We are approximately four weeks from Thanksgiving. A time for families to gather around the table to eat, laugh, and, well, be thankful. In our family, it was also a time to see, and hear, Aunt Ginni!
After my uncle passed, typically Thanksgiving was held at my parents home. Mom would make the “backbone” of the dinner and everyone else would chip in with additional sides and desserts.
There was always that age-old question – “What should we tell Aunt Ginni to bring?” She would ask because she did have manners.
At first, it was her potato salad. Then she told on herself and we found out that “her” potato salad actually came from the grocery and she added a bit more mayo to it and topped it with sliced hard-boiled eggs. She was unable to bring that anymore because that particular grocery went out of business.
Next up was her angel food cake, typically topped with a seven-minute frosting. That confession revealed that the cake was from Kroger and her frosting was a package of Dream Whip she had doctored.
Then we moved on to her apple salad. My dad would rave about how good it was, so naturally, Mom would ask Aunt Ginni to bring it again. Personally, I wasn’t a fan. Not because she made it, but because I didn’t care for the concept – or the taste. Apparently, neither did anyone else, because Dad was the only one who ate it. But, he made her feel good, and she was happy to have something to contribute.
As far as I can recall, there were no confessions about the apple salad.
Mom liked to cook for her family. Mom did NOT like carving the Thanksgiving turkey. I’m not sure how, but that always became my job. The trade-off was that I did not have to help with dishes afterward because I was deboning ol’ Tom.
My Dad’s office was converted into a walk-in pantry/work station. There was a nice countertop with room for me to get real friendly with that bird. When the time was right, I would gather some extra towels, wet cloth, knives, the platter and get to work.
I didn’t mind. Sometimes it was nice to be alone and away from all of the hubbub. Occasionally, Mom would come and check on me and repeatedly say, ‘Thank you.” My kids would venture in, and depending on their age at the time, either want me to pick them up, accidentally “drop” a piece of turkey, or rescue me from the inevitable “Aunt Ginni Chat”.
For an elderly woman standing all of 4’11”, she was light on her feet! Before I knew it, there she was with her arms wrapped around my waist saying “Happy Thanksgiving!” Thankfully, I knew it was going to happen at some point so I was always careful about knife placement!
The conversation always started with “how is everyone doing” and would quickly escalate to one of her stories. If her sister had made some bone-headed move, I was going to hear about it; and honestly, that was fine because I always did love a good Jeananne story!
She would share what she had served for her card club luncheon. I remember one time it was egg salad sandwiches with the crusts cut off because that was the “fancy” way to do it “nowadays”.
Whenever she had purchased a new piece of jewelry, she would proudly show it off. I remember a time when she was very much into Black Hills gold rings – the bigger the better!
Years after my Uncle passed, the conversation that Thanksgiving was quite out there – even for her. She told about shopping for her casket. She wanted a pearly white with a pink lining. She rattled off the hymns to be sung, the color of the flowers, and one other uncomfortable request. She wanted my then-husband to sing “How Great Thou Art” at her funeral. What she didn’t know was that we were separated at the time. His absence that Thanksgiving had been explained away as a case of “the flu”. Needless to say, when the time came, he did not sing at her funeral.
Don’t get me wrong. I loved the woman, but that tiny human had a motor-mouth on her and after awhile, I needed a break. Mom finally told me one year that my turkey carving was also giving her a much needed respite, as well!
It’s been eleven years since we lost Aunt Ginni. The Thanksgiving table has changed, the familiar faces no longer gather, and the conversations are now just memories.
The potato salad is no longer a family mystery, and nobody is planning their funeral between dinner and dessert.
But every family has that one person whose stories outlive them.
Ours just happened to be 4’11” with a motor-mouth that never knew when to quit.
Until next time,
—Molly