Happy Thanksgiving 2023
During the holidays we rarely traveled. We celebrated at home in Atlanta. Mother’s home was Gray, GA while Dad’s was Americus, GA. Instead of going to either’s home we stayed in Atlanta. In large part it was because Mother’s side of the family never fully embraced my Dad and Dad’s side of the family never fully embraced Mom. We paid the obligatory annual visits to each but I don’t recall them being especially joyous occasions.
Thanksgiving meant turkey, ham and all the fixings. Mother was not an especially good cook but Thanksgiving did not demand a particularly skillful chef. Roast turkey, roasted ham, sweet potato pie, potato salad, dressings always baked in the oven and never stuffed in the bird and that awful cranberry gelatin-thing. My parents were thankful of the bounty having grown up poor and living through the Great Depression. Mom was better off than Dad living on a farm. Dad had memories of being told to take a cane pole, dig up a worm and to not come home without dinner. They had little meat in his house so he insisted on at least one meat at every meal. My folks iterated that education was the one important factor that transformed them from subsistence to plenty and sometimes Dad would shake his head and say “I never want to be poor again.” My brother and I could not identify with the possibility of poverty, growing up in a brand new solidly upper middle class neighborhood with stable nuclear families, well educated households, streets litter free and no crime.
I have more fond memories of Christmas. My brother and I were given full access to the Sears Roebuck catalog. We earmarked what we wanted knowing that Santa somehow would get the catalog and new clothing would appear under the tree. We knew everyone on our street. We lived in the third house. The men would go house to house starting with neighbor in the first house. He would go next door. The two of them would come to our house where my mother would give them her homemade scuppernong wine. Then along with my Dad, they would go from house to house down one side of the street and up the other side picking up neighbors and depositing those when they came back to their house. Dad didn’t drink but made an exception at Christmas and was always a bit wobbly when he returned home. The kids would be in the street with their new skates or bicycles. When we were small we played cowboys and Indians with our six-shooters. Later we played basketball or touch football. Every house was decorated. Dad especially loved Christmas and went overboard. I remarked that when he turned on the lights, that we would almost cause a brown out.
When I had my own family we tried to visit my parents and in-laws each Christmas season. After our divorce, I had custody of my son and the kids would be together for the holidays. If it were my turn, we would spend Christmas in Atlanta with my parents. It was always a good time. It was a time when I found myself deferring to my parents just like in my youth. I might have children of my own but during Christmas it was as if I became a child again for a day. Now that they are gone, I think that is what I miss the most at Christmastime.
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