Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving.
The word instantly puts a chill down the spine of my side of the family. Yes, there will be great food, and a swell party, especially for the blissfully unaware kids running amok in my parents' basement, but with the joy comes the quiet dread of getting ready. It starts in August when my mother Bebe pulls her notes from last year, and starts the worrying machine. On Thanksgiving Day, just before the first guest arrives, my dad George will be harnessed to his blower diligently chasing that last leaf off the premises. Never mind that it's always pitch dark by 5 o' clock. When a car's head lights sweep up the driveway, there will be no leaf left behind.

By 4:00 Bebe will be sighing in the kitchen. She has been up since dawn cooking, and dressed for the party since mid afternoon, but there is always something to fret about like  that little incident last year when there was no hot water at zero hour because George forgot to over ride the timer. (He keeps Bebe on a very strict energy saving schedule.)  Even now George is outside with that leaf blower, buzzing around the patio. Bebe, the model of self control, grits her teeth and accepts that she has done all that she can do. She and my sister have set the tables the Sunday before, strategizing over whether the one in the family room will block the football game, and how many kids are old enough to sit in a chair. Bebe started cooking in September and finishes up just before 6 p.m. which is dinner time.

Thanksgiving is one of three major family gatherings. My poor mother is down to a couple of cousins on her side of the family, but the numbers are way up on the Greek side.  Our branch alone brings almost thirty to the table. Back in the day, my grandparents had the whole family over to their duplex on Upton Street, and we all fit in the dining room- almost.

Then their three children took over.  Catherine got Greek Easter, Nick took Christmas, and George ended up with Thanksgiving. Back then the clan topped out at twenty five or so; now we are approaching sixty. New babies and people keep coming. Last year Dino had twins, and this year my niece is getting married.

At this point, Bebe would give her eyeteeth and turkey candle collection NOT to do this, but George has laid down the law. If he's still breathing, we're still doing it.  My cousin John brings the cheesecake that his mother used to bring. (Aunt Catherine had a secret recipe/competition going on with Blackie's House of Beef, and I think she won.) My cousin Ann, who is from Louisiana, brings a pecan pie. My brother Peter arrives from Michigan and bartends. Uncle Nick brings the rum cake. My sister and I mash the potatoes. My brother Roger started making Greek chicken soup one year, and now no one will let him stop.

My Uncle Nick is always the first to arrive at 5:00 sharp. Game on.

The madness goes on for hours, but the party is over when my sister starts corralling her sons to take all the chairs and tables back downstairs until next year. This usually happens around 8 p.m., but it feels like midnight. Hopefully there's still enough hot water to get the dishes are done.

.

Happy Birthday Bebe

Today is my mother's birthday. These days she uses the Jack Benny formula and remains firmly lodged at age thirty-nine, but no matter what her age, she is the quiet steady engine that keeps this family well fed and motoring right along. She always turns out great meals except on her birthday when she likes to go to her favorite Chinese restaurant. Being of Southern heritage, when my mother cooks, she usually adds a stick or two of butter to any recipe. A family favorite is Greek chicken "like Yiya used to make." My non Greek mother is not particularly fond of this dish, but she patiently churns it out by request. As the saying goes in my family, first you take a chicken and bake it with tomato sauce. Cook the "macaroni" which is a really thick version of spaghetti. This is when my mother steps in with a stick of butter. After pouring all the tomatoey chicken drippings on top of those buttery noodles, we sit down to eat. I can't even stand to write about it, it's that good.

My mother was born in 1917 at Sibley Hospital which was on North Capitol Street. Her parents, Bernice and Roger Calvert were married the year before on Bernice's eighteenth birthday. They named the baby Bernice Bailey, and so she became "BB" which morphed into the Bebe we know today. My grandmother wrote: "Baby's first ride was from the hospital to Mount Pleasant in Dr. Molzari's car. After that she has had numbers of auto rides, street car rides, baby carriage rides, but I think she loves best of all to ride in daddy's arms."

Happy Birthday, Mom. You're still a babe.

What do you get for Anniversary #72?

My parents have been married 71 years. SEVENTY ONE YEARS. They met when my father's classmate Carl Langmark brought George over to the Broadmoor where my mother Bebe lived. The boys were both juniors at Western, and Bebe was a sophomore. Just fifteen and love struck, she never forgot the exact date. April 8, 1932. The two of them soon ditched their friends for alone time which Bebe accomplished with free passes to the movies at the Avalon which used to be called the Chevy Chase Theater.

George and Bebe eloped on Memorial Day 1935. George’s buddy, Fred came along as a witness, and  drove them up to Elkon, Maryland  in a 1932 Desoto convertible. (My dad has a thing about cars.) Bebe was only 17, and George had just turned 18. Besides the hurdles of being too young and pregnant, my mother was Not Greek. The deck was stacked, but they were both determined.

 As a wedding present, Fred took everyone out for fried chicken which set him back $1.25 per person. Then the newlyweds snuck back -each to their own homes- to figure out what to do next. About a week later, the jig was up.  A friend of the family in Havre de Grace saw their wedding listed in a Baltimore paper, and called my grandfather Pete. George was thrown out of the house. Pete asked the Greek community not to hire or help his son in hopes that George would come to his senses, but my dad did not give up. He had a job, plus their friend and matchmaker Carl Langmark arranged for them stay at his house that summer while his parents were away.

When my older brother, Peter was born that fall, they named him after Papou which was the tradition in Greek families. (Yes, that’s the deal with all the same names) George took the baby to see his parents, but Bebe wasn’t included on this visit or any other. She had to wait in the car.

It wasn’t until after my sister was born that my Papou relented. He would come to the Hollywood Inn where they lived, and help George and Bebe make hamburgers for the weekend customers. Sometime after my brother Roger was born, my Yiya finally threw in the towel and accepted Bebe, too. Three children and six years later.

Bebe took it all in stride. She was and is the peacemaker. She did whatever it took to help everyone get along, and to make George’s life easier.  I know it has not been easy all these years, but they are still together.

Two years ago, I remember commenting to my father on the longevity of their relationship. He was standing on the front porch with a broom in his hand and I was below him raking the yard.   Looking off into the distance, he wistfully said "You know, your mother is my best friend." Then he paused to let this thought sink in. He rarely said anything so sentimental and  I was a bit stunned. "Well, that's so nice, Dad," I managed to mumble, feeling a little choked up.

Then, putting things into perspective with his irrepressible sense of humor, he said " Of course,  all of my other friends are dead." And he finished sweeping off the porch.

Happy Anniversary, you two!