When the maples, birches, and oaks turned brilliant colors in Butler, New Jersey when I was a child, I’d lift my nose high to take in the crisp fall air. My mouth would water as I thought of fresh, crunchy apples and delicious pumpkin pies.
I’d close my eyes as I thought of the huge turkey and mounds of sweet and mashed potatoes that would be served at the end of November. I closed my eyes partly to make it seem like Thanksgiving was already there, even before Halloween had come and gone. And partly to block out the daily pain and drama that was the keynote of our household.
Prank Night came and went, as my father swore under his breath as he cleaned the egg and soap smears from his car and as my mother sighed in frustration as she removed the toilet paper streamers from the front yard, I shut my eyes tighter, blocking the animosity that surrounded us and pushing my thoughts toward Thanksgiving.
Even as a child I knew that ignoring the lack of connection within our family and between our family and the local community would not make it go away. I knew that our house wasn’t pranked so hard just because my father had joined a cult that didn’t allow us to celebrate Halloween. The hard feelings were partly due to the fact that he carried a Bible with him everywhere he went. He used the slightest excuse to flip open the large leather-bound book and “warn” his friends and neighbors that if they didn’t change their ways that they would all suffer dire consequences.
Logically, I didn’t have much to look forward to about Thanksgiving, either. My father preached at our relatives just as insistently as he preached at our friends and neighbors. Then there was the fact that his family didn’t get along with my mother’s family so we had to choose who to spend Thanksgiving with. Since the cult also didn’t allow us to keep Christmas or New Year’s, we were left with the choice of either insulting one side of the family or having two Thanksgiving dinners.
Since my mother didn’t like to cook, the prospect of two huge meals was attractive to me. By the time I was five years old, it seemed as if I had always been hungry. So even though Thanksgiving morning was usually spent with my parents arguing about whose house we were going to and when, and even though the smallest things like what clothes we would wear tended to turn into an excuse for a beating, I grit my teeth and endured it, knowing that if I was quiet and patient enough that I would eventually receive a good meal—maybe two.
After a long, exhausting car ride with my parents carping at each other, we’d finally arrive, usually at my mother’s parents’ house first, since they liked to eat earlier. While my father preached at my mother’s parents and they countered with their own concerns at my father’s “weird” beliefs, I’d cram as much turkey and stuffing—and ravioli, since my maternal grandmother would also cook Italian dishes in honor of her Northern Italian husband—as I could swallow.
And then I’d crawl off to the living room and rest on Nana’s antique couch, as hard and uncomfortable as it was lovely, and decree to myself that I would never try to fit so much food in my body ever again. Until it was time for dessert and the pumpkin pie, whipped cream and ice cream appeared. I managed to get that down and then felt sick for the rest of the day, which was fine unless it was one of the times that we were also visiting my paternal grandparents, in which case I had to do it all again.
And listen again while my father berated his parents, literally thumping his palm against the Bible as he held it out to prove to them how “pagan” they were. And hear them counter that he was the one who had lost his faith and that he was the one that was going to lose his place in heaven.
It was especially challenging when we’d go to my paternal grandparents’ house after visiting my mother’s relatives because we’d end up staying really late. My father would get into a Round Robin argument with his mother and neither of them would let go of it. And the hours would pass, and I’d sit on a hard wooden chair, too sick to my stomach from overeating to stop the drunk distant relatives from caressing my thigh and murmuring what a “good girl” I was until my mother saw and yanked me away and asked me what kind of a nasty, dirty girl I was.
All I felt besides the revulsion was terror. I was not allowed to leave or otherwise escape similar situations with my father. In fact, I had been consistently taught that if I dared to remove myself from my father’s untoward affections that the punishment meted out would far exceed the inappropriate contact.
So this was a typical Thanksgiving of my youth, filled with dichotomies and ambiguity. Leaving me relieved that we didn’t have to do it all over again on Christmas.
Except that by then I’d be hungry again.
