Thanksgiving
Everyone came to our house for Thanksgiving in 1962. The rooms were throbbing with activity and smelled so good, with the turkey roasting in the oven. Had they been born a generation or two later, Mom and her two sisters, Peggy and Louise (Weasie,) might not have found themselves in the kitchen preparing all the food as the men sat around the TV, watching football. But being children of the 1920s, there they were, three sisters gathered in our spacious kitchen, preparing the family feast.
Dad and my uncles watched football and smoked. They drank whiskey and laughed. Our TV was in the dining room. This was not because we didn’t have room for the set in the living room but because that room was for music, reading, and conversation, and the TV was an intruder in those areas. So, it was tucked in the corner of the dining room. The women rolled their eyes as the men snuggled up to the set on Thanksgiving.
Shouts of “Oh, no!” or “Oh my God!” erupted from our fathers’ mouths as the suited-up players ran, passed, kicked, and tackled—cousins filtered in and out of the room, and the women added more butter and milk to the mashed potatoes. One of the dads drove to pick up Grandma. She arrived wearing her silver wig and a tailored suit beneath her fur coat. She sat in the chair by the front window in the living room, watching us play and smoking filtered Kents.
Cousins took turns at the piano. The most often played tune was “Heart and Soul.” We all had a sense of rhythm and never missed the syncopation in that ubiquitous duet. Bop bop bop (beat beat) da da, da da, da da. We all had grand pianos in our houses. Our mothers told us stories of falling asleep to the sound of their father playing Beethoven piano sonatas every night, his relaxation at the end of a long day. Wilton Rubinstein was the grandfather none of us knew, their adored father who had died too young, only forty-eight, of a sudden heart attack. To us kids, he seemed more like a saint than a man. A favorite, almost magical story of Mom and her sisters was of their dad constructing kites of every shape and color and launching them from the balcony of their Southmoore Street home to the delight of every neighborhood child. We only learned later from our fathers, in hushed voices, when our mothers were not near, that Grandpa Rubinstein was a driven man, often tense and high-strung, probably displaying mood swings like Mom's.
David and Andy, tired of piano duets, took off running full speed up the staircase. Then, checking to be sure that no adult was within sight, they detoured back down via a slide on the railing, not deterred by the many prior warnings of the risk of falling or the potential collapse of the banister itself. There was no fear of harm, only fear of being caught in the act. We had the intrinsic faith of childhood that nothing bad could happen to us, especially in a warmly lit house surrounded by family, with delicious aromas swirling in the air and the sound of laughter, football games, and piano music.
A parade of cousins followed David and Andy, barreling up both flights of stairs, elbowing each other, to the third-floor playroom. An old mattress was pulled from a musty corner and launched down the attic steps. One at a time, a cousin threw themself onto the mattress and thumped down the steps. “Down Hill Mattress Run,” a most fun game, was now going strong. We, the youngest cousins, were at the mercy of the rest. We held on tight, with our eyes shut, as they pushed us a bit too fast. Thud, thud, thud, thud. We gradually wore ourselves out, leaving only enough energy for slow, easy ping-pong games.
Finally, the turkey was ready. We ate scattered about the house, card tables set up in the front hall and the living room for those who didn’t fit at the dining room table. Turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, peas, cranberry sauce, buttery homemade rolls, and for dessert, a family recipe, “Aunt Fanny’s Ice Box Cake,” a recipe Weasie was now famous for - a round cake of melt-in-your-mouth spongy Lady Finger cookies, sprinkled heavily with powdered sugar, looking like snowy sentinels standing side by side to protect the four inches of rich chocolate pudding covered with fresh whipped cream.
It was still light outside after our early dinner, so some of us pulled on our mittens, scarves, coats, and boots and ventured outside. There was snow that year, beckoning us to build snowmen, throw snowballs, and make angels in the snow. As dusk approached, the damp seeped into our boots and gloves. With flushed cheeks and steamy breath, we trudged through the front door, dropping wet jackets, mittens, and scarves beside the hall radiator. While the temperature dropped outside the house, a quiet calm settled within. The scent of turkey, potatoes, and pies dissipated. The earlier shouts and laughter of happy cousins became soft murmurs from kids now sprawled on the living room floor before the warmth of the crackling fire in the fireplace, listening to records and playing checkers or cards.
We had no warning that the tranquility of that day was like a fragile glass jar surrounding us. Not a single soul imagined that the jar could break. My cousin, Susie, had not had any episodes yet that would lead to her hospitalization. My brother, David, had not yet taken his fatal bike ride down a peaceful Missouri road. On that November day, we were a family cocooned in warmth and safety, entranced by the smells of turkey, potatoes, and pies and the delightful shouts and laughter from happy cousins. I can still linger there, lost in memories of a long-ago lazy day of family, feasting, and angels in the snow.
