When I was growing up, creamed onions and Scotch whiskey were essential ingredients for a proper Thanksgiving feast. The onions were a nod to Mother’s Irish heritage, and the whiskey a wink to Daddy’s ancestry. The other dishes on the table were pretty typical American fare: Turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, gravy, green beans, and a plate of celery and pimento-stuffed olives.
Oh, and don’t forget the cranberry sauce which, try as we might, Mother always remembered. At the last minute, a plate of glistening ruby circlets was placed on the table, still quivering from the rush to get it out of the can.
Most nights at home counted seven at our dinner table – five kids and two parents – but there were usually a few more on turkey day. Sometimes it was Aunt Marge and Uncle Jim, not blood relatives but old friends of my father’s who went way back to St. John, New Brunswick, where the three of them grew up.
When Marge and Jim Powers were in town, the party started early. As the day wore on, the house filled with enchanting aromas of the feast to come and the metallic sound of ice trays being cracked open. In the midst of extended cocktail hour, children hovered to eavesdrop. on stories of growing up in Canada. Reportedly, the snow drifted so high in the Canada of Daddy’s boyhood, he had to exit his house from an upstairs window and trudge miles to St. Malachy’s, where he and Uncle Jim concocted pranks and plots that infuriated the good nuns who taught there.
The holiday mood was different when Aunt Agnes and Uncle Pete were our Thanksgiving company. Agnes, my mother’s cousin, played the horses, and she was known to call her bookie to place a bet when she was at our house. Uncle Pete, always dapper in an ascot, tweed pants, and a cashmere sweater, could be counted on to joke with the littlest kids. We begged him to tell us about how he got the funny scar on his nose, and he could be counted on to come up with a new story every time.
When my oldest sister got married, I was nine, and by the time I was thirteen, I had three nieces. As a result, a section of the dining room became the kids’ corner on Thanksgiving. My job was to make sure the rickety card table didn’t collapse, and to prevent little Susie, Kelly and Penny from devouring the hot rolls and butter while my father carved the turkey.
No one, however, could stop political discussions at the Thanksgiving dinner table. After all, proximity to Election Day was unavoidable, so conflict was inevitable. Daddy was a newspaper man, and my brother, Roger, was editor of the daily newspaper at college. Each one considered himself infallible, and my brother never learned to shut up.
After dinner, dissent and dessert, the adults retreated to the living room for after-dinner libations, while my sisters and I were assigned kitchen duty. (Roger, of course, was exempt from K.P.) Inevitably, Pamela sneaked up the back stairs to use the extension phone and call her friends, leaving most of the clean-up to Jeanne and me. By the time she moseyed downstairs again, most of the dishes were washed, dried and put away.
The best part of Thanksgiving occurred hours later, after everyone mellowed. It was time for snacks and a midnight gathering of all the siblings. Who could argue amidst slabs of turkey layered on white bread slathered with mayonnaise? And don’t forget the pies, delicious with a glass of cold milk.
The holidays are a great time to capture memories of family and friends.
The Great Thanksgiving Listen of 2016, sponsored by Story Corps, encourages high school students to create an oral history by recording an interview with an elder over the holiday weekend. For more information, log on to https://storycorps.me/about/the-great-thanksgiving-listen/.
Constance Alexander is a columnist who lives in Murray. Contact her atconstancealexander@twc.com.