(This is what I am sharing with my journaling/writer's group and thought I'd share it with you.)
THANKSGIVING AT THE ‘GROWN-UP’ TABLE
This is about a very special Thanksgiving, one that stands out in my memory.
When I was little Thanksgiving meant getting dressed up in our Sunday best (with a change of clothes for later) and bundled into the car for a trip out my Aunt Yanna’s and Uncle Bill’s house outside town.
The area is covered with suburban housing developments but when I was younger (and up until recently in fact) that area was farm and pasture land. A ride out to visit my aunt was a drive in the country, up and down some serious hills. I always looked forward to it because I could play with the second cousins who were my age. I especially recall a huge old oak tree far up on a hill and I often wondered if it was lonely because there weren’t any other trees around it. I’d look out for the horses, they were my favorites. It seemed like forever, that drive.
When we arrived the cars would be parked on either side of my aunt’s gravel driveway. The house itself was one that my grandfather had built. It was like my grandfather, very sturdy and somewhat squarish, and it was surrounded by rhododendrons and some very old tall evergreens that had probably stood there for over 100 years. Out behind the house was a huge garden that my aunt and uncle kept. She grew everything from pumpkins and squash to sunflowers, corn, cabbages and radishes. She was an avid canner and not one piece of fruit from my uncle’s orchard ever went to waste.
Once inside the noise of family took over. You got mussed and loved by aunts and uncles and grandpa (Dado, our Bulgarian patriarch) was there in his chair by the wood stove. A kiss from him was special, like a blessing. He later came to live with us and it was a treasure to grow up with him. Uncle Bill, his bald head shining, gave the first hug and if you were a family female 13 and above and you wore lipstick or lip gloss you’d leave a kiss on his bald head; he loved it, he said that’s how he could tell who’d been there for supper.
The kitchen was a bustle and us kids were told, after the usual photos and ‘Oh, aren’t you cute?!’ comments we were allowed to change and play outside until it was time to eat. They had trees, ducks and lots of places for kids to run wild. It was a grand time. They never had the television on during holidays; holidays were that important to them. We had a grand old time. The older kids would cluster in their own group and all the male cousins would gather around some relative’s car (usually my mother’s) and tinker with it.
My aunt Diane would be inside cutting radishes and snapping fresh beans (and one liners), mom would help with the potatoes, my aunt tended the turkey and the older female cousins would set the table. Grandpa would shuffle in (you never tell an old Bulgarian he has to stay out of the kitchen; it ain’t gonna happen, folks) and he’d lay out his famous garlic roasted peppers and homemade roles. Everybody in our family cooked something. My uncle Evon used to make a pot of beans that were oh so good.
When you were little and it was dinner time you got the inspection. “Did you wash up?” some relative would ask and you would have to show your hands and face. Then you sat down in the living room at the kids’ table (the old card table) while the teens and one or two adults took up space on the sofa. The adults all sat around the table and after prayers the feast would begin – and with the feast came the stories.
It was okay to sit with the rest of the kids for a while but as I got older (especially after my parents divorced and my dad wasn’t there) I guess it got lonely. The tweens came and went and before I knew it I was within months of 13, knowing I’d be relegated yet again to the living room to eat off a TV tray with my cousins. Oh, how I wanted to hear the stories at the adult table! What were they laughing about? What was so funny?
Time came for Thanksgiving dinner and I was prepared to go into the living room after helping set the table (and helping myself to stuffed celery sticks and olives) when Dado spoke up. He told my aunt and mom in his precious broken English that I was ‘all growed up’ and he motioned for me to sit at the table next to him. As I sat down he patted me on the arm and he poured me a small glass of his homemade wine, my very first glass. I don’t even recall what it tasted like, that wine; but I recall my uncles talking about fishing and turkey hunting as kids. Dado gave us news from relatives back in Bulgaria. My aunts told stories about each other, about their kids, and about their mother and the dinners she cooked for so many farm hands.
Mom sat there the whole time, taking between mouthfuls, and smiled at me. I was grown up now. That meant a lot to me.
Now it’s my turn to get into the kitchen and cook the holiday meal. My grandfather and many of those aunts and uncles are gone now. The cousins all moved away, married and went on with their lives and we hardly see each other anymore. So I do what Dado and my aunt used to do – I open my table to any and all that will come and dine. My mother still does the potatoes but otherwise she’s content to sit back on my sofa with a glass of wine visiting with my neighbor and a couple of friends.
If you have a story to tell (or even if you just want to sit back and listen) there’s always space for you at my house. Come join me at the table.
Peace be With You,
Rev. K Hyler
