Best. Thanksgiving. Ever.

Ah, the holidays. A time of family, and catching up. And this particular year just felt festive from the start. We had preceded Thanksgiving with a breathtaking journey through the wonderful display of lights at the lake, listening to Christmas tunes for at least a part of it. I can only really do Christmas music in small doses, having worked in customer service far too long, but I did manage to entire songs at least twice.
And now here it was, Thanksgiving morning, slowly brightening through my translucent shades. I heard movement in the next room, and soon a door opened and Bristo bounded out, collar rattling, followed by the even, heavy footsteps of my father. Yes, I would go in there before he left to pick up my nieces so he would know I was dedicated to this well planned celebration.
May as well start the day off festively. I am thankful for my parents being there to help me up after I failed miserably, at love and thus life. That was the problem, I allowed love to come before life, despite all obvious signs and warnings. Whats worse, it wasn't even good love that had me now climbing out of this hole, starting over yet again, although this time I refuse to allow someone else control of my life.
But I finally learned and accepted that it was never a good idea to let someone else hold your destiny, control it like a video game. It was purely mine to resurrect. He was in the shadows though, as always, having slithered back across the country, never willing to leave horribly enough alone.
I rolled out of bed, shivering, and quickly pulled my pesto-bismoth pink snuggie on over my pj's. Ugly as it was, the thing was warm. I made my way out of my room, and was promptly greeted by our massive black horse of a dog.
“Good morning, Bristo.” I said, stroking behind his ears. His tail clapped enthusiastically against the wall. Such an attention hound. The pure bread black lab was the star of any trip to the park, obedient and well behaved, and there was always an approving nod after the inevitable question of 'how old is he?” I'd reply easily with 'three', letting him soak up the attention. Though on his hind legs Bristo stood eye-level with my 5'11'' frame, he was a gentle and trustworthy companion, and a damn good watchdog. I would sure hate to be on the receiving end of his malice. I really couldn’t imagine my dad producing a less than wonderful dog, although he thought it was near failure since Bristo wouldn't go in the water. 'Some hunting dog' he'd say. I entered the kitchen to start some coffee, which I made way to strong for my father, apparently.
“Hey Papa.” I said as he emerged from the basement. Its funny how that stuck after the kids tagged him Papa. If nothing else, I guess it alleviates confusion to a majority that turned the word 'daddy' dirty. I don't get it, why would I wanna refer to my father in the throws of passion. I'm not really sure if it is unresolved issues or just lack of creativity, but regardless, it is disturbing.
“Good morning. How are you this morning?” he asked, adjusting his suspenders over his blue dress shirt.
“I'm good. Happy Thanksgiving.” I replied, smiling at his solidarity. He was definatly a good ol' boy, at a very sturdy 6'3'', and still struck me as much younger than his 61 years, still a big strappin guy, active in many ways, but above all else an avid hunter and outdoors-man. And always with the suspenders.
“Well, I am about to head out to pick up the girls.”
“Alright, Papa, have fun. See ya soon. We will be all ready when you get back.”
“Okay, hun.” he replied as he checked one of his many maps for the best possible route. I glanced at it, pretending to have some kind of visual as to the list of possibilities. He had made it his mission to even minutely improve my treacherous sense of direction, and thus far had at least stopped me from getting endlessly lost within a 10 mile radius of our house. I need a compass and a tom tom in a way most people will never know.
He made his way out and I poured some coffee and put on some music, my mo9rning ritual. Currently my dad was on his way to pick up my nieces, children I hadn't seen for years. Jackson woke as I tidied up for their arrival, followed quickly by a grouchy Onreya, and I gave into the demands for a waffle breakfast.
Spongebob entertained the children as I hurried through a shower, and an attempt at presentable for the holiday. I did the same to each child and surfed the web, awaiting the return of my father and the girls, excited to see how they had grown. Bristo informed us of their arrival, so I rose and attempted to look productive, fidgeting from one counter to another with a washcloth. I dropped it in the basin and turned around as I heard them clump up the stairs.
Jackson, always the ladies man, jumped up to greet them, grinning an irresistible cheeky grin, flashing his bright blue eyes.
“Hi, whats your name? I'm Jackson.”
The oldest, who my dad had said was 14, smiled back
“Andrea” she said with a wave. The other two girls, slightly younger at 8 and 9, peered at me instead, waiting.
“Well, Jackson, this,” I said, presenting the older of the two with my hands, “is Jennifer. And this is Deanna” I was glad they were still so recognizable. Jennifer with her big hungry eyes and Deanna with her cute features drawn up with scrutiny. Both striking though, and distinctively Egans
“Andrea, Jennifer, Deanna, I would like you ladies to meet Onreya and Jackson.” I let the kids get acquainted as I assisted my dad in the final preparations before heading to our Thanksgiving destination. He retrieved a cooler, and we placed a scrumptious veggie tray, two kinds of green beans, and an assortment of olives into it, then headed for the vehicle. The seven of us scrunched into his spacious truck, as there was little sense in taking two cars to one location, finally got everybody buckled, and headed out of town.
Growing up, my dad had usually held functions for the family at his house, and still held many holiday dinners and BBQ. However, in recent years, his siblings had began, here and there, to hold functions of their own. In an effort to have as much family as possible at any one function, he had began going to the holiday gatherings of others. I had never attended one that wasn't in his home, and probably wouldn't, given another set of circumstances. But here I was, headed to his sister Elizabeths' home, where I had spent many a childhood days but hadn't been to in fifteen years. We turned off the uneven pavement of one of the hundreds of unkempt roads in the state, onto the familiar gravel road leading to the property. As we approached the driveway, I saw an unfamiliar manufactured home on the property. We turned into the long driveway, and I turned my attention to the ramshackle old house of childhood recollection. It didn't look very different from the way I remembered it.
The truck veered right, away from the weeping building, stopping a short distance from the new development on the farm.
“We just go to the back door.” Papa said after we had piled out, indicating a door several feet up a wobbly wheelchair ramp. I knocked, and after a pause there was a single yelp from the other side of the door, though nothing happened.
“Oh well,” my dad said as he approached, pushing the door opened “we're family.”
As we entered, we were greeted by a round of mild 'hellos' and 'how are yous' and 'oh, my, look how they've growns', though nothing over enthusiastic, as the Egan style was more just to take life in stride. I said hello to my aunts, Liz and Cindy, giving detached hugs to each, and did the same to my uncle Alan, and Randy, Lizs' husband. I smiled warmly, greeting three teenage strangers in the living room, and headed back into the kitchen, where my dad and his siblings were gathered. There is no more favorite pastime for the family than getting together with a massive array of food. It smelled delicious, the deep roasted smell of the turkey, a unfamiliar sweet smell, fruits, pies, and a stove full of everything that is supposed to scream 'holiday'.
They pulled the turkey out and placed it on the counter, remarking on the wonderful color of the bird, waiting for it to cool.
“So who’s still missing?” asked my dad, ready to dig in.
“Well,” said Liz, “We are waiting on mike and Renee, Laura, and her friends Maggie and Louis, and Dennis and Carla and Larry, who went to get Dex, cause I guess he was getting snippy or something.”
My stomach tightened for a moment at the mention of Dennis. Maybe they would take hours and we would be long gone by the time they got here. Laura, five years my senior, had once been a companion, but we were now worlds apart. I had grown out of childhood and now knew she never would. I didn't recognize any of the other names she had rattled off.
Soon, there was a knock at the door, and I was introduced to Maggie and Louis; about what I would expect for Lauras' friends. Everyone talked jokingly and lightly as my dad carved the turkey, and I learned that the kids in the living room were fathered by Dennis, a measurement of how long it had been since I had last seen him. We were joined by Liz’s' friends, Mike and Renee, and prepared plates for all those under the age of 18. I sat my kids down to eat and heard the front door open again.
The first person to emerge from the hall was a short, perhaps slightly disabled woman, assisting an old, hunched over man. With little or no acknowledgment, they shuffled toward the living room. Slowly, I watched a short, red, bloated man hobble in, his cane in one hand, a leash with a dog resembling benji on it in the other, and I couldn't shift my eyes away, though he couldn't meet mine. Well, well, well, Dennis, what a pleasant surprise. I beamed on the inside. How old are you? 35? 36? Seems Karma has been beautifully Just to you. I didn't acknowledge him, other than a vague nod.
“Well, we are only waiting on Laura now, so I guess lets get started.” Liz decided. After five minutes of organized chaos, we were all doing lovely with our first round of food, exchanging compliments and guessing secret ingredients between bites. I finished quickly, opting to sneak downstairs for a smoke rather than load my plate a second time.
The unfinished basement was cold and smelled slightly of sewage, a smell detectable from any place I had ever been on the property. I shook my head to myself, thinking briefly of my family of crazy people, from my long lost nieces to my hillbilly cousins. Above, I heard the rapid beating of footsteps as my children ran the length of the house. I took a last drag off the half smoked cigarette, then tapped out the orange embers till they no longer glowed, then bounded up the steps.
As I reentered the kitchen, I was greeted by Laura, receiving a hug and being dragged across the kitchen to meet her boyfriend, who immediately struck me as someone who smoked a lot of crack. I waved my pointer finger at him in an arch as Laura rambled on for a few moments about how close we once were. I nodded. At one time, indeed, we had been. More than 15 years ago. Ugh, having a 15 years ago made me feel momentarily ancient.
“Wait, what were you doing downstairs, anyways?” Laura asked accusingly with her scratchy, nasally voice.
“Standing” I replied, then brushed past them on my way to the restroom.
When I went back out, they were serving the homemade pie, piled with cool-whip, and I giggled at the way my childrens eyes sparkled with anticipation. I passed on the pie, but sat at the table in an attempt to minimize the mess left by my little ones, participating in small talk from time to time. With only Laura, her boyfriend, and her friends to talk to here I soon grew bored, reveling in my deepening sense of awkwardness. I eyed my bouncing children, relieved as they took their last bites and bounded off to the living room. I cleaned up their plates and followed them to the living room, cautious of my surroundings.
Wow, it seemed packed, but as many people finished their pie, it thinned out, leaving only my uncle Alan and the random old man sitting at the tables set up to catch the overflow. On the other side of the living room, with me in the middle, was a semi-square made with two couches, a wall of plants and the entertainment center completing the four sides. Though the woman on the television, sitting next to 'Maury', screamed of her 110 percent proof positive paternity, the people in the square paid little attention. My three nieces were raising commotion with dennises' children, yelling something about toes. Jackson had squeezed onto one overloaded couch, though opposite of where Dennis and his girlfriend sat, holding their small benji-dog in her lap. And as I focused on the couple, I saw a small purple arm slowly extend toward the dog, offering her scent as she had been taught to do.
The dog, however, did not sniff her. Nor did he turn away shyly. Nope. Instead, a deep rumble emerged from its throat, a sound much bigger than the dog itself, followed by a brisk Arrgggrough, and a flash of white against Onreyas' little outstretched hand.
I rushed to the howl of my daughter, evaluating the damage. On the palm of her hand was one small piece of broken skin, but no doubt the cries were of a startled nature. Suddenly my father was in the doorway
“Does a dog need its ass kicked?” he asked in a pleasant voice “Did it break the skin, because if it did, it's gonna get its ass kicked.”
I could have lied, and brushed off the tiny flap of broken skin. I saw where this was going. But it was his dog, and someone, or something, was going to pay up today. So I disregarded my fathers composure and the well being of ten or so people crowded into the small area, and slowly turned her hand over, presenting it for his scrutiny.
He looked at it through his bifocals, then nodded “Yep, he broke the skin. I am gonna kick that dogs ass.” When no attempt was made to allow him access to the animal, he took one long step across the area and reached down to take the dog off of the lap of the lady beside Dennis
“No, Grant. Grant stop!” she pleaded, but to no avail. He was set on blood, and so was I. I supposed if I couldn't have his, the dogs would suffice, though I doubted that anyone really gave a damn about the dog at the moment. As my father had grown older, he had asked several things that I guess he had always wondered, unresolved issues, you know. Dennis was one of these issues, and though facts were facts, nothing was ever really done to the poor slob.
Indeed, it was quickly revealed that the dog was not at the top of his hit-list, as Dennis struggled to strike my father, whose elbow was desperately seeking contact of any kind, a goal I saw achieved many times. Dennis continuously attempted to rise, usually met and reseated with a quick blow to the head, but he finally managed to stand. I jumped to my feet unexpectedly, yelling loudly in his ear
“Get off my dad you FUCKER!” I was still somewhat surprised by myself as I looked around, making a mental log of things to attack him with, among them a vase and a sturdy looking clock hanging on the wall, but more than anything I was now praying for the opportunity to take the cane right away from him and beat him in the face with it until I heard splashing.
Suddenly, my dad stood up. “Well, now, we are going to destroy things if this goes on in here. Lets just handle this like men and finish up this business outside.” he said, heading for the door.
My excitement swelled as Dennis followed him, and didn't dampen as Randy went to head him off. Dennis spoke loudly of his intentions, and I burst out into laughter, delivering my taunts, mostly “Go ahead, go out there and get your ass whooped by an old man.” followed by a huge anticipatory grin. Randy, who faced me as well as Dennis, trying to put something in between his son and the door, and thus, my father, shot me a shocked and somewhat disappointed glare. I responded to this with a cocked eyebrow, hoping to shoot back with my eyes a defiant C'mon, he has had this coming for years. Weather or not it was effective, I am sure I will never know, as they stepped sideways into the last room before the front door. Aww man. I turned away, then recalled the initial fuel for the fire, as my daughter, now in the kitchen stared in horror at her hand.
“That dog in mean!” she cried to me. Several people had began tending to the bite, which appeared to have never actually bled, and a band-aide was soon in place
“You alright, my baby? It was just mostly scary, huh”
“Yes... I don't ever want to see that dog again”
“Okay baby girl.” I said, hugging her
My dad had reentered the house, and though things had calmed, I heard Dennis declare “It was her own fault anyways. She jumped at the damn dog.”
I jumped up and ran to the doorway.
“You dirty fuckin liar! I was lookin right at her. That was all your dog.”
“I was looking right at her, too” he countered
“... I am sure you were” I snarled, staring at the guilty faces of my family members. “I do believe it is time to go”
I went back to the living room, met by several adolescent faces.
“Everybody, put your shoes and coats on.” I said sternly to my nieces. Behind me, there was a slight commotion as Dennis left, and suddenly it was just me, my dad, and his siblings, staring at each other, waiting on someone to speak, so I did.
“Well, I guess now that there has been a family fist fight it is officially Thanksgiving” I offered, allowing the corners of my mouth to form a pleasant smile. The glares now focused on me. I would have to remember at all times that what was funny and appropriate in my head was most certainly unacceptable in actual life. Oh well, I tried.
“Welp... guess it is time to skedaddle... dinner was great.”
I walked over to gather everyone’s coats, but my nieces had beat me to it. I watched them and my children walk, single file, out of the door, as I waited for my dad, who offered limited apologies. Just before I closed the door, I turned around and, kissing my fingers then waving them in the air, said ”See ya at Christmas!”