(This is not my turkey; this is an iStock turkey)
Yesterday was Thanksgiving at my house and for the umpteenth time in a row, I fixed turkey and stuffing, mashed potatoes and store-bought gravy (I can't seem to make giblet gravy), store-bought southern green beans and canned corn, along with a store-bought pumpkin pie and Kings Hawaiian rolls.
While the food was okay/good, I was disappointed.
My mother-in-law is out here this week and I haven't been able to write my NaNoWriMo novel, so I'm down about that. I'm having problems writing it in that I'm worried about things I shouldn't be worried about until the end. On top of that, we live about 1300 miles from my family.
Thanksgiving used to be a much bigger holiday when I was young. My dad and his wife plus us four kids would drive to Grayson, KY, to have Thanksgiving dinner with that side of the family.
Everything was always made from scratch and what wasn't was apologized for, yet still fawned over.
I remember sitting at the kids table and the kids grew up over the years. I never was able to sit at the adult table -- even at my grandmother's when we'd have family dinners.
Then people would retire to watch football or movies. Me? I would have a book and sit in the room listening to the gossip and the family conversation, joining in occasionally.
The following Saturday was always when my mother and her husband and his side of the family would come out. And the same thing would happen, except there, I could go to my bedroom and do whatever I wanted to. I remember sneaking out to the garage to smoke with my step-sister and her husband, them letting me share their chigarettes.
I remember going to my grandmother's for holiday dinners as well where I would sneak upstairs to her bathroom to smoke her cigarettes. She never said anything but she knew.
So much has changed and so little has stayed the same. I long for those days again and I know they're gone for good.
Thanksgiving was very melancholy for me this year.
