Gina's
fanksgibbon story reminded me of some less than splendid family gatherings of my own. It's funny how we all have those not-quite-picture-perfect holidays.
Someone should have taken away the eggnog away from Grandma when she started taking heart medication. She slipped a few glasses of homemade scuppernong wine in too. (Remember this was in Georgia). No one counted her alcohol intake. She held my niece (her great-grandbaby) and went swaying and singing with her into the kitchen. The conversations outside the table turned odd. This being Thanksgiving, I asked about our Native American ancestors. Somehow stories of the past erupted into too-loud laughter. Shameful secrets slipped from lips.
Tied to a wagon-wheel. Shot off the milking stool. Raucous laughter followed.
"But she was from a civilized tribe," I protested. Grandma continued to sing, a now high pitched wheezy whine that my brother couldn't recognize. "What is that?" he asked. "It's Grandma," I replied. "No. What is THAT?" he asked incredulously. He thought the refrigerator broke.
It did. Three days earlier.My aunt and uncle decided to tell us this AFTER we had eaten food that was not refrigerated. Perhaps they needed wine to be able to tell us. Grandma comes through swinging my niece and dancing after my nephews to declare gleefully, "You should have a BABY."
I was 19. I didn't bring either of my not-marriageable-material boyfriends to that holiday dinner. And it would be several more years before I'd let anyone even meet my family. During college I confided to a therapist that I hated holidays. I admitted that I smashed a glass into the linoleum when my brother dumped a bowl of baked apples onto the table. Therapeutically commiserating, she said, "Good for you." When I confessed I broke a chair she looked uncomfortable.
I didn't tell her it was an antique. So to you I toast a glass of iced tea. Happy Thanksgiving.
