“I know what will be fun.
Let’s go around the table and say what we are thankful for.” Ugh! My mother said
this as though a lightbulb had literally just switched on over her head, as if
she’d just thought of this idea two seconds ago. Like she hadn’t said this every Thanksgiving for the past sixteen
years I’d known her.
“I’ll go first,” she
continued, fingering the hideous turquoise necklace around her neck that she dragged
out every Thanksgiving as her nod to Native American culture. Next followed a
litany of things she was grateful for, including the mild winter and President
Carter (even though she was a Republican, she strongly believed every President
deserved mention). My older brother, Buddy, was wedged into her list between Barbra
Streisand and our new pastor at church. I came much later, with a caveat that
my grades must continue to hold up and I mustn’t get distracted. By distracted,
she meant, of course, my best friend, Kit, who was celebrating Thanksgiving in
New York with her parents. It sounded so glamorous. So Kit. And although I’d
been invited to go with them, my mother wouldn’t hear of it.
“Me next,” my funky Aunt
Linda chimed in, cutting off my mother midsentence. Aunt Linda was totally far
out. She had arrived wearing cool bell-bottoms, a psychedelic shirt, and a long,
skinny, red scarf wrapped around her frizzy perm.
“Well, Linda,” my mother
said, when Linda didn’t continue. “Enlighten us.”
“Pink Floyd—”
“Moving on.” My mother turned
her gaze toward Gerald, my eighteen-year-old know-it-all cousin, indicating he
better come up with something better.
“Apple,” he said.
“Apple?”
“The computer company,
Aunt Jean. It’s gonna be so rad—”
“I doubt it. Clarice?
What about you?”
Aunt Clarice, who
unfortunately bore the maiden aunt
title in our family, didn’t disappoint. “I’m so grateful for Miss Marple. She’s
my Pekingese,” she explained, as if she hadn’t spent all morning telling us how
wretched she felt leaving her home alone. “She’s not used to being—”
“Okay,” my mother moved on
to Buddy. “What about you, son?”
Buddy leaned forward, his
elbows on the table. He looked so handsome with his hair curling over the top
of his pale-blue acrylic turtleneck sweater. Not that I’d ever tell him that,
of course. “I’m grateful for . . .”
“Go on,” Mom urged him.
“For this delicious
turkey . . . this awesome meal. Thanks, Mom.”
My mother looked
satisfied, as her fingers twirled around the large turquoise stones at her throat.
Score one for Buddy. Again.
The remaining family
members continued. Uncle Frazier was grateful for Reggie Jackson. Aunt Hattie was
thankful for disco, in particular Donna Summer (at her age! Aunt Hattie was at
least a hundred). My grandfather was delighted that he had his damn sciatica
under control and made special mention of the tamales he’d consumed for
breakfast (he said this eyeing my mother’s turkey with distaste). And when it
was my dad’s turn, he raised his glass. “I’m grateful for my family. For Buddy,
who I am proud to call my son; for Valerie, who brings me joy every day. And
for my wife, Jean, who makes all this possible.” He waved his glass in the air to
encompass everyone at the table.
Content, my mom turned
her attention to me. “Valerie. Your turn.”
I had intended to say I
was most grateful for my best friend, Kit, who I was missing so much this past
week. She’d called me once to tell me they’d been to the World Trade Center and
had tickets that night for the show Annie.
I would have given anything to be with her.
“Well, Valerie,” I heard
my mom’s impatient voice. She put an elbow on the table and cupped her chin in
her hand. “Can you think of something
before Christmas gets here?”
“Sorry,” I said, toying
with the napkin on my lap. “It’s you, Mom. I’m grateful for you.”
She nodded, smiled, and
looked the most grateful of all.
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| Throwback Thanksgiving: (top) Patty, Patty's daughter Melissa, Roz (bottom) Melissa, Roz, Patty's husband Johnny |
Happy Thanksgiving from Roz and Patty AND Val & Kit!!!
