The letter from the woman who couldn't tolerate a few hours with her in-laws for Thanksgiving couldn't help but make me, as I'm sure all of you, remember my own tales of family holidays yore. Methinks some perspective is required here.
Thanksgiving 1972. I was 9, my brother was 7, my sister 5 and we were on our way with our mom and dad to grandpa's house for Thanksgiving. I say "grandpa's house" because that's the way it was that year; grandpa and grandma being in the middle of one of three divorces to each other. There was a heightened sense of anticipation and trepidation, as my mother had not seen her father since the last Thanksgiving where everyone was together, sitting at the long table and my grandfather hadn't liked the way my uncle (my mother's twin) had asked him to pass the mashed potatoes so he hurled the bowl through the air in the general direction of my uncle and my mother booked it out of there, hearing on the way out her father ask if my uncle wanted some gravy with that? It was with this in mind that my parents, especially my stepdad, had reluctantly loaded us up in the Valiant station wagon and made the two hour trip in our best going-out-to-eat clothes. I remember we had gift-wrapped packages with us and the foresight of my mother makes me laugh; that she would instinctively know that she wouldn't be seeing her dad again at Christmas, like this was all my dad was gonna be able to tolerate...
So, quivering from anticipation and the muscle contractions from sitting absolutely, perfectly still on the way there lest the curl fall out of my Indian hair (christ, that might blow the entire possibility of inheritance), not to mention the constant monitoring required to ensure that my siblings didn't cross the imaginary line I'd drawn in the upholstery and get more than their fair share of the bench seat, we arrived.
I imagine my grandfather must have seen us pull up to the curb because we were still uncrating ourselves when the front door opened. Down the front walk towards us bounded my grandparents' dalmation dog, delighted to see us. In his exuberance, he jumped on my little sister and knocked her down. Having dogs of our own, she was used to this and got right back up unscathed but my grandfather was not satisfied. He strode down the walk, picked up Denny by the skin on the front of his neck, raised him up to eye level and punched him in the jaw like a man.
My father said, quietly, "Kids, get in the car." We got right back in and drove away without a word. My father didn't even have to say "I told you so" and my mother didn't even need to hear it. Of course, since we had planned on dinner at my grandfather's, there was no Thanksgiving dinner waiting for us at home.
A toast -- To holidays with with family that do not involve hurled tableware or animal cruelty! May the worst that befalls you be that someone you only see once a year forgets your name and you have to sit through a child's recital!
