Before moving to Arizona when I was nine years old, my early years were spent in the San Francisco Bay Area. My grandparents lived in a large Tudor house in the Berkeley hills that overlooked the Golden Gate Bridge on one side and the Bay Bridge on the other. They bought it brand new in 1930, and my mother and her sister and brother grew up in that house. Years later, my grandparents welcomed eight grandchildren for every holiday, birthday, or any other occasion to celebrate.
Thanksgiving was the best. My family was always the first to arrive, even though we had the farthest to drive. I still remember, to this day, the array of aromas as we entered the brown wooden front door from the brick porch. Turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes and gravy, and green bean casserole were the usual staples for the day. And pumpkin pie for dessert, of course! But my all-time favorite was Grandma’s lime Jello salad, made with applesauce and 7-Up to give it a little zip. My brother loved her lemon Jello with mandarin oranges. I tried making both for my own family one Thanksgiving, but my kids wouldn’t touch it. Do kids today even know what Jello is? They don’t know what they’re missing!
When my aunt and uncle finally arrived with their five kids, we all headed down to the basement to watch movies in our Uncle Ed’s studio. Uncle Ed never married, so he doted on his nieces and nephews. He was a master cinematographer, although it was a hobby rather than his career. He took home movies of all of us kids; something I transferred to DVD from the 16mm originals. I still get them out to watch every Christmas. Ed was also privy to a lot of the current movies, so we delighted in watching Steamboat Willie and other Disney cartoons, as well as the Keystone Cops, Laurel and Hardy and Abbott and Costello. To this day, I don’t think I’ve laughed so hard.
When dinner was served, the football game was turned off, and the grownups gathered in the dining room; the kids in the breakfast room. I was the oldest of the bunch, so I was responsible for everyone’s behavior. Yeah, right. No sooner were we left alone when my brother, John, decided to have a contest to see who could make the silliest face. We laughed so hard that my youngest brother, Jim, snorted milk out his nose. Of course that made us laugh even harder. That was squelched when my mother appeared at the door. She didn’t need to say anything—the “look” was enough. We settled down and ate quietly, for a little while anyway. Then it started back up all over again, with another adult visit to the kids’ table—this time by my aunt.
That should have been my first clue that the adult table was no fun.
Reaching the age where you were now allowed to sit at the adult table was a rite of passage. I was the first to graduate to the next level. I remember it was 1963. I was twelve and we had been in Arizona for almost three years, coming back to Berkeley to visit in the summers. This particular year, however, my mom was having her 15th college reunion in November. So, Dad took a vacation week and we got out of school early (which NEVER happened), in order to have an extended Thanksgiving break.
Of course, if you know your history, that was the year John F. Kennedy was assassinated. Dad and I were on the freeway on the way to my friend’s house when we heard the news on the radio. Dad immediately pulled off the freeway and found a pay phone to call my mom. I still spent the night at my friend’s house, but for the next few days everyone was glued to the TV. I watched Jack Ruby shoot Lee Harvey Oswald (the man accused of killing JFK) as he was being transferred to another jail. All conversation revolved around our president’s assassination. Even my mom’s reunion was affected, since no one felt like celebrating.
Thanksgiving was on November 28 that year, as it is this year. I guess that’s why this memory popped up in my head. Even though I was only twelve, my grandmother decided I should sit at the adult table for Thanksgiving that year. I got all dressed up and Uncle Ed even pulled out my chair for me. I listened quietly as the parents discussed the events of the week and tried to find other things to talk about. I felt very grown-up to be included.
Then I heard it. The laughter coming from the other room. My brothers and cousins weren’t talking about the events of the week. They were probably making funny faces and telling dumb jokes. The focus was completely different. I began to think, “What’s so great about sitting at the adult table?”
I always wanted to carry on my grandmother’s traditions, so Thanksgiving with my kids and grandkids is much the same (except there’s no Jello salad). As each grandchild turned eighteen, they were allowed to sit at the adult table. That is, until the adult table could hold no more. I was the first to break away and sit with the younger grandchildren in the nook off the kitchen. We talked about school, softball and football, band and orchestra. We have an ongoing Scrabble game in the family room and they help with the dishes as we get ready for dessert.
We don’t make silly faces anymore, but the dumb jokes continue, as does the laughter. And you know what? I prefer that to talking politics, world events, and the challenges we face every day.
So this year? I’ll be sitting at the kids’ table, even though there are no more kids—technically speaking. I’ll be joined by anyone that wants to talk about anything other than the recent election, who’s going to the college football playoffs, or the war in Israel. All important topics. But for one day, I’m going to stop and reflect on a tough year by recalling all the things I’m thankful for on a daily basis.
How about you?
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