If It's Thanksgiving It's At Mom and Dad's

Thanksgiving >
The word instantly puts a chill down the spine of my side of the family. Yes, there will be turkey, great food, and a swell party - especially for the blissfully unaware fifteen kids running amok in my parents' basement, but with the joy comes the quiet dread of getting ready. It starts in August when my mother pulls her notes from last year, and starts worrying. It ends about five minutes before five, when the first guest arrives and my Dad is harnessed to his leaf blower diligently chasing that last leaf off the premises. When car lights sweep up the driveway, the leaves will NOT be seen. (Never mind that the house is sitting on almost three wooded acres, and it'’s pitch dark by party time.)

You will find my mother sighing in the Kitchen- she has been up since dawn cooking, completely dressed and ready since mid afternoon, but there is always something- like Dad killing himself outside, buzzing around the patio, or the little incident last year when there was no hot water at zero hour because Dad forgot to over ride the timer. (He keeps Mom on a very strict schedule water wise.) My mother, the model of self control, grits her teeth and accepts that she has done all that she can do. She and my sister set the tables the Sunday before, strategizing over the one in the family room which could block the football game, and how many kids will actually sit in a chair. She started cooking in September and finishes just before six- dinner time.

Thanksgiving is one of three major family gatherings. My poor mother is down to one rather distant first cousin on her side, but my father's side is up to about thirty, not even counting our branch which is almost thirty by itself. Back in the dawn of time, like the early sixties, my grandparents had the whole family over to their house on Upton Street. When they got older, their three children took over. My Aunt Catherine got Greek Easter, my Uncle Nick took Christmas and my dad ended up with Thanksgiving. Back then the clan topped out at around twenty five; now we are approaching sixty. New babies and people keep coming. Last year we had twins, and this year my niece is getting married.

At this point, my mother would give her eyeteeth, her turkey collection and all her VCRS NOT to do this. (OK- maybe not the VCRS) But my Dad has laid down the law- if he's still breathing, we're still doing it. My cousin, John brings the cheesecake that his mother used to bring. My cousin, Anne, who is from Louisiana, brings a pecan pie. My brother, Peter arrives from Michigan and bartends. Uncle Nick brings the rum cake. My sister and I mash the potatoes. My brother, Roger started making Greek chicken soup one year, and now he can't stop. That's only a few of the many hands that get it done. It's over when my sister corrals her sons to take all the chairs and tables back downstairs until next year. It's usually around 8:00, but it feels like midnight.

So we go on, and despite all the holiday angst, I know we have a lot to be thankful for: our ever expanding family and my parents who keep us glued together-a basement full of children-all excited that they are cousins, turkey on the table, and hopefully -plenty of hot water. I know we are lucky, and at least this year, it's raining...no leaf blower.