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.

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