Thanksgiving - 2005

                                             Thanksgiving at the Dillard House

 

It sits tucked away in a scenic valley of the North Georgia mountains, serving legendary Southern cooking, family-style. I have never been disappointed by one of their meals and today should be no exception. But to say we came here for the food gives too much credit to the Dillard House. Instead, I am the main reason for this forced march. This is my first holiday as a single parent, so my mother, father, brothers, and sister-in-law all decided to postpone their traditional meal to Friday so my children could have two Thanksgiving dinners, one today with their mother and another tomorrow with us. Divorce does a lot of strange things to a family.

Eight of us have carpooled for two hours only to learn we’ll have to wait at least two more to eat. Sitting alone on the front porch I enjoy the midday sun’s warmth and hear numbers blare through loudspeakers, “241, 245, 246, last call for 239.” This is the system for letting you know when your table is ready. The numbers are always repeated, just in case you’re not attentive after hours of waiting, and they’re never consecutive. They are announced according to how long you’ve been waiting, the size of your party and the availability of a table to fit you. Tables are never moved around or pushed together, and ticket numbers are read from a waiting list, which in fact isn’t a real list – it’s several stacks of yellow cards. Our ticket is currently at the bottom of the eight-person-table stack. There is no lounge or snack bar to feed my cravings, so I’ll be sober and starving once we’re seated.  I’ll probably eat too much bread before the main course is served limiting my ability to consume the heralded food.

“233, 290, 294, 295, 301 your tables are available.” This repeats to the constantly refilling crowd. A pimply-faced teen wearing an Allman Brothers t-shirt and Florida Gators cap plays catch with a cousin, or younger brother, or family friend – it could be any of them. He smacks his gum as he tosses the ball, trying to keep up with the errant throws of his much younger companion. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s from somewhere north of Orlando; the part of Florida where football is a religious ceremony in the Fall and the Allman Brothers are almost as revered. Seeing these two working so hard at filling time until the voice recognizes their patience makes me thankful for my interest in voyeurism. Attention paid to the business of others keeps me from wondering what my children are doing.  It fills a space inside of me which might otherwise be overflowing with guilt for not being with them today.

 “263, 259, 262, 261, your tables are ready.” The waiting crowd stops, no one moves or speaks as the numbers are read four more times. As the voice finishes, “Bingo” is shouted by a long-suffering potential diner who has decided to kill time with too many cans of Bud Light. “I got Bingo – looky here – all right!” Chuckles break out in the crowd. “Bingo, Bingo, Bingo, I got Bingo!” he repeats louder and our initial chuckles fade. The first “Bingo” was funny but being mocked by a drunk makes the crowd uneasy. A brother or cousin grabs Bud Light-Bingo-Man by the arm to quiet him. The crowd slowly returns to mingling and the loudspeaker soon erupts with new winners to raise our spirits.

 “286, 290, 294, 295, 297, your tables are available.” As the sun fades and the air becomes gusty and cool, many of us head to our cars to wait. I’m thankful for satellite radio and being able to listen to the Atlanta-Detroit football game. Arranged in my parents’ car, we’re huddled together like generations past who gathered to listen to fireside chats or other important radio broadcasts. The mother would knit, the father might tinker with a gadget, and the children would play with toys. But I suspect those families never rested comfortably in a mini-van with side-by-side captain’s chairs, powered slide-opening side doors and a 60-40 split reclining rear seat in over-flow parking, convenient to the petting zoo. Except for these distinguishing facts, we’re no different; my mother knits, dad is fidgeting with his digital camera, and my nieces are punching buttons on their personal PlayStations. The groups within my family, my parents and my brother and his wife, can afford to let their Thanksgiving slip by in distraction. They have their children with them.

There are others who have taken to their cars for the comfort of the radio, their electronic games or the televisions and DVD players standard in our vehicles today. As the sky darkens further, we are ever more anxious for the loudspeaker to free us from our mini-van bondage. It’s one thing to wait for lunch; it’s another to watch the sky turn dark while you’re waiting. Walking amongst the cars you can make out the feature presentations available to the patrons of our mega-plex drive-in theatre; Shrek, Pirates of the Caribbean, Alfie, and, oh my God, is that porn on the TV screen in the white GMC Yukon!? 

“247, 251, 252, last call 246.” My family has never come together on this Thursday in November to give abundant thanks for the things in our life. When I was a child, Thanksgiving was often just an excuse to dress up the table, or visit an old relative, or throw a temper tantrum about something unrelated to the holiday. The past few years it has been an exercise in tense nerves, misunderstood motivations, and occasionally efforts to get as far away from one another as possible. But this year is different, and living for the sound of the loudspeaker only reinforces that fact. This year we’ve all come together for me, but the thanks I will give today is the hallelujah I mutter when our number is finally called. Right now, I’d rather have the old days and be with my kids.

I assume that like us, there are others whose large family gatherings can be awkward and full of gamesmanship for the right to carve and serve, or be excused from the “clear, wash and dry” jobs. No one ever wants to get up from a meal and move on to the vast undertaking of putting away the trappings and tableware from a large ceremonial feast. So, after our very satisfying meal, it was with a wide grin on her face that my sister-in-law whispered to my mother, “This has been great - and here’s the best part, we get to walk away from the dishes.” Maybe for them it was great, because other than the travel and the wait, their day was not much different from years past. 

I love them for the effort they made, but I never felt I was a part of them today. They were a family; I was just a participant. I do have things to be thankful for, but my Thanksgiving will be tomorrow. Today is not the day.