Thanksgiving
I could already smell the turkey in the oven by the time I woke up. I guess they had let me sleep in. I stretched, and my feet slid out from under the blankets at the end. I instinctively recoiled from the cold that didn’t seem to have much effect on me anymore, then relaxed and stretched again as I got up to get dressed.
When I had been a little kid, Christmas was by far my favorite holiday. My sister and I used to stay up late, huddled by the window in the hallway, trying to spot Santa. Our whispered speculations of what presents we would be unwrapping in the morning were never as hushed as we thought they were. Eventually, Dad would come upstairs to yell at us to go to bed. We’d scurry off to our separate rooms, but still unable to sleep from the anticipation. The process usually repeated itself several times before the threat of a cancelled Christmas morning insured our silence.
However, now that I had grown a bit, Thanksgiving was best. Especially living away from home. The food was better for Thanksgiving. The vacation, while not as long as Christmas, was after the longest stretch of school since summer. But best of all? Football all afternoon. Instead of having to feign gratitude for another pair of socks and socialize with my often-intoxicated relatives I never saw outside of major holidays, we all gathered around the TV and watched the Lions embarrass themselves on a national level. It was almost like they were part of the family. Then everyone passed out into a food-coma. It was a Holiday focused entirely around food, football, and sleep. Oh, and of course being thankful for such things. Though, this particular Thanksgiving, I had quite a bit to be grateful for.
Last Thanksgiving had been my first since moving out. I had been young and oh-so innocent. A few parties with Tom, but nothing too crazy. I had been excited to move beyond high school. It had felt like entering the real world, being a grown-up. Now I realized that I had been behaving as an overgrown child. Not too much had changed since then, but the cancer had a way of putting a harsh light on everything. Splashing a coat of grey over the vivid painting of life. I had fought with my family all summer long and even into the beginning of the school year. I had not been looking forward to the holidays this year.
I made my way downstairs to see if I could help with anything. Of course I could; there were so many things to be done. Emalee was working with my mom in the kitchen, they were trying to pull the giant bird from the oven. I took the gloves from my sister and easily lifted it out and onto the stove.
“Thanks!” Mom said.
“Whew! You really outdid yourself this year,” my sister said, admiring the turkey.
The exterior was already browning nicely and an aroma of butter and cooking meat filled the air.
“We still have to get the stuffing ready and finish cooking everything, before a last thirty-minute browning,” Mom said with a gesture toward the counter-tops.
“Anything I can help with?” I asked looking around the kitchen.
There were potatoes boiling in a pot, cans of corn, peas, and even cherries out on the counter, as well as several other tin-foil covered dishes waiting their turn in the oven. The rest of the family would be bringing food as well, this promised to be a feast.
“I think your Dad could use some help.” My mother pointed me to the garage where my dad was getting all the extra chairs and folding tables down from the attic.
“Hey!” I shouted out into the garage as I put my shoes on in the entryway.
“Up here!” I heard him shout back.
The sound of his voice came through an opening in the ceiling. The attic was at the far end of the garage, up a ladder that descended from above. One of the few places my sister and I had been too scared to play as little kids. Maybe it was because our dad always told us that if the ladder went up while one of us was up there, we would be trapped. Then, since neither of us could reach the cord to pull it back down, the person stuck up in the attic would be attacked by bats and contract rabies, or step on exposed metal and get tetanus, or die of heat in the summer since there was no A/C, or freeze to death in the winter because it wasn’t heated.
I made my way up the ladder, feeling it creak under my weight. There weren’t any handholds, so I had to climb like a monkey, hands and feet both on the rails. I pulled myself up into the attic as soon as I could reach the edge. It wasn’t nearly as dark as I remembered as a child—in fact, I could see perfectly. Instead of scary shadows and dangerously exposed nails and fiberglass, it just looked like an old, dusty, unfinished room full of old stuff we should have thrown out years ago.
My father pointed out the stack of chairs he’d been retrieving from farther back in the attic. I grabbed as many as I could physically fit under each arm.
“Woah, don’t have to do this all in one trip. It’s not like groceries,” he cautioned.
“Ha, it’s ok, I got it,” I replied over my shoulder as I stepped carefully down the ladder.
“Just be careful!” he called after me. “Don’t want to spend the holiday taking you to the hospital!”
Ha. I dropped off the last two steps and hit the floor. The ladder rebounded a bit behind me but stayed on the ground. I trudged through the door from the garage into a small entryway that lead directly into the formal dining room. I made my way carefully around the pristine furniture and past the china cabinet. I could count on one hand how many meals I had personally eaten here. I made my way past the kitchen and into the living room, where the kids would eat, and started setting up the folding chairs.
“RYAN!” my mom’s shrill voice pierced the air.
“What?” I called back slightly annoyed.
“LOOK AT THIS!”
I backtracked to the kitchen, where she was standing with a spatula in one hand pointing at the floor. There was a clear trail of dust and dirt where I had come from the garage.
I sighed.
“I’ll clean it up after we’re done moving the furniture you asked me to help with,” I replied.
“Don’t take that tone with me, young man!” But she did smile. “Thanks for helping your father. I always worry about him going up there and moving all this by himself. You know how his back is.”
“Your gratitude, on this day of thankfulness, is duly noted.”
She made a swatting motion with the spatula, and I moved smartly back to the garage. I dodged around my dad and headed back up to the attic.
“What’s this about my back?”
“Never mind that, look at your feet! Where do you think your son learned his behavior? Can’t you guys remove your shoes in the entryway, where they belong?”
“Then we’d have to put everything down. That would take twice as long!”
The sounds of my mother berating my father faded into the background as I finished my climb. This time I took a closer look around. Light came from a single, dangling bare bulb. Its harshness lit up the immediate area but cast dark shadows farther back. I wandered amongst the clutter. So many childhood objects cast to this dim fate. There was even a child walker from almost two decades ago. My parents had trouble throwing anything out. Here, the hamster cage my father had confiscated when my sister and I had lost our third one. He said he couldn’t handle us crying over a rodent. But I had once caught him sleeping on the couch with Lil’ Hammy all curled up in the crook of his arm.
“Ryan?” My dad’s voice sounded small and stuffy in the darkness.
“Just looking for more chairs,” I called back.
“I already moved them all here.”
I made my way back to the light.
“Here, help me carry the table down. I’ll get the rest of the chairs while you start cleaning up,” he said.
I nodded and picked up my end of the table.
We moved the heavy beast to the living room under my mother’s disapproving glare. My dad retreated back to the garage while I retrieved the cleaning supplies.
“While you’re cleaning, can you make sure to dust off all that furniture? It looked really dirty when you were bringing it in,” my mother requested.
“Yes mom.”
“And you might as well vacuum again while you’re at it,” she said.
I sighed and set down the supplies I had.
“Not before you dust! Then you’ll just knock more dirt onto the floor! And don’t roll your eyes at me!”
It was amazing how my parents had the ability to make me feel like a little kid again. Even after moving out of the house and off to college, living on my own, with my own job and money. Even surviving cancer and gaining superpowers stood no chance against parental authority and that condescending yet loving way they had of correcting your every move.
I dusted off the table and chairs, then swept and mopped the floor in the kitchen and dining room. I made to vacuum the living room when my mother pointed out all the dust I had missed in the various nooks and crannies of the folding chairs. I dusted again. Finally I vacuumed around the new dining setup in the living room. All this work just so that my younger cousins could come in and spill food on a clean floor. Fantastic.
“Oh, done with that?” my mother asked me as soon as she heard the vacuum shut off.
“Maybe,” I answered hesitantly, unsure what else she had planned.
“Can you come help your sister clean the nice china?” she asked.
“Isn’t it already clean?” I responded.
“Oh, you know how it gets dusty.” She waved a hand dismissively.
“It’s in its own cabinet! How can it even get dusty?” I challenged.
“It hasn’t been washed since last Christmas. Can you just do this one simple task without arguing?” she said with a resigned sigh.
I had a feeling Emalee had already fought this battle and lost. I took my place beside her at the sink and started to help wash the delicate dishes.
“When I have my own house, I’m never owning a dish that can’t be put in the dishwasher,” my sister said sourly.
“What do you mean? Your kids will be your dishwashers.” I flicked some soap suds at her.
“Ha! Right!” She laughed.
“But seriously, plastic is best. Then it can’t even break,” I stated.
“It makes things taste funny,” she responded.
I shrugged. She would find out the merits of unbreakable plastic cups whenever she threw a college party at her own place.
We finished cleaning up the dishes and set them out in the formal dining room. Then we had to set out all our normal dining plates and utensils for the informal dining room. This was where we would eat. My favorite spot due to its approximation to the kitchen itself—much easier to get seconds or thirds. The youngest relatives got to eat in the living room with folding tables and chairs and plastic dishes.
My grandparents from my mom’s side were the first to arrive. My grandfather shook my hand with surprising strength for one his age. I extricated myself from my grandma before she could hold me hostage too long. I took the pecan pie from her and brought it into the kitchen. A quick glance back revealed that an extra free hand meant my sister wasn’t so lucky. I could see the gleam on her cheek from my grandma’s kiss. I chuckled to myself. We helped them retrieve a few more baked pies from the car before everyone started to settle in.
Pie and turkey, the two most iconic smells of Thanksgiving. Even though I personally preferred ham. My grandpa asked for a beer, and the adults seated themselves in the living room on the couches. I still didn’t feel like I belonged out there. Conversation drifted through to the kitchen where Emalee and I waited as patient maître d’s.
“I suppose we should go say hello,” Emalee started.
“Hmm?” I looked up from the pies I’d been carefully examining. “I suppose so.”
But the doorbell rang again. The next thirty minutes was a steady stream of relatives, each with an offering of food that Emalee and I were in charge of finding a place for. It didn’t take long before the house was overrun.
I tried to maintain order in the kitchen, protecting the food from the unruly bunch of younger cousins who were running about. They seemed to have boundless energy. I caught one, Tim, just before he smashed his head into the corner of the table.
“Oh my goodness!” Aunt May exclaimed. “What would we do without you here? Do be a dear and give your auntie a refill?” She held out an empty wineglass.
I opened the third bottle of wine of the afternoon and topped her off generously. She favored me with a smile before entering the fray of conversation, her son’s near accident already forgotten. What would she do indeed?
I was happy with my role of younger cousin-wrangler. I didn’t feel like making small talk with anyone. They all knew I had cancer. I didn’t want to deal with explaining every personal detail, even though they were family. And it appeared no one else wanted their holiday spoiled by that type of talk, either. At least not yet. We’d have to see how the day went on based on the alcohol intake. Sometimes extended family loved a little holiday drama, and I was a prime candidate this year.
There was one guest at this party who was enjoying the antics far more than anyone else. Rusty was at the center of my cousins’ attention. A game of fetch with his favorite toy quickly reverted to a game of tug-of-war, and then once he broke free from their grasp it became a giant game of keep away. They chased him throughout the kitchen and living room. My concern for his safety quickly reverted to concern for theirs as they all rough-housed.
“Do you think mom would notice if I had a glass of wine?” Emalee asked as she joined me leaning over the kitchen counter, observing all the chaos.
“Just put it in a normal glass and she’ll probably assume it’s just juice,” I answered absentmindedly.
“Ryan! Condoning such behavior in me?” she mocked.
“Oh, right. Don’t do that!” I stated with a stern look, but then smiled. “Based on how much wine they are going through so far, I’m sure no one would notice if you syphoned off a little for yourself.” I held up the two already empty bottles.
She reached up and retrieved a glass from the cabinet. She stopped and gave me an inquiring look, and I raised my eyebrows. The choice was hers, and I was the last person who could judge such actions.
“You know, you’ve really changed since college,” she said as she reached for the bottle.
Just then the oven beeped loudly, announcing the turkey was ready. Our mother shot up and moved to the kitchen to rescue the bird from its fiery home, lest it burn. Emalee set the bottle down quickly, but thankfully Mom hadn’t noticed.
“Come help me with this!” she called, and Emalee jumped to do so.
No doubt relieved she hadn’t been caught.
Though, I mused, I had a feeling our parents wouldn’t have minded. I had pushed their limits for the past year by refusing treatment, condemning myself to a quicker death. Their sweet baby girl enjoying a glass of wine on a holiday would be nothing in comparison.
“Food’s ready!” my mother called out.
All the kids came rushing forward while my parents served them. My dad carved the ham and turkey, setting a piece on each of their plates. My mom served them green-bean casserole, sweet potato pie, cranberry sauce, stuffing, mashed potatoes and gravy, corn, and Brussel sprouts. The kids made their way back to the living room, plates piled high. I watched with dismay. There was no way there wouldn’t be a huge mess to clean up. It didn’t take long for the first piece of food to hit the floor. But I quickly learned I had an ally to champion this cause of cleanliness. Rusty. He leaped to the rescue and quickly scarfed down the offending piece of turkey. He even lapped up the little mash potato and gravy that had splashed down with the turkey. My trained eye could discern no trace of mess left.
“Good boy.” I scratched him on the head while he licked his chops.
I patiently waited my turn. Once all the kids were served and settled the adults made their rounds through the food. Thankfully there was enough for everyone, so I had no problem waiting. All of the adults made their way to the formal dining room, and Rusty quickly learned there wouldn’t be nearly as much work for him there. He moved back to the living room and waited patiently for his next morsel.
Finally, Emalee and I received our food. We sat at our table with our youngest uncle, Ben. He had always seemed more like an older cousin than an uncle, but now he was officially an adult. I remembered him as a high schooler, when he seemed like the coolest guy ever. By the time I was in high school he was in college and always getting into trouble. Now he had joined the workforce and had grown out of all the mischief. He constantly checked a smartphone “for work,” he claimed. I had a feeling he just wasn’t too interested in us younger kids anymore.
Our three oldest cousins occupied the other seats at our table. The oldest was three years younger than Emalee, a new freshman in high school. Her head was buried in her phone as well, but we all knew that wasn’t for work of any kind. We were all a little too far apart in ages to have the same interests. All at different stages of life. A hodgepodge group who didn’t quite fit in with any of the others. I focused on the plate piled high with food in front of me.
“So, how’s school going?” Uncle Luke asked the table with a general dispassion.
“Good,” Emalee and I answered simultaneously.
I quickly stuffed more food in my mouth and gestured for her to continue. The other three hadn’t attempted to answer, or even looked up from their food and phones.
“School is going well,” she said more definitively.
“Any idea what college you’re going to? Have you started your application process?” he asked.
So responsible now, I thought. Years past he would have regaled us with grand stories of college parties, or the pranks he and his friends had pulled that year. I guess that life was mine now, but I didn’t feel inclined to share.
“Yep!” She nodded. “I’m hoping to go to the University of Chicago.”
“Wow! That’s pretty hard to get into, right?” he asked.
They continued talking about school while I finished my first plate. I filled another and sat back down.
“So, what about you?” Luke turned to me.
“Oh, yeah, school’s going well. Not sure what I’m going to do next year though,” I answered.
What was I going to do next year? Initially this community college had been a two-year plan to get myself ready for a real school. Then, once I had better grades and a cheaper foundation, I could get a degree in what I loved. But what was it that I loved? What was I passionate about? I had stopped trying to figure that out once I’d been diagnosed with cancer.
“Ryan’s going to be a part of an experimental cancer cure!” Emalee declared.
“Oh! That’s great news!”
“Yeah,” I admitted slowly. “I won’t know too much more about it until I go back though.”
“Well, congratulations!” He slapped my shoulder. “That’s great news. I bet your parents are happy.”
“You have no idea,” Emalee answered him.
The conversation quickly turned to less serious matters. My second plate turned into a third. Luckily this was the best day for an increased appetite, since everyone was eating too much. I fit right in. Though, after the third I relegated myself to picking bites here and there, after dessert that is. Everyone slowly migrated from the kitchen and dining rooms to the living room. The kids’ table and chairs were cleared out to make space so the whole family could sit down to watch the Lions. Well, not the whole family—those not interested in the game stayed back in the kitchen. I could hear them putting some of the food away already, but mostly they talked and sipped wine.
My uncles and grandparents reminisced of seasons past, as this looked to be another disappointing one for us. Though, we had won in Green Bay for the first time in over two decades. Growing up a Lions fan had led to a life of disappointment. We had only been to the playoffs a handful of times that I could remember. I don’t know why I had such an emotional connection to a sports team that had never done anything for me. Maybe it was hereditary. Yet every Thanksgiving saw us sitting around a TV after all the food watching our team disappoint us, but cheering for them no matter what. Normally people started passing out around halftime, but this year the Lions proved that despite their record they had some fight yet. They whooped the Eagles.
The excitement of the Lions winning caused a revival in energy in the room. We rallied in the backyard for a friendly game of football. I quickly volunteered to play quarterback for both sides, so I wouldn’t accidentally hurt anyone.
“Blue Forty-Two, Red-Nineteen, Green-Bean Casserole!” I called out nonsense as a cadence.
Our offensive assault proved unstoppable, regardless of which side I was quarterbacking. One particular evasion of pass rush left me with little time to get rid of the ball. I dodged two younger cousins and briefly smiled as they sprawled out in the grass behind me, but Uncle Ben was bearing down on me. I fired a bullet to Luke across the yard. He caught it for a touchdown.
“Dang! That pass had some zip on it!” He slapped me on the shoulder as he jogged past, and we all switched sides. “You ever think of trying out for your school?”
I shook my head and took care to soften my passes with a little wobble.
The field was short with all the neighboring fences, but that didn’t stop the game from getting out of hand. We had to stop when one of my younger cousins, Brandon, took a hard hit on a crossing route.
We all shuffled back inside under the berating of our elders for being too rough. The oldest of us got it the worst, we should know better. Still, it was the most wholesome fun I had enjoyed in a long time. Family, food, and football, today brought me back to when I was a kid again. Sometimes it felt like college, Tom, the virus, and even cancer were all a distant dream.
I ended up back in the kitchen, rummaging through the fridge looking for more leftovers.
“Still hungry?” my mother asked incredulously.
“Oh, he’s a growing boy! Leave him be,” my grandma said, coming to my defense.
“Mmph, yeh, thanmpks!” I attempted to show my gratitude around the roll stuffed in my mouth.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full!” my mother chastised.
“How about you join us for some cards?” my grandma asked.
I nodded this time.
We played cards well into the evening. My sister eventually joined us and we attempted to team up and takedown our grandmother. We were unsuccessful. Luckily everyone started scrounging around for leftovers for dinner, so I didn’t look too out of place when I joined them.
After some last food, wine, and beer, people finally started migrating out (much more slowly than they had entered).
After our last guests had left, the real cleanup began. I helped my father get the chairs and table back upstairs. My sister and mother were busy in the kitchen. We backtracked through the morning’s activities. Dishes cleaned and put away, counters wiped down, floor swept and mopped, and living room vacuumed, again. I always grumbled about working right after a holiday, but it sure made the next day more enjoyable. Another day of relaxing and gorging on leftovers without any of the stress or hustle of extended family and cleaning.
My dad fell asleep on the couch in front of the TV with Rusty, whose belly suggested he’d had just as successful a Thanksgiving as anyone. Christmas specials were already playing. My mother and sister headed out for black-Friday shopping, but I declined to join them. Instead, I retired to my room and promptly fell asleep, bed warm and belly full.