My Thanksgiving

I swear my Thanksgiving is crazier then yours!!!

As a child I dreamed of turkeys leaping through fields of daisies.  I use to dream of hearing their call Thanksgiving mornings, but they never came. So I have come up with a new tradition  of imitating the gobble every thanksgiving morning. I get up at the crack of dawn like a rooster and let a gobble rip from my throat: my brother once screamed, my grandmother nearly had a heart attack, and my dad well, lets just say he had some choice words for me. Yet this stupid silly tradition brings joy to my face every year.

I race down stairs in the morning to an uneventful fiesta down stairs. My mind is filled with turkey shaped pancakes but when I attempt to do this I end up with a burned shriveled block of wood that I call a pancake.

I race to the TV, the Macy’s Thanksgiving parade is on. Will I know the stars this year? Will I know the acts, the moment the announcer yells over the speaker, “Get ready for our off Broadway event of Elf the musical, followed by a routine from the musical  “Grease,” to wrap it up that girl from PBS kids that everyone adores will perform, stay tune.” Then the channel goes to commercial which are either for the oldest of old or the youngest of young. I flop onto the couch, “really!” I get myself up wipe away my sober mood and proceed with my Thanksgiving day.

Preparing the dinner, I love Thanksgiving dinner. Granted I can only eat about .001% of it; I love preparing it either way. I stand by the boiling pot of potatoes, I watch as the starch boils around the pot and I realize the meaning of life. Watching these potatoes boiling I feel like I have self-actualized, I found out my new path. I am going to quit school and become a professional potato boiler. That  moment the boiling water splashes up slapping my hand. I shriek and fall backwards onto my fluffy dog. Moment over.

Family, we all have it whether we like it or not. You see, two years ago my grandfather decided to die and leave us with his wife. Granted she is my grandmother and I am supposed to love her,which i do in some regard, but the women is never happy. Sometimes I envy my grandfather; he does not have to spend Thanksgiving with her any more. Everything is wrong with the holiday the lighting in the dining room is wrong, the amount of food is to much, too little. Appetizers kill her appetite and always she just has to see my shoes. The only requirement from her this holiday is for her not to drive into a building. Yes that has happened.

On a Thanksgiving a few years back, my grandmother drove her baby, I mean car,  into two store front windows. Then politely asked the police officers to use a leaf blower on the glass instead of a broom because it might hurt her baby.

We sit down to the Thanksgiving feast every year that use to contain all the trimming the Indians ate, but since has  contained. turkey, mash potatoes, and a heaping helping of complaints about the neighbors. My grandmother cannot get through a Thanksgiving dinner without imitating the shrill voice of our nasty next door neighbor. I swear she would rather have her as her granddaughter then the ravishing writer. All the same there is one moment that has yet to be tainted that is the blessing, the food can not over shadow this, the shrill mocking voice of my grandmother cannot stop this. The gratefulness is real. We sit down like five ducks in row, bow are heads. To make a special effort to Thank God for the blessings that have been showered upon us.

After dinner while some play an old game of pig skin, I sit down with my family after my lovely grandmother has been put in her bucket and enjoy “It’s The Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown. Yes technically this is Halloween special, yet this yells Thanksgiving to my family.

I crawled up to bed, fall asleep and dream of my real favorite holiday…Christmas.