My Thanksgivings

By Leo Racicot

     Artist Norman Rockwell wasn’t far off-the-mark in his wholesome, homespun depictions of how Thanksgivings were celebrated in the middle years of the 20th century. His illustrations of families gathered together around the table, gazing hungrily at the turkey being carried in by a doting grandma, being carved by an avuncular relative capture exactly the way holidays looked in the 1950s and 1960s.

We never celebrated Thanksgivings at our house. Prior to Papa passing away, I’m sure we must have but I have no memory of them. No, Thanksgivings, beginning every year in 1960, were held at our Aunt Marie’s and Nana’s place, just the five of us, our mother, Diane and myself. Marie would pick us up in the morning, in her ubiquitous Rambler (she always swore by Ramblers, until, in later years, they turned out to be one lemon after another. In later years, Marie developed an ongoing run-the-gauntlet relationship with AMC much the way Darren McGavin’s father did with his rackety old basement boiler in the movie, A Christmas Story. But for a while, the reliable Rambler was a welcome sight in front of our house on holiday mornings, Marie at the wheel, Nana in the backseat (Ma would join her there while Diane and I would sit up front with Marie, Diane in the middle)  and off we’d go singing “Over the river and through the woods to grandmother’s house we go!” all the way. Anticipation was so thick, we could taste it, as we salivated over the soon-to-be-devoured feast Marie had prepared. Yes, there was just the five of us now but we loved being in the warm car, so cozy, so filled with good will (well, until someone said or did the wrong thing and the traditional holiday bickering would begin). We couldn’t wait to get to the meal. We knew that Marie and Nana were good cooks and that Marie, who absolutely loved all holidays, would have their apartment brimming with decoration. I especially remember two wax candle pilgrims, a boy and a girl, that were never lit but were, through the years, as welcome a sight as was the turkey, the homemade stuffing (no boxed stuffing in those days — Nana spent hours the night before tearing loaf after loaf of semi- stale bread, (fresh bread made the dressing too gooey) onions, celery, butter and sage), and abundant sides.  There were also turkey candles, chocolate turkeys Marie had bought at Mrs. Nelson’s Candy Shoppe (It’s still in its original location on Chelmsford Street). She also loved and was skilled with making crafts (a cornucopia centerpiece for the table, a Fall-themed wreath, small figurines and lapel cloche pins made of yard, one for Diane, one for me.

The only caveats were an ice cream roll Marie liked to serve topped with claret sauce (Diane’s hope that “This year, she won’t have that awful dessert was never realized. Every year, Marie managed to find it in

some market or another and serve it with great pride. How could we not pretend to relish it? She had such a beaming grin from ear-to-ear when placing it before us. Another big “no-no” in her home was that no one but no one was allowed in the living room where she’d encased every stick of furniture, lamp, loveseat and knickknack in the thickest plastic. I always loved and wished I could sit on the red velvet loveseat with the painting above it of a dark-haired lady in a red velvet gown playing the piano. Marie teased us that it was a painting of her sister, our Aunt Helen, and we believed her. (it did look like Helen) As a result of the living room and its mummified furnishings, we were all relegated to the kitchen only and couldn’t and didn’t dare budge unless it was to use the bathroom.  One memory I’ll never shake — after our meal, after

we were all stuffed to-the-gills, as everyone is on Thanksgiving, Marie would do the dishes, whistling along with the radio, to Patsy Cline or  Tony Bennett or The King Family (to this day, if I hear the song, Love at Home, it sets me  to blubbering). Anyway, no sooner had Marie wiped clean the last cup and plate than she’d whirl around and say, most gleefully, “Who wants a turkey sandwich!”   What we’d already eaten hadn’t even gotten past our esophagus than she was insisting we all have a sandwich.  Gag.  But again, polite acquiescence was the rule of the day,

Many a Thanksgiving, snow covered the streets and as dusk fell, we all piled back into the Rambler

(Marie, Diane and me once again in the front, Ma and Nana in the back) and make the ride from the Highlands to Willie Street, listening to the carols on the radio.

They’re all gone now. Only I remain. What I wouldn’t give to be squished against them again, all of us huddled together, in our wintery coats and mittens, so safe, so warm with their voices, their eccentricities, their laughter in the dark car rolling towards home.

Nana passed away in 1976, Ma, eight years later. Marie was so grief-stricken, she moved out to Nevada where Helen lived, to help care for her niece, our cousin, Karen (“Cookie”) and because she needed a change of scene. Diane made a life for herself with a man named Rico who, as the family story goes, “came to buy one of Diane’s Pekingese dogs and never left”.  So, Thanksgiving family get-togethers came to an end. My friend, Joe’s family took me into their homes and their hearts and included me for a time in holiday gatherings. Mr. and Mrs. Markiewicz, who owned and operated one of Lowell’s only homemade candy stores, The Blue Dot on Bridge Street, had an almost innate gift for hospitality and for making everyone feel relaxed, as if you were one of them. I loved their home on Fulton Street in Centralville. Joe’s grandmother, “Babcia”, was like something out of a children’s story book; she kept rabbits in rabbit hutches in the backyard garden. There was a pear tree in the yard that every summer yielded enough fruit for a dozen summers. Squiggy, the cat, could be found strutting about like a prizefighter. I liked Joe’s aunt, Ciotka Anne” who shared many interesting stories about being a registered nurse overseas in World War II. Her husband died very young after they’d been married a brief while. Ciotka Anne’s love for him was so strong, she vowed never to marry again. I thought that was so romantic. I liked them all.  “Them” being eldest sister, Jane, middle sister, Ann Marie, youngest sister, Mary, and Joe’s twin, John, and their respective spouses, Michael, Dennis, Bob and Liz. I liked that the Polish word for Joe was Jasiu, for John, Jusiu.  All were so welcoming and accepting of “Joey’s high school friend”, and the clan had such a natural bonhomie, probably partly because they were in the food business. They were the first of many “families” that was to come my way and “adopt” me.

When I worked for The Sheas, Hilda and Francis and their autistic son, Richard, Thanksgivings, of course, landed on a Thursday (one of my usual work days). Ms. Shea (his mother) liked to go all out for Richard’s benefit, on holidays and birthdays, and whomever was working had the Herculean task of putting a special holiday meal together for him and any member of his live-in staff who’d show up. Often in those years, I’d spend Thanksgiving Day flailing about to keep two ovens, twelve burners going at once to make sure a tradiitonal Thanksgiving feast was presented to the household. Talk about frantic.  I operated out of an old moldering kitchen, which though well past its prime, made me fall in love it with it — I suppose because it was my first where I learned to make Boeuf Bourgignon, Michael Field’s Jambalaya and a pretty mean chutney, if I do say so myself. It wasn’t the best-looking kitchen but it did the trick and I look back so fondly on those working holidays. There was always stimulating conversation at these meals made up of Richard’s all-male graduate student staff . Many were taking their studies at Harvard, MIT, B.U., B. C., studying to be doctors, lawyers, ministers, philosophers. Smart, articulate guys. Richard’s father, Francis Shea, had  served under Justice Jackson in the Franklin Roosevelt Administrations and taken part in The Nuremberg Trials that sought to bring the Nazi regime to justice. Mrs. Shea was no slouch in her own right; she was the first female to graduate  from Yale Law School; she led the class of all men,  and later, in Washington, was instrumental in founding the F.C.C., worked alongside Alger Hiss and had dated Abe Fortas. She was proud of the fact that she’d turned his marriage proposals down, twice. By explanation, she’d say, “A Jew marrying a Jew?”  and would scoff at the very idea, cautioning us, “In life, try never to be redundant.” These gatherings weren’t the most elegant of affairs but I think, in Mrs. Shea’s mind, they retained some of the glamourand civility of her and her husband’s D.C. glory days. And Richard enjoyed and looked forward to them.  I played along with the pretense, acting like I was their majordomo or some high-toned chef like Jacques Pepin or Rene Verdon, one year even donning cook’s “whites” and a toque blanche to make the holiday fun.

When Rico moved to Florida without Diane, and on Thanksgivings and Christmases when she had to work (She did box office at Showcase Cinemas Lowell for 26 years), I’d stay with her Pekingese dogs (which included, over the years, Mio (Miyoshi), Pudgy, Prince, Brownie, Pebbles, Cash (Cashew), Buffy, Jake, Emily and Buddy). Sometimes it got to me that I was spending the holiday with the dogs, or with a lone dog. But the more I sat with them, the more I realized what a blessing it was being able to be with them, take them for a walk on a day when the city was free of people and noise (Can there be a day as quiet as Thanksgiving?)  I came to adore that breed (though my friend, Bob Stone, used to quip, “Pekingese look like mops with eyes). Buddy and I became intrepid explorers of the Acre and beyond, walking as far-and-wide as Father Armand Morrissette Boulevard, or just to the corner Market Basket where he’d wonder where all the people went.  I couldn’t say “yes” when he asked very nicely to go inside the nearby Asian Bakery where the aromas of delicate, ornate Southeast Asian treats filled our nostrils with longing. But he was happy and thankful on Thanksgiving Day to be able to sniff, not eat. God in Heaven, how I miss him, miss them all. They brightened many of my bachelor years with their companionship and their antics. Some of the best Thanksgivings of my life were spent in the company of canines.

______________________

Aunt Helen at the piano

Buddy out for a walk

Five of us on Thanksgiving morning

Joe & me at his sister Janie’s, Thanksgiving 1986

Joe’s Ciotka Anne

My first Thanksgiving

Norman Rockwell Thanksgiving

Pekingese Buffy & Jake

Richard at home with some of his companions

Richard Shea and me at pre-holiday table, 1999

Spumoni with Claret Sauce

The Markiewicz Clan