Thanksgiving Remembered

The origins of Thanksgiving are various and disputed by people who enjoy disputation.  It is probably older than its traditional inception date of 1621 by the Pilgrims in Massachusetts Bay Colony.  Scholars think the Pilgrims brought this festival from the Netherlands where, by the way, Thanksgiving is also still celebrated.  Canadians celebrate Thanksgiving a month earlier than other North Americans, but that’s because winter comes earlier among the ice farmers; you’ve got to cook the turkey before it freezes to death in the yard.   But, no mind, Thanksgiving is a harvest festival which is now completely secular and ecumenical.  The Pilgrims invited the indigenous Native Americans to feast with them in a gesture which, had it been followed, might have changed the face of American history for the better.

The tradition is one of open commensality. Much like the early Christians, Americans celebrate by breaking bread with newcomers, strangers, and people of diverse heritage.  In my own family, my Aunt Isabel’s Jewish hairdresser and bookie, “Aunt Agnes,” was always present on Thanksgiving.  My grandmother’s lesbian cousin, Dr. Esther, was also with us on many Thanksgivings.   I recall her as a tall kindly lady in trousers who was said to be the first woman physician licensed in the State of Nebraska.  Dr. Esther cured my warts without pain or surgery, prescribing mineral oil and mysterious pills which I now believe to have been a placebo.  Thanksgiving was always a time of open doors, open hearts, and full stomachs.

In my memory, my tiny Grandmother Moran presided over the kitchen with her daughters busily fussing over food preparation and presentation.  Everyone drank eggnog which, when spiked with rum and/or brandy becomes a “Tom & Jerry.” Grandma Moran didn’t tolerate liquor in her house so my uncles all brought flasks to spike their drinks on the back porch.  Granddad Moran did not use alcohol, but seemed to turn a blind eye on the back porch.  Boys will be boys.

Thanksgiving, like Passover among Reform Jews, is a time when you may seek out single people, lonely people, and invite them into your family.  Some, like my Aunt Agnes, become family thereafter.  It is also a time when family feuds are set aside, sometimes settled; peace is made.  We celebrated Thanksgiving with my mother’s whitebread Protestant family and were the only Catholics in the crowd.  Catholics weren’t quite proper in America of the 1950s, before John F. Kennedy was elected President.  My grandfather said grace before we began eating and my Uncle Joe winked at me across the table while others bowed their heads in prayer. 

For the meal itself, Grandfather Moran carved the turkey and we passed the food around the table family style. The turkey’s derriere was always called “The Pope’s Nose,” but not spitefully.  Even my Catholic father chuckled at the old jibe.  Granddad always proclaimed that “south end” of the turkey the best part and kept it for himself.   I hated canned cranberries which looked like they’d taste wonderful, but didn’t.  Everyone poured oceans of gravy over their turkey, stuffing, and mashed potatoes.  Good manners required that you comment favorably on the “flaky” crust of my grandmother’s pies over which one layered vanilla ice cream and whipped cream.  High cholesterol hadn’t been invented yet, so folks could yet eat sinfully without apology or self-recrimination.  Obesity was called “fat” and that’s what any number of my family members were.  Heart attack was considered a natural cause of death, the express train to the bosom of Abraham.

After the meal was finished, I always slid down in my chair and crawled under the table to freedom through a forest of legs.  Uncles adjourned to the living room where they dozed and watched tiny footballers gambol on the black and white television.  Mom and the aunts cleared up, did the dishes, laughed, and gossiped.  In later years, Uncle Joe and I escaped to the Elks Club for snooker or, if apprehended, to the front lawn for a game of catch with baseball and glove.  Aunt Isabel’s Pekinese, “Tippy,” surfeited with outlaw tidbits I’d slipped her under the table, was quietly sick and snored teats up on her innocent back in a corner.