Thanksgiving has evolved and expanded over the years — much like the turkeys
No matter what you’ve read, no matter what you think you remember, Thanksgiving is often not a nice holiday. At least it wasn’t when I was growing up.
Now wait, I’m not a malcontent and I have evidence to offer.
Some of us have memories of the Thanksgiving holidays after World War II, when we celebrated the fact that we could all be together and there was plenty to eat.
When I was a little girl in Montana, right where Libby Dam is now, the holiday was pretty simple. No Gobblers. Preparations started way back in the spring with the chicken enemas. Now, if you’ve never participated in this pre-Thanksgiving ritual, you may be puzzled. But back in those days the chicks were given this homely treatment and it was my job to hold the poor chick upside down while one of my parents dropped oil upon its nether parts. If that doesn’t take the shine off the day, I don’t know what will.
In case you think I’m making this up, I did find a note in the Scientific World Journal that details the method of giving enemas to chickens. When I was a little girl, that was one family activity I would have gone a long way to skip. The Scientific World Journal says that it is rarely necessary. Now they tell me.
That was in Montana before World War II. We didn’t celebrate Gobbler days but in our tiny town, we’d get together for a festive meal. Everyone brought what they could.
We ate in a building abandoned by the J. Neil Lumber Company. It served as a community center, saloon on Saturday nights, church on Sunday and I roller skated there the rest of the week.
In 1941, a large part of our little town of Warland moved to Spokane, and everything got more complicated, including Thanksgiving. Across the country, wartime Thanksgivings took on a different feel, snatching moments with loved ones wherever you could. My uncles were in the Navy and toward the end of the war brought my grandmother a monkey named Suzie who changed the atmosphere of Thanksgiving a lot for us.
Once the war was over and rationing finally ended, our joy swelled into the huge Thanksgiving celebrations that were so much part of those years.
The Thanksgiving feast meant the biggest turkey gobbler we could find. Of course many families were still cooking in a wood stove. Sometimes a relative or neighbor would be enlisted to cook a second turkey.
Now, here comes the bad part. (I bet you thought it was the chickens.) Relatives that we saw only once a year would arrive and we’d be implored to “kiss Aunt Mabel or Uncle John.” Aunt Mabel was 96 and she was Uncle Ben’s fourth wife, I’m pretty sure. Aunt Rose was his first. She was there too. Uncle Ben was pushing 100 (he lived to be 104 and had a lot to say about how no Thanksgiving dinner should be served without hot Italian peppers. My Aunt Vi, the professional wrestler, was usually there, but I saw her during the year so I didn’t mind a hug.
Thanksgiving dinner dress code was pretty rigorous. Daddy wore his green sports coat and Mother wore her best dress, heels and makeup. Thanksgiving required our very best. The injustice was that after Mom had worked all day to make everything perfect, she had to stop, put on her best dress, makeup and high heels — high heels were very important — and she had a frilly apron just for the occasion.
The Business Insider says that today’s turkeys are twice the size of those in the 1950s. Many people believe today’s turkeys lack the flavor of those early ones.
But there was a jello mold. There was always a jello mold.
The table was set television perfect and there was always an extra chair, which my mother said was in case the baby Jesus should stop by. I told this story last night to a friend who snorted in derision at the ridiculous idea, but it was a sweet tradition which meant there would always be room for one more and often the chair was filled by a neighboring teenager who wanted to fit in one more dinner.
There’s no easy way to explain where traditions come from. But as I tell the stories of my past, I realize I miss it all. Well, not Aunt Mabel, maybe. Uncle Ben lived to be 104 and actually cooked turkey with peppers for us one Thanksgiving.
Happy Gobbler Day, and may you be creating your own traditions right now.
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