Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays: it’s secular and includes plenty of tasty food and drink. And the next day is also a day off, so your food coma or hangover isn’t a real problem either. So what’s not to like?
Growing up in Canada, we celebrated two Thanksgiving days, doubling my pleasure. Canada's version takes place on the second Monday of October, as traditional harvest time would suggest. Much like Germany’s Oktoberfest. So, we did that.
And since we lived less than a mile away from the border and most of my family is from the USA, we celebrated American Thanksgiving too. Since 1939, it has been held on the 4th Thursday of November—it used to be a week later—to kick off and extend the economically significant Christmas retail shopping season.
Historically speaking, Thanksgiving’s origins are murky. Some claim the first celebration in North America occurred after the 1578 voyage of Martin Frobisher from England landed in Canada…somewhere. He was lost and looking for the Northwest Passage. They ate and drank a lot in thanks for surviving the perilous voyage. Others aren’t so sure. But then, there’s the heartwarming story of newbie Plymouth immigrants in 1621 sharing a bountiful feast with their good First Nation friends, the Wampanoags. I’m sure there was more to that story. There always is!
So let’s not overthink it. Safe to say, Thanksgiving Day (T-Day) is intended to celebrate successful harvests shared with family and friends. We’re supposed to be thankful for what Mother Nature has given us. We’ll see how long she keep doing that…I mean Mother Nature!
Ironically, on American T-Day all my mother’s family would come across the border from Detroit to Windsor, Canada, to celebrate. I don’t know why, but they did. Maybe she put together a better feast than Martha Stewart—and she never went to jail for being too greedy, either. Anyway, that was also good news for me because I usually got out of school early or was allowed to miss the whole day. And aside from lake-effect-induced snow days, it was something I always looked forward to, no school.
Of course, I was relegated to sitting at the proverbial kids table at these formal sit-downs. It seemed like a life sentence, purgatory, at best. But I remember two T-Day’s specifically. One good, one bad.
First, the bad. And I sure hope I don’t cause my dear friend to have any PTSD by revealing this, hopefully long forgotten, story. But back in 1965, in Grade 2, I was in a foul mood because I had to go to school until lunch on T-Day. Something about me being out of my mother’s hair. Anyway, walking home at lunch, one of my BFFs, Ken Troup, and I were in a quarrel of sorts. The evidence shows that I wanted to test the sticks and stones theory of arguments. Stones were tossed, some bigger than others. Kenny was hit in the head. Blood flowed. I ran.
Kenny’s mom, Verna (d. 2009), was not too happy with me. And when she dropped by the house, now full of T-Day relatives, after visiting the hospital for Kenny's multiple stitches, my dad wasn't too happy with me either. And unlike the White House turkeys, I did not get a Presidential pardon. Nuff said. Ken and I are fine, though, 61 years and running!
Now, the good memory. Completing America’s T-Day trifecta: the three f’s, food, family and football. It was the 28th of November 1963, and I was five. It was a brisk and breezy morning when my dad shovelled me into the car on a father-son outing, his ever-present Camel between his lips. We had breakfast at the Leland Hotel with my granddad—who gave me a silver dollar. Win-win. Then we headed out the door to watch the J.L. Hudson’s Thanksgiving Day Parade*… floats, marching bands, balloons, and the arrival of Santa Claus. Lassie, the photogenic wonder dog, was the Grand Marshall. But my day improved like I got the big piece of an early wishbone pull.
My dad and I went to Tiger Stadium for the NFL’s Thanksgiving Classic between the Detroit Lions and Bart Starr’s Green Bay Packers. Wow! I tightly held my dad's hand, walking amongst the boisterous and festive crowd. Day drinkers all. I remember it being cool but not cold. And my throat got really warm when my dad, knowingly smiling, handed me his flask for a tug at some point. When my tongue touched the fire water, I thought I was gonna die. And all the men around us laughed. Honestly, I have no idea what happened in the game, but I was there. Something about kissing my sister? A tie game, 13-13, I would later learn.
Finally, at home, we enjoyed a turkey dinner feast with all my mom’s relatives at our house, the proud victors. My closest-in-age male cousin, Carl, was beside himself, jealous of me. What a day! A silver dollar, a parade, Lassie, Santa, a football game, a taste of liquor, a great dinner, an envious cousin, pie, and a fond memory of my dad.
Our T-Day traditions changed radically when my dad died a decade later. Seeing there was no one to sharpen the carving knives, it seemed my mom wasn’t up to stuffing a turkey with love. So no more family gatherings.
I have never had the dubious privilege of traveling anywhere on America’s second busiest travel day—tomorrow, Wednesday—to get over the river and through the woods to grandmother’s house, à la Steve Martin & John Candy in Planes, Trains and Automobiles (1987). And for almost twenty years, between when I went to college, and when my daughter Petra was born, T-Day meant even less to me. But I remember a few.
I remember serving food a couple of years in a row to my fellow Angeleno neighbors on Skid Row in downtown LA at a homeless center for LA Mission in the late 80s. Just me, a nobody, and a few celebrities serving the other nobodies who were gloriously thankful.
Then full circle, ironically again, our biggest feasts were served up in Canada when we lived on the Sunshine Coast of British Columbia for 13 years. The wife and I served an orphan’s dinner for a few expats (draft dodgers, really) and our curious Canuck friends. But, of course, dinner was always late, an after-work affair for our guests.
So, what do we serve? Well, of course, turkey’s on the menu. I prefer the high heat and quick method—450°. A fruit & nut-heavy stuffing, amazing pan gravy, garlic mashed potatoes w/ fried leeks, sweet potatoes, scratch cranberry sauce, homemade rolls, either peas w/ bacon and leeks or orange-glazed brussels sprouts, and our wacky family tradition: orange Jell-O, that sometimes includes grated carrots and sometimes mandarin oranges. And, oh yes, two pies: one pumpkin w/ graham cracker crust and the other pecan w/ whipped cream.
But personally, as good as that is, I love leftovers for a few days. And we as a family eschews anything to do with the Black Friday merch madness of shopping mall stampedes, customer rage, and gunfights, oh my. Not to mention hellish traffic, parking lot mayhem, and steep discounts on hot items. Much-preferring movies, games, and turkey on rye sandwiches (arugula, Swiss cheese, avocado slices, mayo, onion, and cranberry sauce). Yummy. And then, oddly, I make a Vietnamese Phở stock with the carcass and bits and pieces.
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone. I know I am thankful.
*BTW: Macy’s and J.L. Hudson’s department stores copied the Eaton’s-sponsored (another department store) Toronto Santa Claus Parade. First held in 1905 on Queen Street, and it remains the oldest Santa Claus parade in the world.
Thanks for the privilege of your time, it is the most precious thing we have, and I appreciate it. Be well.
William D. Chalmers © 2022 GreatEscape Adventures, Inc. All Rights Reserved.