Tales of Thanksgiving: Norman Rockwell Redux?

Just read Jo's entry on the human condition and laughter... I have never liked Thanksgiving but it's pretty simple. Mom drank herself into a stupor and I had to do "girl" things. I could be all dramatic and say it mostly because of Mom, but ... nope. It was the girl things. Mostly, as I got to be about ten or eleven, the drunk thing had its up side. And my family found ways to create traditions, no matter what the scene.

And sometimes we found our way to Love, no matter what...

While this is a tough entry, ostensibly about  my mom and drinking, it is also one about adapting and humor. My mom found a way back to that, even though it meant sometimes she had to face her own illness. I remember these two Thanksgivings as if they were one. I remember the pain, but I remember her. And that, in the end, she found the way to make them live as special to me, despite the pain. And while the  holiday was not the one our family did well, I would still rather have had my mom, for all of it...


There is a children's game called "Hucka-bucka-beanstalk" that involved hiding a small object in plain sight and the first one who FOUND sed object would shout "Hucka bucka BEEEEEANSTALK!" And win. The right to hid the thing was all we won, but we played the game nonetheless.

Jean Ellen and I played this starting about about 9:00 a.m. on Thanksgiving morning, as we'd find Mom's partly drunk glasses of port.  You got five extra points for finding something in a bizarre place, and won the game outright for a glass from last year.  Mom always wondered why we hadn't enough juice glasses in the fall... Mom was not mean when she drank, at all. So there were no horrible scenes or traumas. Mom was simply drunk when she drank, which meant that dinner was a crazy quilt affair, but usually close to edible, except, perhaps, on these two holidays in question.

I think the first was when I was in fourth grade or so. Jean Ellen was home from college.  So Jack was in sixth grade, Jim in ninth.  I think JFK had been elected. It doesn't really matter. I was old enough to have faced a great many truths, to have locked away some, and to have learned to shrug off others.

I was in charge of the fruit bowl. Mind you, this included mixed nuts. And the fruit had to be polished, as did the fruit bowl, which was one of those liquid silver and glass creations developed, I think, to make my life a living hell. I had already polished the silver, but Dad kept finding "spots" I'd missed on the bowl. The "boys" including Dad were out playing football, which was my usual role in the house. But, no. There I was helping with the dinner because that's what "girls do." This girl stuff was worse than boring, worse than unfair. I knew we would also be stuck doing the dishes. At least this year there would be no guests. This year it was just us, and the grandmas were elsewhere. Joy and Jack were elsewhere, too, so we would be spared the non-gourmet critique.

Sometimes, on Thanksgiving, I think she was better drunk. When she tried to behave, I think the strain got to her--putting up with relatives whom she could think and talk under the table, yet who somehow knew how to make her feel small. Thanksgiving was her bender time, the last hurrah until New Year's. She usually was bone dry until then, so as to keep Christmas clear in her heart, I think. She cherished the season, but not this day.

Nope. Today,  my mom had had trouble with scrambled eggs and Jean Ellen and I knew we were in for a time. Garlic. There was garlic in the scrambled eggs and she'd forgotten to thaw the Stouffer's coffee cake.

It wasn't fair though, really, because Jean Ellen started right off with a five pointer and the port glass in the toilet paper drawer.  By noon we'd tied at seven points each, though, because I'd found one behind the celery in the refrigerator  vegetable drawer. We think Jack had interrupted  her making the stuffing, but were not sure. It came time, though for my least favorite chore--wiping the crystal to make it shiny. We only used the crystal at Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas, so it was pretty dim just now, and coated with a layer of dust that had found its way through the glass door.

But suddenly, glee overtook me! "I WIN I WIN! Hucka bucka beanstalk!"

There, behind the large, water goblets was an encrusted small glass, still slightly tinted from its evaporated contents from last season's celebration. I won. And the day was only half done.

***
Jean Ellen and I always did the table proud, and JE even measured the distance for globlet from knife tip, everything just so. the table was beautiful, and Mom was "resting" in her chair, the boys--including Dad--etching nail marks in the wooden armrests of the living room chairs as their favorite teams lost. Funny. The turkey wasn't smelling that good.

We sent Jack in to test it. Mom didn't like me doing that because the turkey weighed about 20 pounds. Jean Ellen was sick of the whole thing.

"So," said Jack. "I suppose the turkey's supposed to be, oh, hot by now?"

We went in to check and there it was. The oven was at about 200 degrees and all you could smell was spoiling fowl. Foul is the word.

"MA!" Jim shouted.

She roused herself and stumbled into the kitchen, to realize her mistake. "Damn. I'll make hamburgers." I groaned, but Jack didn't miss a beat.

"Jim. Quick. You get the hockey sticks."

My mother's hamburgers when she was sober, were a miracle of cuisine. Legendary, in fact. Charred outside, raw inside. You could not chew them. But, then, you couldn't even cut them, so the whole thing as moot. And this year? When she put them on the platter, they clattered.

Jack threw one on the kitchen floor and he and Jim were happy. When Jim shouted, "GOAL!" with a smooth swipe through the arch, my mother just looked tired. Suddenly, oh, so softly, to the tune of the Hallelujah Chorus, Jean Ellen sang, 'SAL monELLa, SAL monella, SalmoNELLA..." And we all joined in, softly at first, then in full sway.

My mother began to glare, but then suddenly she joined in with, 'FOR the Lord God OmNEEE-POTENT Laugheth. Salmonella ..."

***
Let's just say that the following year, we had absolutely NO points for hucka bucka beanstalk. Joy and Jack were due and Mom would have none of the previous year's mistakes. NO. Not for the gourmet snob and  her brilliantly spoiled husband.  Mom was stone-cold, seriously SOBER. I was a little nervous that this would not bode well for Christmas, but I had to admit it was rather a welcome change for the holiday. In fact, we women did some real pre-Christmas caroling rehearsals.

I think she was proud of things that year. She had created a different stuffing, with mushrooms and finely slivered, caramelized onions, sherry. I tested a little before it went in the bird and it was divine I thought. The table was beautiful, with its lace cloth over a deep claret lining. Perfectly ironed claret napkins matched one color in the china. The fruit bowl was perfection, if I say so myself. And I do. Jean Ellen had put some touches on the relish and cranberry sauce trays, garnishes of HOLLY. Beautiful. The goblets shone. Mom felt good for once.

About ten minutes before dinner, she did the final browning of the perfect bird--a 24 pounder this year, so there would be lots of leftovers. We got carried away with one of Jim's "Stupid non-magic tricks" wherein, deadpan, he would make a metal "Shoot the Moon" ball "disappear" By throwing it over his shoulder, dropping it, or simply asking you to close your eyes while he put it in his pocket--you never knew.  His timing was flawless, and he never cracked a smile, but he realized he'd delayed dinner and offered to get the bird out of the oven and save Mom the trouble.

"So Ma," we heard him tentatively, for Jim, calling. "Is it done when it changes its race and bounces?"

"DAMN!" My  mom shrieked and Jean Ellen and I followed her in. The turkey was BLACK. Charred entirely. She'd put it on broil for a final crisping and we all forgot. Poor Mom.

She realized, though that it was not burned through. We were in no position to waste food. The bird clunked onto the platter and was presented to Dad for help.

Joy and Jack barely contained their sneers but were, for them, polite. Dad tackled it with words of comfort to Mom. "Jean, inside it's perfect. Don't worry."

He tried to cut through the thick, blackness to reach the drumstick, then thought perhaps a sneak attack from underneath would work, with which a drumstick flew into the air and landed into Jean Ellen's water glass.

She blinked and looked at Daddy, through her coke bottle glasses, and said, "Daddy, you know I prefer white meat."

A whisper of a smile rippled across six out of eight faces, but we all looked down. He handed a plate to Mom, to JE, then worked his way to Jim. Carefully, Daddy removed every trace of black from every slice, and handed Jim a flawless plate of white meant, to which Jim said, "No skin?"

We looked down again--quickly, this time. Jim's slight smirk lingered, and Mom's napkin landed on top of his head. He left it there. Then, the next plate went to Jack my brother and the next to Jack, Joy's husband. Joy's Jack moved the meat around his plate, to let us be well aware of the disdain. And Joy? She flipped a piece of meat over and simply said, "THIS is not fresh turkey. It's frozen."

MY Jack, said, "HEY. Be happy it's COOKED." We gasped, but Jean Ellen began to lose it, and Daddy stood helpless, knife and fork poised over the pathetic bird, looking at my mother, his eyes compassionate, his mouth twitching.

Mom stood up. For a moment I thought she would cry and we were suddenly silent, with Joy and Jack still sneering.

She opened her mouth to speak, but what came out was, "SAL monELLA, SAL monella."

And we sang our way through the season.

And that is the worst and the best of my mom... Thanksgivings were hard, most far harder than these two.  Writing about them would serve no purpose at all. I cannot enjoy the day... but I was and always will be glad I had the mom I had, for worse or for better.  Perhaps some see this as bitter... I don't. If I had not had the dark humor, I would not have survived the worst. If I had not had the mother I had, I would not BE my best.