In my family autumn meant fall
colors, closing the lake cabin, going back to school and celebrating the
happiest of holidays, Thanksgiving. Christmas and Thanksgiving took place
alternately at our home in Floodwood, Minnesota, or in Duluth with Aunt Edie,
Uncle Burl and my cousins Dorothy and Burleigh Jr. Because the forty-mile drive
could be chancy if it rained or snowed, we were always at the mercy of the
weather, but generally both families managed to make the trip. It was just the
eight of us together, except once when Grandpa McKenzie was included and
delayed the turkey by saying a long and rambling “grace” while the bird waited
to be carved, and Dorothy and I tried hard not to giggle aloud. Ordinarily, if
grace was said, one of the children repeated a one-line Sunday school prayer,
which almost rhymed: “We thank the Lord
for this our food, for life and health and every good. Amen,” Since my father
was a non-believer, it was just as well to have a short prayer.
At both houses, the holiday table
was carefully set with the Spode china, sterling silver, and crystal, which
were only brought out on special occasions. The china and silver patterns were
slightly different in each home, all having been bought at Oreck’s on Superior
Street in Duluth. The menus were similar too: usually turkey, although
sometimes Aunt Edie added ham, and even introduced a delicious raisin sauce
that is a staple for my family now. In our minds, Aunt Edie was an imaginative
cook. She even served spaghetti and her own homemade sauce for an ordinary
family dinner when I was there. It was the first ethnic food I ever had. The
one dish she made that I didn’t eat was mashed turnips. I’ve been grateful that
I was never forced to eat food I didn’t like, unlike some children who had to
sit at the table until they gave up, and swallowed the hated mouthful.
Ordinarily we didn’t have wine with
meals, but on special occasions Uncle Burl went to a top shelf in the cupboard
for a bottle of Mogen David wine, a gift from his Jewish employers, which was
drunk cautiously by the grown-ups and sipped even more cautiously by the
children from their parents' glasses. Conversation at the table dealt with the
weather and the food and other safe topics. There was an unspoken agreement
that religion and politics were unsuitable. Uncle Burl might tell an acceptable
joke like the one I remember: “What does the little chick say when they found
an orange in the coop? He said, “Look at the orange mamalaid!”
After dinner, the men, including my
cousin Burleigh, disappeared. They didn’t smoke after-dinner cigars like men in
the movies; instead they sat in the living room exchanging hunting and fishing
stories that grew longer with the years. Meanwhile, the women did the dishes,
of course. We children dried the silver, and when we were older, were allowed
to dry the crystal very carefully. Our mothers talked about the food, recalling
how long the turkey had been in the oven, and deciding whether or not it was
moist enough. It was agreed that the stuffing was better than ever, and the
gravy tastier and smoother. After we children left the kitchen, they would talk
about other family members, especially the sisters-in-law, and about everyone’s
health.
Later we would go outside to see
Aunt Edie’s pots of begonias that she had taken into the garage, and her mums,
which were still in the ground. The men, who had retreated to the basement,
joined us outside, and then it would be time to start on home, leaving the cozy
little house in Duluth, knowing that the following year Thanksgiving would be
at our house, believing that the rhythm of our lives would go on in its
predictable way. The changes were coming, but for the time I’m writing about,
we felt safe trusting in the future and the roots that connected us.
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