Thanksgiving Day

I’m sitting here thinking about my history of Thanksgiving as I remember it.

Growing up, this was always a wild time of the year. It was during this season that we’d always finalize our chicken and turkey production. By that I mean we’d kill (can you say clothsline), clean, pluck, cut, and freeze those chickens that lived, of the hundred or so we started with. This was a lot of work for several Saturdays in the Fall. By Thanksgiving we, like the Pilgrims, were done and ready to party. We also raised out own turkeys and had a half dozen or so of them to take care of.

The one we’d eat on Thanksgiving was one we’d raised. Usually a monster. Maybe that’s why I don’t care for turkey too much. I’m a dark meat only eater though to show I’m not squeamish, I do love the skin especially on a deep fried turkey. Nummy.

Thanksgiving Day was always fun around our house but I’m not sure why. I don’t recall doing anything that wasn’t done on other days or other holidays. At some point you’d find the boys outside playing our version of two on one football or our avoid-the-hedge baseball game; you could see the gaps in the hedge that showed how bad we played the game.

All the while we all had some chores to do helping with the meal though strangely I don’t think they were much. My memory is if you managed to stay out of sight, the less you had to do. Ronald was the absolute master of this on Thanksgiving - and any day really. But though he was the master, we certainly were eager learners and did out best. The worst chore was to take the slop bucket out to the pig pen. Chores like that just aren’t in existence anymore. It was a way of life for us. The pigs wouldn’t be sent to the butchers yet nor was Bibba so those were chores we still had. We had some sort of pecking order of whose turn it was but spent far more energy and time determining who it was than if we’d have just done it.

Sometimes, it seems to me, that Grandpa and Grandma Johnson would be down from Idaho Falls and would join us. That added a level of intrigue to the event. We loved them and they had a calming influence on the proceedings somehow. I guess it was the way they were totally unflappable in our midst when all control had seem to be lost. Never once do I recall either of them getting angry with us or telling us what to do even though you’d think with the chaos there would be plenty of opportunities.

One thing we all tried to do was to avoid getting caught in the Grandpa Triangle. This was where he pinned you on one side and you were in a corner pinned on the other two sides by wall. In this position you could expect to stay for a half hour or so while he literally prophesied about things and lectures in a kind way on principles of health and life. The torture wasn’t being pinned but having your brothers and sisters poke faces at you behind him trying to distract you and make you laugh. Grandpa was undaunted though. I wish I could be pinned by him now and actually listen. I also wish I’d have written down the things he said because I can’t remember much but think there was some actual prophesying that was done that I’d probably appreciate now and would find comfort in my old age. Great times.

Farmor would join us regularly and one of the good times was getting to go with dad to pick her up. This was a journey in the olden days. And, of course, you'd get out of helping with the meal chores while appearing to be volunteering to do work. The olden days, you didn’t have I-15 so you drove down Redwood to 33rd South and up to 300 East. One of dad’s OCDs was to go on back roads and new, more efficient routes, that avoided crazy drivers. Half the time as a youngster I never had a clue where we were at. But we’d get Farmor and bring her back to the house.

She didn’t mind correcting our behavior or weighing in on the chaos but it was usually so subtle (“Oosh Namen”), passive aggressive (“wouldn’t you rather go outside to be noisy?”), or in Swedish, so we would just blow her off and keep doing what we were doing. Good times. Mom and Dad were too busy getting the food ready to deal with us but we always tried to avoid crossing the line that would get my dad to give us the evil eye. That meant the death penalty later on when the blessed event was over.

Dinner was wild. If we didn’t raise almost all of the food ourselves I imagine it was a solid $500 dollar meal. This was food for a dozen people. We totally ate a 25-30 pound turkey; picked pretty much clean as well as a good 30 pounds of mashed potatoes. There would be “stuffing” (come on, who came up with dressing?) and we’d long run out though as a kid I couldn’t eat it for some reason. Thankfully I’ve overcome that agenda. There was gallons of gravy, jello blended with whipped cream, dads original “cancer” punch or our homemade root bear that tasted not surprisingly like yeast. Yuck, though I think I always pretended to like it because dad was so thrilled. Somewhere there were vegetables, and I’m sure out of the garden but I don’t remember them.

I always sat at the bread board. It was a great place because you were out of the lines of fire. You could hang out there and get Farmor’s sympathy because she felt it was some sort of cruel ostracism. I guess that’s where I first learned the strategy that has made life entertaining for myself. What you want to do is to stir the pot or disrupt someone else’s life without altering the course of human events. When you are at the bread board and out of line of sight, you can manipulate things or bring things up and stay out of the way when it hits the fan. Just like in sports, the person that always gets caught is the one retaliating. So true at meal time.

Of course no meal of ours would be complete without us getting Germ to do Nixon and a variety of other pantomimes. He probably wouldn’t’ actually do them until we all gathered after the meal but we’d start planning the entertainment and the seeds during dinner. Even more hilarious than Germ was Steven mimicking Germ. Then there were the skits of "So Long, Farewell" and other things - I think I recall a version of "I represent the lollypop tree" or some such stuff.

The highlight for me and what I miss the most, though, is mom’s apple pie. I know apple pie. Apple pie is a friend of mine. Nobody made an apple pie like mom. I have no clue what she did. I don’t think there was any secret recipe or anything. She just made killer apple pies. They were good each and every time she made them and the taste never deviated from one pie or type of apple to another. They were the same exact delicious apple pie every time. Others have told me since they have found the best apple pie, and I’d try it and be disappointed. I’m so disappointed in all other apple pies; I actually don’t choose it much as a dessert anymore. I know they were a lot of work for her to make and though they were difficult, the last few years mom always made an extra one for me that I’d slip out to the car before the festivities began. Even when they started getting the “temple pies” from the temple cook guy, mom would still make me one of her apple pies and she didn’t care that she saw I didn’t need them. I think she would even tell me to exercise as she pimped me a secret one on the side and I'd alway tell her I'm going to start on Tuesday. she unlike others always believed me.

Mom’s apple pies. My all time favorite Thanksgiving memory.