Childhood Thanksgivings

I’m baking mega-pans of yeast rolls this morning in preparation for our family’s early Thanksgiving gathering in Indianapolis on Saturday.  Simultaneously, memories of bygone Thanksgivings are surfacing, luring me to another time (the 1950’s and early 60’s) and place (Granny’s farm). 

As a little girl, the drive to Granny’s seemed very long and boring.  Mother almost always worked on a knitting project whenever we took long-distance trips in the car, and in those days she would break off a long piece of yarn for me to “finger crochet” in the back seat. I remember being so relieved when we finally rolled into Granny's driveway and past the big red barn to park near the brick farmhouse. The enclosed back porch was small and cold, but a barrage of savory smells greeted me soon as soon as I turned left into the kitchen.

Granny was there, wearing an apron over one of her classic housedresses – a v-neck-style dress closed above the top button with a big brooch.  I remember bursting through the door and seeing her there beside the red formica-topped table, waiting to offer signature too-wet kisses and beautiful arrays of food (she was well-known for her cooking).  When I was young I thought her her age-spotted hands seemed cold, and her skin felt so very thin and fragile, as if silk stockings had been draped on her forearms but might just fall off.  Her voice sort of cackled and cracked when she talked, but she wore a big smile and I thought she was very special.  She was my one and only Granny.

There were two cookie jars in Granny’s house, one in the kitchen and one in the dining room.  These were my first stop after greeting Granny, even before I took off my coat.  Both jars almost always held some variation of a soft, cake-like, molasses spice cookie.  These were not my favorite – I preferred crispy cookies - but they were still special since they were specific to Granny.  I’ve not eaten anything like them elsewhere before or since.

The big celebratory meal itself consisted of turkey and dressing (Granny made unusual dressings, sometimes with oysters or cornbread), and of course all the trimmings.  We ate from Granny’s good blue china and sat at her dining room table next to the big, low hutch covered with various trinkets and pictures.

I had a close relationship with my Aunt Jen (Granny’s sister who lived with her during my later childhood), but wondered at her curious preferences for the Thanksgiving turkey tail and neck!  She insisted the most flavorful meat was on those not-so-enticing extremities, while everyone else opted for big chunks of thigh or breast meat.   She also finished the meal with a bite of cottage cheese, saying it diffused the sweet taste of pie – something she preferred did not linger in her mouth.

The house was often quiet – so very, very quiet.  I can envision sitting in the living room, listening to the wind howling in the west window and the hand-wound clock ticking on the mantle – click-click, click-click, click-click.  A couch sat in one corner with Granny’s crocheted zig-zag-pattern afghan on the back, and in the early 60’s it faced a new “modern” luxury – a big wooden cabinet with a TV inside.  It was impossible to get very many stations; I never remember watching TV there. Two chairs stood on either side of a round coffee table beside the front window where Granny often sat.  My memory of the room is of its almost eerie stillness, except for the incessant clock's click-clicking.

I often accompanied Pop (my dad) when he tromped around outside the house on Thanksgiving afternoon with his shotgun, looking to scare up a rabbit or pheasant.  Pale green hedge apples had fallen from trees that stood in a long row on the other end of the field, and I gathered them as treasures – useless, but still unique.   Pop’s lessons were practiced on those jaunts: always walk behind a person holding a gun, and make sure that person is pointing it at the ground at all times when not in use.  Better to accidentally shoot a foot than some other body part, he told me. One year he killed a rabbit and skinned it outside, then brought it in to Granny.  She half-laughed, half-complained at the way the shot had drilled rabbit hair deep into the flesh.  I watched, enthralled, as she meticulously cut the pellets and fur from a very sad-looking carcass with a paring knife.

Wild barn kitties lived in the outbuildings, and Granny would sometimes prepare a saucer of milk for me to offer them as a special treat.  I’d deposit the saucer in the shed doorway, then hide so I could watch it without the cats seeing me.  It was exciting to see two or three surround the saucer and enthusiastically enjoy their Thanksgiving feast.  I kept quiet until they were finished, then tried to approach them with all due caution – but they almost always ran away.

Right now, my Thanksgiving reverie is winding down.  Back in the present moment my rolls have been rising as I typed this, and now are baking.  Funny….now I’m a Gramma, baking in a house that smells a little bit like Granny’s.  Ah, nice aromas; nice memories, and hopes of making more.