Jo Ann Rebane: Thanksgiving reflections from my childhood
My family lived in Alhambra (southern California) and so did my maternal grandparents, my bachelor uncle, and my paternal grandmother. We always dressed up for any meal at my grandparent’s house, especially Thanksgiving. Daddy wore a suit, Mama wore a nice dress, and my sister and I often wore matching dresses that my mother had sewn for us, and of course our good shoes.
Grandma Clara was a fine cook, roasted a turkey to perfection, made tasty smooth gravy, and was a master of flaky pie crust which usually had a pumpkin filling. The dining room table was set with Grandma’s fine china decorated with little yellow flowers, thumbprint Fostoria crystal goblets, and white linen table cloth and napkins. My Grandparents sat at either end of the table. My mother sat between my sister and me with our backs to the buffet while Daddy sat between his mother and my uncle on the side of the table facing us.
The Thanksgiving table scene could have been straight out of the above Norman Rockwell painting. Grandpa Charles sat at the head of the table and to my right. Between us was a card table where the side dishes resided. After my father said grace, Grandpa, a butcher in his youth, conducted the ritual sharpening of the carving knife against the steel. Then he proceeded to create perfect slices of white meat and laid them on the edge of the turkey platter. He released the drumstick and skillfully worked between the tendons to separate the dark meat.
My job, which I took seriously, was to serve a portion of each side onto each plate after Grandpa had placed the turkey on it and then pass it along. Conversation centered on school and church news, sports, and my uncle’s recent experiences in the Navy. After the meal, Grandpa excused himself to listen to the ball game on the radio (before TV). Daddy followed his little girls into the front room to read the newspaper, or watch us color, and also read when we were older. Clean up was conducted in the kitchen with Grandma washing every dish, pot and pan, Mama rinsed, and my uncle did the drying, often flourishing the dishtowel like a matador’s cape.
Later the adults played canasta at a card table set up in the front room where a fire crackled in the fireplace. This was followed by the best part of the day – for a late snack we each made our own turkey sandwiches on good bread onto which I liked to put on lots of mayonnaise, crispy lettuce, and pickles. After that we all said good night and Daddy drove us home in the dark.
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