Thanksgiving Recollections

My father was a poor Sicilian immigrant with a sixth grade education who came to this country with $40 in his pocket. He had served as an apprentice tailor for a number of years and at the age of 16 he had finally saved enough to buy himself a one-way ticket on a transatlantic ship.  It took him seven years to master the English language, American customs and history before he became a naturalized US citizen.  My mother grew up in a large family in the outskirts of Boston.  She was one of the fortunate young women of her day to have graduated from finishing school and to have held a Massachusetts driver’s license.  Quite liberated for her day.

 As a child our family’s Thanksgiving dinner was a perfect blend of old traditions – American and Italian.  Our dinner began with a toast -- Manhattans for the “older” people and Shirley Temples for the younger set.  Our dining room table was monstrous – my mother would commandeer my brother to help her insert a leaf and another leaf and another until the table grew long enough to reach the length of the room.  She often used twin embroidered linen tablecloths to cover it.  The table seated 24 people comfortably but we often had a children’s table set up in the adjoining sun room.  We always said Grace (it was the one and only time that I remember praying before a meal).  We started with antipasto which was followed by my mother’s luscious homemade pasta – usually lasagna, manicotti or ravioli.  Meatballs, sausage and bracciole were next.  Finally the huge turkey with stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy and cranberry sauce found their way to the table.  We always had a fresh green salad at dinner, holiday or not.  It was the law.  Don’t ask me why but the large baking dish containing the candied yams with brown sugar and tiny marshmallows on top went untouched and undetected by human hands.  Cousin Vinnie waited politely until everyone had turned down the yams then he would dive bomb in, scoop up all the marshmallows and dump them on his plate.  As you can imagine, a holiday meal at my house was an all-day event filled with lively conversation.  There were always enormous serving bowls of freshly cooked veggies that went untouched every year.  I once suggested we spray them with shellac to preserve them for posterity.  My mother was not amused. 

By the time desserts were served everybody chimed in with the same line, “Just a sliver for me.  I’m too full.”  Desserts were numerous and plentiful – apple pie a la mode, pumpkin pie with whipped cream and Italian pastries, Zuppa Inglese, Torta Nonna and Amaretti cookies sat on the serving table along with fresh fruit (another untouchable),  After coffee made the rounds all the men would retire to the dinette for a few hands of poker,  They played for money and it was difficult to break up the game.  One of my uncles was usually declared the big winner (my father would make sure of that).  The women gathered in the living room to gossip and share their ideas about recipes,  clothing styles, hairdos, Ingrid Bergman, Rita Hayworth, Ava Gardner, Frank Sinatra and a friend of a friend who had just built a $100,000 house in Florida.  Before we knew it, it was time to watch whatever special was playing on TV.  I don't recall who the entertainer was on any given holiday -- Andy Williams, Perry Como, Sid Caesar or Jackie Gleason or Bob Hope.  By 7 PM my sister and I were instructed to bring out the cold cuts and rolls for “supper”.  You’d be surprised, maybe even shocked, at the amount of food that could be consumed by people complaining about how full they were.  This setup was usually replicated for Christmas – same meal, same relatives and friends, different date.  And, usually without Grace being said before the meal.  During one Thanksgiving we had a blizzard and the long repast was punctuated by people periodically getting up to look out the windows at the snow piling up. 

Over the years, their were anniversaries, landmark birthdays, births, deaths, weddings, wars, victories, triumphant times and tragedies which touched us all.  Holidays seemed to remain the same.  There was a sense of stability, of continuity, inclusiveness and security.  Now the world has changed so rapidly.  We seem to have lost our identity, our way home.  I’m reluctant to say it but I think we’re beginning to feel the effects of grief and trauma.  We can go home again but it’ll never be the same. We are finally in future shock, a state of anxiety about our lives, our economy, our government, our ethics and morals, our leaders and our direction.  We are apprehensive about the future, about elected representatives who tell us one thing and do the opposite.  Why do they lie to use?  We are especially saddened by the legacy we are leaving our children and their children.  A scary debt-ridden future.  If only we could turn back.  If only...