THANKSGIVING AT AUNT HELEN'S

I've received three phone calls this morning, it's a day off, and the clock shows 8:42. Millions in the country have this day off in the United States. (Canada's already had their Thanksgiving...were there pilgrims in Canada who sat down with the Native People and shared food?) Well, it's not a day off for some: emergency workers, volunteers serving the disenfranchised, law enforcement, grocery stores. And it's not a day off for the ones who cook the meal. Many of them got up earlier than usual to make the dressing, stuff and cook the turkeys.

In my childhood Aunt Helen was the chef for turkey day, and she was a piece of work. Cooking allowed her full access on the bourbon she loved so much. Her glass sat nestled among the celery ends and onion skins on the counter. Normally her drinking was monitored by various family members. But woe be the brave soul who tried to enter her kitchen on Thanksgiving. Helpers would not be allowed, especially those who might object to her ever-filled tumbler.

The kitchen in her and Uncle Jack's modest home was central to all conversations, arrivals and departures. Thus she could monitor guests, children and the family dog. Her running monologue about everyone kept us informed of her rigid opinions. As she cooked, she tasted for seasonings, nibbled on this and that, bemoaned what an awful cook she was, and how nothing was coming out right.

The rest of us took turns at the dining room table that sat opposite the center of activity, or we retired to the other center: the TV room. We're in the fifties here, so the screen was small, and the whole room was built for television, the newest member of the family. The Macy's parade marched by and the commercials were short. That's where the menfolk hung out, awaiting the Rose Bowl with frosted beers, that later in the day turned to chilled hard liquor. The teenage boys lounged there too, absorbing the language of their mentors and drinking carbonated drinks out of glass bottles.

Growing up, the day became predictable for me . I looked forward to Aunt Helen's embrace when we arrived, loved her silly stories early in the day, but then I watched her change into a loud and obnoxious shrew, who eventually insulted nearly every adult member of the family. It was the grace of God that led her to refuse to sit at the sumptuous meal, every year: "No, no, I'm full! I'm just too full. I have no appetite now. You folks go ahead and enjoy yourself. It's not that good anyway: the yams are burned and the turkey's dry." Off she would shuffle, none too steady, to her bedroom. We were relieved, as the glances around the table betrayed, and we dug into the perfectly cooked and seasoned meal.

The national myth runs something like this: after eating, everyone sits down to board games, naps, or visits together over pumpkin pie. But not at my family's gathering. Some topic would generally arise over the steaming gravy, usually one I couldn't understand, and then the uncles would start in on each other. By the time we spooned the whipped cream on dessert, they were shouting, alternately standing, pacing and sitting (and checking into the liquor cabinet), as the rest of us tried to placate them, or just watched in fear that one would really lose it. Hearing the commotion from her bedroom, Aunt Helen would wander out and join in, full volume.

There was no escape. The belligerent energy was far too overriding for us cousins to ignore, and since we only met once a year, leaving the house for an adventure together didn't enter our minds. What we could count on was everyone falling asleep eventually (thank you, tryptophane) and then we would change the channel (there were two) to watch an old movie, volume enhanced to override the snoring.

It never occurred to me to boycott Thanksgiving with Aunt Helen until my freshman year of college when I returned home full of papers to write and books to read. My mother relayed the schedule for our departure. "Mom, sit down," I said as pleasantly as I could. "I'm not going to Aunt Helen's."

"What? We can't not go to Helen's for Thanksgiving! They're expecting us!"

I explained that I had too much homework, that I came home to be home, and that the dinner wasn't all that important to me. But eventually her objections overrode my kindness.

"MOM! All you adults do is get drunk and yell at each other." I was shouting, just like them. "I'm NOT going. Go if you want to, but I'm staying home!"

She pouted, maybe there were tears--I don't recall. She rummaged through the cupboards grumbling about not having anything we could eat; but in the end, we sat at her pink formica table, ate a lovely little meal of cream chipped beef on toast, and visited about our lives. She drank wine instead of bourbon, I had coffee. It was sweet. I was thankful.

I don't know what mom told her sister, but we never went to Aunt Helen's Thanksgiving again.