I don't remember having Thanksgiving dinner with my grandparents when I was a child. I know we did, I just don't remember any of the specifics of any of the dinners, not one detail at all. Perhaps this is because most of my childhood memories about Thanksgiving center around my great grandmother's house in Hartford. I remember so much about those dinners. It's strange because I really spent more time, in fact most of my time, with my mother's family. However, when I think about holidays is a small child, all of those holiday memories do center around father's family.
My great-grandmother lived in a two bedroom, one half bath trailer. There was a concrete covered porch over the first half of the trailer, covered in every yard knickknack my grandmother could find. There was also four foot tall statue of the Virgin Mary. During Christmas, someone would always put a Santa hat on her. My mother always found that to be so funny.
With bedrooms and bathrooms on either end, the main living area of the house, kitchen with eat in dining area and living room, were in the middle of the trailer itself. It was a small space. The kitchen was fridge, small counter, stove, corner counter, sink, small counter and that was all. Boom boom boom. It was the kind of space so small that most people would complain bitterly over. No room for anything. My great-grandmother was fine with it though. The living room was also small, but she populated it with seating. Sectional coming out from the far wall, with three chairs on the other side and another chair pushed up next to it. This last chair was so close to the television that you ended up responsible for anything that had to be done to it.
This was the hub of activity, the hub of the home, indeed, the heart of the home. My great-grandmother held court in the middle of it all, seated to where she could look out the front door, greeting those who would enter. Her greetings were always warm and welcoming, very full of love. Anyone who came into her home felt special.
Thanksgivings there are so vivid. Crock pots would hold things in the way that other people would use warming drawers. One would hold the dressing and another the rolls, wrapped in paper towels and set on low to keep them nice and ready for anyone who wanted them. Brown and black earthenware dishes would hold green beans and the best corn I've ever eaten. A tan pot would hold the gravy while mashed potatoes and various casseroles would be in glass dishes. The turkey and ham would sit on the far counter.
On the dining table, she would have a tray of pickled veggies, a salad, celery with cheese, and deviled eggs. You know, most of the time, I handle poorness pretty well, but I have to admit I miss getting to have deviled eggs for Thanksgiving. I love them, but I really can't justify sacrificing that many eggs just for one meal.
The adults would sit in the kitchen at the table while everyone else would pile around the chairs in the living room. Some of the adults who smoked would opt to take their meals outside on the porch, sitting with the Virgin Mary and the other yard ornaments, in order to be able to smoke while they ate.
My great-grandmother would send plates of food to the people in town who were alone. She would pile everything onto those thick Chinet plates and cover them in tin foil. This, like the warm way she greeted people, said so much to me about the kind of person she was. She would send my aunt or my father off to the houses of the lonely people with a kind word for them. When they came back, she would ask with genuine interest about how the people they visited were doing.
After everyone had been fed, some of us would play cards at the living room table while all interested parties overtook the living room to watch football games. Eventually, whatever men were the most able-bodied would put up my great-grandmother's outside Christmas lights for her. The official end to the meal would come at dark, when we would go outside to see the lights go on for the first time that year.
You know, I wrote a few days ago about how I'm not really close to my father's side of the family, and I'm not. Years, divorces, different paths, and distance have made us drift apart. When I was a little kid though, that wasn't the case. When my great-grandmother was still matriarch of the family, we had more of a connection and more of a tradition. It just wasn't something we could sustain once she was gone. She was the glue that held us together and none of the rest of us really inherited that ability.
For a time though, we were all connected. For a while, in fact, for me, probably the most formative while, we functioned as a group. It has left me with many memories of her and her warmth. She was magical really. You'd have to be magical to fit 20 people into a trailer for a meal.
With bedrooms and bathrooms on either end, the main living area of the house, kitchen with eat in dining area and living room, were in the middle of the trailer itself. It was a small space. The kitchen was fridge, small counter, stove, corner counter, sink, small counter and that was all. Boom boom boom. It was the kind of space so small that most people would complain bitterly over. No room for anything. My great-grandmother was fine with it though. The living room was also small, but she populated it with seating. Sectional coming out from the far wall, with three chairs on the other side and another chair pushed up next to it. This last chair was so close to the television that you ended up responsible for anything that had to be done to it.
This was the hub of activity, the hub of the home, indeed, the heart of the home. My great-grandmother held court in the middle of it all, seated to where she could look out the front door, greeting those who would enter. Her greetings were always warm and welcoming, very full of love. Anyone who came into her home felt special.
Thanksgivings there are so vivid. Crock pots would hold things in the way that other people would use warming drawers. One would hold the dressing and another the rolls, wrapped in paper towels and set on low to keep them nice and ready for anyone who wanted them. Brown and black earthenware dishes would hold green beans and the best corn I've ever eaten. A tan pot would hold the gravy while mashed potatoes and various casseroles would be in glass dishes. The turkey and ham would sit on the far counter.
On the dining table, she would have a tray of pickled veggies, a salad, celery with cheese, and deviled eggs. You know, most of the time, I handle poorness pretty well, but I have to admit I miss getting to have deviled eggs for Thanksgiving. I love them, but I really can't justify sacrificing that many eggs just for one meal.
The adults would sit in the kitchen at the table while everyone else would pile around the chairs in the living room. Some of the adults who smoked would opt to take their meals outside on the porch, sitting with the Virgin Mary and the other yard ornaments, in order to be able to smoke while they ate.
My great-grandmother would send plates of food to the people in town who were alone. She would pile everything onto those thick Chinet plates and cover them in tin foil. This, like the warm way she greeted people, said so much to me about the kind of person she was. She would send my aunt or my father off to the houses of the lonely people with a kind word for them. When they came back, she would ask with genuine interest about how the people they visited were doing.
After everyone had been fed, some of us would play cards at the living room table while all interested parties overtook the living room to watch football games. Eventually, whatever men were the most able-bodied would put up my great-grandmother's outside Christmas lights for her. The official end to the meal would come at dark, when we would go outside to see the lights go on for the first time that year.
You know, I wrote a few days ago about how I'm not really close to my father's side of the family, and I'm not. Years, divorces, different paths, and distance have made us drift apart. When I was a little kid though, that wasn't the case. When my great-grandmother was still matriarch of the family, we had more of a connection and more of a tradition. It just wasn't something we could sustain once she was gone. She was the glue that held us together and none of the rest of us really inherited that ability.
For a time though, we were all connected. For a while, in fact, for me, probably the most formative while, we functioned as a group. It has left me with many memories of her and her warmth. She was magical really. You'd have to be magical to fit 20 people into a trailer for a meal.
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