Not Norman Rockwell
By
R. S. Westeren
The snow, like a fuzzy white blanket, has tucked in the frozen ground for the evening. Through the frosty window we see the whole family gathered in the living room stuffed from the grand Thanksgiving feast of turkey with all the trimmings. Smoke from his pipe circled Grandfather’s head like a halo, while he rocked slowly in his leather upholstered throne in front of the roaring crackling fire. Grandchildren and great grandchildren sprawled on the musty carpeted floor playing with old toys that they only see this time of year. Uncles, aunts and the cousins are all quietly chatting with each other comparing stories and adventures of the past years activities. The black long haired cat prowls in the corner near the fireplace preparing to attack any unawaring trespasser and the family yellow Labrador is curled up near the fireplace enjoying the warmth from the fire. The first Christmas music is playing on the old radio giving a wonderful and joyous spirit to the room.
Ahh Norman Rockwell could not have envisioned this any better. CRASH! My eyes popped opened and I sprang up from my chair at the kitchen table. The glass shards of a crystal serving plate spread out on the floor like miniature icebergs. Cheryl had been pulling down the seldom used special crystal dishes hidden in the dark recesses of the cupboard above the refrigerator. Like a super hero, I leaped into action grabbing the broom and a dust pan from the closet in the hallway and begin to corral the scattered faceted fragments with a whisk of the broom. “Stay up on the step stool while I get this swept up” Cheryl stood on the stepstool, like a maiden in distress waiting for her knight in shining armor to save her. Dressed still in her pajamas, fuzzy slippers and an old pink robe this day although early has already been long day for her. This was the first year that Thanksgiving is going to be held at our house as the torch of that honor had been passed on to our family.
Cheryl and I had got up at three this morning after spending the entire previous evening cleaning every nook and cranny of the house. I have never quite understood the reason we had to wash the shelves of the cupboards or organize our medicine chest just because someone in boredom might sneak a look. But very wise from years of marriage and some past silly mistakes I have made, I choose to do these projects without a single question or retort. I am in charge, in charge of staying out of the way until I am summoned with her battle cry of CAN”T YOU HELP? Then I, with my best effort, will attempt to guess what she really wants me to do with no conceivable way to succeed until I am shooed away again. I know it’s not mean nor that she doesn’t care, it is the stress of the day when so many judging eyes will be on her.
The smell of turkey sneaks out of the oven tiptoeing throughout the house, a marvelous aroma, with hints of sage from the dressing and the unique smell of crisping skin. Cinnamon and nutmeg fragrances from the hot pumpkin pies cooling on the counter twirl and tease through out the house. Setting the table with blue trimmed china and the hefty silverware has it own special touches. The silverware that was stored in its special flocked lined wooden shrine that each piece had its own individual place. We never see or use this silverware except for the holidays and treat each piece like it was a treasured art piece. Not only were the classic pieces the fork, spoon, knife but also were those specialty pieces; the pie wedge, gravy ladle, large serving spoons and of course the mammoth fork with the revered slicing knife. Ready for guests with just three hours of sleep over the last thirty six hours, but the house looks amazing every thing in its place. Compared to what we just did spring cleaning is just a touch up. The table is dressed in all of its finest linens, ironed folded napkins and grandma’s lace table cloth perfectly laid on. Polished silverware laid with precision each straight, in their proper place and a fresh flower center piece makes this table as grand as the feast.
Food is marched from the kitchen to the table like the Macy’s day parade; real slightly lumpy mashed potatoes lead the way, then the savory gravy, yams with melting marshmallows, green bean casserole with bubbling cheese, the mouthwatering stuffing and then the golden browned turkey is presented to the table. The carving duties have been passed on to me and I take it on with honor, pride and a slight bit of nerves. Slicing the turkey with the precision of blind drunken butcher but in reality no one really cares, just so they have a portion of that traditional fare. The total silence is a sign, except for the clinking of silverware, is all you needed to hear to know that the meal was a success. The rest of the day went on like all the ones in the past.
Dishes were washed, each carefully then dried. They all will go back to their special places until December. The macho males retreat to the den to watch football and the older folk took a sitting after dinner nap. Soon it was time to say goodbye, with left overs in tow.
Our first Thanksgiving dinner now only a memory, but plans are already set for the Christmas day dinner. Alone in the house, we finally relax, sharing a glass of wine we toast ourselves for our first family Thanksgiving done well, even if it was not a Norman Rockwell image.
Happy Thanksgiving
Roger
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