Insanely Thankful

I recently found this essay that I wrote exactly 5 years ago. For my personal essay class, we had to write exactly 2 pages about anything that described ourselves in a nutshell. After an IC photo show the night before the due date, and a few too many free Apricot Wheats, I decided to write about Thanksgiving. Billie had come home with me that year, so maybe this will jog his memory. Happy Thanksgiving !

Insanely Thankful

I’m sitting here, staring at this odd medley of people gathered at the dinner table, wondering, how on earth did I get here with these people? The smoke alarm is going off, much louder than it usually does. “Are the fire trucks going to come?” my mom asks with a worried look on her face. She is Clarissa Dalloway, the perfect hostess, and this was not in her plans. The dripping grease from the turkey caught fire in the oven somehow and a burst of flame leapt at my mom as she went to baste the turkey one last time. It is Thanksgiving Day, and like every other year, there is never a dull moment. This is pure chaos, as always, and this is how my family operates. We couldn’t have it any other way.

The fire extinguished quickly but the horrified look on my mother’s face did not. My dad asks her if her eyebrows and hair are still intact and my mom, still stunned, widens her eyes as the smoke detector starts beeping frantically. The noise permeates throughout the house, amplifying the stress that already exists. My sister and I laugh from the living room as we watch the scenario unfold between my parents. We are “staying out of the wyay.” The 92-year-old woman from my parents’ church is waving a decrepit dish towel at the smoke detector, attempting to thwart its piercing shrieks. Knowing my dad, and from the look on his face, I’m sure that he would have preferred to smash the plastic perpetrator with a hammer. My dog, sensing the commotion, feels left out. She begins barking shrilly in rhythm to the consistent chirping, wagging her tail to the beat.

The smoke detector finally shuts up and thankfully the fire trucks never appear. We are sitting at the dining room table, formally decorated by my perfectionist mother. Any mischievous, turkey-spying cat has been locked in my bedroom. The table is perfect. My mom has even written out little white cards with everyone’s names on them, dictating where each person will sit. Guided by twisted social graces, she wants everyone to sit next to someone they wouldn’t normally sit next to. Because of this new tradition, my mom and sister glare at each other from across the table. For once in my life, I agree with my sister. I don’t want to sit next to Pastor Dave, I think, why can’t I sit next to Billie? Billie is my roommate, and if he had known what he was getting himself into, I’m not sure he would have chosen to come.

For some reason, Pastor Dave has brought his extremely irritating cocker spaniel, who insists on jumping onto his lap during dinner. My mom, usually a woman with fairly normal common sense and knowledge of what’s appropriate has politely ignored the fact that this “adorable,” oversized lap dog has already peed on her living room carpet, twice. Dave has recently moved here from California, recently being almost 2 years ago, and my mom insists that the dog is his only family right now. “He’s never going to get a girlfriend if he keeps bringing that damn dog everywhere,” my dad not so quietly whispers, winking at me.

I clench my teeth and smile at my sister as Mona, another 90-something-year-old woman from my parents’ church, says what she is thankful for. She is thankful that, 50 years ago, her husband didn’t get crushed by an errant bag of rice tumbling out of an airplane in Bangladesh. He has been dead for 20 years.

This is my family. We have brought in every stray that otherwise would have been alone for Thanksgiving. It is hectic, it is chaos. But this is my family and I love them for it. I couldn’t have it any other way.