My family traditions are grounded in the preferences of my maternal ancestors. Fathers came and went at such a clip; there was never a chance to really incorporate their family customs into our reality. It wouldn't have mattered, anyway, because variations were simply not entertained.
Holiday headquarters was always my mother's parental residence. We lived with my maternal grandparents from the time of my birth at the end of World War II. There were periods, usually associated with one of my mother's marriages, when we would strike out and attempt to live independently; but Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners were celebrated at Granny's. No exceptions.
My alcoholic grandfather was always made to feel he was the mighty patriarch, but we all knew who ran the show. So did he. Granny always prepared the same lavish menu twice a year and claimed it was what Grandpa demanded for "his family."
So, in addition to a twenty-five pound turkey, two kinds of cornbread stuffing/dressing, mashed potatoes with giblet gravy, candied sweet potatoes, fresh string beans, celery stuffed with cream cheese and chives, black and green olives, plain and whole cranberry sauce, dinner rolls, mincemeat pie, sweet potato pie, pecan pie and pumpkin pie, and freshly whipped cream, Granny prepared a large roasted goose.
Mr. Goose would be placed on the table directly in front of Grandpa, ostensibly to balance the table with the huge turkey at the other end. The truth was that no one else at the table needed to have any proximity to the goose because no one would eat that greasy, dark meat. It was there because -- well, I'm not sure why it was there. Maybe it was my grandparents' European roots that dictated the serving of a goose. Grandpa ate it dutifully while the rest of us watched.
As I write this I can "see" the highly polished table with its lace cloth covered with food, the good china and the "real" silverware.
I can tell you who sat where, without variance. Granny at the end near the kitchen. Grandpa at the "head" end near the living room. My mother at her mother's right hand. My uncle at his mother's left. My Czech Great Granny, who lived with her daughter from age 65 on, sat to my mother's right. Unless my mother was married that year. If so, her husband sat at her right. Children graduated from the kitchen table to the “big table” when they turned 13.
The rest of the 12 seats were filled by miscellaneous relatives who traveled from the city (Chicago) for their annual visit. Before he died when I was around 9 or 10, my grandmother's father would come.
Grandpa Dade was a full-blooded Cherokee who wore his lustrous blue-black hair banded, a la Sitting Bull.
His facial skin was as smooth as a polished ruby, and his aquiline nose created a picture perfect example of the American Indian profile.
Grandpa Dade fascinated me. I would sit and stare at him until he squirmed under my gaze. I think I was mildly frightened by the prospect that he could produce a hatchet from his waistband and hurl it between my staring eyes. I had a limited understanding of Native Americans, all gleaned from shoot-em-up movies.
My Grandpa was one of seven children. At least one of his siblings was always present for holidays. My favorite among them was his eldest sister Irene and her husband Will. They were a study in contrast; ivory and ebony. Uncle Will was the darkest black person I had ever seen in person. Only Nat "King" Cole came close, and maybe my mother's friend Luther Sparks, the undertaker.
Uncle Will was often harassed by the cops, truck drivers passing by, and random white men on the streets of Chicago for walking with his white wife. All he had to do was speak, and everything changed. He was so learned, so charming and disarming, his harassers would just cease and desist. I thought he hung the moon.
Before my Grandpa stopped drinking when I was around 12, holidays at table were something akin to theater of the absurd. To his credit, every year Grandpa would vow to refrain from drinking on Thanksgiving and Christmas. But with 30 years of hard drinking in his history, abstinence was out of the question. At some point during the meal, seven times out of ten, something would set him off.
One of my mother's husbands was also an alcoholic. He was not the volatile sort like Grandpa, so most of the time he just sat quietly with a silly smirk on his face. It would be my mother who would be launched by something stupid he'd say or do. I cannot recall one of these holiday meals that went without drama of some kind. Needless to say, wine was not served at Granny's table!
After the drinking stopped, these meals began to take on the tone of a Thanksgiving at June and Ward Cleaver's. It made a huge difference in my ability to eat without anxiety and subsequent gastric distress. I looked forward to them every year and even invited a boyfriend or two to join us.
But, it was not to last. On Thanksgiving of 1971, Grandpa sat in front of his golden goose looking pale and pre-occupied. Granny was flat and out of sorts, just going through the motions that she could do in her sleep after all those years.
Out of the blue, Grandpa said to me "I want you to take care of her." He nodded toward Granny. "Okay," I said with a question in my voice.
"I probably won't be here on Christmas, so she's going to need a lot of help with dinner." I stopped my loaded fork midway between my plate and my gaping mouth. "What...why won't you..," I stammered, eyes already filling.
He died on Christmas Eve of prostate cancer. He had forbidden my mother to tell me he was so sick. He didn't want me to know too soon that we were having our last Hurst family Thanksgiving. They were never the same.
Holiday headquarters was always my mother's parental residence. We lived with my maternal grandparents from the time of my birth at the end of World War II. There were periods, usually associated with one of my mother's marriages, when we would strike out and attempt to live independently; but Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners were celebrated at Granny's. No exceptions.
My alcoholic grandfather was always made to feel he was the mighty patriarch, but we all knew who ran the show. So did he. Granny always prepared the same lavish menu twice a year and claimed it was what Grandpa demanded for "his family."
So, in addition to a twenty-five pound turkey, two kinds of cornbread stuffing/dressing, mashed potatoes with giblet gravy, candied sweet potatoes, fresh string beans, celery stuffed with cream cheese and chives, black and green olives, plain and whole cranberry sauce, dinner rolls, mincemeat pie, sweet potato pie, pecan pie and pumpkin pie, and freshly whipped cream, Granny prepared a large roasted goose.
Mr. Goose would be placed on the table directly in front of Grandpa, ostensibly to balance the table with the huge turkey at the other end. The truth was that no one else at the table needed to have any proximity to the goose because no one would eat that greasy, dark meat. It was there because -- well, I'm not sure why it was there. Maybe it was my grandparents' European roots that dictated the serving of a goose. Grandpa ate it dutifully while the rest of us watched.
As I write this I can "see" the highly polished table with its lace cloth covered with food, the good china and the "real" silverware.
I can tell you who sat where, without variance. Granny at the end near the kitchen. Grandpa at the "head" end near the living room. My mother at her mother's right hand. My uncle at his mother's left. My Czech Great Granny, who lived with her daughter from age 65 on, sat to my mother's right. Unless my mother was married that year. If so, her husband sat at her right. Children graduated from the kitchen table to the “big table” when they turned 13.The rest of the 12 seats were filled by miscellaneous relatives who traveled from the city (Chicago) for their annual visit. Before he died when I was around 9 or 10, my grandmother's father would come.
Grandpa Dade was a full-blooded Cherokee who wore his lustrous blue-black hair banded, a la Sitting Bull.
His facial skin was as smooth as a polished ruby, and his aquiline nose created a picture perfect example of the American Indian profile. Grandpa Dade fascinated me. I would sit and stare at him until he squirmed under my gaze. I think I was mildly frightened by the prospect that he could produce a hatchet from his waistband and hurl it between my staring eyes. I had a limited understanding of Native Americans, all gleaned from shoot-em-up movies.
My Grandpa was one of seven children. At least one of his siblings was always present for holidays. My favorite among them was his eldest sister Irene and her husband Will. They were a study in contrast; ivory and ebony. Uncle Will was the darkest black person I had ever seen in person. Only Nat "King" Cole came close, and maybe my mother's friend Luther Sparks, the undertaker.
Uncle Will was often harassed by the cops, truck drivers passing by, and random white men on the streets of Chicago for walking with his white wife. All he had to do was speak, and everything changed. He was so learned, so charming and disarming, his harassers would just cease and desist. I thought he hung the moon.
Before my Grandpa stopped drinking when I was around 12, holidays at table were something akin to theater of the absurd. To his credit, every year Grandpa would vow to refrain from drinking on Thanksgiving and Christmas. But with 30 years of hard drinking in his history, abstinence was out of the question. At some point during the meal, seven times out of ten, something would set him off.
One of my mother's husbands was also an alcoholic. He was not the volatile sort like Grandpa, so most of the time he just sat quietly with a silly smirk on his face. It would be my mother who would be launched by something stupid he'd say or do. I cannot recall one of these holiday meals that went without drama of some kind. Needless to say, wine was not served at Granny's table!
After the drinking stopped, these meals began to take on the tone of a Thanksgiving at June and Ward Cleaver's. It made a huge difference in my ability to eat without anxiety and subsequent gastric distress. I looked forward to them every year and even invited a boyfriend or two to join us.
But, it was not to last. On Thanksgiving of 1971, Grandpa sat in front of his golden goose looking pale and pre-occupied. Granny was flat and out of sorts, just going through the motions that she could do in her sleep after all those years.
Out of the blue, Grandpa said to me "I want you to take care of her." He nodded toward Granny. "Okay," I said with a question in my voice.
"I probably won't be here on Christmas, so she's going to need a lot of help with dinner." I stopped my loaded fork midway between my plate and my gaping mouth. "What...why won't you..," I stammered, eyes already filling.
He died on Christmas Eve of prostate cancer. He had forbidden my mother to tell me he was so sick. He didn't want me to know too soon that we were having our last Hurst family Thanksgiving. They were never the same.
If I were to be catapulted (kicking and screaming, of course) into that scene, I would have to be the one with the full-time job because she doesn't have any household duties. The other three are stuck with the joys of child care, laundry, cooking and cleaning. No thanks.