by Brent M. Jones
Each Thanksgiving, I get excited. Sometimes I think back to 1957 to a special Thanksgiving day and dinner. My sister was born that year on Tuesday the 26th of November, two days before the holiday. My mother and new sister were, of course, still in the hospital, and my father, brother, and I had to figure out what to do for a meal on Thanksgiving Day, and I was worried.
This story of that day is one that I have told, over and over again, for the last 60+ years. Looking back at the event, this year seems different, and it occurs to me that I have been in a rut. For too long, the story has just been focused on our special Thanksgiving meal. I have been missing the bigger picture. I should have seen how repetitious my account had become.
Oral histories have been a common way families have passed on their life stories. My father gave his history and much of his extended family’s stories this way. He never could seem to remember that he had told us the stories before. Later in his life, I just reached a point where I felt it was important to listen to him, so I didn't say anything and just listened.
Looking back now, I realize that his repetition imprinted those stories into my memory. So why I have retold the Thanksgiving story of 1957 so many times to my sister is something I really can't explain?
It was Thanksgiving that year, and after some concern, I learned that a neighbor had invited us guys over for dinner. Even then, I wondered why our Aunts, uncles, or even Grandparents didn't ask us? Maybe they did, and maybe my dad thought it would be easier to go almost next door rather than across town. I remember worrying about the dinner. At 11 years old, I thought having a sister was fine, but I have always remembered how much I had looked forward to turkey day.
When the time for the big meal came, I remember that we were at the neighbors all sitting around the living room table. We waited at the table for what seemed like a long time. The table didn't seem like the Thanksgiving day dinners I was used to. I figured that when the turkey arrived, it would make it all good. Our neighbor, Mrs. Zelner, announced that it was ready and coming. She carried the main course on a large silver tray with a silver dome cover. I had never seen a large silver serving tray with a body like this, which seemed exciting. She had left the center of the table open with a place to put the special silver tray and carefully set it down.
She stood up, and I wondered if she would carve the turkey first, but she just reached for the silver dome lid. It seemed like she was building up to the big moment; I know I was, and then she lifted the dome. The tray was stacked high and full of hamburgers.
Yes, I was disappointed and a little shell-shocked. The rest of the dinner seems like a blur as I try to recall it. I know I was crushed. I was enough to repeat this story repeatedly, primarily to my sister Trudy over many years. I guess I figured I was passing on my oral tradition memories to her. I knew I had told her the story before, so I wasn't just retelling it because I couldn't remember. Maybe I have always been trying to get over it.
Since then, every Thanksgiving dinner has been spent with family. In the case of my wife's parents, those dinners were also finished with a day of football.
One year we found ourselves alone in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Each of our now-grown children and their spouses had other plans. A member of our church who knew we would be alone invited us over for dinner. At that time, it seemed to hit me how nice it was to have someone do that. Thinking of others is important; perhaps you notice it more when you’re on the receiving end.
I have realized that I had much to be thankful for so many years ago. A new sister, overlooked at the time, was a neighbor who wanted to help.
