Aunt Carol

Thanksgiving at Aunt Carol and Uncle Dean’s comes around as often as the Olympics. If the two events were to be compared, the one adjective that could apply to both is spectacle. Unlike the laid-back football focused years at Uncle Robert and Aunt Cece’s, or the understated yet budget breaking Martha Stewart cross Meghan Markle aesthetic at Aunt Janice and Uncle Logan’s, Aunt Carol stops at nothing for a memorable meal.

In typical Aunt Carol fashion – always ridiculously early and fastidious in her expectations – she set the Whats App family blast into overdrive on July fourth, by sending the link to her seasonal Pinterest board, Home, Hearth & Harvest. Ignoring the string of texts from uncles and cousins that range from polite acknowledgements to Joey’s eye roll emojis, I scroll the board and suddenly the salad and beer I’d just had for lunch didn’t seem as satisfying as the Insta perfect baking dishes stuffed full of sweet potato casserole, steamed green beans and a perfectly golden turkey, all set against rustic autumnal backdrops.

Side group chats of the aunties and female cousins spawning from the family channel came to life with plans to orchestrate ‘help’ for Aunt Carol, including string of offers scheduled to be suggested and drip fed into the family chat over the course of coming weeks.

One month out from Thanksgiving, the chat spurred to life again, requests for confirmation of who was staying and for how long. As the responses came in, each was reciprocated with the requirements of what to bring and where and how the visitors would be accommodated. I held off my response as being the person who lived the closest to her, I would not be staying. The privilege of proximity always came the weird requests in the lead up. This year was no different. I was charged with locating four pool noodles. Preferably green. If green was not available, she would need a tin of Forrest Green spray paint.

Pool noodles aren’t very common around here, neither are pools for that matter. If it were summer, I might have a chance at finding one at Walmart, but no, I’ll be laughed out of the local Dollar Tree for even asking.

I swiped open my phone, creating what I believed would be at least the eighth side chat on Whats App, the only one to include Aunt Carol.

Can you let me know what you need the pool noodles for? I just don’t know where I’ll get one from.

Heya Honey, I’ll send you the YouTube link. Oh, and if you can get your hand on any fake flowers like the ones in the video, I may need spares. Watch the video, you’ll get what I mean. Thank you x

Two minutes and forty-three seconds later and I was convinced the idea was worth the effort. By stabbing the sharp little ends of the flowers into the pool noodle, you can make a wreath or any shaped garland style table decoration. In this video, the wreath was used as a centre piece for the pumpkin pie to sit in. The best part was, I did not need to create the wreath, just buy the components for Aunt Carol to create. Amazon proved to be my best friend.

Despite the general concerns on how the holiday would play out, it was heartwarming to see Aunt Carol so excited when I dropped the materials off to her. She beamed, ‘Just wait ‘til you see what I got planned for y’all, Honey.”

The fourth Thursday of November crept up upon us and thanks to Uncle Dean’s Clark Griswold-esque handy work, the house was a beacon in multi-coloured Christmas lights on the street. It didn’t matter that no-one would miss the small Haint Blue plantation style home on the street of houses painted various shades of white. I must have missed Uncle Dean in his traffic warden glory, all the cars were parked with precision on the front yard and on the driveway. I rolled to a stop alongside the curb, bottle of Rioja in hand, ready for anything.

“Ah, Honey, you made it with a minute to spare!” Uncle Dean’s breath already spiced with rum blew hot into my face as he leaned in for a tackle disguised as a hug.

“You said five.” I mumble into his burgundy knit sweater, tasting his aftershave.

“Come in, don’t let the heat out.” He nudges me inside. As I take in the room, I realise I am the last here, so I deposit my bag and jacket on the rack by the door and give Uncle Dean the wine before I slip quietly in to the parlour, not wanting to interrupt Uncle Logan’s overly dramatic detailing of his latest deal.

A tinkling of metal to crystal cuts the story off before he has a chance to dovetail it into a spin that would only go on to feed his ego.

“Thank you, Logan. You are quite the master mind aren’t you.” Aunt Carol complimented him only to allow herself to take charge of the already captive audience. “Now, as y’all know, this year is a little different for our family.”

Uncle Dean appears by her side and lovingly squeezes her shoulder before whispering something in her ear. As the only single in the family, I quietly longed for a love like theirs, selfless and generous. I made a point while Aunt Carol took in his words to be a little kinder about her Thanksgiving dinners. For all her efforts, she didn’t deserve so much mocking from us all.

After a stuttered breath, she started again, “We lost both Mama and Daddy this year, God rest their darling souls, so Thanksgiving and Christmas aren’t going to feel quite the same.”

A few sniffles around the homely lounge room hinted to the raw emotion we all still felt in their absence. “So, I’ve thought of a beautiful way to include them into our festivities, a way to still feel their presence here with us.”

“That is beautiful Carol, love,” Uncle Robert raised his glass to her.

“Very sweet,” My mum chimed in, “To Mama and Daddy!”

Glasses around the room chinked in toast to my grandparents.

“Well, I’ll finish up in the kitchen. Janet and Cece, do you mind giving me a hand?”

Mum didn’t bother rising, she knew her place in the kitchen was only at wash up time. The food poisoning incident of 2006 is still fresh in our minds nearly two decades on. Being a clean freak, it didn’t bother her too much. In what has become habit since then, my uncles called her over to the games room and it didn’t take long for the segregation to be apparent. The ‘children’ as we were labelled, were left in the parlour with strict instructions not to touch anything or turn on the television. Never mind that the youngest of us was twenty-seven, rules are rules.

The ceremonial ring of the old cow bell signalled for us to all squeeze ourselves into the dining room, where the table had been extended with a leaf and moved to snuggly fit two trestle tables alongside it to accommodate the children. Within five minutes we’d all found our place and with a prayer I sat down hoping that I wouldn’t need the bathroom at any stage during the meal. Wedged in between my cousins to the left and right, my chair had a clearance of less than half an inch to the wall behind me. Aunt Carol stood at the head of the table, passing down casserole dishes to place along the length of the table while Aunt Cece did the same on the adult’s table.

“Your idea came together beautifully, Aunt Carol,” I fanned my arm as best as I could to highlight the floral wreaths she had designed from the pool noodles.

“Oh! They did, didn’t they, Honey?” She cooed, “I had so much fun creating them.”

“The vases look nice, too.” My cousin Joey added.

“I’m glad you think so, Joey. In fact, that’s what I’d like to share with you all!”

Everyone looked at the beautiful copper vases that sat perfectly within the wreathes. Simple designs, fine lines edged around them evenly at the widest point. There were two on each table. A baby poinsettia peaking from the rim of all the vases. The pop of Christmas red clashed with the autumnal tones of the floral arrangements surrounding the vases.

“Wait til you hear this, Robert. That sister of yours has the most beautiful of hearts, you know.” Uncle Dean smiled adoringly at his wife.

“As I mentioned earlier. This year we are really missing Mama and Daddy at the head of the table. I know y’all, we’re still thinking of a way we could spread their ashes somewhere they would really love.”

The air simultaneously left the room and manifested in my immature mind as a giggle desperate to escape. I couldn’t work out why - maybe it was a demented grief response, or maybe it was that my love of Farrelly Brothers movies fostered too much of an appreciation for inappropriate humour - though whatever it was, I hoped that Aunt Carol would wrap up what she was saying so I could either swallow the laugh down with half a glass of Rioja or shove a bread roll in my mouth to arrest it. The chance of the latter was slim as we hadn’t yet said grace. I might have an immature streak, but I draw the line at not being a heathen. My mind gripped tight to the ounce of respect I had for tradition.

“Well. Y’all know how much Mama and Daddy loved their garden, especially the poinsettias. So, I purchased an extra two urns from the funeral home, mixed their ashes together and split them evenly between the urns and planted the poinsettias. There is an urn for each of us to keep.” She glanced from Mum, to Robert and Janice, smiling sincerely, her eyes dewy.

Rioja it was as silence suffocated the room. Only the tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway could be heard and once registered, I counted seventy-two seconds before the clattering of cutlery permitted a reply.

“Sorry, Carol, love. Run that by me again, please.” Uncle Robert’s voice was even, if half an octave higher than usual.

“I know, you might be surprised. But this way we each get a bit of Mama and Daddy to keep forever. Oh, and I haven’t forgotten the children!”

At her acknowledgement, I looked down to the small sample size jam jar wrapped in red curling ribbon, sitting by my name card like bonbonniere, then shot a wide-eyed glare back up to Aunt Carol. Before she could continue, Joey piped up raising his jar instead of his wine glass. “Are Gran and Pa in these jam jars Aunt Carol?”

“Why yes, Joey, they are! You’re welcome.” Her smile refused to be drowned out by the silent disbelief around her. “Don’t worry, you don’t have soil in yours, but the urns needed soil to nurture the plants. Oh, and coffee grounds to boost the plant growth.”

Whether it was a blessing or bad timing, I snorted as I tried my best to curtail the giggle that only pressed tight against my rib cage for release, somehow choking on the mouthful of my wine so forcefully it dribbled out of my nose. The warm sting of it through my nostrils only contributed to my respiratory issues and I found myself being slammed on the back by Joey while I tried to resurrect a normal breathing pattern.

Chairs scraped and shuffled as everyone worked to get me free and breathing again. I could hear calls for the Heimlich Manoeuvre and a flabbergasted Aunt Carol screaming to call 9-1-1. Pushing back from everyone with the grace of a drunk primate, I inhaled sharply, the oxygen stuttering down my throat, before I could push it back out in a rush. I rasped “I’ll be fine.”

The cacophony calmed and we all retreated to our places, no-one quite as excited to eat as we were ten minutes ago, our appetites hampered by the strategic placement of our Gran and Pa along the tables. The ease of them being mistaken for a decoration or condiment sat strange in my stomach.

Our family prayer was said and slowly, the more pragmatic of our family started to pick at the food with Uncle Logan saying, “Can’t let a good turkey go to waste now, can we?”

Joey, who’s stomach always ruled his brain, was the first on the children’s table to overcome the shock and crack the sticky bubbling surface of the sweet potato and marshmallow casserole. He scooped a dollop onto my plate, followed by a forkful of string beans. “Turkey?”

I nodded, adding “Just a slice, please.”

Carefully constructed conversation started to come to life, making its way delicately around the unspoken. Desserts came out, then it was time for Joey, Mum and I to start cleaning up. After a round of hugs, I left. The drive home while long, allowed me laugh until the tears came, before laughing some more, then crying until my eyes stung. Tabby, my cat weaved her way seductively around my ankles as I made my way into the apartment, purring her appreciation for my being home to feed her. I picked her up and snuggled her in close and the obvious dawned on me. No-one gave thanks tonight. No mention of gratitude for anything more than the polite necessities of being fed and hosted. No fanfare.

Tabby grumbled and pawed her way out of her arms leaving me feeling hollow. I may not have stayed for the aftermath of Aunt Carol’s well intended but severely misguided efforts, however, I could give perspective as I sat here alone, wanting nothing but to be back there. My psychologist could help me figure out why later, so I swiped open the family chat.

If I could give thanks for anything today it would be family. With Gran and Pa still here in a different way, we were all able to come together in a rather unforgettably. I am thankful that everyone sprung to save me from dying of Rioja induced embarrassment. I appreciate that Mum didn’t have to cook. Thanks Uncle Dean for your smashing hugs. I am glad that I have you all, but most importantly, I don’t have to share the L-shaped sofa in the lounge with Joey. Just kidding! In all seriousness, thank you for everything you did for us today Aunt Carol and for thinking of each and every one of us. That was very special. Love Honey xxx

Deciding not to wait for a reply, I took my jam jar with me and popped it on my dresser next to my collection of perfume bottles and went to bed feeling a special kind of love that could only come from someone with a unique heart like Aunt Carol’s.