When Thanksgivings are somehow different

Holidays were rotated between Aunt Mildred, Aunt Rita and my mother in a way that I never understood, but in 1968, Nurse Vivian drew Thanksgiving. This was the autumn a year after the Summer of Love. The times they were a-changing, and she got it into her head that she was tired of turkey, even though she cooked it only once a year.

This was also the year that she had gotten her driver’s license, and so she drove the big red Chevrolet station wagon down to King Kullen Supermarket on her own.

Not even Pop knew what she was cooking. That Thursday, she sent us all out to play football under the sycamore trees of Sutter Avenue (actually I sat on the stoop reading Fantastic Four — RIP Stan Lee — while Pop, Brother X and Brother Not X tossed a pigskin around). Three o’clock: Aunts and uncles arrived. Things seemed normal enough: Appetizers consisted of the miniature hot dogs wrapped in Pillsbury biscuits. Shrimp cocktail on iceberg lettuce. Highballs for the adults, cider for the cousins, And then ... sauerbraten.

Nurse Vivian was not German, although she thought she was, and thus she had mastered the art of pickling beef for three days, sweetening it up with gingersnap cookies, and serving it with potato balls and red cabbage cooked in vinegar.

Never saw such a boohoo in my life. Cousin Patrick: “There’s no stuffing. Where’s the stuffing?” Cousin Janey: “There aren’t any marshmallows! It’s not Thanksgiving without marshmallow fluff in the yams.” The ballyhoo continued until Uncle Leon piled them into his Hudson and drove off to McDonald’s.

Five empty chairs. But Brother X and Brother Not X dug right in, and we were left with the five of us. As Pop stuck a fork into his fourth kartoffel ball, he opined, “While they’re thanks-going, we’re thanks-giving. Thank you for the surprise, Vivian. Sweet and sour Thanksgiving.”

None of us knew at the time that this would be our last Thanksgiving as the Paulsons. We moved out of South Ozone Park. Brother Not X joined the Navy, leaving his chair empty for years, and Brother X joined the monastery, leaving another empty chair, and by the time that they both came back, I was gone to Notre Dame. Doing the math now, I realize that we only ever had 11 Thanksgivings with all five.

On that same calculus, I should not be sad that Zane’s chair is empty tomorrow. We Fisher-Paulsons have had 12 Thanksgiving with all four of us in the blue bungalow in the outer, outer, outer, outer Excelsior. This makes 34 turkeys that my husband and I have dined on, and though a gravy boat or two has spilled over the years, our pumpkin pie has always saved the day. And for the last dozen, Zane has sat at my left, and held my hand long enough to say grace and what he was grateful for, before he grabbed the drumstick before Aidan.

Despite the fact that we are UNgrateful that Zane is not here, we are grateful that we’ll have Uncle Jon and the SASBs, THE Terry Asten Bennett and Aunt JJ and even the girl next door, and they’ve all been part of this crazyquilt family since Brian and I invented gay marriage. (This was a few years before Al Gore invented the internet.)

We are grateful that Zane is in Texas, where he has found the help he needs. Somewhere, over a mountain and across a desert, Zane will be eating barbecue tomorrow. Not only that, he’ll be where Thanksgiving was invented. Let me put in the facts, so as not to panic my beloved copy desk. The Pilgrims did set down to seethed mussels with parsley and stewed pumpkin with the Wampanoag in Massachusetts sometime around the fall of 1621. In 1598, Juan de Oñate led an expedition of 500 Spaniards across the Chihuahan desert. They traveled for 50 days, through first flood, then drought, and during the last five days of the march had run out of food. But then they reached the Rio Grande. The Cacique of the Tigua surprised them with the offer of roasted pive (or deer) and cornbread, a feast of thanksgiving, in a place that would one day be known as El Paso, Texas.

So this Thanksgiving, surprise someone with your gratitude. As you sit down, and hold hands to say grace, cherish the moment, as you never know when you will break bread together again.

We’re grateful for you readers, who continue to believe in this bumblebee family and who light candles that next Thanksgiving, our son will come home and no chair will be empty.

Unless, of course, I cook sauerbraten.

None of us knew at the time that this would be our last Thanksgiving as the Paulsons.