A Thanksgiving Memory
As the youngest in my family and the only daughter, I didn’t
always know the family history or the many years of experiences and emotion
that led up to certain events. But even
when I was quite young I did understand the atmosphere the past created. My naturally curious nature made me always
want to know more and eventually I became the family story keeper.
From the earliest that I can remember, every weekend my
Daddy’s maiden sister, my Aunt Gladys, came from Topeka on the Friday night
bus, stayed the weekend and left late Sunday afternoon. Aunt Gladys worked all week as a librarian so
this was her time off, far away from the demands of the Dewey Decimal system. Mama still did all the cooking and baking
plus the other household chores while Aunt Gladys sat with Daddy in the living
room on a straight back wooden chair.
Mama never said anything though she would mumble under her
breath just out of earshot on occasion.
I also began to notice that when the big Sunday dinner was almost done
and Mama would bring to the table whatever delicious dessert she’d baked that
morning, Aunt Gladys would always put her hand to her throat and say, “Oh
dear! That looks too rich for me!” Mama’s mouth would form a straight line, the
serving knife would bang against the plate hard and she’d let out a big huff of
a sign, but still say nothing.
Usually nobody said anything at this point. Everybody just helped themselves to the
dessert and tried to fill their mouths with food instead of words. Unless my brother Richard was at the table
that is. It had to be Richard because
Lowell never had much to say on Sunday as he was often still recovering from
Saturday night. “Getting over the night
before?” as my Dad would ride him when he sat down, elbows on the table holding
his head in his hands.
But Richard had a way with Mama. He could get away with saying things to her
that if anyone else said the very same thing she would have got steaming
mad. When he said whatever wisecrack
he’d come up with to break the tension Mama almost always ended up with a
smile. Sometimes he’d even get her to
laugh, then we all could laugh or sometimes provoke her to crack wise right
back at him. When he did that, I could relax
and enjoy my dessert.
I was about four years old when I first got just how deep the
tension truly was between Mama and Gladys.
It was a Saturday afternoon and we were going into town. We’d go to the IGA, Pat the Baker’s and maybe
I’d even get a dime so I could buy a cherry coke at Denny’s Drugstore. Mama was brushing my hair and I was fussing
because I wanted my hair down and Mama wanted to put it in a ponytail. Aunt Gladys came through the kitchen and
said, “Let your mother put your hair in a ponytail Linda. It will make your face look rounder.”
“Okay then,” I said giving in.
As she went into the back bedroom to get her purse, Mama
started brushing my hair down like I had wanted all along. When I looked up, Mama bent down and
whispered in my ear, “I wouldn’t do anything SHE said to do,” and went back to
brushing the tangles out of my hair with great vigor. I still remember my little girl brain reeling
with this new information and thinking, “WHAT! Wow! Mama doesn’t like Aunt Gladys!” I also knew that it was a secret not to ever
be said out loud.
These kind of weekends went on until that old house burned
down when I was 10 years old and we moved to town. The fire had stirred up lots of entirely
different issues and tensions and Aunt Gladys didn’t come quite so often. When she did come it didn’t seem to bother
Mama nearly as much as it once did. Also
life was a bit easier for mama in town since we had running hot and cold water
and a bathroom inside which meant much less toting and lifting. I even had my own room so life was better for
everybody.
Years passed and eventually Daddy took a job as a guard at
The Eisenhower Center in Abilene, Kansas which was much farther from
Topeka. Aunt Gladys still came to visit
every few months and of course every Thanksgiving and Christmas. Our Abilene Thanksgivings fell into a yearly
pattern.
Daddy worked the graveyard shift at the Center so he’d get
home in the morning right about when Mama was kneading the dough for her famous
dinner rolls. I was living with Mama and
Daddy, Richard always came home from Chicago and of course Aunt Gladys would
come on the bus from Topeka so we could all celebrate the holiday together.
Daddy always said to go ahead and eat when the dinner was
ready because he had to go to bed and he would eat when he got up around 4 or 5
in the afternoon. Lowell and his family
usually had Thanksgiving with his wife Joy’s family, then come to us on the
following Saturday. Every year
Thanksgiving went pretty much this way without fail until my 19th
birthday. That was a holiday dinner that
will live forever in my memory as the day when years of unspoken anger burst
forth in one quick action.
Mama had been up since about 5 a.m. in the morning making her
bread rolls, her much loved stuffing, baking 3 kinds of pies, boiling potatoes,
basting the bird and letting us help with only a few tasks. When Mama cooked like this it was so good and
she wanted to be sure the praise for that meal was all hers – and rightfully
so.
Daddy was sleeping soundly by the time I had set the table
with real cloth napkins and a pine cone centerpiece. Mama put all of the food on the table then
pulled the golden bird out of the oven.
Richard was sitting in Daddy’s chair at the head of the table opposite
Mama. I was at Mama’s left across from
Aunt Gladys. My mouth was already
watering when Mama said Grace and we were all smiling as she stood to carve the
turkey. We began to pass the rolls as
Mama continued to carve when Aunt Gladys asked, “Would you pass the oleo
margarine please?”
Before anyone could pass anything however Mama raised the big
butcher knife high in the air and plunged it into the breast of the turkey full
force and yelled, “Well by God – You’d say butter at anybody else’s house! You and your uppity ways! Everybody says butter! Even when it’s oleo margarine!” She sat down, her face still stern and said,
“Pass the butter please!”
We were all sitting there in stunned silence for a second
staring at the butcher knife sticking straight up out of the bird still
vibrating a bit from the sheer force that had put it there. Finally Mama said, “Well!?” This prompted Richard to pick up the butter
dish, pass it to me and then I passed it to Mama who took it and began to fix
her plate like nothing had happened.
The three of us sat there looking at Mama who wasn’t looking
at us. Instead she was simply spooning
mashed potatoes onto her plate and buttering her roll. A few more seconds that felt like an eternity
passed and we all followed her lead and began to fix our own plates. Then we ate our Thanksgiving dinner, mostly
in silence. Nothing else was said about it.
Daddy got up around 4:30 p.m. and had his turkey dinner. Later we all said polite goodbyes and shared
a few brittle hugs before Daddy drove Aunt Gladys to the bus station.
The next morning Richard slept in, Daddy came home and went
to bed while Mama and I sat at the kitchen table having toast and coffee. The only time the “incident” was referenced
at all was when my brother Richard came yawning into the kitchen and Mama asked
him, “Do you want some toast son?”
Cutting a mischievous eye at me, he replied in an innocent
tone, “Only if I can have oleo margarine on it!” He did it again! Mama started chasing him around the house
trying to snap his bottom with a wet dish towel for the comment but laughing
all the way. One thing is for sure – we
always knew how to put the “fun” in dysfunctional.
