Wild Turkey Days Part One

Wild Turkey

I've been through many Thanksgiving Days in my life, some good, some bad, some funny, some sad.  I know you probably have too.  At the age I am right now, many of the people I shared those times with are no longer here.  All I have left of them are memories, good, bad, or indifferent.  It gives me something to hold onto during the times that I have alone during the holiday season.

The earliest time that I was ever really aware of what the day meant was in first grade.  You know the spiel, Plymouth Rock, pilgrims, Indians, back before the time of political correctness, sharing food and being thankful way back before we stole the country from the "red" people and forced them onto reservations.  Yes, in first grade, you only learned the friendly version of history.

I remember tracing my hand on a paper plate and making a turkey out of it.  As a class, we made our turkeys and took them home for decorations to be placed proudly on the fridge.  Except mine never seemed to make it no further than the trash can.  That was one of the problems with my family, a total lack of artistic appreciation.  They would then gather on Thanksgiving Day and stuff their faces in the only home of a six-year-old in the United States not graced by a paper plate turkey.  I never took my art home for their viewing after that.  If I took it home, I put it in a box or on my wall.  That's all I have to say about that scarring.

I took up the habit of watching the Thanksgiving Day parade on TV and pretty much didn't intermingle with anyone in my family after the plate event except for my uncle.  He was my only friend and supporter and remained very dear to me throughout his life.

During my teen years, we were still doing the family thing.  I usually just took my food away from the folks and ate by myself.  I guess I was an uninterested bystander.  When I was in tenth grade, my boyfriend Steve asked me to spend Thanksgiving Day with his family in Triangle, Virginia.  Hell yeah, said I.  Hell no, said my mom.  The argument raged for weeks until my uncle shamed her into letting me go.

Steve's step-dad was a career Marine, no-nonsense kind of guy.  His mom was a varied, sweet, but healthy lady who loved her two kids.  I knew Steve's sister, a couple of years younger than me, she was okay, a little straight-laced but nice.  Steve was a very nice guy.  He adored me and was always buying me nice things, expensive things, and I could kick my own ass for breaking up with him when I was a junior.  We remain friends to this very day.

They lived in a gorgeous Leave it to Beaver house on a couple of acres.  I was the child of a divorced mom living in apartments most of my life.  What we lacked in material things and class they had.  I would have to wear a dress for the occasion and act like real folks do in a nice setting.  When I walked into their house, it was like a picture in a magazine, picture-perfect.  The stepdad intimidated me, not on purpose; it was just his personality.  He told me to call him Ron; I called him Sir.  Yes, sir.  Steve took me on a tour of the house, and it was breathtaking.  Walking into the dining room was like walking into a restaurant.

White starched and ironed tablecloths, fine china and silver, crystal glasses, linen napkins.  Wow!!  Right before we sat down to eat, Steve pulled me aside and whispered, "Whatever you do, don't drop any food or crumbs on the tablecloth.  My stepdad gets furious when that happens, and you don't want to see that."  What?  And then Sir Ron took my arm and seated me at the table next to him.  I felt like I was going to cry.  I looked at Steve, and he looked at me and said, "The guest always sits next to the master."  I almost threw up.  I was a wreck.

I just sat quietly while I was served.  Then the eating began.  My fork was shaking; thank God they didn't serve any jello.  Sir Ron asked me if I was nervous.  "Who me?"  "Not at all."  I looked at Steve, who was smiling while I was trying to control my hysteria.  I was aware of the room's conversation but transfixed on taking each bite in an orderly fashion.  I needed a drink but was terrified that my shaking hands would spill a micro-drop of tea on the table.  The step-dad got up to put on some music, and I quickly gulped a drink.  You know, one of those "gwamp" sounding swallows.  Dear God, did they hear that?  The Marine from the living room said, "Did you say something, Sherrie?" Steve told him I was talking to him.  He returned to the table, and the fun continued.  "More rolls?" Sir retreated to the kitchen for the bread.  Steve caught my eye and mouthed, "crumbs."  I had two microscopic bits of crescent roll flakes by my plate.  I panicked and tried to move them, but they left a tiny trace of grease behind.  I inched my plate over to cover them.  I breathed a sigh of relief.  And then HE was asking for everyone's plate to serve the rolls.  No!