Home for the Holiday

Thanksgiving is upon us, and whenever you have a family holiday like this, you can't help but reminisce about tradition and memorable events. A time when family comes together and shares a large meal. Like so many rich family histories, there always seems to be a story told of great effort, great enjoyment, and great fun. A high-water mark by which future gatherings would be measured. A story that with the passing of years, becomes more nostalgic and revered.

This isn't one of those stories.

This Thanksgiving tale takes us back a few years, to after when my parents retired to northern Wisconsin. Outside of Antigo, their house was on the edge of a forest at the end of a county highway, in an area I referred to as my mother's "ancestral homeland". For whatever warped reason, people longed for this remote area. An area of extended winters, inconvenience and low employment. Families certainly stayed together up here, as relatives often set up their home in a trailer located a few yards away from the parent or other significant relation, on a shared parcel of land. Up here they are homes. Anywhere else it would be called a compound.

Proximity was the key. My aunt and uncle, while only living a mile or two down the road, may as well have been in the next county, as talk of venturing to their place took on the import of an Iditarod dog-sled race.
So my wife and I ventured forth, plowing the seven hours northward from suburban Chicago, to have Thanksgiving dinner with my family. Relatives were stacked like cord-wood, as those who would not spring for an $89 Motel 8 room set up camp on a cot, or a sleeping bag, or an unused bedroom corner. Cozy. Quaint. Just this side of Hee Haw.

We got up there on the Wednesday before, and after getting unpacked at our motel room, we went over to the house to start the holiday. As we entered the house, we could tell that there was that special quality in the air that bound a family together. People were gathered around, talking and laughing, exchanging opinions, sharing that wonderful experience that is: television. Unless a hand grenade got thrown in the room, there was not much chance of dislodging any of my family members from off the couch and away from the glowing unit's siren call.

Talking with my Dad, I asked how the preparations were going.
"Pretty good," he said. I got the turkey defrosting downstairs right now."
"Really? I inquired, "Why downstairs?"
"Well, that was the best place to put the washtub it's defrosting in." my Dad explained
"Washtub?" I was perplexed. "Don't you have it defrosting in the fridge?"
"No, the fridge is too small. That's okay. After we took it out of the chest freezer we moved it into the washtub, where it's been defrosting for the past four days," my Dad volunteered.
Four days? My mind boggled as I envisioned this bird defrosting in some sort of Salmonella stew. Who knew what sort of backwoods bacteria was evolving, away from the prying eyes of scientists? I remember X-Files! Something is out there!
Just like sausages and legislation, my Dad's turkey preparation could be added to the list of things that you appreciate, but don't want to know how they are made.
"So," I venture, trying to hide my apprehension, "is it going to be ready by tomorrow?"
"Oh yeah", my Dad brushed away my concern. "It should be just fine."

True to his word, the next morning the turkey goes into their behemoth Nesco roaster, circa 1963. Before I could venture over and see if there was a setting labeled "Sterilize", I was shooed out of the room. I think every turkey of my childhood was cooked in that device. Hopefully the cooking would kill anything malicious that was cultured in that vat of thawed poultry. If any mutant viruses weren't dead by dinnertime, we would have only of managed to make them angry! Unleashed on the world, a home-brewed biohazard wreaking destruction on our intestines. The hours passed.
Meal time was upon us, and the table was stocked high. Rolls, mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, Jell-O salads, cranberry sauce and myriad other dishes were ready. Like most of our family meals, the only things obvious by their absence were vegetables. The platter of carved turkey was the focal point, sitting at the edge of the table, where my Dad had just brought it in from the kitchen. I had to admit, it looked and smelled incredible. Like a football team huddled before a play, our family was standing ringed around the table, about to start grace. That would be the starting gun for the day's indulgence.

I was standing next to my young nephew, who, at his age, stood just about one foot above the level of the table. Admirably, he had jockeyed his small frame to get a spot right in front of the turkey. As prayers started, my cousin added his own contribution, by sneezing, open-mouth, over the plate of turkey.

Ah-CHOO!

The afternoon sun was shining in the dining room windows. The antique china gleamed in the light. And like a passenger-seat participant in a car crash, time dilated and slowed as I saw globules of snot rotating in the air from my nephew's face, outward, across the slices, wings and drumsticks. The turkey, getting basted one last time. With mucus.