Thanksgiving Growing Up

The following is an inaccurate account of various events compiled into one rambling adventure.
The names have not been changes as there is no innocence to protect.

Betsy, our 1968 VW Bus

Thanksgiving was an interesting time for me when I was but a pup. Mom would fill our 1968 VW bus with provisions enough to feed the small army that were expected to arrive. This included a turkey the size of my father.

Dad-sized turkey

The unusual cast of characters included immediate family, aunts uncles cousins (too numerous to count) friends of friends, catholic priests and other assorted miscreants. Arriving by the carload, I was excited to see them all!
I screammed, "The Donelson’s are here!!! and 6 or 7 cousins would pile out of their car.

1962 Dodge Valiant

Then the red 1962 Dodge Valiant (with the spare tire embossed into the trunk lid) would  pull into the drive way. “The Edlund’s are here!!!” I would yell, louder than before. My exuberance was met with an array of  multi-syllabic barrage that simply meant “curb your enthusiasm!” 

If the Stumbaugh’s arrived all the way from California, the excitement was unbearable. Uncle Tom and his glass eye were tops in my world! Sometimes when he was drunk he would pop it out! He looked like Peter Faulk to me. The 3 cousins would dance around the most musical of mom’s numerous cuckoo clocks. Sometimes, even the Shannon’s would make an appearance. Uncle Bob (of “Bob’s your uncle” fame) was nice… the others were old and in the way. The Kelley’s often showed up. They just lived across town, so I was less inclined to cause a stir at their arrival, though I liked them equally as well as the others. Just less novelty., that’s all.

Grandpa Ernie, WWII hero

When Grandpa Ernie would arrive, he would head right to the vodka, pour himself a glass then head to the Magnavox console stereo, find all of mom’s Eddie Arnold records, pile them all on the record changer and sit his grandiose self into a recliner and listen to my incessant ramblings. Maybe he was nice, or maybe just drunk, either way, he appeared to like me. And I liked that.

Dinner was an all day event. It started in the kitchen where things so mysterious took place, I was disallowed entry.

Sometimes, if the weather was bad, the girls would coerce me into a game of mystery date.
Somehow, I always ended up with Poindexter. I always suspected that Pat had something to do with that. Cousin Joette, the nice one, informed me, mostly to soothe my tears from yet another dismal date, that Peggy switched my cards…

If the weather was favourable,  I would band with the siblings and cousins and go for the annual hike to Castlerock.

Castle Rock

This was a basalt outcropping within easy walking distance from our house, about 3 or 4 hours worth. That kept us out of the house until well after the grown-ups were ensconced in a hazy holiday glow, the smell of Budweiser, gin and tonic and Teyetons permeated the air.

My brother and his friends, smelling of incense, wafted around the room, apparently having difficulty keeping their eyes open, tired, yet everything to them seemed funny.
The dinner was segregated into to two rooms A grand, elegantly set table with puzzling amounts of cutlery, napkins and glasses of differently coloured fluids. I never had to endure the torture of sitting at this, the “Grown Up” table.
Judging by the conversations that emanated from the “other” room, life at the “Kid’s” table was where the action was.

There was a moment of civility during the mêlée when Father Champeaux would say a prayer of some sort, barely audible from the other room with Cousin Doug mocking him… while Maureen and Wendy snickered about something that probably wasn’t germane

Father Cummins would say something loud and with his Irish brogue that I am sure no one understood, but all responded “Hear, Hear!!” Let the food orgy commence! It all started out politely enough, then menu items didn’t get passed in a timely manner, tempers flaired, words became more passionate and, if we were lucky a fist-a-cuff would commence! It compounded if somebody forgot to get enough cranberry sauce! ( not the gross kind with the weird sticks and slivers, but the good gelatinous kind so viscous that the ribs of the can still embossed into the burgundy cranberry log.)

The men retired into the other room to have discussions of…something of complete disinterest to a 7-year-old boy. I would notice Father Cummins doing chin downs with a lit cigarette in his mouth. He would raise his head just long enough to take another drink from his glass, perhaps thinking the cig was a straw. He would remove the cigarette, placing it haphazardly into, or at least near, an over-flowing ashtray. The drink in his hand wouldn’t fair as well as his final chin-down was complete.
It never occurred to me until just now, that priests were often in our house, but never, as far as I can recall, did a nun ever step foot across our thresh hold…

Early the next morning, cousin Rory and I would rise hours before anyone else. He showed me the adventure of sifting through the ashtrays looking for smokable remnants, washing them down with whatever was left in this glass or that bottle. Rory warned me to inspect the bottles first, as they may contain contaminants, like cigarette butts. I presume that was experience talking. Hanging with Rory was interesting, but not quite as enjoyable as being given a fudgecicle by the milk man years prior, but that is another blog topic...

Later, when the minions started to rise, the slightest sound was met with protests. "I was drinking water!” “YOU’RE DRINKING IT TOO LOUD!!!”  “not as loud as you’re yelling at me,” I would mutter. I didn’t even know that there was such a thing as drinking too loudly.

Mom, still donning last night’s apparel, hair amazingly perfect (thanks to Aqua Net) would start stripping the turkey of any useful morsel, the would drop the carcass  into a vat of boiling water with assorted other leftovers.

Mystery Vat

There it would remain for a couple of days, boiling, simmering, being stirred on an as-needed basis. After a that is would sit outside to cool, then it would, presumably for security, be brought back inside and carefully placed in the refrigerator for no less than two weeks. A curing process, I believe. After that. It went into a container and into the garbage can. To this day I do not understand the ritual. I only wish that I would have asked mom about this before she died. I guess some secrets should be taken to the grave.

The Unusual Cast of Characters.

To the best of my recollection this was an traditional annual occurrence. The cast of characters changed like the Not Ready For Prime Time Players, but the show was pretty much the same. Hence, "traditional."