Thanksgiving
When I was little, the grown-ups made Thanksgiving look so easy.
There were a couple of years when we even invited men from Lowry Air Force Base to join us. As I recall, we young girls felt awkward, giggled shyly. Eventually, we topped out at about twenty.
Our holidays began like everyone else I knew in Denver in the 1940s and 50s. We went to Grandma and Granddad’s as soon as we could get Mom and Dad coaxed into leaving by begging and telling them we were dying of starvation.
With Mom’s oyster casserole and a couple other dishes, we loaded into the car and drove a couple of miles.
Usually, the first family to arrive we respectfully entered the reality of our Thanksgiving fantasy. Grandma’s extended dining room table was laid out with a white tablecloth and her special holiday place settings.
The turkey had been in her oven since early morning, the wonderful aroma still a vibrant memory.
I usually volunteered to prepare and set the relish tray on the table because it had olives and dill pickles on it, and I could sample a few on the walk to the table.
The dishes rarely varied except that for one surprise dish. My favorite was five fruit ambrosia.
We filled our plates with mashed potatoes and gravy, candied yams with marshmallows, green beans with almonds, cooked carrots, and rolls with butter.
We kids never even tried the oyster casserole, of course.
After the feast, it was off to our areas of choice…men to the living room, women to the kitchen, kids to the yard.
As the years went by, I graduated to the kitchen or sat in the living room or played board games while the grownups played cards.
Then before we knew it, it was time to eat leftovers, buffet style in the kitchen.
My family was last to leave, giving Grandma and Granddad one last hug.
Melba Walton, longtime Washingtonian, commutes from Arizona but is still “a Seattleite at heart”—even misses our rain! This piece was her contribution to A Holiday Sampler. Link: https://www.amazon.com/dp/1540381889
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