Monday, November 23, 2009

Thanksgiving - The Real Deal

Thanksgiving is coming and I’m concerned that my grandchildren are not aware of the true meaning of holiday. When I picked them up from school, I was greatly relieved when they bounced into my car wearing Pilgrim hats. They even had made turkeys in the shape of their own precious hands that I could display on my refrigerator.
On our drive home, they talked about the books their teachers read to them about the first Thanksgiving. Having had some time for the stories to perk in their little kindergarten and first grade heads, they had a Mayflower load of questions. I answered them as best I could.

No, I was not at the first Thanksgiving even though it took place a long, long time ago.

No, my feelings weren’t hurt. I wasn’t born yet.

No, Grandpa wasn’t there either.

Yes, he is older than me. But not that much.

No, he wasn’t born yet either.

I’m really not sure where we were.

No, I do not forget everything like your Daddy says. I suppose we were in heaven waiting to be born.

No, Sponge Bob wasn’t invited either.

He was in cartoon heaven waiting to be drawn.

No, Cinderella wasn’t invited.

No, the Pilgrims weren’t being mean. They didn’t want her to get her ball gown dirty. Or her feet. She only had the one shoe. And that’s because she didn’t keep an eye on the time.

After this conversation, I decided that reenacting that first turkey feast was the only way for them to truly understand. Some things have to be experienced to be understood. As I found out during childbirth, reading and experiencing are totally different.

When we got home, the children and I planted a row of vegetables. Due to time constraints, we buried two cans of green beans and a bag of frozen corn in the sandbox. The neighbor’s cat strolled though and fertilized our garden.
I want the children to appreciate the courage and fortitude of the first settlers, so while our crops grew, we played a game I called long cold winter. I told them we’d make believe we were early settlers dealing with days and days of snow and wind. I pretended to pull on a coat, hats, boots, and a scarf. Much to my dismay, they jumped up and down cheering No school! No School! I didn’t want to bring on nightmares, so I didn’t get graphically specific, but touched lightly on the scarcity of food. They told me they understood. Just the night before they had run out of chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream and had to eat plain vanilla. This was going nowhere. I thought long and hard, and then decided to get tough. I whispered to them that in the day of the Pilgrims, there was no such thing cable TV. They wailed inconsolably.

When they calmed down, there was the matter of hunting a turkey. None run wild in our subdivision, but my Butterball was in the freezer. I pulled a handful of feathers from my duster, which was clean as a whistle, so there was no fear of contamination. I plastered those feathers to the frozen bird and rolled it down the hill in the back yard to simulate a running target. Lest I expose the youngsters to yet one more incident of gun violence as they encounter on the nightly news, I encouraged the children to pummel the turkey with corn hole bags. When it rolled into the house, I declared it dead. My granddaughter cried until I explained that this turkey came from a turkey bush and had never been a real live gobble-gobble one.

This was a lot of work. We’d been at if for hours. The sun would be setting soon. I began to panic.

We hadn’t finished pounding popcorn into cornmeal. The stones were cumbersome and I was running out of band aids, so I used my food processor and told the children only a few people knew Monsieur Jacques Cuisinart came from France to celebrate the First Thanksgiving. I suggested they keep his visit a secret. A bag of M&M’s sealed the deal.

The children and I harvested our vegetables in the wagon, and pretended to roast our turkey in the fire pit. We joined hands and gave thanks for the blessings he’d given us. After our dinner, my grandson asked about pumpkin pie. I told him that the chief’s wife was Princess Sara Lee.