Sandwiched between Hallowe’en and Christmas, the holiday and its meaning appear to be lost. When I was a child, we fashioned pilgrims out of clay and painted them for our school’s Thanksgiving display. On the holiday, the aroma of the turkey roasting filled the house, whetting our appetites. We gathered at the celebratory table, feasting on Mother’s turkey, stuffing, gravy, vegetables and dishes of spiced kumquats and crabapples and real cranberry relish and Nana’s, maternal grandmother’s, contributions of her specialties: oyster filling, a yam casserole and pies.
After the feast, men watched football or napped while women cleaned up and washed dishes. We children played. I still chuckle when I remember one of my teenaged cousins flitting about the playroom, garbed in sheets, pretending he was a Greek or Roman god in his version of “Gods and Goddesses”!
As a sophomore at Moravian College, I began to call the holiday “National Pig-Out Day” because it seemed to have lost its meaning and was devoted to eating. It was the same old, same old meal and after-dinner activities. I began to resent that women worked while men relaxed because I was a single mother who, despite a demanding profession, contributed food for the feast and helped with the clean-up. Some of the men worked 9 to 5 jobs and were married fathers, but contributed nothing to the dinner or clean-up.
Today, I decorate our home for Thanksgiving, make dinner, clean up and celebrate with my feline family. Relatives are too far away for us to share the holiday. Draco and Minx dine on their favorite treats, thinly sliced turkey breast, shrimp and water-packed tuna, then nap in their “nests.”
I’ll send friends emails with the following links about Thanksgiving: