“Real men don’t use kitchen appliances to carve turkeys, they rip them apart with their bare hands!” Jake had advised Robert Knight III while standing side by side in our kitchen. My dad had suddenly paused, his electric knife gripped in a hand directly above the marinated bird while my uncle had continued to grind the mashed potatoes. Needless to say, my father had proved the victor of the culinary debate and the annual howling of his favorite tool had commenced.
Now as thin ribbons of smoke from illuminated candles dance towards the chandelier, I can hear from the closed door the same familiar sounds of that electric saw once again. Jake’s thundering authoritative voice can only be found in my memory though. With Grandmother still recuperating from various chemotherapy treatments, Olivia at her roommate’s house in Boston, and our various aunts and uncles having made the decision to visit Kevin’s family in Florida, the Knight home has been left somewhat empty. My great grand father’s dining room table with its freshly ironed, ecru, damask cloth and best china and silver settings has only been set for three, my mother, my father, and myself, for the first time since I can remember.
“We’re ready!” My parents announce eagerly as Mother bursts into the dining room, carrying carefully the last bowl of vibrant squash soup. As she reaches behind her to loosen the ties of her flour-streaked apron, Robert the third, Tripper, A.K.A. Dad follows behind holding with pride the silver platter of moist and tender pieces of meat for all of us to adore. They settle themselves hurriedly, my mother in a gray herringbone skirt, my dad sporting an immaculate suit, having still insisted on our dressing nicely for the occasion even though as a trio, we don’t even take up half of the table.
“Well this is certainly nice,” my mother smiles pulling the pearls around her so that the clasp rests on the back of her neck. Dad reaches behind him to turn on some classical music to set a relaxed tone, and I let my eyes wander around the array of steaming dishes in anticipation. Though there are no messes of blonde hair and black patent leather shoes tapping from the direction of the playroom, or extended family members filling each seat of the room, this day of all days will be a joy nevertheless.
At the clearing of my father’s throat, I bow my head slowly as he begins to deliver up our family’s thanks to God for his employment, our home, our family, and anything else that comes to his mind. Though my stomach rumbles underneath my pink cardigan, he continues, graciously bringing to our minds all that we have to be grateful for amid the crisis of war, an unstable economy, and bad health. At the close of his offering, we solemnly murmur an amen, reflecting for a moment and then letting our over-sized spoons chink in our soup, pacing ourselves before diving into the rest of our feast.
Then it begins. Rolls are passed around, snuggled in a basket among the folds of a blue checkered table napkin, gravy is poured from its glass boat, potatoes are added to plates-sweet and mashed, with peas, stuffing, cranberry sauce, and of course savory turkey piled high. I indulge enthusiastically, having prepared all day for this bountiful meal and enjoying the side conversation for once pertaining to topics other than politics. Eventually we reach our limit.
“Well, Daria,” my father leans back, pausing to take a sip of water, “can you believe this is your last thanksgiving home as a full-time member of this family?” I glance at his smile, abruptly swallowing what is in my mouth, my eyes raising at such an unexpected statement. With school and festive preparations, I had not once stopped to think of the fact that this could almost be considered my last real Thanksgiving. Of course there will be hundreds more of these crisp afternoons of turkey consumption and familial company, but things will be changed, different. At this time next year, I will have completed almost an entire semester of college, and prior to that there could be years of additional participants. As I look around the elegant room, I imagine hundreds of new faces, and matured older faces. I picture Olivia and I sitting next to loving husbands holding a squirming child on our laps, and then later those same offspring holding their own infants with us looking at them fondly, our silver hair patted into place. I continue eating, pondering the reality of the Knight family not losing family members but inevitably gaining them.
“Maybe not,” I grin, “maybe…” Then I quote the phrase that has seemed to be uttered in despair from almost every fellow senior’s mouth these past few months, “I’m not going to get into college.” The thought almost seemed worthy of consideration, the reality of neolocalism having still not set in even after filling out applications, sitting through guidance counselor meetings, and turning eighteen.
My father laughs in response. “Of course you are, Daria, your uncle Jake will get you into UVA with some assistance from, um, our perpetual generosity. Although it would be nice having you still at home.” He pats me on the knee and I return the comforting smile. “So what else is going on in your fascinating albeit self-absorbed life?” he smiles blithely.
“Yes, what is this I hear about you kissing a certain boy during a school field trip?” I drop my fork uncomfortably, searching my mind as to how of all hidden events from my personal life, this particular one could be discovered by my mother so easily. She laughs good-naturedly, “I knew I should have been a chaperone.”
“Well,” I begin, “it definitely was an unexpected part of that day.”
“Oh that’s all right honey, your mother tried to kiss me in an election booth in ‘76 and I was so startled that I accidentally leaned on the lever and voted for Carter!”
My mother cut in quickly, rolling her eyes. “No, no, no. It was a photo booth, Trip, at the Jersey Shore and you kissed me but you did in fact vote for Carter.
“And I’m darn glad of it!” My father exclaimed. They laugh together amiably and I enter in, relieved to have been taken out of the spotlight. “Well,” he exclaimed patting his now protruding stomach, “I guess it’s time to get those dishes done!”
We stand up slowly, stacking our soiled plates and then returning to the disaster that has been left in the kitchen. Pots are piled high in the sink and out, and the counters are covered in turkey remains and even more even more dishes. With a moment’s hesitation my mother immediately starts stuffing leftover meat into carefully labeled zip lock bags, and remaining side dishes into Tupperware. My dad retrieves a CD from the living room, and trades it with the “Mozart’s Classics” that is already playing. Turning the volume up so that all we can hear is The Police’s “Every Little Thing” we start the never-ending chore of post-Thanksgiving cleanup finding pleasure in the company of one another. Glancing at the gentle countenances of my parents, I realize I couldn’t have had a better “last” Thanksgiving.
Suddenly with such energy and happiness from the occasion I grab a towel and start dancing animatedly, swinging my towel in circles through the air. It isn’t long until my mother and father snatch their own dishtowels and soon all three of us are creating quite a spectacle for the neighbors as we hop up and down, occasionally spraying each other with handfuls of water. As I duck when my father sends a fistful my mother’s way, I reflect on the fact that this is a moment that I will never forget, even when I have left home. I want this Christmas season to be full of these certain warm memories to keep with me when I do leave the nest. I decide to focus this year primarily on the spirit of the holidays, on the love of my family, and not just what I find under the tree Christmas morning. After all, presents are only temporary, but families are forever.
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