THANKSGIVING’S BEST
Goodness readers share their fondest holiday memories
The most important job
For me, Thanksgiving will always be linked to my maternal grandfather!
A chef by training, Grandpa was the maestro of the Thanksgiving meal. Everything was from scratch. And to this day, the smell of sage and thyme wafting through the house still brings Grandpa into my mind’s eye. I was the only grandchild, and therefore the joy of Grandpa’s life.
My favorite tradition goes back to Thanksgiving 1952. My parents and other relatives were in the kitchen following Grandpa’s detailed instructions for slicing, dicing and chopping. I was told to go into the living room and play with my dolls.
Even at only 3 years of age, I was told that my meltdown was epic: “Everyone has a job to do except me! ... No one loves me,” I wailed.
Grandpa swooped in, held me and dried my tears. He reassured me that, in fact, I had the most important job of all. My parents and relatives thought he surely must have lost his mind.
But his next pronouncement established a family tradition that continues to this very day: “Joanie, you have to tickle the turkey to make sure it’s tender!”
I beamed — my Grandpa had saved the most important job for me!
So, every year since then – even now as a senior citizen — prior to putting the mighty bird into the oven, I tickle the turkey to make it tender. And history has proven that Grandpa was right! It’s always tender.
Joan Nonenbacher Nilson Regent Square
Dizzying day
I remember my last Thanksgiving with mom. It was just the two of us, and of course she said, “Let’s just have a frozen pizza.”
No way, as I made the whole deal, including a full turkey because she loved the leg. I gave her a glass of wine, and then after pie, a cup of cafe ubriaco — beans roasted in a whiskey barrel — from La Prima Espresso Co.
When she finally stood up, she said, “Whoa, I’m dizzy,” and threw up all over me.
We laughed and laughed, and I tucked her in for a nap. Best day ever.
Lugene Calderone
Upper St. Clair
Hosting with mom
Even when we experience obstacles in our lives, I still think we have something to be thankful for each and every day. But of course,Thanksgiving is a special holiday to get together with family and friends to shareand express our love and gratitude.
As a child growing up, and even through my adult years, I have treasured spending Thanksgiving at my parents’ house. My husband, Don, joined in as did my brothers and their families.
There are so many special and funny memories, but there are some that stand out more vividly. My dad worked at the US Steel Homestead mill, and there were years when he was unable to have dinner with us due to the shift he was working. He was small in stature and had a physically tough job, yet he never complained. He truly was from the “greatest generation.”
One year in particular, I was the conversation piece. My mom enjoyed telling the story of how I ate all day and never left the table! I put a different spin on that story, explaining that I was just sitting and talking with visiting relatives.
In 2000, our family did not gather at my mom’s house. Mom became ill months prior and moved in with Don and me. Although the reason for her move was a sad one, we absolutely loved having her live with us. Out of something sad and unfortunate came the blessing of having our mom live with us.
Our family gathered at our home for Thanksgiving, which was our mom’s last. Thankfully she felt pretty good as she helped me prepare my first Thanksgiving dinner. What a treasure and blessing that was for all of us!
Lori Liptak-Downey
Turtle Creek
Bright memories, bleak days
Novembers around here are usually dark and dreary. Gray skies, bare branches and brown leaves crumbled on the ground make for a forlorn atmosphere.
But inside, the Thanksgiving holiday invariably fills us with plenty — plenty of food, plenty of family, plenty of football, plenty of blessings.
My Thanksgiving memories are plenty full of thanks for the many sumptuous feasts and moments of joy I experienced as we sat around my mother’s cozy dining room table — me, my sister, Rosie, Mom, Dad, my grandmother and Uncle Fred — in our yellow-orange brick house on Berkshire Avenue in Brookline.
We lived directly behind Brookline Boulevard, and I recall strolling along the boulevard and being enthralled by the colorful decorations in store windows: turkeys, pilgrims, pumpkins, cornucopia. The Thanksgiving decor never failed to brighten up the gloomy weather.
Thanksgiving was one of the few occasions when Dad and Uncle Fred would imbibe shots of whiskey to toast the holiday. Mom and my grandmother, whom we nicknamed Uma, even indulged in whiskey sours — risky behavior for those two old-fashioned Lebanese ladies.
I’m not a turkey kind of gal, so Mom would prepare a special dish of rigatoni just for me. And Mom wasn’t a turkey kind of cook, so her bird of choice was always roast chicken. Uma helped her cook it along with tasty Lebanese stuffing, buttered corn, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce and, of course, pumpkin pie.
As rabid football fans, we dutifully watched whatever NFL game was on TV, accompanied by Dad’s running commentary on the quality of play.
“Nobody’s sacking the quarterback!” he would shout at the screen. “He could drink his tea before he passes the ball!”
Despite these sporadic outbursts of sports-induced mania, make no mistake about it: The principal focus was on being together. The closeness and warmth were definitely palpable.
As the years passed, my sister and I wed, had children, then grandchildren. The family around the table grew. Unfortunately, beloved family members passed along with the years: first Uma, then Uncle Fred, followed by Dad, and finally Mom. My first Thanksgivings spent without each of them were the saddest and emptiest ones.
My happiest Thanksgivings were those when something exceptional was happening in my life. The Thanksgiving I became engaged. The Thanksgiving we bought a new house. The Thanksgiving I was pregnant with my son, Mark.
All these memories spark a glow in my heart, illuminating even the bleakest, most desolate November day.
Diane Vrabel Mt. Lebanon Thanksgiving 1963
On Thanksgiving Day in 1963, I was a skinny, 10-yearold boy growing up too fast.
Six days before Thanksgiving, my fifth-grade teacher, Mrs. Soltis, came into the classroom at St. Joseph’s School in Clairton and announced that President John Kennedy had been shot to death in Dallas. She was shaking and crying,
and for some reason, I thought a nuclear war was imminent.
They dismissed us early, and when I got home, the violent images on TV shocked me. The emotional intensity of that day was punctuated by my father’s reaction. He fought back tears. JFK, the first Catholic president, was my dad’s hero. A subdued mood and an underlying melancholy filled our house.
As we watched football and carved turkey on Thanksgiving Day, JFK’s death hung like a specter over our holiday festivities. My 10-year-old psyche was reeling from the dramatic, and traumatic, events of the past week, including Kennedy’s lying in state at the Capitol, his funeral procession, his burial in Arlington Cemetery and the somber tones of the newscasters. I also couldn’t forget seeing Jack Ruby shoot Lee Harvey Oswald live on TV.
It was the kind of loss of innocence and coming of age that we try to protect kids from, but sooner or later realize we can’t.
I watched the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade that Thursday morning. For a child, the ornate floats and towering balloons featuring Rocky and Bullwinkle marked the beginning of the Christmas season and all the joy it would bring a
month later with presents under the tree. But watching the parade wasn’t the same that day as in years past.
I remember the new president, Lyndon Johnson, spoke to the nation in a solemn but optimistic, tone that Thanksgiving Day in an address from the White House.
I had many wonderful holidays with my 10 siblings in that smoky steel town above the Monongahela River and am grateful for all I had: the good and the bad, thehappy and the sad.
The “winter of despair” in 1963 was followed by a “spring of hope,” to quote Charles Dickens, and that confused 10-year-old boy is alive and well and looking forward to football and turkey this Thanksgiving. I hope to see some of my brothers and sisters and reminisce about that forlorn holiday 59 years ago.
Al Vrabel
Mt. Lebanon
Frontline feast
Back in the ’90s when I was a young nurse, I found it especially difficult to spend some of my first holidays away from my family because I was working in the ICU.
One year, my mom cooked a complete Thanksgiving dinner for me and all of my nurse co-workers. We had worked a 12-hour shift
on Thanksgiving Day, then everyone arrived at my parents’ home afterwards for a family-style meal. No one caredthat dinner didn’t start until8 p.m. It was the best! Amy Roach Bethel Park
Many hands, light work
In the third grade, I was amazingly proud of our family Thanksgiving. “We did it all ourselves!” I bragged to my teacher, Mrs. Fairbanks.
My father and one of my brothers were successful in their turkey hunting.
The fruit in the cups and in the pies was grown in our garden and on the surrounding apple trees.
We grew and harvested the vegetables.
Gram and Mum made the rolls and pies.
As scripture counsels, “When I was a child, I thought as a child.” Yet as an adult, I know that not one of us does anything by ourselves. For that realization I am grateful.
Whatever our status, age, ability or privilege, we are each reliant on persons known to us by name and relationship, as well as those whose efforts for our shared community benefit us all.
Then and now, we need each other. Blessed be.