Musings
an Online Journal of Sorts

By Alyce Wilson

Because of our work schedules, The Gryphon and I had little choice but to leave for Central Pennsylvania, and Thanksgiving, after my evening work assignments Wednesday. By that time of night, we didn't run into much traffic. And because of the toll booth workers' strike, the toll was half as much as it normally is.

When we arrived, someone had made up for us the futon in the living room. We crawled in and went to sleep.

The next morning, the craziness began. For the past several years, we've had Thanksgiving at my dad's place, with food prepared partly at Mom's and partly at Dad's. The primary reason is that Dad has more space to set up a large table.

In addition to family, meaning me, The Gryphon, my brother and his wife, my sister and her fiancé, Mom and Dad, we also had The Pastor, her brother, his wife and their two daughters.

But Dad wasn't used to having that much company, so we ran around his apartment, straightening up. For example, I put all his books upright in his bookshelf in the living room, instead of being piled up haphazardly, the way they'd been before. My brother and his wife had arrived earlier in the week and had done a thorough cleaning in the bathroom, the kitchen and the dining room.

The goal was to make Dad's apartment not just clean, but guest-worthy. This was not easy, since he's been living alone for more than a decade and has, in his apartment, not only his own things but also items inherited from his mother and great-aunt. It's an interesting blend, really, a big screen TV which is clearly Dad's, amidst shelves crammed full with flowery china.

Then the real fun began: running back and forth to Mom's place, picking up various food items. When The Gryphon and I arrived on such a run, we met The Pastor's family. They were cramped into my mom's family room, being investigated by curious cats. They seemed awkward and uncomfortable, sitting on kitchen chairs, since there isn't enough comfy furniture to go around, and trying not to knock over the piles of books and magazines that command every surface of my mom's family room.

One of The Pastor's son's had the flu, so he couldn't come to Thanksgiving, especially given that my brother's wife is pregnant. He was upstairs, convalescing.

In the process of loading up my car, The Gryphon got sweet potato juice on his jeans. As soon as we got back to Dad's, I attempted to clean them with dish washing liquid. What I didn't realize was just how much dish washing liquid suds up. No matter how much I rinsed it, I couldn't get the suds out. Finally, I just hung them up in the bathroom and told him we'd have to hit a Laundromat the next day.

We bustled around, trying to get things done in my Dad's small kitchen. The irony is that, while Dad has more room to host guests, he doesn't have much kitchen space to prepare food for them.

Somehow, we managed to make a go of it, until we got to the point where we needed to check on the turkey. Everyone had arrived by this point, and were socializing in the living room. This is when we realized we did not have a meat thermometer. I asked Dad if he had one, and he shouted loudly from the other room that he didn't. He always seems a bit offended when you ask him for some kitchen implement he doesn't have. And yet, despite all the family celebrations we've had there, he never buys those items for a future occasion.

I drove back to Mom's to look for one and couldn't find it in the drawer where she said it would be, despite taking everything out and looking carefully. I did, however, find a candy thermometer, which at least would register the proper temperature, if it wasn't ideal for a turkey.

After calling Wal-Mart and the grocery store and finding out they were both closed, I had one more option. I tried the drug store on the way back, but although they had such kitchen implements as a spatula or a pizza cutter, they had no meat thermometers. The candy thermometer would have to do.

When I handed it over to Mom, I recommended that if she wants to use it for candy after putting it in a turkey, she sterilize it first. She assured me she doesn't make candy anyway. I decided not to ask her why, then, she had a candy thermometer. It only would have added to the confusion.

The dinner was almost prepared. Dad directed people to put together the big antique table, an antique from Grandma which has terribly inconvenient legs at all four corners but yet is big enough to fit 10 people. I think The Pastor's family was happy to turn the conversation to something other than the improvements Dad had been making in his apartment (I think he even showed them the unfinished second bathroom which currently is nothing but dust and holes in the floor), and looking through his architecture books.

You see, the eldest daughter scouts locations for movies in New York. Her latest project is a Bollywood film. A nonmusical Bollywood film (such films exist). When Dad found this out, of course, the New York architecture books came out.

By this point, I'm fairly certain The Pastor's family felt like they were in a new Ben Stiller movie, "Meet the Wilsons."

My dog, Una, took a liking to the youngest daughter and followed her around. I don't know why, but maybe she just seemed like she needed some attention. Or maybe she snuck Una some turkey when no one was looking. Or perhaps she was simply allergic.

For dinner, there wasn't time to sit everyone at the usual long table, so we three Wilson siblings and our significant others sat in the dining room at a separate table. This disappointed Mom, who said that she hardly got to see us. We promised to catch up with her later in the weekend.

Now that the stress of preparing the huge meal had ended, we could relax and enjoy ourselves. I could hear a lot of laughter from the other room, so I think they did, too. I even took a few pictures, and my brother's wife came out and did the same. As the flash bulbs went off, I wonder if The Pastor's family felt as if they'd been set upon by paparazzi.

After the dinner, The Pastor's family didn't go running off into the streets screaming, so I suppose we did all right. My brother and his wife took charge of the cleanup, putting dishes in the dish washer and packing up the food. Soon, the guests were all gone and only family was left.

But I didn't get to enjoy that long, because I had some evening assignments. I'd decided to stick to my normal work schedule and just work around what my family was doing. You see, when you're a contract worker and a telecommuter, you don't get paid vacations.

Because some of my normal assignments didn't have to be done, I got finished earlier than usual and got to go upstairs, drink a couple Yuengling lagers and watch Comedy Central with people for awhile before they all said goodnight and The Gryphon and I made up the futon to get some sleep.

More from Thanksgiving weekend:

December 1, 2004 - Working Vacation

December 2, 2004 - Silly Saturday

December 3, 2004 - Return Journey

Copyright 2004 by Alyce Wilson

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