I used to call it the “magic” table. Set against the wall in my grandparent’s five-room bungalow; adorned with a doilie and my grandfather’s Avon glass car collection, each Thanksgiving the table would expand to extraordinary length, eventually subdividing a smallish dining room, ending only when the foot of the table extended to the master bedroom door.
My grandparents lived simply, not to be confused as simple people. Floyd was the high school janitor, sneaking me in most Saturday’s to shoot hoops on my arch-enemy school’s floor. Vera was a retired midwife, a soft-spoken beauty against grandpa’s Mediterranean good looks.
And their house was Thanksgiving central. Parents to three children, my mother’s oldest brother would invade with his 18 (yes, 18) offspring. There were twins and triplets, girls and boys, or in my way of thinking, a ready-made sandlot football team under one roof.
Her younger brother brought a brood of five, him included, while my parents traipsed five boys along in their 1966 station wagon, as well as assorted casseroles, desserts and salads.
Adults manned the “magic” table while card tables set near edge-to-edge across the crowded living room that stored a velvatine covered couch, black and white television and solid oak rocking chair.
As a child I had but one wish – to take my place among the adults. Years passed, older children became less frequent and I could see my opening to enter the enchanted world of the magic table conversation. I imagined incredible topics such as world affairs and politics, sports and fashion. All things absent while I was forced to cut the two-year-old cousin’s turkey.
I was going on 16 when I did the mental count and knew … KNEW I would finally be among the mature. I boned up on Walter Cronkite and read the Omaha World-Herald from cover to cover. I acclimated myself on the standings of professional football, especially the Lions who typically were led to a Turkey Day slaughter.
I was ready, informed, excited when my oldest brother came home for the holiday with his GIRLFRIEND!
From that point on it was all a blur.
I know we had the typical spread that belied our financial status. A massive turkey setting as a centerpiece surrounded by chicken and ham; potatoes scalloped and mashed, yams and gravy, corn and peas, green bean casserole and ambrosia salad.
I remember the annual pinnacle tournament that followed; me taking extraordinary pleasure in teaming up with grandpa to knock off my brother and his other.
I remember seconds and thirds; the homemade vanilla ice cream churned on the back porch and placed among warmed cherry and peach pies.
I remember the warmth in the kitchen, not from the flames of an almost-ancient gas stove, but from the love that hugged the soul.
I remember that night, comfortable in the blankets of my bed when the phone call came and my parents rushing from the house to our county hospital 18 miles away.
I remember my grandpa, always with coal-black hair and eyes that danced when he laughed, laying in a sterile room, his hair gone white in a matter of three days and a single tear streaming from his eyes when the word cancer was whispered.
I remember the funeral, not more than a week after that extraordinary dinner, and the hundreds upon hundreds who paid their respects for a janitor that opened his heart to his students.
We never had Thanksgiving dinner at grandma’s house again. I never sat at the adult table. Never played another hand of pinnacle, never churned homemade ice cream from an old, dilapidated step.
This holiday season it’s my hope that your “magic” does not come from a table but from the memories that you share. This holiday season, as you prepare to gorge yourself on your bounty, you look to a neighbor or a stranger, and invite them to share., This holiday season it’s my hope your kitchen is filled with the warmth that hugs your soul and that your memories will sustain you when the season does not.
Brian Bloom is the regional publisher for The Laurinburg Exchange, The Richmond County Daily Journal and The Anson Record. He can be reached at [email protected].
