybe the farting.
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