Not all the turkeys were on the table

I don’t want to upset the Thanksgiving apple cart, but let’s be honest here. When I was 5 years old, I couldn’t find anything to be thankful for. They sent us outside right after daylight so we wouldn’t disrupt the grownups as the ladies prepared the meal and the men gathered in the living room to talk crops, hog prices, and stuff.

They would “call us in when it was time to eat.” Of course, they were going to eat first. The older, tall people always ate first! That had been the ironclad rule since the Indians invited the first pilgrims over for maize and succotash. 

Y’all remember that late November snowstorm that covered West Tennessee in 1952… That thing was raging in our backyard! Me, Leon, David Mark, and 11 cousins spent it with our backs against the pile of stacked-up firewood. It wasn’t hard to play “hide-and-go-seek.” If you stood up and took two steps in any direction – you were hidden!

Sometimes Uncle Hugh and Aunt May White wouldn’t stop eating and talking until late afternoon…. If Grandaddy hadn’t a’slipped me a biscuit and a handful of pecans when he came out to check the weather, “they” would have found my lifeless, frozen body face down in the snow!

Leon wiled away the hours packing snow down the back of my neck and throwing stove wood at us. I’m freezing, I can’t feel my fingers or toes, and when Mom finally gave us the signal, all that was left on that huge dining room table was a turkey neck and one spoonful of Aunt Ruby Nell’s famous (but not very tasteful) rice pudding casserole.

It reminded me of that scene out of Ezekiel where he was preaching his heart out to a valley full of dry bones. If this was Thanksgiving, you could give it back to Squanto and those folks who came over on the Mayflower! 

The next year was more of the same, except I was in the first grade and they let us out of school for two days. Well, at least I finally found something worth giving thanks for…. and Granddad, of course, began to make slipping me a mid-morning lifeline, a lifetime ritual…. He was the best one of the whole bunch!

By junior high, I understood the family thing a lot better. I truly appreciated all the aunts, uncles, and cousins by the dozens. It was, indeed, a very special time. But the grownups still ate first. I asked Dad if I could go over to Mary Hadley Hayden’s house and eat with her. He looked shocked, “Son, it’s Thanksgiving. We eat as a family.”

I don’t reckon he was paying attention when all of us youngins were huddled up most all day in the snow out by the woodpile.

Actually, during high school, I still had to wait my turn in line, but if there was a seat open at the table, I eased in as respectfully as I could between Aunt Sula and Uncle Clifford. I filled my plate with still-hot dressing, homemade cranberry sauce, and a whole turkey leg!

Nov. 25, 1965, was the Thanksgiving that opened up my heart to the day. I was a freshman in college. 212 miles away from our table. With no possible way to get home. The school was closed. And it was, of course, snowing to beat the band.

I started walking, and finally caught a ride, the eight miles over to the Monteagle Diner. Me and the waitress were the only two in the eatery. She brought out their Thanksgiving Special, but it didn’t feel “right” to start eating because Granddad hadn’t blessed it yet. Laughter and love weren’t bouncing off the walls….

Uncle F. D. wasn’t telling his “watch for falling rocks” story. Aunt Beatrice hadn’t told us how many jars of pickled peaches she “put up” this fall. Mom wasn’t scurrying to and fro, tending to everyone’s needs, except her own.

It was the loudest silence I have ever heard.

I bowed my head and gave thanks… not for the food, mind you… but for my family. I couldn’t eat the meal anyway, tears from somewhere had dripped all over the sliced turkey.

As the years, marriage, two children, and a myriad of Thanksgivings came and went, I have never taken it for granted. Not one time! I’ve told every person I’ve passed the giblet gravy to the woodpile in the snowstorm story. There is tradition… and then there is Thanksgiving tradition.

There is a tinge of sadness with the holiday. Pa and Gran, Mom, Dad, Leon, and the aunts and uncles have all passed away. I have even lost a few of my cousins. But, boy howdy, how the precious memories ever flood my soul!

There is one thing about Thanksgiving that just galls me to no end, I finally get to be one of the tall adults, I have waited patiently for my time to come…. and danged if they ain’t letting the little kids eat first nowadays….

Happy Thanksgiving,

Kes