A Very M.M. Thanksgiving

There is a tried and true recipe for holiday disappointment and drama, and it can be captured in one word - EXPECTATION.  Assuming he will be there too, when I get to heaven, I'm going to pop Norman Rockwell right in the mouth. 

Yet these days, when I reflect on my own catalogue of holiday memories, I'm struck by the joy and humor therein.  I think it's only in retrospect that I'm able to see that, because quite frankly, a lot of it seemed weird and terrible at the time.  Perspective is a fabulous lens.

Babble followers may recall previous installments wherein I provided a sketch of my maternal grandmother Alice Mildred Branson McRae, a.k.a. Miss Mildred, a.k.a. M. M.  (If you are new to Babble, please refer to the post about her from March 2012 for context.  "Unique" just doesn't do her justice.)

Anyhoo, Thanksgiving at Mildred's was unlike any of my friends' celebrations;  for years, I thought it best to keep quiet about our odd little gatherings.  They were just too weird, and I was already weird enough on my own merits.

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GUEST LIST

Mildred's official role on Congressman Duncan's staff included oversight of immigrant affairs, meaning she handled visas and residency applications and asylum-seekers and even sometimes eventual citizenship.  Every year, the guest list included at least one foreign national who probably didn't give a flip about the Mayflower but loved my grandmother.

Mildred never met a stranger, foreign or domestic, and the friendships that she forged with many of her clients spanned decades.  And so it isn't hard to see why we would always have a couple of extra seats at the Thanksgiving table occupied by Filipinos or Russians or Iraqis or Czechs.  (There was also a South African in there for a few years, but he was mostly my doing.  That's another story.)

• There was Nellie, the Russian beauty, about my mother's age, who drank too much Asti Spumante and wept for hours in between cigarettes;

• The handsome Czech youth (Lonnie?  Lenny?  L-something...) whom I heard later became a male stripper - although, knowing M.M., that may have already been on his resume by then...;

• The Haddads.  Here I must pause, for the Haddads loved my grandmother as much or more than I did, and I will be forever grateful to them for all they did for her over the years.  I never knew what Mr. Haddad did for a living either in Iraq or the U.S., but whatever it was, he was enormously successful.  I know he lived in fear of being deported and I suspect he was here under political asylum.  Anyway, the Haddads showered M.M. with gifts and affection and care and compassion even into her days at Shannondale nursing home and sat right behind me at her funeral.  The Haddads introduced us to Thanksgiving tabbouleh and stuffed grape leaves and I loved them for it.  One little funny about the Haddads though... the wife's mother spoke no English, and she was generally referenced to us as "Gladys".  However, whenever one of the Haddads addressed her directly, we distinctly heard them call her "F-you", with the "F"-word sounded out.  Since Gladys isn't a particularly common Iraqi name, we decided that they adopted it for American use, but poor Gladys' real name was probably more akin to something you'd hear in the Bronx.

• The Gomez'.  Maybelle Gomez was a scientist or engineer at Oak Ridge National Laboratory, and while I never knew exactly what she did out there, I always worried she'd had her hands in radioactive uranium prior to holding my hand each November during the Thanksgiving blessing.  Maybelle and her mother Virginia (another suspiciously convenient American name, if you ask me) were Filipino Christian exiles.  Maybelle was as sweet a human being as I've ever known, but she would go all dark and broody if the Marcos regime became a topic of conversation.  I don't think Maybelle liked me once I hit my rebellious season - I suspect snotty teenagers aren't generally well-tolerated in Manila.

There were others, I'm sure, but these are the guests that sit squarely atop my M.M. Thanksgiving memories.

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HAM-FISTED

One of my responsibilities in prepping for the annual Thanksgiving gala at M.M.'s was to brave the hordes at HoneyBaked Ham and deliver it an hour or so before the opening prayer.

Babble-followers, in addition to those intrepid souls who've been part of my inner circle over the years, are familiar with my historical penchant for a really good time.  I mean, a really good time, the kind that can involve shot glasses and various states of undress.  (Emphasis on HISTORICAL reiterated.)

Hawkeye's Corner was a popular nightspot in the Fort Sanders area and they offered a sadistic event each Wednesday night officially known as "Animal Hour".  Unlike your basic 2-for-1, or even those nutty Ladies' Night 3-for-1s...Animal Hour was, yep, you guessed it...a FOUR-for-one event customized to attract ne'er-do-wells who might or might not buy food but would sure as heck jam the bar upstairs.  I don't know how they ever made any money off of Animal Hour.  Perhaps the fact that I'm referencing Hawkeye's in the past tense is somehow related.  But I digress.

So, what, you must be asking yourself, does this have to do with Thanksgiving and ham?  Well, you'll note that Animal Hour was a Wednesday evening affair, even on Thanksgiving Eve.  Having staggered into my apartment late one particular November Wednesday evening in question, I was delighted to remember that I had a giant ham in my fridge, and since I was a bit peckish, I decided I'd have a little something something.

And then a little more.

And then some more.

Fast-forward to the next morning, when I arrived at M.M.'s house at the appointed hour of 11 a.m., with a much less heavy ham than the one I'd purchased at HBH roughly 24 hours before.  My fingers were swollen like sausages and I dearly wanted to vomit or at least lie down on the couch.  But no, there were guests and a scowling mother and grandmother to contend with, so I peeled back the gold foil wrapping to showcase a significant amount of hambone with just a few meager slices clinging to the end of it.

After a good stern talking-to, they let me go lie down.

But I never, and I do mean NEVER, lived down the year that I ate the flippin ham and showed up swollen and hungover, carting the bone.  When I brought my fiancée-who-eventually-became-the-Mister for his first visit, of course he was regaled with the ham story.  He married me anyway.

He likes ham, too.

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ALL JACKED UP

And speaking of the Mister's first Thanksgiving at M.M.'s, I have to relay a brief story about a table.  Not just any table, but the dining room table from my grandmother's (and previously my great-grandmother's) apartment.

It was a small and beautiful cherry hardwood table, complete with drop-leaves and inserts to make it big enough to seat 10-12 folks.  Of course, M.M.'s apartment was roughly 600 square feet, so it definitely took up a lot of space on Thanksgiving Day.  "Crowded" is an understatement.

Like most folks who are advancing in years and decreasing in body fat, M.M. was perpetually cold.  Her Ceil-Heat gauge was always cranked up past 80 degrees...add in a dozen people, in a tiny apartment, and sometimes a hangover...you get the picture.  Some years were just plain brutal.  People argued about who got the privilege of taking out the trash, just for a few treasured moments outdoors.  (And one of these days, I need somebody to explain to me why putting heating elements in the ceiling is a good idea.)

Anyway, on the occasion of the Mister's first Thanksgiving at M.M.'s, the table was set, the spumante was unscrewed, the ham was present in its entirety...and one side of the table collapsed.  Seriously, it just collapsed.  After much dithering and drama about what to do, my fiancée and brother-in-law cooked up an ingenious solution...

They jacked up the table.  With a tire jack from somebody's trunk.  I couldn't make this up if I tried.

We were hot and miserable but by God the table was level, and we enjoyed one of the last Thanksgivings in M.M.'s little place.

And we had yet another great story.

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I doubt there's any surprise in the fact that I've paid a few therapists in my day, and while there was a quack or two, there was one who was remarkably astute and helpful.  I will never forget telling Tom about my grandmother and our Thanksgivings, and I will never forget his response.

"My goodness, but you certainly have an interesting gene pool".

Dude - you have NO idea.