Summary

Lucy, a 36-year-old woman, reflects on her childhood Thanksgiving experiences and the lessons she learned from her dysfunctional family, leading her to become self-reliant and appreciative of the support she received from friends.

Abstract

Lucy recalls a particularly disappointing Thanksgiving when she was eight years old, where her family did not celebrate the holiday as she had hoped. She remembers feeling excited about the festivities at school but was met with indifference at home. Her father was an alcoholic, her mother felt incapable of cooking, and her brother was distant and rebellious. Lucy's attempts to salvage the holiday by buying a store-bought pie and pretending to be at a friend's house were unsuccessful. However, this experience led her to make a promise to herself to have a better Thanksgiving the following year. She managed to spend the holiday with a friend's family and realized the importance of self-preservation and seeking support from others. Lucy expresses gratitude for the people who helped her through her difficult childhood and continues to celebrate Thanksgiving with a traditional feast and the song "T'is a Gift to Be Simple."

Opinions

Lucy's family was dysfunctional and unable to provide her with a happy Thanksgiving experience.
Lucy felt the need to protect herself from her family's negative influence and sought support from friends.
Lucy learned the importance of self-preservation and appreciating the people who helped her through difficult times.
Lucy continues to celebrate Thanksgiving with gratitude and a traditional feast.

FICTION — SNIPPETS FROM LUCY

There Was No “Thanks” in My Thanksgiving

There was one store-bought pie and a lot of lessons

Reader: This is the beginning of a new series. Lucy appears in Alfred and Hannah’s Journal (which will be released in the first quarter of 2024). Lucy is 36 and just realizing that growing up on the wrong side of the tracks doesn’t mean she’ll stay there. She shares her journey through snippets, and this is her first. Reader feedback is always appreciated.

I can clearly remember my family’s Thanksgiving when I was eight. At school, our teacher helped to bring in the holiday. We did an art project where we made a paper turkey — fake feathers and all. We sang songs. I can still remember singing “T’is a Gift to Be Simple,” which Mrs. Wilson, our teacher, said was a Shaker melody that fit the moment.

I remember being excited all week long as our class explored the festivities surrounding the holiday.

Then, I came home and asked my mom what we were going to do for Thanksgiving.

“Thanksgiving? Why, I don’t think we’ll do anything, really. I can ask your dad.”

Later, I heard back that we wouldn’t make a turkey, but we could buy turkey cold cuts, and as a special treat, I could pick out the pie that I wanted from the grocery store.

“Can we make something?” I asked.

“Honey, we never make ‘nothing. You know me. I have two left hands. Maybe next year we can do better. Can we just be happy with turkey cold cuts and a pie?”

So, we went to the grocery store, and my mom bought the sliced cold cuts, and I picked out an apple pie. It wasn’t great, but at least it was something, and at least I got to pick dessert.

But when we walked into the house, all hell broke loose.

My dad had come home and was on his way to being drunk (again). When my mom saw him, she yelled, “Can’t you give the bottle a break for one day while we celebrate Thanksgiving.”

My brother, three years older, had already developed an attitude that said, “I am not part of this family.” He went for a walk with his friends and came back smelling like a cigarette factory. When he walked in, I waved my hand by my nose to bat away the smell. He stuck out his tongue at me and then went upstairs and fell asleep.

This left me and my mom staring at each other. My mom said that she wasn’t hungry but would keep me company while I ate. I wasn’t hungry either, so I told my mom she could do what she wanted, and I went upstairs to my room.

I cried. Then I cried some more. And then I thought, “Stop the crying and do something.” So, I decided to make myself up as if I were going to a Thanksgiving celebration. I curled my hair with my mom’s curling iron. I put on some of her make-up, too (it was always there for the taking in the bathroom), and changed my clothes. Then I pretended to be at my friend Victoria’s house.

It was the best I could do.

Except, I did one more thing. I promised myself that next year I would actually get invited to Victoria’s house, or if she weren’t around, I’d ask another friend, and I’d have a real Thanksgiving.

When I think back about that sad memory, I realize a few things that I didn’t know at the time. It was the first time I played with my hair, and it made me feel better… happier. I think that might have led me to go to beauty school and be a hairstylist.

I also realize that I had summed up my family as very broken, with a pattern that would repeat itself. At all of 8 years old, I was figuring out how to protect myself, and I decided I would hatch a plan for the following year that would make sure I wasn’t with my family.

So, in a way, a very sad memory had a positive side, as I look at it now. I knew about self-preservation. I didn’t misread my home life, and I was also determined not to endure it. I looked at each part of my family — mom, dad, and brother — and understood that they brought out the worst in each other.

I didn’t want to be part of that either. Let them be bad on their own, I thought. Let me not contribute.

Sure enough, the next year was better. I had explained to Victoria about my awful Thanksgiving. Her family welcomed me with open arms. My dad didn’t feel bad because he was still hitting the bottle. My brother had graduated to weed and was only half-conscious of what was going on around him. My mom was weak, and I didn’t have the strength to help her. I had just enough strength to take care of me. Some very important instincts were kicking in.

Victoria and her family would become one of many lifeboats that I grabbed onto during my rough and turbulent childhood.

So, on this Thanksgiving, I am going to thank my lifeboats. I have made a promise to always celebrate this holiday with real turkey and a home-baked pumpkin pie. I don’t feel sad when I think about the past. I feel appreciative that there are people in my life to share the day — which now includes watching at least one football game and making a mess in the kitchen because I make ALL the traditional side dishes that accompany a turkey — stuffing, cranberry sauce, glazed yams, and even cornbread.

And one more thing: I always make a point of having us sing the song taught to me by Mrs. Wilson, “T’is a Gift to Be Simple.”

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