Tradition's in the eye of the beholder - sometimes along with a little gravy

Sensitive content - language

Tradition's in the eye of the beholder – sometimes along with a bit of gravy

Would we have had a chance this year if Rory and Darla hadn’t been invited to our Thanksgiving Day table? We’ll never know. Because the vows we solemnly took last year are now right down the commode, and the mashed potatoes clinging precariously to the wall put quite an exclamation point on our failure.

To be clear, every year this holiday gathering in our home sees arguments, confrontations, accusations, and more, fueled no doubt by our traditional pre-dinner cocktails and with-dinner wine. My cousins and I were too young for the alcohol but we joined right in too. For some reason airing a year’s worth of petty grievances was just as traditional as cranberry-orange sauce at this table. We’d start out all right, but eventually some comment, even one quite innocent, was like a match to tinder and we were off and running.

But every year at evening’s end hugs and kisses with the good-byes, maybe an apology here and there, and declarations that next Thanksgiving we’d stay away from those touchy topics, just have a nice relaxed dinner. Every year.

So why did we think this year would be different? Because last year marked a new personal best. Or more accurately, worst. And so, we had "vowed" harder.

That year there was no waiting. My mom had no sooner set down the last side dish, her signature corn pudding, when it was a question, innocuous enough, that lit the fireworks. Uncle Arnold said, “Am I the only one being inundated by calls from charities? I mean I’m happy to give to some but I can’t give to all.” “Well, geez, Arnold,” this from Aunt Mary Rose from the other side of the family, “the charities don’t know who else is calling you, each one is just trying to raise funds for their own cause.”

Before he could reply Aunt Ethel turned to her sister Elaine and said, “You never give to charities, do you.” It wasn’t a question. “You know I do, what a thing to say.” Who does give, who doesn’t, some boasting, some more finger-pointing. And then a little darker, a different aunt to aunt, “From the looks of your sweater I’d say you take from charities, not give.” “You think yours is any better? “At least it’s new, bought it just this morning.” And that pulled someone else into it. “You shopped today? On Thanksgiving? Making those poor people work on a holiday?” “I didn’t make them work, plus they’re getting extra pay.” “Well I think it’s terrible.”

After that it was open season, no conversational transitions necessary. There was the annual to-do about the best way to make stuffing. And which restaurant had the best ribs. And buying a car vs leasing a car. The beat went on. And on.

And then a new topic entered our repertoire. It used an appliance as a launch pad.

“When are you ever going to return my air fryer.” “Yeah, what about the 40 bucks you owe me?” “Hey he owes me too, geez pay up dude!” And then Uncle Bradley, who we secretly called Uncle Moneybucks. “Gentlemen, gentlemen, no one should ever borrow money. Or lend it. Some author even said something like that. Maybe Patterson.” A derisive laugh preceded, “Some author, idiot, did you even go to school?” “Well my car and my boat and my 14-room home would say whatever education I had worked out pretty nice for me.” “Good Lord, you sure do find ways to bring the conversation around to your money.” A new voice, Francine’s, indignant, “Don’t use the Lord’s name like that!”

All of a sudden a voice rose above the din and a glass rose high in the air. It was great aunt Matilda, by far our richest relative. “Well here’s to money, then, and to all of you who are who are waiting for me to die and see who’s in my will. You can all relax because . . . none of you are.

“Bradley doesn’t need it and none of you deserve is. My Lord, oh sorry Frannie, you people are pathetic. All that’s going on in the world, on the day when we should especially be giving thanks we have each other to deal with it all, and all you can do is go for each other’s throats with mean and petty jabs. I see it every year, this one being the worst so far, and it’s helped me make my decision. All my belongings will be liquidated, all my investments cashed in, and it will all go to the Friends of Felines Foundation. Cheers!”

After a stunned silence, the protests began. “Grammy, no, I was never interested in your money, but I could name some who are.” And then around the table it went. “Oh yeah, and just who are referring to?” “At least I come and visit you Grammy, and I don’t have to tell you who doesn’t.” “Grandmama, I think that’s wonderful and I’m going to make a donation too.” “Aunty Matilda, may I pass you a biscuit?” “Grammy, I can drive you to the Foundation if you would like to visit and see all the cats.” “Mom, you know I never expected an inheritance because of your generosity to charities.”

The adorable kitties on her sweatshirt were quite at odds with the reply directed to one and all. “Bullshit!” And with that she signaled to Gerald, the single son who lived with her, that they were leaving NOW.

Dessert was a rather quiet affair. In hushed tones the vows were more sincere, more heartfelt this time. No more warfare at the table. This was the day when the extended family from both sides had a rare chance to catch up, continue friendships, and yes be thankful for the love and support available in living form all around the table.

* * *

So now this year’s Thanksgiving dinner has rolled around. And why, one might ask, am I looking at mashed potatoes on the wall? Despite being just a teenager, I had personally was determined not only to stay out of dust-ups, but to as well try to de-escalate any that did occur. Even this unexpected sight did not shake my resolve.

There were still cocktails. There was still wine. But everyone brought their best behavior to the table, our resolve further strengthened by honoring the memory of great aunt Matilda who had passed away in summer.

But the rest of the gang was all here, along with the two extra guests. Uncle Joe’s nephew had just moved to town and he asked if he might bring Rory with him. And once Aunt Josey from the other side of the family got wind of this, she wondered if it might be nice company for Rory if she asked her niece Darla too. Of course, the more the merrier. Even though “merrier” has never quite been the operative word for these get-togethers.

Friendly family chat ruled the scene and eventually we realized we were well into dinner and had been pretty much excluding the newcomers from the conversation. Though it had become quite evident from the get-go that these two had already hit it off very nicely. They were sitting next to each other and occasionally quietly chatting between themselves as the rest of us carried on.

“So, Rory,” my mom says, “what do you like to do for fun.” Actually,” he replies, “Darla and I were just talking about how much we love skiing and in fact both go to the same resort, not too surprising since it’s the closest one.”

Darla, “And we’re going to meet up there in a couple of weeks.” She paused, reddened a little, then added, “I mean he’s going with his friends and I’ll be going with mine.”

Rory, all smiles, “Then we’ll all get together in the lounge later where there's always a party going on, sing-alongs, drinking games, even dancing if you can find any space.” Darla, matching smile, “And then probably all have dinner in the Fireside room, wonderful bison burgers, cowboy steaks, babybacks, always with a mountain of fries,” to which he quips, “. . . that you could almost ski down.”

We laugh and mom asks, “So when is that all happening?” Darla looking at her phone, “That would be December second.” Rory, also looking at his phone, “Oh wait, how about the weekend after, there’s Trump rally on the second.”

Darla jerks sideways so fast she bumps hard into Uncle Louie’s shoulder. It seems she can hardly find enough breath to gasp out, “What?”

“Trump, you know, Donald, greatest president ever.” Darla’s pretty face is a mass of dark clouds, her eyes narrow slits, her voice still at low ebb. “That, that . . . "

“Scumbag,” somebody volunteers. Oh, oh, now all around the table you can just see the old fighter vibe, seemingly part of the family dna, tell that forced niceness to get lost. And the camps become clear as the vitriol flies.

“At least he knows where his is”

“Oh really, you mean like when he greeted the wrong city.”

“At least the economy was better under Trump.”

“Are you serious, Biden inherited the mess he made by screwing up the covid response.”

But at this point Prez Biden could take a seat in the spectator stands because even without being there The Donald had once again commandeered the spotlight.

The Trumpers contributed such words to the conversation as patriot, leader, strongman, fighter, straight talker . . . and more.

The Never-Trumpers did their share with petty, racist, misogynist, scammer, fraud, egotist, business failure . . . and more.

So much for my intended non-involvement. Lacking a megaphone, and instead cupping my hands around my mouth, “THEY BOTH SUCK, ALL POLITICIANS SUCK!!!"

That did shut them up. But then Uncle Henry, looking at his wife sitting several chairs down from him, said, “Well, maybe so, but I would just like to point out to Angela that what just happened here proves one thing, I am NOT the only person in the family who likes Trump." Her reply was swift, “You mean not the only dumbass?” OK, she just bombed half the table, and since that apparently needed more than just a verbal reply, Aunt Agnes whipped a biscuit at her.

She handily caught it and sent it back, but her offense was not as good as her defense and it hit Aunt Gladys who, taken by surprise, wildly chucked her own half-eaten biscuit, which came down on cousin Kenny’s head. Nor knowing where it came from, he decided to retaliate wholesale with a handful of peas.

I watched in utter disbelief as my relatives right here in our dining room transformed into Charlie Chaplin, Laurel and Hardy, Abbott and Costello, The Three Stooges, and The Keystone Cops. And driven by alcohol, adrenalin, and political angst, they launched an all-out food fight, culminating in a mighty throw that resulted in a bloom of mashed planted among the flowers on the wallpaper.

* * *

And here we are. The stunned silence is broken by Grandma Julie who notes, “Cut that out, put a frame around it, place it on an easel, and it would fit right it with what the library is exhibiting these days.” Before anyone could mount a defense of current art trends, and likely launch a new controversy, one of the younger children giggles.

We look around at yam casserole in someone’s hair, cranberry on a chin, stuffing decorating sundry shoulders, some gravy on a face here and there, biscuits and peas everywhere – oddly, or maybe not, mom’s corn pudding leftovers have been spared. Now the giggles increase, others join in with hearty laughter, and finally the merriment ascends to a full roar.

Then our other grandma, Grammy Rosemary, says, “You know what, we’re all kind of dumbasses. I mean just look around. But we’re each other’s dumbasses and I’m very thankful for that.” Amens all around. Then all the cousins clear the table and bring in dessert and coffee.

My mom, ever the voice of reason, “I’d like to make, let’s call it, a modest proposal. Each year we promise to be on better behavior next time and every following year that goes up in smoke. If you recall, one time it literally did, but that’s another story. Last year was so bad we got more serious about it, and this year we were seemingly on the right path until . . .” At this point Darla breaks in with “I’m so, so, so sorry, it was all my fault.” Rory, curling an arm around her shoulders, “We were both at fault.”

“No, no, no!” mom cries. “On the contrary you two folks turned a bright spotlight on the truth. We are a lively, boisterous, opinionated bunch and clearly we were just waiting for an excuse to once again set off fireworks. And the truth, the truth, is we like to stir it up. Passiveness, in fact, doesn’t work for us, just a disguise.

"So how about a realistic vow that we agree to this year and that’s our Thanksgiving guide from now on. What I'm suggesting is that we come together in the sweet middle – that means we tear it up all we want, argue, tease, even yell if we want. But here's the thing - NO meanness, no personal attacks. Think Thumper. And anyone who violates that will be on the receiving end of a special delivery mashed potato surprise.” We all raise our coffee cups to that, “Here! Here!”

Then dad, never able to resist a chance for some warped humor, offers an addendum. “Hey, we added money to the topics last year and survived, politics this year and survived, how about religion next year and see if that trifecta survives!” Mom gives him a little smack on the arm but everyone is smiling and full of good cheer.

And then my ps. “Oh I’m sure we dumbasses will survive. I mean, turkey, verbal free-for-all, mom’s corn pudding, tater fast balls, the occasional conflagration. What family could ever claim better traditions.” Coffee cups in the air again.

Then from teen cousin Danny, “Who’s ready for a turkey sandwich?” Well, dinner was cut a little short.

-- end --