By: Lora Wimsatt
Papaw spends hours – and way too much money – arranging haybales, corn stalks, pumpkins and gourds on the front lawn.
Never mind that for years, he has ridiculed those displays while driving down the neighborhood streets. This year, he has a granddaughter who likes autumn decorations. You know he really would do anything for “his little princess” when he stuffs his favorite pair of jeans (the old ones with the frayed hem, patched knee and ripped pocket) with wadded-up newspapers to make a scarecrow to complete the presentation.
Papaw also drives to the store to buy trick-or-treat candy, something he never gave a thought to doing in all the years gone by, but this year, his little granddaughter is coming to his house dressed as a puppy or a gerbil or, well, he’s not really sure what she’s supposed to be, but she’s a cute one.
From Halloween, it’s a fast ride to Thanksgiving.
That’s when we see Granma rummaging around the attic, basement and/or storage building in the back yard to find the salt and pepper shakers that look like the pilgrim boy and the pilgrim girl; the placemats shaped like autumn leaves; and the giant turkey platter, ivory with gold trim around the edges that matches nothing, but it’s, well, it’s the turkey platter, and Granma has always used it, and her mother before her, and her mother before her.
Mom is in the kitchen fussing over the turkey and the dressing, and she says again that next year she’s going to let Old Hickory do the turkey, who has time to shop and thaw a turkey and toast bread and run to the store at the last minute for eggs, and no sooner do you get back from that madhouse than you realize you are also out of sage.
But she makes these same threats every year and nobody pays any attention because there’s not a store-bought turkey in the world that can make up for the pride and joy you see on her face when everyone oohs and ahhs as the turkey is carried in (on that ivory platter with gold trim) and it is pronounced, year after year, as the biggest, prettiest, most perfect turkey there ever was.
The house gets smaller and smaller every year, just as the family gets bigger and bigger, and if nobody remembers your niece’s boyfriend’s name, that’s okay because he hasn’t taken his eyes off his iPhone screen since he got here.
No sooner does the echo of “Amen” fade away but it’s off to the races – reindeer or otherwise – toward Christmas.
If the grocery store was a zoo on the day before Thanksgiving, that’s nothing compared to south Frederica and Highway 54 on the day after.
Your sister-in-law has mapped out a plan of attack designed to maximize success with the early bird specials and is barking assignments like a drill sergeant to privates: Who goes for the flatscreen TV, who makes a beeline for the GPS, who grabs the Kindle and who nabs the PS4. Your suggestion of starting the day with breakfast is met with hoots of hilarity, although your aunt is merciful enough to suggest bringing a thermos filled with coffee. Strong coffee.
There’s also significant negotiation required in planning who will be where and when on Christmas morning. Now that there are grandchildren, there are two sets of grandparents eager to see the little ones open their stockings first thing … but although you believe in Christmas miracles, there is only one dawn even on this magical day.
Compromise wins the day, with stockings at one house and dinner at the other, but diplomacy is still required to maintain the appropriate holiday spirit.
Even though Aunt Mittie and Aunt Emily aren’t speaking to one another (again), they are both invited and they will both come, and it’s a simple matter of putting them at opposite ends of the table and being sure to rave equally over Mittie’s seven-bean salad and Em’s chocolate chess pie.
Because these are the holidays … this is family … and they go together, no matter what.