Christmas decorations everywhere and lo, a turkey peeps out of Santa’s bag. Thanksgiving Day must be nigh. How thankful we are this year, especially the newly married same-sex parents and their kids celebrating as really legal families. The rest of us, too, can share the day with friends at home or join the community at The LGBT Center for a wonderful free Thanksgiving dinner with all the trimming from 11 a.m.to 4 p.m.
My family’s Thanksgiving was traditional with sit-down at 3 p.m. (The always late relatives were told it was at 2). Adults were jammed around the dining table and we kids at card tables – no fighting allowed; kicks under the table were as far as we dared to go. Holding hands for the prayer brought protests and giggles until father “for the last time” commanded silence. Actually, I never minded the hand-holding; I always managed to sit between cousins Henry and Fred.
The turkey was invariably tough and dry despite mother’s yearly attempts to follow the suggestions from well-meaning family members: plastic bags, tin foil, wet towels, cup of water inside, etc. All had failed. Finally the family voted to have a couple of chickens instead. Mother happily obliged.
The adult table-talk consisted of the faults and scandals of absent family members or how Roosevelt was destroying the country with the help of that pushy, doesn’t-know-a-woman’s place Eleanor.
At the children’s table we discussed more important issues: the newest de-coder ring, the silver bullet with the secret compass inside or if fifth grade teacher, Miss Blanders, wore a wig.
With the addition of parades and the beloved (to some) football games, today’s topics are not dissimilar and seniors, with the awareness of every passing year, give serious thanks for their health, friends and security.
Checking out a truck stop
A phone call from an old friend brought back memories of us 25 years ago driving through the South and deciding it would be fun to check out the truckers at the diner we were approaching. The parking area was filled with semis and a couple of motorcycles. We drove in and skipped gaily up the stairs.
Our entrance was unfortunate. Intent on looking at the assembled muscle display, my friend tripped on the door sill and let out a decidedly un-butch high-pitched squeal. Heads turned, and then quickly looked away. Sensing a sudden chill, we gamely did our best to stomp Marine-like to a booth, fling our newly fashionable man-bags on the bench and look nonchalantly at the menu.
“Betty Jo” approached. Was that a smirk on her face? Anyway, we tried to blend in by ordering beers, burgers and “grits” which we’d heard was a popular dish. Cream of Wheat! BFD.
The burgers were impossibly huge for anyone without boa constrictor jaws, so we wisely used our knife and fork. This caused amused comment amongst the rabble. Detecting unkind nuances, we ate fast, paid and headed out the door. Suddenly remembering Deliverance, I skipped a necessary visit to the men’s room and we dashed to the car feeling lucky to have escaped with our lives.
