Stories of Thanksgiving

Many people love the holidays.  They may have big families who come to town, laughing and drinking; perhaps all of your family gets together, even the cousins from another state that you get to see once a year, maybe twice.  Football is involved.  You tell what you are thankful for around the table.  You may have one of those types of idyllic holidays.  Mine were not.

A lot of my childhood has been blocked out from emotional and physical trauma.  If your not familiar with my blog, I was a victim of child abuse.  My stepfather, an alcoholic and pot user used to beat the shit out of my mom, and vice versa.  And sometimes me and my brother.  Most of the time they just locked me in my room.  My earliest memory of their fighting was when I saw my mom lift off the top of the stove and smash Mark in the face with it.  (She was one strong bitch, and this is where I got my bad ass fighting skills!)  Then she chased him out of the house to his car, where I slammed the car door on his leg, breaking his ankle.   Mark had a big family, but most of the time we didn’t go over to his parent’s house for Thanksgiving.

As a child, I would wake up on Thanksgiving at my great grandmothers house “Gramma” and we’d put on the Macy’s Day parade and I’d help make the stuffing, my favorite food.  I’d beg for celery free stuffing, and get my own little plate made up.  Later in the day my mom would come with my brother.  I don’t remember Mark there, but who knows?  I’d eat what I dubbed “The Holy Trio” which was corn, mashed potatoes, and my celery free stuffing.  It was all I knew.

One year, maybe 5th grade, we were invited to my step-great-grandparents’s house for Thanksgiving.  Mark was from a rich (Well, Birmingham is like Beverly Hills compared to where we lived) family, so we got a chance to have the big feast, with all the Aunts and Uncles and the cousins from Illinois.  There was a separate kids table, and it was a blast.  All I can remember is that my step-cousin Melanie taught me some cool dance moves to PYT by Micheal Jackson.  Melanie’s mom introduced my mom to my step-dad, who was her cousin.  They met in a home for Catholic unwed mothers in 1970 and both kept their babies even though their families were horrified.  They ended up meeting two airforce guys who married them when they both got knocked up a second time.

The next summer my step father divorced my mom, and it was pure bliss, until she moved my friend Johnny’s uncle into our house and started having an affair with him, cheating on her long-term affair Mike, who was my step-fathers best friend.  Unfortunately, we were dirt poor, on welfare, and the next Thanksgiving we ended up eating mexican tv dinners.  But the violence was cut way down in our house, so it was better.

Thanksgiving the following year was hysterical.  My mom figured out churches would give poor people food, so we signed up for the free turkey and side dishes.  Since I didn’t eat turkey, there was a ton left.  I had a brother who was very naughty, and I know he locked one of our cats in the fridge.  It was Baby Fatso, the son of my beloved Sweetie Pie.  I kept hearing a long meow and it took forever to find him, in the fridge.  The poor cat was cold, and had eaten the entire turkey.  (My mom never to this day puts any food in Tupperware, just in pans straight to the fridge.  This is why you never eat the left-overs if you visit, trust me !)  He rolled out of the fridge like a drunken sailor.  My brother had just screwed himself out of like 10 meals, so I had a good laugh over that one!!!

Once I hit high school, I had two long-term boyfriends, so I began the tradition of eating at their family’s house.  Most of the time it was the traditional big family sitting around the table, some getting wasted and arguing like fools.  One year someone slipped me some bear meat, and I thought I was going to die. Back then my motto was “I don’t eat fish, because they swim in the sea.  I don’t eat birds because they fly in the sky.  And I don’t eat turkey because its disgusting” or something like that.  Rhonda, do you remember?

My sophomore year in college my gramma died right before Halloween.  My boyfriend of three years and I had just broken up that August, and my new one I was working on was home in St. Louis.  I had nowhere to go.  My BFF, the Big A had lost her mom that summer, and I remember us sitting in the parking lot of White Castles, gorging ourselves on little burgers and crying.  Not a pretty site.  I have no idea what we ended up doing later that day, but I just remember feeling like an orphan or something.

One year in my mid twenties I was stuck in East Lansing without a ride to come home.  My work friends were trying to get me to come home with them, but I wasn’t in the mood.  I remember my long-lost friend B. from Star came through and drove up in a snow storm to come get me to bring me home.  The next day my friends Angie and Gina and their family and I went to Frankenmouth and spend the day walking around and eating.  It was fun and a nice change of pace.

My first Thanksgiving I ever cooked was in Las Vegas.  I had moved there in October on a whim, and a lot of my new friends had family back home, and people had to work, such as myself.  I managed to make a huge dinner (Besides the turkey, which L. made) and had two minutes to eat before I had to dash off to my shift as a cocktail waitress.  My friends came up and stayed until my shift ended, which was nice, and we went back home and drank ourselves silly, because that is what you do in Vegas.

Many a year since then I’ve spent at home, laying in pj’s, just doing laundry.  Four years ago I got a major migraine and had to skip dinner @ my boyfriends, now husbands parents house.  No food in my apartment except for the apple pie I had made, so I had to eat pie all day on Thanksgiving.

My first full turkey dinner I cooked was three years ago, before I was married.  I burned the crap out of my arm, but it was like a badge of honor.  Doing a complete meal is hard work, and when you have a smaller oven like we do, it’s almost impossible to cook everything on time.  I think I ran 15 minutes late, but I was damn proud.  It’s very hard to cook turkey when you can’t taste it.

This year, I have been wanting to escape.  The kids are with their mom, out-of-town.  My mom works, and his family invited us over, but I really wanted a break.  So, after I asked hubby yesterday, “Why don’t we go somewhere this weekend for Thanksgiving, so we don’t have to deal with anybody?” he said yes, and I booked us some dirt cheap airfare and hotel to New York City baby!  I am excited as hell.

I have been to New York three times before, once in the summer, once over Memorial Day, and once on New Years Eve.  It’s a fantastic city, so many things to see and do.  Everyone has to go there once in their lifetime to understand how fantastic it is.  My husband has never been, so I’m thrilled to take him.

Naked Cowboy in Times Square

New York is overwhelming, wild, and full of life.  I LOVE tacking pictures there, and I’m sharing a few of them now.  Some of my best pictures are hanging up, and I’m not in the mood to take them out of their frames, scan them, reduce the size, then upload them here.  So, just take my word for it.  I’m hoping to get some good shots with my new digital camera, The Nikon D80.

Mean streets of New York, Memorial Day, 2002

Strawberry Fields, Central Park

Ground Zero, Memorial Day, 2002

Ground Zero, looking at the space in the sky where the twin towers stood nine months prior

What is everyone else doing on Thanksgiving?  Anything special, any traditions you do faithfully?  I’d love to hear them here. What are you thankful for this year?  I’m thankful that life goes on and that people survive no matter what has happened to them.

We are leaving early Thanksgiving morning, and I probably won’t post another blog in a week.  So forgive me, but I hope this one will be enough for a week.  Happy Thanksgiving to you, and look for me @ the Macy’s Day parade, as we are getting in @ 10 am and might make it in time to see the end of it!!!