Turkey is a Fowl Bird

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.

Taking a Stroll

I have often been asked the question of my age. My standard response has always been another question, “Chronologically, physically, or mentally?” To state, mentally I like to think twenty-one, though people who know me don’t even give me that maturation level. My chronological age is fifty-two. However, physically, I’m well over one hundred. But, as far as my memories go, they occasionally fall into the “old” category. Today is one of those days, as I wax nostalgic about the Halloween’s I remember which remotely resemble the one being celebrated next Saturday.

The Halloween’s of my early youth let both good and bad recollections out of my mental foot locker. If Halloween fell on a school day, we were to wear our costumes to class. It was either first or second grade, I don’t exactly recall, or want to for that matter; my mother made me wear a panther costume she had fabricated, complete with little pointy ears, and straw-filled tail. I was mortified. I cried at the very thought of appearing at each of the front doors of the neighbor’s when it came time to go trick or treating. Going to school dressed like that, I was confident my grandfather would not have to pick me up from school that afternoon, for I was surely going to die from embarrassment at some point in the day, and the local first aid squad would be bringing me home. At least I would get out of trick or treating in that humiliating atrocity. The costume my mother had made was not for my benefit, but hers. She considered the get-up “cute,” while I thought it “sissy.” Her little boy was growing up, and she wanted to keep him little for one more holiday season. I wanted no part of it. My father coaxed me until he was blue in the face, I eventually relented. If my father didn’t see anything wrong (outwardly) with wearing such a heinous outfit, I would go to school and suffer the barbs of my classmates. That was the last year my mother “surprised” me by making my costume.

In subsequent years I dressed up as a hobo, a football player, a skeleton, the devil, a baseball player, GI Joe, Frankenstein, and with my sister’s creative help, the headless horseman of Sleepy Hollow. My machismo was never threatened. I wore these costumes to school proudly, never enduring ridicule from my peers. I may have, but that’s the way I remember it. The parties at school were nice, but trick or treating was what I thought about the nearest one was going to get to childhood nirvana.

Oh I participated in what was commonly known as “Mischief Night” the evening before Halloween. My friends and I rang doorbells, soaped windows, toilet paper was strewn about, and as we got older, the pranks became more sophisticated for lack of a better word. Bags of dog shit set aflame accompanied the ringing of a doorbell. Soaping windows became an art form. Still, the tomfoolery did not compare with what was to follow the next evening.
Once I turned nine, my friends and I were allowed out way beyond our normal curfews. Parental whistles, cowbells, and bellowing that normally began about an hour after dusk, were delayed until at least nine o’clock. By the time Tom Rowlands and I had reached the sixth grade, ten o’clock was quite an acceptable hour to return home from our legal pillaging.

Collecting candy was a no holds barred exercise in conspicuous consumption. Once school let out, Tom and I, being the oldest of the brood we were entrusted with bringing home without incident; would gather those joining us to map out the proposed route of plenty.

There were twenty-one homes considered by our parents, to be part of our neighborhood. If we were to go beyond that predetermined boundary, we needed to give an approximate time and whereabouts. Tom and I shrewdly, with the input of our co-conspirators, devised alternate means with which to “hit” as many houses in the time allotted. Darkness fell around six-thirty, if we could clean up Valley View Road in thirty minutes, that left us three hours to ravage the surrounding area.

Halloween was the one night of the year my parents made the concession of eating dinner before seven. Under normal circumstances, my friends all ate between six and six-thirty. Then they were allowed back out for about an hour as long as everyone stayed in the neighborhood. I on the other hand, once called in for dinner, due to the lateness of the hour, had to remain indoors to do the homework that never got done. In order to make the six-thirty rendezvous, we ate at six. I was grateful.
Once the sweep was completed of the immediate area, we’d make our way through the Mowles’ back yard to the homes on Hillside Avenue. There weren’t many homes, but the owners knew all of us, and were always glad to see us. No turning off the lights making it seem as if no one was home back then. Sometimes we’d bump into other classmates. Some joined our assemblage, others stuck to their appointed rounds. We would then double back at The Hillside Lounge, making our way past Cooperative Industries, ending up at the intersection of Furnace Road and Pleasant Hill. If time allowed we’d make a quick pit stop at the McGloghlins and the Knox abode. About this time some of the younger of our gaggle began to run out of steam. The prospect of heading up Furnace to another of the “Melrose” developments seemed daunting to them. Some years we made Ernie’s the last stop.

Ernie was, at least to us, a very old man, who lived alone, in a very old house. Hell, he was old, and so was the house. It served as a tool and die establishment since the late nineteenth century. Ernie, by the looks of him, may have worked there from the very beginning. A rumor that circulated was the house was haunted. Very few children ever dared enter, much less on Halloween. But as Tom and I, and the rest of our inner circle knew, Halloween was the best time to go inside Ernie’s.
Ernie could be espied several times a week walking to town to buy groceries. Due to his advanced age, Ernie had to be prudent on the quantity of his purchase. He used a cane, and a ride back the two miles home wasn’t always a certainty. My guess was, around Halloween, he needed to make two trips to town just so he could haul back the candy he bought for the kids who did venture inside his decrepit looking domicile.
On Halloween, a low wattage bug light was lit on the front porch. If it no longer shown, Ernie had gone to bed. Timing was crucial. It was worth eschewing an entire neighborhood just to make sure you made it to Ernie’s before he retired for the night.

The porch stairs creaked as we all made our way up. The faint of heart had baled. The ones in our crew who the seasoned veterans convinced going to Ernie’s was a wise move, ventured forth, albeit with a certain amount of trepidation. Us big kids assured the younger we wouldn’t let anything happen to them.
There were no decorations hinting it was a holiday. There was no jack-o-lantern aglow, or scarecrow guarding the doorway as at other houses we had been to, just the bug light which, technically speaking, was a festive orangey-yellow. There was always a discussion as to who would do the knocking; this was done mostly for the benefit of those who’d never been there before. The one designated to hail our arrival, opened the unoiled screen door, and pounded on the solid oak front door. Ernie was hard of hearing; you had to make your presence known. Even though Ernie kept his vigil from a chair right inside the door, it took a couple of beats for him to answer.

The door did not slowly creep ajar as with most “haunted” houses. Ernie opened it with a hardy, toothless “Oh my goodness!!” He waved us in with his cane, absolutely delighted to have visitors, any visitors, even if it was only the neighborhood kids who weren’t afraid of him. Once inside, a huge old cauldron that was once used for smelting metals sat in the middle of the room, brimming with the largest assortment of candies one could imagine. He’d quietly fuss over our variety of costumes; he’d gently muss a head of hair or two while he led us to our very own version of Candyland. Inside the caldron rested a ladle. As we all gathered around the caldron, Ernie instructed us to open our bags, pillow cases and the like. With the ladle, Ernie would dig down into the sweet booty, and begin to pour the goodies in our various receptacles. One, two, three ladles full, we all got the same VIP treatment. Had we left our bags open Ernie would have continued to fill them until there was no more to be had. You see, this was Ernie’s treat, not just ours. He was so appreciative that we would stop to see him, the candy was our reward. I didn’t know then why he went to so much trouble, or why he was so kind to us, but I certainly know why today.

After Ernie’s we’d scramble back to our neighborhood to divvy up our haul. Trades for personal favorites would be made. We’d comment on who gave out “full size” candy bars. We’d admire who went to all the trouble of making real candied apples for god knows how many kids. We did this all alone, without parental interference. We knew the rule of throwing out all loose unpackaged candy. We didn’t need to have our candy X-Rayed. Sure, you always heard about some asshole putting pins or razor blades into apples, so you kept an eye out. The people handing out treats really aren’t that much different today than the way they were back when I was a kid. However, the paranoia, and those that fan the flames have grown considerably.
Gone are the days of seeing a hundred or more laughing children come up your walk-way. I haven’t seen a UNICEF container in years. Most kids are in and done by 8:30, even though anything considered a neighborhood is lit up like Times Square. Most kids are accompanied by parents, no more older kids looking out for the little ones. The media warns of the possibility that a John Wayne Gacy lurks behind every door, and poisoning candy is commonplace, though I believe no more prevalent that when I was a young.

I no longer have the same feeling for Halloween I once did. Everything has been scaled down. The time allotted for trick or treating, the care taken in preparing a costume, the “fun size” candy bars, the number of kids coming around has dwindled. The whole thing now seems like Halloween is being rushed to a premature conclusion. Kids today probably wouldn’t be given the opportunity to experience going to “an Ernie’s.” I’m glad I got the chance. I’m quite sure Ernie is.