Turkey Toots

It used to be my pops who woke us up at 4am for the journey to Louisiana. I’d be jarred awake by an abrasive knock on my bedroom door as it was being opened. 

“Come on, son. Time to wake up.” 

I would hear his heavy steps on the thick carpeted floor but could only see his silhouette passing down the hallway by the time I cracked my eye open. As I sat up, I would hear him at my brother’s door then at my sister’s running the same wake-up routine. He started at my door since it was furthest from the stairs so he could catch the others on his way back down. The efficiency that can only come from years spent working as an accountant. 

Nowadays, I’m typically awake by the time he ambles out of his bedroom. His voice was always twice as deep in the mornings. Once he got his energy up he was a handful to deal with, especially if my niece was there and he had an audience. I guess, from the outsider’s perspective, we were a collective handful. 

My sister and brother no longer slept in their bedrooms when we came home to visit. We all slept in the living room just outside my dad’s bedroom. Only on the nights when we were really tired did we retreat up the stairs to get some quality shut-eye. 

We’d fall asleep to whatever Netflix show we were into at the moment. The excitement for the night before holidays used to be electric but it seemed to go away for me sometime around high school. The closest thing I feel now is dread the night before presentations at work. Never grow up, kids. Pan had it right. 

Whoever woke up first was in charge of letting the dogs out and starting the coffee. I’ll admit, at times I would lay on the ground waiting for someone else to get up. If I made eye contact with one of the dogs, I’d stare for a moment until we reached an understanding and they gently lay their head back down. The loveliness of dogs will never be lost on me. Always down for whatever you are. 

Once the coffee was poured, the loading started. The old man was a Tetris master. We’d let him work and bring out the bags biggest to smallest. He’d mumble to himself as he packed them in. Letting out a “there we go” when he’d find a perfect spot. As meticulous as he was expeditious in order to meet our departure time.

Around the time we were set to hit the road our other brother and his family would arrive. They’d all get out of the car and liven up the dark neighborhood streets with noise. A few words about navigation between my dad and my brother, some talk of where we’d stop for donuts, a juvenile joke or two between my brothers, and we were off. 

The further we got down the highway the easier it was to remember what the drives used to be like. Like passing through a portal of nostalgia. My father would swing a navy blue suburban down the road with room for 8. I would sit in the back, always on my mom’s side. The big bumps in the road would make my discman skip so I had to hold it when we went through smaller towns with under-managed roads. I would pop one Peach-O after another in my mouth until the bottom of the bag was left with a thin layer of sugar as I watched the pines and swamps go by, hoping to see an alligator perched on a patch of marsh so I could report to the passengers what I saw. 

Depending on the year, I’d also have my gameboy with me. 9 hours of unstoppable Pokemon battles and mixed compilations of angsty punk rock blaring through headphones that were too big for my head. While most kids would get rambunctious, I knew the time to play was later and the time to get my levels up was now. I had new bands and new Pokemon to discover. 

I remember one year, not that long ago, closing in on the final hours of the drive. We were all very tired and ready to be done. I could tell frustration from being in the car so long was mounting. A song came on the radio and I started aggressively flapping my arms like a chicken. My dad and sister looked at each other confused first before they started laughing hysterically. Maybe it was delirium. Either way, I flapped us through the final hour of the drive and we got out of the car laughing. The irony of a heroic chicken moment. Who woulda thought?

On Thanksgiving Day, we’d wake up and start shuffling around my aunt and uncle’s trailer. People would start arriving around 10am. We would all move about the property. From the kitchen where my Uncle would be prepping his famous olive bread, to the living room where either the football games or the parade was on depending on who sniped the remote, to the dining room where the crab dip and other appetizers were being picked at, to the patio where we played guitars and sang church songs, to the surrounding field of grass where the kids tossed the football around and the adults peeled and ate fresh picked satsumas, to the bayou and levee where the older kids hung out when they were too cool for the rest of the family. 

My interactions with my family have hardly changed over the years. I’d joke by using big words that I pretended not to understand. Often, I wouldn’t even use real words. “That stock market is quite canfifferous, wouldn’t you agree?” I’d ask my Uncle. He’d burst into his big wonderful laugh while my beautifully sweet, delicate Aunt would just smile and shake her head. Other family members would ask me if I was getting married anytime soon and I’d deflect by putting on a concerned look and say, “Did you not get the invitation?” 

When the food was ready, my Uncle would call for everyone to gather around for the prayer. He’d thank God for having the ability to get together and for guiding us safely along our travels. 

“Amen,” we all said. 

Once the prayer was done, we formed a cacophonous buffet line filling our plates until they were spilling over the edge, a few pieces of olive bread sitting on top like a salty, buttery, olivey cherry on a sundae. We would eat and laugh and eat some more. After 3-quarters of the food had been devoured, we lounged around and drifted in and out of naps. 

Later that night, that year’s puzzle would be broken out and the real juicy gossip between the adults would take place while they examined pieces, sipped black coffee, and nibbled on carrot cupcakes. 

At the other end of the table was the Scrabble game. I would passively participate in both, subbing in when someone needed a break. The kids would run from one side of the trailer to the other until my Uncle gave them the stare. After 2 or 3 more times, he would finally lay down the law and shut it down. After everyone had left and the kids were off to bed is when I found my greatest joy. 

I’d either be on an air mattress or one of the 2 couches. A few cousins, my brothers, and I would lay, chatting about nonsense and working in whatever goofy running joke we’d created earlier in the day. Around 10 or 10:30pm is when I would partake in what has become my favorite Thanksgiving tradition. The Late Show with David Letterman. 

It was the perfectly silly button on the day. Dave would try to guess what pies his mom had made. He would go through his famous Top 10 of whatever semi-topical list they’d conjured. But my favorite part was the musical performance.

It usually entailed some sort of holiday theme. As everyone drifted off I’d watch and listen. Thinking of the year that had passed and how grateful I was to be with family. Thinking of the season up ahead. Feeling my mother's presence in her brothers. Occasionally, a post-Thanksgiving turkey toot would ring out in the living room causing some giggles to anyone who hadn’t quite gotten all the way to sleep. 

Knowing full well the drive back to reality was in a few short days, watching the show was one of the few times in my adolescence where I didn’t have to make a conscious effort to live in the moment and reflect. I just did. And the moment just was. And for that, I was thankful.