Thanksgiving

My parents lightly shake my shoulders when we finally make it to Aunt Ann and Uncle Gerard's house. One full hour in the car is way too exhausting for a six-year-old. After I sit up, my first view out the window is of the house. The house stands two stories high, old and of fading brown wood. It looks like a historic landmark, much like their diner that has been a staple in Ft. Walton for three generations and over 50 years. I walk in ahead of my parents and run through the dim hallway toward my uncle. He calls me a turkey, as we've been known to call each other year-round, and kisses the side of my head as he bearhugs me. He always had that same look, tough Italian meets biker, a full head of dark curls and a manly goatee. My aunt is busy in the kitchen and asks Uncle Gerard to watch the turkey (the bird in the oven, not me) so she can have a cigarette. Camille and I run to the guest bedroom where Grandma and Grandpa have left us gifts on the bed. They always have something for us when we visit.

The cousins on this side of the family are much older than I am. My mom congratulates Vicky on the pregnancy, her first baby. Little Gerard is back from college with another girl, and even though I'm not old enough, I can see how naturally pretty she is. Eddie is about to graduate high school, future plans unknown. Camille and I look forward to when Little Gerard will play with us. We shouldn't play favorites, but he's always been the fun one, the charming one, the one that gives my sister and I just a little extra attention with one extra kiss, one extra slap on the head, one extra piggy back ride.

There's a long dining table, big enough to seat 12, piled with food. The dishes are piled with much more than the standard turkey and cranberry dressing. We're Italian, and the turkey goes down even better for us if there's some eggplant parm by it. My mom makes me a plate and brings it over to our kiddie table, the standard fold-out. We're placed in the living room by the TV. I show Camille my mouthful of chewed ham. Her cackle pierces through everyone's ears.

After dinner Little Gerard finds me and Camille playing in the backyard, and by playing, I mean we're running in circles with no particular purpose. We immediately feel his presence, as he's always been into weights, and quickly rush over to him. He grabs my arms (because I'm the oldest) just above the wrists and starts spinning. In a few seconds, I'm helicoptered, my legs 3 feet off the ground and twisting rapidly clockwise with the rest of my body. He lets me down, and I make exaggerated woe-is-me sounds as I stumble from the dizziness. Camille is giggling as she takes Little Gerard by the hand and skips into the living room, where his huge arms grab her by the armpits and throw her into the air. She screams, "weeeee!" as he catches her on the fall down. She goes up and down, up and down, until my mom screams, "Be careful with the fan, Gerard!"

He puts her down, gives her a little slap on the butt, and jogs toward the back door. Now that the food has settled, the guys are ready to play football. I'm too little, so I play throw and catch with my dad until it's time for the game. As they run through the yard and jump up for batted-down passes, I sit on the patio wishing I were big enough to play. It's not like I'll need the energy for the ride home. I'll be long asleep before we cross the bridge either way.



The drive feels about the same, but as soon as my dad makes that unfamiliar right turn, everything feels completely foreign. Vicky and her husband, Cousin Randy, just bought a new house. We've heard it's a nice one. Randy's landscaping business has become increasingly successful, and there wasn't enough room for the three kids (and fourth on the way) in the other place. We only get lost once with the directions. My dad blames me because I have the directions in my hand. It's always easy blaming the 12-year-old.

I miss the old brown posts in the dining room of my aunt and uncle's. I can remember running through the 12-inch gaps between posts pretending I was a running back. I know I'm too old for that now, but I miss looking at them. It's not that they're gone. We just saw them when we visited Uncle Gerard a month ago. It's that they're not here on Thanksgiving like they've always been.

The turkey probably looked beautiful, but it has already been carved by the time we arrive. There's something largely unsatisfying about walking into the kitchen for the first time Thanksgiving and not seeing a proudly standing bird with its tender, oranged, perfectly basted skin. Grandma would have never allowed them to carve the turkey before we got there. Eddie complains that he's starving, though looking at his now slightly protruding gut, it doesn't look like he's been doing any starving. Before we even get a tour, Vicky announces that we're ready now to eat. We pile up in this unfamiliar kitchen, creating a line that snakes around the counters filled with food. It feels like a buffet.

I enjoy all my food. At least this part hasn't changed. Neither has the part where Uncle Gerard calls me a turkey. Eddie asks me how school is going and then noogies my head for getting A's and saying my favorite music is jazz. He really does look bigger than before. It must be from all that training as a cop, both the physical and the Taco Bell. Which girlfriend Little Gerard has brought to this Thanksgiving will escape me by next year. They all sort of blend into each other at this point.

I think I'm big enough at this point to play in the football game. I'm waiting for the right time to ask if I can play in the game. When the grown-ups get up from the adult table, I plan on going to the car to get the football and throwing it with my dad. I'm going to show them that I'm not a little kid anymore. I can go out for long passes and throw a deep ball. I can't wait to play.

An hour goes by, and none of the adults have come by, except when Aunt Ann brings over scratch-off tickets for me and Camille. This has been her new obsession since she quit smoking. She gives each of us a nickel to scratch with. When Camille sees she won 40 dollars, Aunt Ann cheers and gives her a hug. I win a free ticket, which just allows me to lose later rather than immediately. The other adults don't know Camille won $40 because they're in the dining room. Some are telling stories of my Grandma and Grandpa. This is the sixth Thanksgiving without Grandma, the fifth without Grandpa. I remember their faces and voices, but I'll need help from the older generation to tell me anything more about them. The adults not involved in the reminiscing are arguing over hotels and Park Place.

Some of the miscellaneous third-degree relatives aren't at this Thanksgiving. Even though I've never had a conversation with them beyond, Can you pass me the coke please, Mike? I still feel weird that they're not here to look at. Uncle Gerard has been uncharacteristicly quiet throughout the entire dinner. He's still recovering from a quadruple bypass and has to take it slow this year. Little Gerard is yawning as he rolls the dice and his girl rubs his leg. Eddie keeps rubbing his lower back, saying he hurt it on the job last week. My dad is in a chair in the corner, his eyes closed and his mouth slightly open.

It looks like there's no football game this year. The adults are too tired. They're going to be playing Monopoly for a while. I don't like Monopoly.



As soon as class is over, I hop into the Camaro and pick up Stanley. Apparently people call him Stan now, but he was Stanley to me since middle school, and that isn't changing now. Stanley and I use the 5-hour drive home to talk about how our first semester of college is going, how weird it's going to be seeing all those faces again after months away, if they're going to think college has changed us. I'm feeling great about seeing everyone and showing them how grown up I've become. I've also lost a little weight and started lifting arm weights in the dorm room. I think I can even see a pec!

One time zone and about six cd's later, I drop Stanley off at his home. He knows to come over the next night for dessert at my house, as I've told most of my high school friends. I call to give the family a heads up that I'm only 10 minutes away, but they've been prepared for a while. The Christmas tree is already standing tall, my dad just picked up Camille from my old high school, and mom already has lots of food made for the big feast tomorrow. This is the third year in a row we're having Thanksgiving at my home, ever since Aunt Neomi and my cousins moved down from Massachusetts. The past 2 Thanksgivings, Uncle Gerard has called me a turkey from over the phone.

We don't play the usual games of catch-up, my parents and I, because I talk to them enough over the weekends that they know the story. After commenting that I look a little skinnier, we're all caught up in our present lives. They ask me which night I'm going out with Crystal. I've planned everything for Friday night. There will be no room for day-after leftovers when a three-course, three-restaurant date is on the agenda.

The feast is decadent. My mom has been looking to revamp the menu, and the additions are all perfect. Everyone raves about how succulent the rib roast is, including my dad, who brushes aside his self-imposed 13-year diet of no red meat to try it. This Italian, Puerto Rican, and American mixture really works for me. Grandma Carmen's pasteles are a welcome addition, especially since I now have something to put hot sauce on. Of course, Grandma Carmen is a jovial woman whose main purpose is to continually offer her grandkids more food. If I'm not too careful, she will stuff me full before I have a chance to visit the desserts. There are enough desserts to cover an entire table, and actually they do. We didn't need the kitchen table anyway. The kiddie table doesn't take as much room this year, since I'm sitting with the adults.

My friends are kind enough to give me a few hours to recover from the feast before they ring the doorbell. I've been picking at the dessert table for about 5 hours, jokingly announcing that I'm on "Round 8" or "Round 12" of eating. My mom told me a few days ago that we would be having a ton of new desserts, and my friends were more than welcome to come and have some. I want to use this opportunity to get back together with my friends. This Thursday doesn't just feel like a holiday anymore, but rather an event. We've been calling each other through the weeks, but I haven't seen these people for over 3 months now. You never realize that will happen until the first time it does.

Before I left for college, I wrote goodbye letters to 4 friends who I imagined would be there for the long-haul. Now all 4 of them, and about 6 or 7 others, are sitting in my living room, laughing and eating cheesecake, Italian love cake, and trifle. Everyone is speaking as though they've OD'd on caffeine, rambling ridiculously quickly. We have so many questions to ask each other, so many stories to tell, that they're all exploding out of us at once.

I've been making a few friends at UF so far, but they can never replace the ones that were around for the days I was marching on the football field with my trumpet. Even with the subtle changes-- new haircuts, new slang words, new people coming out of the closet-- that will probably get bigger and bigger as we spend more time apart, they will never take away the memories. Everyone agrees.

We stand outside at the top of my driveway in the chilly starlight, people intending to drive away in their cars but instead pausing for one more story. My parents come out to remind me to put the desserts in the fridge when I go to bed. I didn't realize it was so late. Eventually a lull hits the conversation. Gary strikes in with his "Seven minutes" theory that conversations always have a pause around the seven-minute mark. He used to say this everytime there was a pause back in high school. Half of us laugh, and the other half jokingly groan. Nonetheless, the pause is a cue that the night has run its course. We all say goodnight to each other, and I remind Crystal that I'll pick her up at 7 tomorrow.

This was a fantastic time. We should do this every year.



I step down cautiously to the ground of the runway and immediately feel the difference in climate. I no longer need the jacket that bundled me in the northeastern cold this morning. Florida knows no limits to 75 degree weather. I take off my jacket and tuck it under my arm as I head toward the inside terminal. It's not a long walk from there to where friends and family wait to pickup their loved ones. Pensacola Regional Airport is rather small.

Never have I really understood why I crack a smile whenever I spot my family in the distant crowd of people awaiting their loved ones at the airport, but I do this everytime I return home. That dopey smile comes up again as I see them in front of the pack. They usually find a spot up front so they can get to me as soon as I cross the restricted threshold. Their arms have reached out and pointed in my direction, so I know they've spotted me. When I get within 100 feet, my dad rubs his chin with his whole hand to mock my 3-day-old stubble. They wish that I'd present myself cleanly shaven. I like how the shadow makes me look older than my 23 years, though I loathe how my thinning hair contributes just the same. We share in some kisses on the cheek and hugs and head down to get my luggage. My dad complains that I should have just carried the bag on the plane with me. He can be a real smartass, though it doesn't change the fact that he's right on this matter. My smartass reply is to tell him with my Christopher from The Sopranos impression to go downstairs and get my bag ready. It's good to know we can pick up where we left off.

I haven't slept much in the days leading to Thanksgiving. Shuffling between work and school projects hasn't allowed me time to sit back and appreciate that my favorite holiday is here. When I get into bed, I press down slightly with the weight from my legs against the waterbed vinyl and quickly lift up. The gentle waves remind me of five years ago, when many of my high school friends came over to hang out. We were in our first semesters of college then. We've all moved on since that time, both emotionally and geographically. It's hard to find a meeting place for Thanksgiving dessert when our dinners will be in different parts of the country.

This spot on the bed is where I wrote those 4 letters, the ones for the high school friends I was sure would stay close. None of them will be over for dessert. I'm in regular contact with the ones in New York and Texas. I haven't seen the one in Illinois in at least 2 years. The other one I heard got married and lives in Boston, but I didn't get an invitation, understandable considering I haven't had direct contact with her in about 4 years.

The aroma of the rib roast is subtly permeating upstairs when I wake up. Bright beams of sunlight are seeping through my blinds. I can't remember the last time I slept until 10 am. Aunt Neomi expects us at her new home at 3, so I figure I should go downstairs and help with the cooking. My mom has March of the Wooden Soldiers playing in the VCR. She loves that movie. We play it every year around Thanksgiving or Christmas. After JR greets me at the bottom of the stairs with some licks and a wagging tail, I go to sample some delicious rainbow cookies Camille made last night. My dad tells me that Uncle Gerard said Happy Thanksgiving. End of message. I missed the call while I was sleeping.

Perhaps I will see this side of the family, the one with which I spent my childhood Thanksgivings, when I come home for Christmas. One thing is for sure, though: we won't be meeting at the diner. At 65, Uncle Gerard is retiring. Three generations of stories will forever rest in the walls of what will soon become characterless office spaces.

My family asks how those high school friends from the Thanksgiving dessert get-togethers are doing. Camille is in shock when I tell her Crystal is getting married in the Spring. There are still one or two friends from those original get-togethers who are in town this year for the holiday. The original 10 or so had dwindled to 8... 6... until last year when I sat on the couch watching music videos with 3 of those old faces, none of the infamous 4 included. Of the dwindled 3, the one I'm closest to isn't here this year, and neither will be the Thanksgiving dessert get-together. I call no one. I'll sample the desserts through 15 rounds with just the family at Aunt Neomi's house.

In the living room is the framed picture Camille and I got mom and dad for their anniversary this year: a black-and-white in front of my dad's childhood home, standing beside a color photo of our reenactment this summer, 18 years later. When I come into town, Camille and I love to watch our old home videos that remind us of times like the ones in the black-and-white photo. It's funny how you can live these experiences, observe them on tape (or now, thanks to our new burner, dvd), and still find new things to laugh at on each watching. Camille checks the collection to see what era of our youth we should watch. She and I are now at the ages our cousins were when we had those Thanksgivings at the old brown house.

I ask my mom how Little Anthony is doing. She says he'll be huge by the time I finally get to see him. I was there when his parents, Little Gerard and Stephanie, got married earlier this year, but I have yet to see the start of the next generation. The picture I have of him and Little Gerard is incredible. I've caught myself randomly opening the file on my computer from time to time. I hope that I'm able to visit often enough that I can see him progressively grow.

Before you know it, he'll be big enough for me to swing him by his wrists and play helicopter.