Thanksgiving at Grannie’s
It was 1951 when we arrived in our Plymouth station wagon at Grannie’s house for Thanksgiving. It was a perfect fall day, cool and crisp. Dad headed to the backyard with our little brother, Earle, to join Grandpop with whatever he was doing. My sister, Nancy, and I followed Mother into the house. The aroma of freshly baked rolls and pumpkin pies, along with a mixture of other foods, filled the air.
Mother and Nancy headed into the kitchen, but I stopped at the sink. I was finally tall enough to reach the old metal cup hanging from a nail. So, I stopped to get a drink. I can still recall the ice-cold well water, mixed with a metallic taste from the tin cup.
Grannie handed Nancy a bowl of potato peelings to take to the chickens. Mother ordered us outside “to get the stink blown off,” an expression that always made us giggle.
The old wooden table was opened as far as it could go, leaving little space for the two large women. When the screen door slammed, only Nancy was on the outside. Grabbing a few black olives from the table, I slipped underneath, hidden by the tablecloth. Straddling one of the sloping table legs, I hid quietly.
This position placed me eye level with the bottom of the stove. I was startled by the loud thud of the oven door as Grannie inched out the heavy turkey pan. As she lifted the lid, I saw an enormous golden-brown turkey with chestnut stuffing bulging from its cavity. The smell of turkey erased all others.
A commotion from the front door announced the rest of the guests had arrived. Aunt Fern, my stylish aunt, entered the kitchen wearing black patent leather heels. She lifted the edge of the tablecloth and winked at me. I peeked out and was shocked to see her holding a blueberry pie, no less.
Only Aunt Fern was brave enough to break tradition. Is this the year that you will find it necessary to break a tradition? It’s alright; people are more important than things.
