Please pass the gravy

From a child’s perspective (see yesterday’s post), Thanksgiving – and family, for that matter – can be seen as a very straightforward event. There’s family, food, football, more food and then Hallmark-like memories that can “last a lifetime.”

For many, of course, there is also a “faith” component – often a big one. Thanksgiving was the only meal of the year when my own family was likely to begin with a prayer – and I never got beyond “God is great and God is good; and we thank him for this food…” I sort of mumbled through the rest of the short prayer, not paying enough attention to learn it for future reference.

It seemed completely possible, just yesterday, to write a few hundred – certainly fewer than a thousand – words about Thanksgiving as celebrated during my formative years.

Oh! Was I ever mistaken. I quickly discovered that Turkey Day is a veritable smorgasbord – including some very complex dishes that might require volumes to explore.

Before attempting to scratch that surface with one example, let me repeat my previous assertion that this is about the best of days – an event that most families seem capable of carrying off with great success, an important day for that elusive institution (families).

No analysis, no matter how cynical, will change my mind on the matter: Thanksgiving was, in my childhood, a very good thing. It provided me with a model for having some great days later, when I was in the role of spouse and father – and, now that I think of it, it may also help me find new ways to enjoy family (even when not involving my own biological relatives) in the new stages of life I’m now beginning to explore.

Because Thanksgiving is sometimes the only time relatives get together – and sometimes more than a year may have passed, it’s a time of catching up on everyone’s news. That means it’s a time when those who may not have done so well may feel they need to defend their lives – and those who have success may feel compelled to boast.

I’ve never been more alone or isolated at Thanksgiving than this year. I expect to have a great day in this building filled with strangers, but a look at the weather forecast (see graphic) suggests that lightening may strike before the day is over.

The following account is of a Thanksgiving about 40 years ago when lightening struck in the middle of the meal and changed my view of Thanksgiving and family forever…

As during any social gathering, there are plenty of opportunities for what Eric Berne called, “the games people play.”

Berne is remembered as the father of transactional analysis. One of the most startling revelations of the complexity of family relations in the context of Thanksgiving came during a transaction rather along the lines of, “will you please pass the salt…”

One year (and this year may well have been later than the “prime time Thanksgiving era between 1958 and 1967 – I probably wasn’t astute enough to pick up the nuances that early in my life), my mother decided to use crystal salt containers with tiny silver spoons in lieu of the standard saltshakers.

Whether it was 1967 or a few years later, the “incident” was an exchange (or transaction) between my mother and my aunt regarding those little salt containers and spoons.

To me, the pairing of “Uncle Bob and Aunt Mary” was perfect. I also had Uncle Roy and Aunt Alma; and both of those sets of names still sound just right to me – everyone should be lucky enough to have relatives so aptly named…

But, to my mother, I’m sure Mary was not perfect. She’s the woman who charmed Mom’s little brother and lured him into a marriage that – for a number of reasons I won’t discuss here – seemed far from ideal from the big sister’s perspective.

I have no doubt that these two women had sparred with each other at every Thanksgiving since our families were formed. But I had never noticed – or at least never gave any significance to it. It was all couched in the language of backhanded compliments and other tactics Berne became famous for documenting in his books.

On this particular occasion, Mom was no doubt quite proud of being able to add an unconventional element of dinnerware to the Thanksgiving mix. I know I was impressed – the idea of sprinkling salt as if it were sugar appealed to me for some reason.

Others took note of the place settings and Mom was basking in the glow of positive attention as we all settled into our spaces around the Thanksgiving Dinner table.

“We’re not using salt much anymore.”

Aunt Mary’s announcement, though clearly on-topic, caught my attention.

Really, Mary?” There was something in my mother’s tone that started the wheels turning. I realized that this was more than just polite dinner conversation. “Not even on potatoes?”

This, of course, was a good comeback. Who could imagine eating potatoes without all kinds of added flavors? – And salt did seem like an essential additive no matter what the recipe.

I glanced at my aunt, interested to see how she might try to counter Mom’s point.

She capitulated! I believe I saw a flash of defeat in her face as she admitted that salt was an imperative when it came to spuds.

I still remember where they were sitting (my aunt opposite me; Mom to the right at the end of the table where she’d be able to move easily back and forth from the kitchen to refill bowls and platters.

I wondered, what just happened here? And I suddenly realized that whatever it was, it wasn’t the first time. This was just a battle in a war that had probably been ongoing since Uncle Bob announced, “I met a girl” some 15 or 20 years earlier.

The truth of the matter hit me like a bolt of lightening. These two women don’t like each other!

This was a real bombshell for me. It changed my thinking about family in fundamental ways.



Whoa--the games people play now.
Every night and every day now.
Never meanin' what they say now.
Never sayin' what they mean.

Oh we make one another cry
Break a heart then we say goodbye
Cross our hearts and we hope to die
That the other was to blame

Neither one will give in
So we gaze at our eight by ten
Thinking 'bout the things that might have been
It's a dirty rotten shame
        -- Joe South, 1968