Thanksgiving was always a popular holiday in my childhood home. My mother spent the day before cooking and baking while we were in school. Then that night she would bake a few more pies and prepare the turkey for the oven. I liked to sit and watch her preparations and learned most of my cooking techniques not from actually cooking myself, but from watching my mother cook. Later, when I was older, I made a few pies, cakes and brownies but no actual meal preparations. It wasn't until I was married that I started cooking for real. Even with that lack of experience I resisted my husband's attempts to turn me into a cook like his mother. She was a good cook but nothing like my own mother. I made do with some of my mother's recipes, a few cookbooks, and most important of all, the original 1940's Betty Crocker Cookbook used by my mother. I loved that cookbook; I still do. It's not in great shape, but I have all the pages complete with my mother's notes. When the publishers came out with a reprint, I bought a copy.
Thanksgiving morning we all were on our best behavior. The delicious smells coming from the kitchen were enough to remind us to help our mother all we could for we wanted nothing to go wrong with that wonderful food. The table in the dining room, which had been transformed from a place to do homework to a beautiful setting for my mother's wedding china and tablecloth, became the favorite room in the house. We constantly checked to make sure everything was as it should be.
When I was young, it was usually just our immediate family with once and awhile a grandparent or two. Later, after my sister went to college, she would bring home boyfriends to share our meal. This made the holiday all the more exciting. The boyfriend of the day was always the one she was going to marry. We always looked forward to her coming home from college to be with us once again.
I tried to carry on the Thanksgiving tradition after I had my own family but it was never the same. I was usually working and only had the holiday itself off, plus I really didn't enjoy cooking, especially large holiday dinners. I felt guilty about this and kept trying to please but after my daughter grew up and left home, I stopped bothering. My husband and I were usually invited to dinner by others and sometimes we went and sometimes we didn't. At other times we went out for dinner with my in-laws to a restaurant but they and my husband would always bemoan the fact that there weren't any leftovers. I finally started hating the holiday because it seemed that everyone around me only cared about the food and forgot about the thanksgiving part. Now I ignore the whole day whenever I can.
Friday, October 28, 2011
Sunday, October 2, 2011
A Mother's Stories
My mother didn't always have children's books around when we were little, so she would tell us stories. Some stories she made up; others were based on her childhood. One story in particular she told us as a way to teach us how to take care of each other in times of possible danger.
She had two younger sisters, just as I have, and they would go places together at a very young age. They lived in a small city, and were told by their father to go outside and play whenever he saw them hanging around the house. So,they spent their days traveling around the city streets meeting friends and other people.
One day they met an old man who asked them if they wanted some candy, and all they had to do was go to his house with him. My mother knew better and took her sisters away from him. One day they met him again and he asked if they would go to his house to get some treats. The younger of the two sisters said she would and started off with him. It took all my mother's strength to drag her away. Naturally this sister was angry at my mother and said she could do whatever she wanted. So my mother took them home and waited for their father to get home from work. She told him about the man and how her sister wanted to go with him. My grandfather became very angry and told them never to go near that man again because he was a very bad man and would hurt them if he had the chance. So from then on her sisters paid attention to what she said.
My mother told different versions of this story every so often to make sure we remembered. She also let us have a treat every night from the corner store before we went to bed so we wouldn't be tempted by strange men offering us candy. I don't know if this story was true or not but at the time I believed every word and apparently my sisters did, too.
When my youngest sister was first starting school and walking by herself sometimes, she was passed on the street by a man. At the same time her teacher had been warned about a man trying to lure kids. My sister somehow heard the adults talking about him and connected the man who passed her on the street to this man the teacher was warned about. She was very frightened but didn't tell anyone. She had a few nightmares
but after awhile, she forgot about it. Later, when she was an adult, she went for some therapy and this whole incident came back to her.
So, what does this mean? I've never been able to decide if my mother was right in her methods or if she should have been more discreet and less descriptive in her story-telling. I certainly don't blame her for my sister's buried fear, and I know my sister doesn't. When it comes right down to it, my mother's story was probably not the cause of my sister's reaction at all.
She had two younger sisters, just as I have, and they would go places together at a very young age. They lived in a small city, and were told by their father to go outside and play whenever he saw them hanging around the house. So,they spent their days traveling around the city streets meeting friends and other people.
One day they met an old man who asked them if they wanted some candy, and all they had to do was go to his house with him. My mother knew better and took her sisters away from him. One day they met him again and he asked if they would go to his house to get some treats. The younger of the two sisters said she would and started off with him. It took all my mother's strength to drag her away. Naturally this sister was angry at my mother and said she could do whatever she wanted. So my mother took them home and waited for their father to get home from work. She told him about the man and how her sister wanted to go with him. My grandfather became very angry and told them never to go near that man again because he was a very bad man and would hurt them if he had the chance. So from then on her sisters paid attention to what she said.
My mother told different versions of this story every so often to make sure we remembered. She also let us have a treat every night from the corner store before we went to bed so we wouldn't be tempted by strange men offering us candy. I don't know if this story was true or not but at the time I believed every word and apparently my sisters did, too.
When my youngest sister was first starting school and walking by herself sometimes, she was passed on the street by a man. At the same time her teacher had been warned about a man trying to lure kids. My sister somehow heard the adults talking about him and connected the man who passed her on the street to this man the teacher was warned about. She was very frightened but didn't tell anyone. She had a few nightmares
but after awhile, she forgot about it. Later, when she was an adult, she went for some therapy and this whole incident came back to her.
So, what does this mean? I've never been able to decide if my mother was right in her methods or if she should have been more discreet and less descriptive in her story-telling. I certainly don't blame her for my sister's buried fear, and I know my sister doesn't. When it comes right down to it, my mother's story was probably not the cause of my sister's reaction at all.
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