My fondest memories of my childhood Thanksgivings took place at our house in Mentor, Ohio. It was an old, white colonial-style home with black shutters and two giant trees that stood, like sentinels, in the front yard. The house’s claim to fame was that it once belonged to President Garfield’s great-grandson.
Thanksgiving always took place in the formal dining room, with its creamy damask wallpaper, built-in china cabinets, and a large, crystal chandelier glittering over a table carefully set by my mother. Her Avon red glass plates and goblets and white, grocery store, wedding china took on a new elegance in that beautiful room.
A large picture window filled the wall behind my father, sometimes framing a snowy landscape. As the sky darkened, our gathering would be reflected in that window. The door to the screened-in porch was in the wall on one side of the room, closed tightly against the drafts that poured from it despite the fact that the storm windows had replaced the screens a few months prior. The large, hot water radiator clanged and hissed as it fought against the late fall drafts.
Behind my mother was the swinging door to the kitchen with easy access for her to enter and exit from, bearing platters and dishes of food. Her constant trips through that door weren’t fully understood or appreciated until I grew up and hosted Thanksgiving myself and finally understood the amount of work that went into preparing such a large meal.
Around the table sat both sets of grandparents, likely adding stress to my mother’s day and pure delight to mine. My three siblings and I, dressed up and on our best behavior, completed the dinner party. All of us eagerly awaiting dessert. It was only then that the table rules would briefly be suspended and we would line up, heads back, mouths open like baby birds, so our grandfather could squirt Reddi-Wip into our mouths. We learned how to flip spoons and took full advantage of the table antics that were only allowed because our grandfather was encouraging us. My birthday falls around Thanksgiving and was often celebrated with cake or candles stuck into a pumpkin pie, furthering making our holiday dessert even more fun.
I know my mother hosted other Thanksgivings in my childhood, in other houses, yet when I think of my childhood Thanksgivings it is always in that formal dining room; warm, cozy, and surrounded by family.
For that, I am thankful.
Hi, Laura. Another lovely, evocative piece.
ReplyDeleteYour photo looks like it could have come from one of my family's photo albums. Hairstyles, glasses, clothes, macrame plant hanger and an orange cast...
Hope you have a happy birthday and a cozy, warm Thanksgiving.