Suburban Turmoil: Tradition

Thanksgiving has never been my cup of cider.

As a kid, it meant putting on the mom-ordained outfit of scratchy wool shorts, argyle knee socks, penny loafers and a stiff button-down shirt topped off by a floppy bow cinched tight around my neck. I know, I know; it sounds like we were in the circus, but the truth is that in the early ‘80s, this kind of thing was considered fashionable.

The awfulness of my clothing was surpassed only by the awfulness of the food. I despised every single item on the traditional Thanksgiving menu, from the dry, white turkey and sour cranberry sauce to the soggy bread stuffing and mushy sweet potato soufflé. What was the deal with that, anyway, I wondered crankily to myself as a child. Why couldn't the pilgrims have chosen crab legs and French fries for their menu?

As a result, when my father announced one year that he was taking my brother and me to see his parents in Virginia for Thanksgiving, I couldn’t wait, even though visiting my grandparents meant a torturous, eight-hour car ride spent dodging my brother’s punches and choking on second-hand smoke from my dad and stepmom’s cigarettes. The trip was typically followed by three straight days of sitting with my grandparents in their living room, staring at the television. The bright side was that my dad didn’t care what I wore.

Thanksgiving with my grandparents went exactly as expected. The only real conversation I remember taking place while we were there happened during the big feast itself. While everyone else loaded their plates with turkey, lima beans, and gravy, I opted for two defrosted dinner rolls and a dollop of fruit salad.

“Dontcha want some ham?” my grandmother asked, eyeing my plate with concern. I glanced over at the slick boiled ham on the table and shuddered.

“No thank you, Grandmother.”

“Well....” she trailed off.

After a few minutes of silence broken only by the sounds of chewing and swallowing, she piped up again.

“Dontcha want some turkey?”

“No thank you, Grandmother,” I replied as I fastidiously tore my second roll into fourths.

“Well....”

My father helped himself to more cranberry sauce.

“Dontcha want some lima beans? They’re real good...”

“No thank you grandmother,” I said. My brother stifled a giggle.

“Well....”

A small snort escaped me as my brother and I made eye contact. I quickly looked down at my plate.

“Dontcha want some sweet potaters?” my grandmother said a moment later.

“No thank-“

I was cut off by a guffaw erupting from my brother.

“No thank you, Grandmother,” I said, my eyes watering as I fought back the laughter bubbling up in my throat.

My father shot me a warning look. Aside from a few strangling noises from my brother and me, the meal continued in silence.

Finally, my grandmother emitted a sigh of frustration.

“Dontcha wanna get fat?” she said to me, putting her fork down.

“Bwah ha ha ha HA HA HA!!” I couldn't control myself any longer.

“Ah HA HA HA HA HAHAHAHAHAH!” My brother screeched across the table.

“Children,” my father said in a strange voice. I could tell by his red face that he was fighting to keep from laughing himself.

“WA HA HA HA! WA HA HA HA!” My brother fell to the floor and began rolling around, clutching his sides.

Meanwhile, I was doubled over, tears running down my face.

“Heee, heee, hee, heee heeeeee,” I gasped.

“Well, I declare,” my grandmother said, looking from one of us to the other.

We laughed harder. We laughed until our stomachs hurt. We laughed until we were told sternly to leave the table and go to separate rooms until we could calm ourselves down.

My last memory of that night was my grandmother looking down at her tiny dog, Booger.

“Boogie,” she said, shaking her head, “I think they’s crazy.”

Although that experience provided my brother and me with a scene that would be re-enacted at family gatherings for years to come, you can understand now why the holiday leaves me cold.

In fact, I’ve often been tempted to skip Thanksgiving altogether.

What stops me are my two stepdaughters, whose only Thanksgiving experience before I came along was being taken to Kroger and told to pick out anything they wanted. Their feasts consisted of Fruit Roll-ups and Oreos and Dr. Pepper. And while there’s nothing wrong with that, exactly, I can’t help but feel the responsibility of giving them a traditional Thanksgiving weighing heavily on my shoulders.

So we’ll have a turkey (deep-fried and ordered in advance from Bro’s, of course), a wild mushroom stuffing I can stomach, cranberry casserole, roasted garlic mashed potatoes, homemade yeast rolls, and an elaborate cake for dessert. We set the table with our fine china and dress in the most stylish elasticized-waistband wear we can find.

As always, there will be pleasant conversation. There will be talk of thankfulness for our family and friends. And when there’s laughter, I can only hope it’s the side splitting, sparkling wine snorting, watery-eyed, rolling on the ground kind.

After all… It's tradition.

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