"My GOD! Look what they’re doing to Turkey!" All the carnage he’d seen this afternoon, like the horrible mashing of Potato, did not prepare him for this. This was even worse than seeing Carrot skinned alive, one long orange strip after another. He could still hear the screams.

Horrified, but unable to tear his gaze away, Pumpkin Pie watched as they ripped Turkey’s legs off and sliced huge hunks of flesh from his chest. All the while, laughing and exclaiming in delight. Desperately, Pumpkin Pie scanned the counter for an ally to help make an escape attempt. Earlier, he had tried to convince Cranberry Sauce, but it had been no use. Sauce had been in denial and was little more than a quivering pile of cowardice.

"Apple! Apple Pie! Come on, Apple, snap out of it. We’ve got to get out of here while they're still busy with the others. You want that to happen to you?" But it was no use. Apple Pie just lay there and steamed. Not that Pumpkin blamed him. They had tortured the poor pie mercilessly, roasting him alive inside that fiendish gas oven.

Hearing footsteps, Pumpkin Pie tried once more, "Come on Apple, we can do it! If you just mmmpphh..." They had slapped white soft stuff across him, cutting off his pleas and his sight. As he felt the knife cutting into him, he realized they had blindfolded him so he wouldn’t see it coming. Well they won’t see it coming either, he thought as the pain intensified. He would have his revenge even if he had to eat his way out from the inside.

***

Eventually, the gnawing pain woke him, well before even the most dedicated Black Friday shopper had risen. "Honey, I’m not feeling too good," he moaned, hoping to stir his wife’s motherly instincts.

"I told you not to eat that third piece of pie," she said, getting out of bed to search for the Tums. Still caught somewhere between reality and the surreal imagery of his dream, he caught a confusing image of a talking pumpkin pie. Wincing at a particularly sharp ache, he said, "But honey, I swear it was calling my name."

“What happened?” Uncle Joe asked Aunt Helen.

Aunt Helen leaned back in her chair and started, “Jennifer and William left here last year after nearly everyone else had left already. On the drive home the roads became slick with rain,” she started.

“A deer ran out in the road and stopped. William did his best to maneuver around it but the road was too slick. The car spun out and was struck by a truck.”

“That’s terrible,” Joe was taken aback. He had been out of the country and was only now learning the fate of one of his favorite nieces.

Helen fought back a few tears and continued, “Jennifer broke her back and was paralyzed from the waist down. William…” she trailed off.

“What Helen?” Joe leaned forward and grabbed his sister-in-law’s hands.

“He, William, he died there.”

Helen sat there for a spell crying.

“Jennifer, she’s been working every waking hour to get out of her chair,” Helen continued. “She says she owes it to William; that staying in that chair is something William never would have excepted for himself.”

From out of the kitchen along with the inviting smell of turkey and stuffing came Helen’s sister Elizabeth. She could see the tears on their faces and knew what they were talking about.

“Helen?” Elizabeth started.

“Yes?” Helen answered, quickly looking up.

“Jennifer just called. She says she refuses to have anyone push her to Thanksgiving dinner.” Elizabeth reported.

“What a fool of a girl.” Helen’s loving anger rose to the surface above the grief of a few moments before.

Joe stood up. He spoke to both Helen and Elizabeth, “Come on, let’s go get here. We’ll kidnap her if we have to.”

The three walked out the front door without mentioning the phone call to anyone. As they walked down the slightly sloping sidewalk a van pulled up.

“What is this?” Elizabeth wondered aloud.

John walked around the front of the van and opened the sliding door. The three could detect that he was working with his hands on something. Then they saw Jennifer. She slid down to the floor of the van and then came to sit just on the edge with her legs hanging out.

“Oh dear!” Helen gasped.

Brian, one of the younger grandchildren had noticed what was going on and told Grandma Boots. Soon everyone was out on the walk with Helen, Joe and Elizabeth.

John stepped back and with Jennifer’s hands in his he pulled her up to a standing position. By now everyone could see that Jennifer’s legs were held stiffly in place by braces. John then completed turning gears and Jennifer was standing straight up.

He reached over in the van for two crutches while Jennifer held onto him for support, a look of apprehension on her face. She had not expected an audience.

She took the crutches and quickly transferred her weight onto them. She pushed up slightly and threw them forward a bit. Then she leaned forward and dragged her lifeless legs forward.

Then she repeated the maneuver. After the fourth iteration her feet were swinging. The sixth time her feet landed past the crutches and she was “walking.”

Everyone moved onto the grass to give her a clear path along the sidewalk. They gazed into her face and saw the look of gritty determination. Beads of sweat started to poor down her face.

Finally she reached Aunt Elizabeth. Jennifer stopped for a moment, looked up from her task, and smiled slightly. Elizabeth started crying, she hugged Jennifer and the entire family started to cry.

I sit in the folding chair behind one of the banquet tables. The tablecloths covered the painted letters proudly stating “Property of United Methodist Church”. This could very well be the same chair I sat in two years ago at my brother’s house.

Every year, my brother’s living room was cleared of its normal furniture and converted into a dining room large enough to hold our family. He would borrow tables and chairs from his church so we would all have a place to sit.

The kitchen was epitome of chaotic efficiency as my wife, mother, aunt, and sisters-in-law jockeyed for time on the stove and in the oven. Raw materials went in one end and Thanksgiving Dinner came out the other. While performing these masterful feats of culinary delight, they still had time to mother (and grandmother) the seventeen kids running through the house.

The men sat in front of the television – four older brothers, a cousin, and my uncle. The game was on, but nobody was paying attention. Discussions ranged in topic from Sports to Religion, Politics to Money.

Those were happier times. That was when I had something to be thankful for.

Two years ago, at Thanksgiving dinner, I had an idea. This idea would make me, and in turn them, very rich. I talked about my idea all day. I laughed, I coerced, I begged. When the conversation turned to other things, I skillfully turned it back to my idea. By the time dinner was over, I had three checks in my hand. Two brothers and my mom gave me their life savings.

I got my business off the ground the following January. The celebration after our first sale got out of hand. My wife caught me in bed with my leading saleswoman. The divorce was fast, nasty and expensive.

Six months later, my customers were screaming. The creditors were banging down my door. Every penny my family gave me was gone. My mother, at the age of 68, took a job to make ends meet. One of my brothers had his house repossessed because he couldn’t make the payments.

I closed the doors to my business; I closed the door to my former life. I found my only comfort in a bottle.

It’s funny how quickly you go from ‘King of the World’ to the bottom of the midden heap.

I can’t remember the last time I bathed. My clothes were rags and my shoes were falling apart. I haven’t had a decent meal in months. I was asleep under a park bench when a man invited me to Thanksgiving dinner at his church. After confirming I could read, he handed me a flyer. “Celebrate Thanksgiving at the United Methodist Church. Get food, clothes and blankets.”

To be honest, I just wanted the blanket.

So here I am, with a paper plate in front of me with turkey, potatoes, beans and cranberry sauce. I used to hate cranberry sauce. Now, I’m happy to have food that didn’t come out of a garbage can.

“Johnny? Is that you?”

I haven’t been called Johnny in ten years. I turn to see who was talking and for the first time in almost two years, I see the face of my brother. He’s there in his t-shirt and jeans with an apron on and a ladle full of mashed potatoes.

The spoon drops into the serving tray and he rushes to embrace me. Even with the stench of his worthless brother, he holds me tight and whispers in my ear, “This is truly a day to be thankful.”

“Pass the gravy.”

“Please.”

“Please pass the gravy now.”

“Alex.”

“Mom, I said please. Give me the da[nf]mn gravy now.”

Sally gasped as conversation screeched to a halt at the table. She turned to her daughter. “What did you say to me?”

Alex looked back calmly. “I believe I told you to give me the da[nf]mn gravy. I’d still like it, as a matter of fact.”

“How dare you speak to me like that.”

Alex shrugged. “Whatever. Hey, Danny, gimme the gravy.” Danny, seated next to Sally, pushed the dripping gravy boat to Alex. Sally smacked him on the head and shoved the gravy boat back, drenching the white lace tablecloth.

“Sally! Look what you’ve done!” Nina stood up rapidly, her chair falling over in her haste to stem the flow of gravy. “My best cloth!”

“Not now, Mother.” Sally glared at Alex. “Young lady, you will not speak to me this way. I demand an apology immediately… ow! Lay off, Mom!” She nearly yelled as Nina’s elbow landed in her eye.

“You ruined it, Sally. Your great-grandmother made this.” Nina frantically sopped up the mess with a towel.

A loud groan arose from the men seated around the table. “Every stupid Thanksgiving,” Danny muttered into his stuffing.

“Mom, I will not apologize. It’s not fair. Danny, gravy.” Danny reached for the gravy boat again.

“Don’t you dare touch that!”

“What the…”

“Be quiet, Danny.”

“Mom, I want the freaking gravy. Quit going all postal and eat your dinner.”

“Don’t you tell me to eat my dinner young lady! I made most of this!”

“Sally, move your arm.”

“Mom, I’m busy.”

“Yeah, Sally. Move your arm. Grams needs to clean up after you.”

“What have I done to deserve such a daughter?”

Nina wielded the rag threateningly. “Sally, move it now, or so help me God I will move you.”

“Da[nf]mn it, mother! Leave me the he[nf]ll alone!”

“Sally!”

“Mom!”

“Can I quit holding the gravy?”

“Shut up, Danny!”

“Sally!”

“See Grams? Mom’s a hypocrite. Danny, please pass me the gravy.”

“Oh, you can say ‘please’ to your brother but not to me, is that it?”

“Whatever.”

“Alex, move your plate a little so I can get the tablecloth, please.”

“Sure Grams.”

Sally stood up. “You, a sixteen year old child, are calling me a hypocrite?”

Alex shrugged. “If the shoe fits.”

“I gave birth to you, and this is the thanks I get? You ungrateful, spoiled…”

“Mom wasn’t married to dad when she got pregnant, Grams.” Alex smiled with satisfaction.

“Alex!”

“Sally?” Nina stopped mopping up the mess.

“Well, she wasn’t. She told me not to tell you.”

“That is so cool!”

“Shut up, Danny!”

“Man…”

“I told you that in strict confidence, Alexandra Renee.”

“Then you went all postal.”

“You told Alex, but you didn’t tell me?” Nina’s hand flew to her heart. “I feel faint.”

“Stop it, Mom. We got married, didn’t we? It’s okay.”

“Don’t feel bad, Grams. She only told me because we went to the doctor so I could get on the pi…”

“Here’s your gravy, Alex!” Sally slammed the gravy boat down in front of Alex’s plate.

“Wow. Thanks, Mom.”

“Sally?”

“It’s over, Mother. I’ll finish taking care of the mess I made.”

Nina, her hand still over her heart, sat quietly and stared into her plate.

“Dad, that is so cool!” Danny whispered to his father. His father smiled. “I know.” They low-fived each other under the table.

“This is the best Thanksgiving ever!”

“Shut up, Danny!”

“Hi Mom! Hi Dad! Glad you could make it.” I gave each of my parents a hug, ushered them inside then turned to welcome the rest of my guests.

“Aunt Sarah, Uncle Harry, Aunt Anita, Uncle Vernon – come on in! Dinner is just about ready. Grandma, thanks for coming.” I stooped over and gave a big hug to the tiny woman with them.

I assembled my guests around the table with the same care that I had given to the dinner. Uncle Harry, the lefty, sat on the end. Grandma sat next to her son, wives were next to husbands – everything was perfect.

I had spent months planning my triumphant conquest. I had scavenged every cookbook owned by friend and acquaintance. I had surfed the Internet from Abe’s Apple Pie to Zelda’s Corn Fritter Zingers. Fresh herbs from around the globe filled my kitchen with tantalizing aromas. I was determined that no one would forget my Thanksgiving hostess debut.

After saying grace, I brought out the turkey.

“What’s wrong with that bird?” Uncle Harry asked.

“It’s only the breast, Uncle Harry.”

“Why? Couldn’t you afford the whole bird?”

“Harry, hush,” Aunt Sarah said. “I think that’s one of those new-fangled ideas. You don’t serve the whole bird, you only serve part of it.”

“But where’s the dark meat? I like the dark meat,” Uncle Harry complained.

“Trust me, Uncle Harry, you’ll love this turkey. It’s a fresh turkey – never frozen – seasoned with a fresh-herb rub and then cooked at three different temperature settings. The herbs perfectly compliment the delicate seasonings of the stuffing.”

“Do you have any ketchup?” he asked.

My mouth dropped open as I searched for a response to this heresy.

“What’s this?” I heard Grandma ask.

“That is a fresh cranberry compote,” I said, swelling with pride.

“What’s this white stuff?” she asked, attacking it with her fork.

“Those are apples. It also has orange peel, and is sweetened with Turbinado and a touch of honey,” I replied.

“Apples? And oranges? In cranberries?” she asked incredulously. “And I don’t eat those fake sugar things.”

I started to explain that Turbinado is a type of sugar when I was interrupted by another question.

“Sorry, honey, but where’s the stuffing?” my mom asked. I pointed to the heaping bowl of cornbread stuffing, its yellow coloring a perfect foil for the pale turkey slices.

She leaned closer to me. “Honey,” she said in a whisper. “Did you know that it's yellow?”

“Yes, mother. It’s supposed to be yellow. It’s CORNBREAD stuffing. You know, made from CORNBREAD. I made the cornbread last night, then got up early this morning to crumble it and make the stuffing. It’s delicious. Try it. Please.”

“Did she say that there isn’t any stuffing this year?” my dad asked. “How can we have Thanksgiving without stuffing?”

“Dad, we have an entire bowl of stuffing. It just isn’t Stove-Top stuffing. It is cornbread stuffing. It’s homemade. Not out of a box.”

“Oh. Is there any gravy for it?”

The rest of the meal is a blur. I know there were more questions, and I have a vague recollection of quelling a minor riot after I announced that we were having sweet potato pie in place of pumpkin pie. But somehow, with the assistance of ketchup, hot sauce and other assorted condiments, my guests managed to muddle through my gourmet meal.

Will I ever host Thanksgiving again? Probably. But not without the presence of a turkey - with legs - and a box of Stove-Top stuffing. Never, ever underestimate the power of Thanksgiving tradition!

The incessant beeping of the fax machine woke me. The clock beside my bed reveled it was 5:23 AM. As a spy for the CIA, I was used to unusual occurrences, but this isn’t a time I usually get faxes. Not to mention, the fax machine only beeped when something was wrong.

I got out of bed and stepped into my office. One solved mystery gave way to an unsolved one. The fax was beeping because it was out of paper. I didn’t understand why. I refilled it before I went to bed.

I grabbed the stack of faxes and looked at the first page. It read, “The HP 1240 Fax holds 100 sheets.” The second page said, “The Fax now holds 99 sheets”. Skipping to the bottom page, I saw “Your fax machine is now out of paper. The alarm should wake you. Reload the paper for further instructions.”

What a way to start out Thanksgiving! After reloading the fax, the pages stored in memory began printing. There were three. The first page was a crude hand-drawn map. The second was covered in random gibberish. The third was a photograph of a clock; the time was 11:30.

Turning to the map, nothing was drawn to scale or labeled. But that didn’t matter; I knew this area like the back of my hand. Down at the bottom of the page was a series of numbers. They didn’t make sense, but I would probably need them later.

Next, I looked at the gibberish. I could tell right away that it was a coded message. I needed some coffee before I tried to break the code. I powered on my computer and left for the kitchen.

An hour and a half and a pot of coffee later, I cracked the code and deciphered the message. It said I needed some specific items and must follow a detailed procedure with these items. These weren’t things I usually own, but were mundane enough that I could get them almost anywhere. I headed to the store.

Going to the store at 7:30 AM usually means one register and no customers – but not on Thanksgiving. The one register was correct, but there was hundred people jockeying for position through the aisles, each worried that there wasn’t any more cranberry jelly. Luckily, I only needed one thing. I found it and headed to the register. Looking at the line, I knew I was stuck for at least an hour.

I was back home by 9:00 and immediately began following the mysterious directions. It was easy, but time consuming. Upon completion, I looked at my creation, satisfied that
I did well. I carefully put it into an airtight container. I needed to get ready.

I was out of the shower by 10:30 and was tying my tie by 11:00. I had to leave quickly or I would be late. I put my creation into my car and drove to my destination. I didn’t need the map to get there, but I needed the code when I did.

When I arrived, the wrought iron gates were closed. A keypad stood near the entrance. I pulled up in the driveway and entered the code at the bottom of the map. The gates opened. The time was 11:29.

I grabbed my creation and walked through the front door.

“Hello, Johnny.” It was the head of the CIA. “I didn’t think you’d get here on time.”

“The map was easy,” I replied, “But it took me an hour an half to decipher that Potato Salad Recipe!”

“Happy Thanksgiving, son.”

“Happy Thanksgiving, Dad.”

Dad passing out had us all worried. An ambulance had to be called. He was in the hospital, and stable, but they decided to keep him for a couple days of testing. Thanksgiving morning we went to visit him. He was tired and looked a little weak but managed to smile. I hadn’t seen him in a month, since his birthday. I made a mental note I needed to come home more. He asked each one of us how the preparations were coming for dinner. We all told him what we were doing and he interrupted with tips and reminders. There were tears in his eyes and I could tell it was hard for him to know he couldn’t be there. We had asked to eat with him but he wouldn’t hear of us missing our traditional dinner. As we said our goodbyes he said he would call at four o’clock to say the prayer with us. I had tears in my eyes as well.

In addition to being worried about him it had become apparent the challenge of making dinner might get the best of us. The problems started when we realized nothing is ever where it used to be. There was tension in the air and way too many people in the kitchen. I pondered how Dad was able to do everything and make it all look so simple. I thought back on all the Thanksgiving dinners I had watched him make. Thanksgiving and Christmas were two days he always made the meals.

Adding to the turmoil in the kitchen little fights and bickering had started to break out. I had added garlic to the mashed potatoes and that appeared to be a sin to at least one sibling and other siblings were upset about the way other things were being done. By some miracle everyone finished their dishes without killing each other and the table had been set. As four o’clock went by we were called to dinner. I will never forget walking into the kitchen and seeing our finest china, only used twice a year, with a cordless phone in the center of every plate. It struck me as odd that anyone would have five cordless phones, not to mention the surreal aspect of seeing phones at each place setting. So we sat there with all the food covered, and all of us staring at our phones, waiting to start eating until Dad would call to say grace. We all thought the phone had to ring.

The phone rang about ten minutes after four. All of our arguments and dissention had been swept away by a sense of relief. We all picked up our phones at the same time. After 20 attempts to say hello it was obvious that 5 phones wouldn’t work at the same time. No one could hear Dad and all he heard was a bunch of garble. We all started laughing, each of us sitting around the table with a phone in our ear. It was a gut-roaring, side-splitting, tear jerking laughter that felt like a combined release of tension. Even Dad was laughing when we told him what was going on as we each talked to him one at a time. Spontaneous laughter broke out numerous times during the meal. That Thanksgiving dinner wasn’t the best we ever had but it was the most memorable. Dad is back to cooking this year, and I can guarantee we will let him know how much we appreciate him; however, there might be a few chuckles over dinner. True story.

NO POTATOES !

”Turkey’s in the oven, potatoes are peeled, stuffing is made… what have I forgotten?” Jane wondered. Christmas Day was always the same. Every year she would forget something. Last year she forgot to turn the potatoes on and everyone complained Christmas dinner wasn’t the same without the mashed potatoes. Who would have thought something as simple as mashed potatoes could cause such a row.? God forbid they end up like that again….

”Cheer up”, she thought, “It’s Christmas.” Jane tried to exude clouds of cheer, but it wasn’t working and she could feel a huge family argument brewing. Her husband, Toby, was carving the turkey and Granny was sat in her “comfy” chair repeating over and over again “Only white meat for me Jane, please love, you know how brown meat gives me heartburn” and Jane replying “Ok, Mother” and smiling sweetly. Toby and Victoria, the twins, always sat next to each other and were the first to start bickering. “Move up there Toby, Mum tell him!” Jane didn’t need to say anything, just raise one eyebrow and glance over. And finally, Aunt Ruby. No one was quite how she was related, but she was there every Christmas. She never joined in the arguments but always seemed to enjoy them.

Jane was in the middle of saying “Yes, Mother,” for the hundredth time when she remembered the potatoes… “Yes moth…the potatoes oh my God I never lit the stove!” Everyone sat opened mouthed “No potatoes!” they cried. The sound was shrill and painful. It was like someone had stolen Christmas… “But we cant have Christmas dinner with no potatoes, Mum!” the twins whined. Taking a deep breath, Jane willed herself to be calm. “Well, we’ll just have to make do. If I cook the potatoes now everything else will be cold.”

Dad hacked at the turkey, pulling a leg off and throwing it onto the serving platter. Aunt Ruby didn’t say anything but her eyes where wide and waiting, watching the family like a cat watching a bird. “ I’m sorry. It just slipped my mind, “ Jane pleaded, knowing it was no use. It was then Kevin, their eldest son, decided to stroll in. “Where have you been?” his dad snapped, wielding the carving knife like a mad man. “ Sorry. The car wouldn’t start,” Kevin replied cheerfully. His dad stared and went back to destroying the turkey. “Your mother forgot to cook the potatoes, Kevin,” Granny said brightly from her chair. “She’s always been forgetful, you know. I remember when she was a girl, always forgetting things. When you were born she brought you over so your grandfather and I could see you, then forgot to take you home with her. Me and Albert, we didn’t notice till you woke up and needed feeding.” Granny smiled, pleased with herself. Kevin looked at his mother with a look of total bafflement. Jane blushed and tried to reason that she was a new mum with a lot on her mind. “First me, now the potatoes. What next, Mother, what next?” Still blushing, Jane threw her eldest son a mother look and he knew to shut up and take his chair.

“No white meat for me Jane, love,”
“Mum, tell Victoria…”
“ ..forgot… to…cook…the…potatoes…”
“That turkey looks dry, Jane, did you remember to baste it?”

That was the last straw for Jane. She threw the sprouts on the table and shouted
“Help your bloody selves! “ and stomped into the living room.

Granny looked at the table. “Tell me, Tony. Have you two been arguing again?”

Thanksgiving Day, 1992: A day that, for my family, will live in infamy…

I’d known for a month that my fiancé would finally meet my parents on Thanksgiving. I wasn’t the least bit nervous. But as we sat down to an awkward silence, I felt the anxiety coming on.

My father prayed and we began to pass the food around. My mother, with an “Isn’t-She-Just-A-Doll” look on her face, finally spoke.

“Well, Jim and I had a nice flight in.” She smiled expectantly at Jennifer and I. We nodded and smiled back. I was drawing a blank.

More unnerving silence followed.

This time my father spoke. “What do you do, Jennifer?”

She looked at me for a moment as if she couldn’t remember what it was that she did. Blushing, she forced a smile and cleared her throat: “I’m in retail.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” my mother replied.

“Mmm.” My dad nodded with a mouthful.

Awkward silence. Again.

And then, out of the blue, Jennifer turned to me looking completely panicked. Her expression seemed to say, “I’m so sorry for this…”

“What is it?” I mouthed back to her.

Her forehead wrinkled and blood rushed to her face.

And then it happened.

Flatulence. Emphatic, almost angry flatulence. I had never heard such a fart in all my life.

Time seemed to stand still. I was seeing everything in slow motion. She actually leaned to the side to make way for this monstrosity to escape. Her face contorted as if she were in labor.

I’m not sure about this, but I could have sworn I saw the curtains move. I think the candles went out, too.

I looked across the table and saw my dad, still moving in slow motion, covering my mother’s head as if he was protecting her from shrapnel. He pulled her to the ground, shielding her body. I had never seen such bravery.

I turned back toward Jennifer, careful to keep my mouth closed.

“When will it stop?” I thought. “Is she some kind of mutant? An alien? She can’t possibly be human…”

I could feel my hair blowing back and my chair beginning to tip. I distinctly remember my eyes burning as if I was slicing some giant, evil onion.

Then, like a brick wall, the stink punched me dead in the face.

At that point, it is not an exaggeration to say that I was legitimately afraid for my life.

I began to think about all the things I wanted to do but never got around to. All the things I should have said. The plans and dreams that I would never realize. I’d been taking my days for granted – living as if I would live forever.

Then…just as abruptly as it had begun…it was over.

I got out of my chair and slowly stepped away from “Jennifer” - whatever she was. Dad pulled my mom to her feet.

“Jennifer” began to speak. “I’m so s-“

“No!” I cut her off. “No. I don’t know what you are or where you’re from...” As I spoke I backed away slowly – avoiding sudden movement. “I want you to leave. Now.”

And, crying - still pretending to be a human - she was gone. I never saw “Jennifer” again.

To this day we haven’t fully recovered. I still have nightmares, and I’m afraid of Thanksgiving. But we are healing.

The lessons I learned that day remain with me. Life is fragile. We must live everyday as if it were our last. Because they’re out there. Somewhere. And we never know when the wind will break…

Thanksgiving at my house could probably be compared to the cafeteria at an insane asylum. Sure, it could start off calm and innocent, but eventually the medication wares off and insanity ensues. This particular Thanksgiving brought together my grandparents, my brother Sam, my sister Jenny, my parents and I. This scene lead to one of my many childhood scars.

DAD: *hits glass with spoon* Okay everyone, let’s settle down now. I’d like to propose a toast to the Miller family and especially to Grandpa Miller, who was able to join us for his eighty-fifth Thanksgiving. This is a special night because--
SAM: Because Grandpa is probably going to die soon.
DAD: Samuel! That’s awful!
JENNY: It’s true, that’s what mom said--
MOM: I did not. I really didn’t say that, Grandpa Miller.
GRANDPA: It’s alright. The little guy’s right. I aint got much time left. I should be in bed fooling around with your grandmother and not eating this slop.
ME: Oh man, Grandpa, that’s horrible.
GRANDMA: Why? It’s just sexual relations.
ME: No, no it’s much more than that.
DAD: Sam you apologize to Grandpa right now!
GRANDPA: I can’t believe this is my last Thanksgiving meal. It’s horrible. They served better food at the Korean P.O.W. camp and that was barbequed dog!
MOM: *crying* I tried so hard to make a good meal--
JENNY: Grandpa, why do you want to go to the bedroom with Grandma?
GRANDPA: Sex, your Grandmother and I want to have sex.
ME: I’m not hungry anymore.
DAD: Dad! Stop that. Now let’s just all settle down and enjoy a good meal!
GRANDPA: You’re right, let’s order Chinese.
DAD: You’re acting like one of the kids.
GRANDPA: Are you talking back to me? I’m not too old to come over there and give you a good old fashioned spanking.
DAD: Dad, stop it.
GRANDPA: *Taking belt off* You don’t talk back to your father. Now bend over, you’ve earned this.
SAM: Sweet!
DAD: Dad you’re being ridiculous. Get off the table and put your belt back on.

And for the next few minutes, my eighty year old Grandfather proceeded to spank my father on the top of the dining room table. My family and I could only look on in horror as this spry geriatric rained blow after blow with his belt to the butt of my dad. Following the scene we all just sat in our chairs in silence.

GRANDPA: There, now I hope that’s a lesson to all of you. You give your grandfather guff and you’ll get the belt.

Suddenly, the doorbell rang. Everyone was still too stunned to move, so my Grandfather answered the door.

GRANDPA: *Opening door* Can I help you?
NEIGHBOR: Yea, I was walking by and I heard screaming. I just wanted to make sure everyone was okay.
GRANDPA: Everything is just fine and freak’n dandy, so mind your own business.
NEIGHBOR: Sorry, just wanted to be a good neighbor and--
GRANDPA: You can be a good neighbor by getting lost.
NEIGHBOR: Excuse me, you jerk!
GRANDPA: Are you giving me guff? Bend over you little smart mouth.

We should have tried to stop him, but we feared another spanking. We had to watch my Grandfather spank my next door neighbor until tears streamed down his face. Luckily some cops just happened to be passing by and stopped my grandfather before he could spank other innocent bystanders. It was the worst spanking related incident since the Berserk Baby Sitter of ’64. I shutter every time I think of this Thanksgiving.