A taste of Thanksgiving with my family

Uncle Rod gets down from Errin M on Vimeo.

Last week I got an email from my friend Karen. She and I have been friends for ages; we went to high school together. What are you doing for Thanksgiving? she wrote me. Karen lives near my father, and last Christmas we visited with her and her husband Dave when we went down to see Dad.

Turns out we were planning to be in her 'hood again this year, so we talked about getting together. Then I did her one better and invited her and Dave to spend the holiday with my family.

I didn't think they'd say yes.

When her reply came back an enthusiastic affirmative, I wondered how best to prepare them for Thanksgiving with my family. It was bound to be different from anything they'd experienced with their own relatives.

I've got a big family on both sides and holidays are wonderfully chaotic. But there's a distinct delineation between celebrations with my mom's family and celebrations with my dad's family.

In short, there's a white people party and a black people party.

I'd just invited 2 white folks to a Black Family Thanksgiving.

I tried to find the words to explain what they were about to experience, but there was no effective way to do it, so I decided to let the day unfold in its own due course.

Karen and Dave arrived at 1:30, right on time - and several hours too early. I met them at the door.

"Hi guys!" I said, giving them hugs and relieving them of their Thanksgiving offerings. "It turns out dinner's at 4:00, not 2:00. Everyone's still in their pajamas. But come on in."

I led them into my cousin Glenda's kitchen, where 5 of Glenda's 8 kids were up to their elbows in food. "Hey y'all, these are my friends, Karen and Dave!" I called to the kitchen at large. "And this is Erica, Anna, NeNe, Brenda and Tierra." The girls waved their hellos.

"We're sorry to be early," Karen began, but our hosts didn't bat an eye. They're so used to having people turn up at their house, it didn't faze them to find two strangers in their kitchen two hours too early.

"Errin Marie!" came a voice from the hallway. I knew it was my cousin Glenda; she's the only one who calls me by both names. "Errin Marie," repeated Glenda, bustling into the kitchen, "I need you to wash this for me and put a candle in it." She handed me a huge hurricane lamp.

"Wow," I said. "Um, how do you want me wash this thing?" It sure wasn't going to fit in the sink. "And where would you like me to put it?"

"You'll figure it out," Glenda said sweetly.

I had to chuckle. If Glenda's mastered anything with 8 kids, it's the art of delegation. "These are my friends Karen and Dave," I introduced them. Karen held out her hand and Glenda regarded it curiously.

"Thank you so much for having us," Karen said. Glenda ignored the proffered hand and folded Karen into big hug, then did the same to Dave. I laughed.

"You're part of the family now," Glenda said, reaching past Anna and plunging her hands into the sink to retrieve a baking dish. When she withdrew she was soapy to the elbows and dripping dishwater. She took both of Karen's hands in her own wet ones.

"I need you to call Grandmother and tell her to bring some more ice. Okay?"

Then she hurried away.

I hadn't been listening; I was too busy trying to figure out how to wash the hurricane lamp. When I glanced at Karen she was standing at the counter looking uncertain. "What's up?" I asked.

"I think I'm supposed to call your grandmother?" Karen said.

I frowned. This was a bad idea. My grandma has Alzheimer's and doesn't do so well on the phone.

"Let's not do that..." I said to Karen. I went after Glenda to straighten things out but bumped into my father first.

"Hey Jackie," he said, addressing me by his sister's name. Both of my parents do this whenever we're surrounded by family. They have 6 sisters between them and they're always calling me by the wrong name. "Uh, sorry, Errin."

"Hey Dad," I said. "Glenda wants Karen to call Grandma, but I don't think that's a great idea."

"What?" he asked. "Why?"

"To bring ice," Glenda explained, appearing at his elbow. "I need somebody to call Grandmother and tell her to bring ice."

Then it became clear. Glenda was referring to her own mother - her kids' grandmother, my Aunt Barbara. I laughed.

"I thought you wanted her to call Big Mama," I said. "I couldn't figure out why." My grandmother lives in Wisconsin. She wasn't coming for dinner.

Just then the back door opened and the girls squealed in chorus. "Papa!"

"Uncle Rod's here," I said unnecessarily.

"Is Barbara with him? No? I'll call her about the ice," said Dad.

Uncle Rod unloaded his dishes on the counter, then spotted Karen and Dave, who'd now been set to the task of making pies.

"Hello," said Karen, sticking out her hand. "I'm Karen and this is my husband Dave." Dave put out his hand too. Uncle Rod raised an eyebrow and shook both their hands, then grabbed them each in a bear hug. I laughed again.

"Welcome," he said, then shuffled back out to the car for a second load.

Monte brushed past him on the way in with my cousin Eric.

"...think we tripped a switch or something?" he was saying anxiously. "It's just that it's the Seattle Seahawks game."

"That your team?" asked Eric.

"You know it," replied Monte.

"Hey babe, look who's here," I diverted him. Monte exclaimed over Karen and Dave, gave each a quick hug and then darted away.

"He's a little distracted," I explained. "The TV went out."

"Ahh," said Dave.

"Brenda!" hollered Eric from the living room. "Run and fetch me an extension cord." He hoisted himself up from his knees and ambled into the kitchen. "Who are y'all?" he addressed Karen and Dave.

Karen put her hand out. "I'm Karen," she began, but Eric pushed her hand away and pulled her into a fierce, one-armed hug. Karen emerged slightly rumpled and Dave submitted to being squashed.

"You're not going to learn, are you?" I said to them.

"What are y'all making?" Eric asked.

"I think we're making yam pies," said Dave, stirring a giant vat of orange batter.

"Damn," I exclaimed. "How many pies are you making?"

"I don't know," said Karen apprehensively, poking dough into a pie tin. "She just said to make them until the ingredients ran out."


NeNe sauntered past. "You said 'damn'," she accused me.

"No I didn't," I bluffed, stealing a piece of fruitcake from the tray she was arranging so laboriously. She swatted my hand, giggling.

There was a burst of sound from the TV and Monte let out a roar of approval. "All right!" he shouted, slapping Brenda a high-five. I heard the front door open and new voices in the hallway added to the cacophony.

Essence skipped into the kitchen. "Where've you been?" I asked, giving her a hug. "Getting cute?"

"Cleaning my room," she replied, world weary. "But I didn't clean your side, Erica, because it's a mess."

Erica had her head in the oven, checking on the macaroni and cheese. "What? You better be kidding, Essence," she called over her shoulder. "You better go back and clean it cause that's your job!" Essence flounced away and Erica shut the oven door and trotted after her.

Anna placed a serving plate in the dish rack and dried her hands on a towel. "Dishes are done!" she announced.

"Good," said Tierra, turning up behind her. "Then you can get started on these cookies."

"What are you doing?" protested Anna.

"I'm overseeing," her sister replied.

"Errin Marie!" came Glenda's voice. "You didn't light the candles in the living room!"

The doorbell rang again.

When I returned from lighting candles Karen and Dave were finishing their fourth pie. My cousin Punky had arrived and was admiring their work.

"Ooh, y'all make some nice sweet potato pie!" she exclaimed.

"Well, we hope so," said Dave. "These are the first we've ever made. Actually, I don't think I've ever had sweet potato pie."

"Me either," said Karen.

"Well, you're going to love it," assured Punky. "Aren't they, Errin? Come here Cousin, give me a hug." She gave me a squeeze.

"You know, I don't like sweet potato pie," I confessed. Punky wrinkled her brow. "I've never been a fan of sweet potatoes. I used to cut a sliver of pie and bury it under a mountain of Cool Whip, then eat the whipped cream and leave the pie behind. One year my mother caught me and forced me to eat the pie and I threw up. That was the last time I had sweet potato pie."

"Here Punky," said her husband Karys, coming through the back door. He handed her a covered dish.

"Collard greens," identified Punky. "You like collards, right?" she asked me.

"Actually, no," I said ruefully. "I've just never had a taste for them."

Punky shook her head at me and walked away.

"I think they forget I'm only half black," I whispered to Karen. She laughed.

The house began to fill with people and the good smells of a Thanksgiving feast. The counter was piled high with food: turkey, ham, fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, stuffing, yams, collard greens, green beans, quinoa with eggplant (that was my contribution; the family eyed it warily), ambrosia, sweet potato pie, apple pie, peach cobbler, peanut butter cookies, chocolate-covered strawberries, lemon cake, pound cake, fruitcake, rolls, cranberry sauce and gravy. The crowd pressed into the kitchen, drawn by the aromas, and the noise level rose dramatically. Monte kept his ear cocked toward the football game.

Cousin Eric clamored for attention.

"Y'all listen up!" he bellowed. "It's food on the table and I'm ready to eat! Gather round so we can say this blessing."

Everyone fanned out in a circle and clasped hands. Heads bowed.

"Lord," began Eric in earnest, "Look around this room. Look at all these people who've come together here today."

I raised my head slightly to survey the room. There were 30-some-odd people holding hands.

"We are family and friends," Eric continued. "And we're here today to give thanks for the blessings you've showered upon us."

"Amen," confirmed a few in the crowd.

"It hasn't been an easy year, Lord. It hasn't been without its trials. Some of us have lost our jobs" (here I gave a fervent nod), "some of us have struggled with our health. But we know that the blessings are far greater than the burdens. And if it weren't for the burdens we wouldn't recognize the blessings, hallelujah!"

"Hallelujah!" came the response.

"So today we want to say thank you. Thank you for this good food, thank you for this good life. Thank you for sending Your Son to save us. In Jesus' name we pray: Amen."

"Amen!" chorused the room.

Glenda called out, "Now everybody, since you're family, act like you're family and dig in!"

We needed no prompting. Hands reached for plates immediately and a line formed around the perimeter of the table.


I made my way over to Karen and Dave. Monte was taking their pulse.

"I remember my first time, a couple of years ago," he was saying. "It took a little getting used to."

"Welcome to the family prayer," I laughed. "Honestly, I was expecting a little more Jesus."

"Jesus is all right with me," quipped Karen.

"Me too, " said Monte. "I thought that was a lovely prayer."

I linked my arm through his. "So did I."

And then we ate. Oh, how we ate. We worked our way steadily through second and third helpings and still there was barely a dent made in the feast. In particular, there was a lot of my eggplant quinoa left over. I campaigned for my dish, but it didn't do much good.

"Hey Dad, have you tried my eggplant?"

"Um, not yet, Barbara," he said, addressing me by his other sister's name.

"What's that black stuff?" asked 8-year-old Miracle, pointing at my plate.

"It's eggplant," I said. "Want to try some?"

"No," she said quickly, clamping her hand over her mouth.

"I mean, it's stuffing," I tried, but it was too late.

Dave wanted to help me out. "It's delicious!" he enthused. "And I don't even like eggplant!" But Miracle wasn't having it. Neither was Karys. He took one bite and scraped his portion into the garbage.

After the feast there was a small period of quiet while people lolled around and digested. But it didn't last long. The girls wanted to play a game.

"You finished?" asked Brenda, indicating my plate. "We're gonna clear the table so we can play Spoons."

Spoons is a particularly violent game similar to musical chairs, but apt to make your own grandmother stab you with rounded cutlery. The dealer passes cards around the table and the first person to get 4 of a kind withdraws a spoon from a pile in the center. Then it's no-holds-barred as everybody grabs for a spoon. There aren't enough spoons to go around and the person who comes up empty-handed has to step out of the game.

You would not believe how dangerous this game can get. I've seen people emerge bleeding.

I had to laugh at the look on Karen's face as the spoons went flying for the first time. There was an outburst of screaming and the table runner was yanked to the floor. Outside the dogs started barking hysterically, distressed by the noise in the kitchen.

"They think you're in trouble," said Punky.

I revel in the fact that there are no noise limitations at Glenda's house. With 8 kids ranging from tweens to twenties, and 7 of them girls, the shriek factor is high. It's pretty fantastic.

And the girls like to sing. Loudly. After a few rounds they abandoned Spoons in favor of the stereo. I walked away nursing my wounded hand; NeNe had nearly broken my finger in a particularly vicious battle over the same spoon.

Tierra was helming the CD player. Moments later all of the girls were singing along with Beyoncé: "If you like it then you shoulda put a ring on it! If you like it then you shoulda put a ring on it! Oh oh oh!" They started dancing around the living room, calling for people to join them.

And folks got up and started to dance. Pretty soon the floor was crowded; everybody was up in the thick of it. They started doing the Cupid Shuffle and the Cha-Cha Slide. (How do they know how to do that? I wondered.) They shuffled to the left. They shuffled to the right. I'll be the first to tell you: it was Dy-no-mite!

Black Family Thanksgiving, y'all.

Miracle grabbed Dave's arm and pulled him out onto the floor. I thought he might demur, but he dove right into the crowd, flinging himself around with the best of 'em. Even Uncle Rod jumped into the fray. "Come on, Papa!" the girls cried and he stepped up and boogied down with his grandkids. It was a sight to see.

I watched it all through the lens of my camera, laughing with delight at my wonderful family. Out of 30-some-odd folks, I am related by blood to only 9 of them. But they are all my people, and they're only a part; I am blessed with a huge family, black and white, friends and kin. I don't have to look far to find home. And when I bow my head in thanks, I am grateful to have so many people to love.

"Come on Errin!" someone shouted, breaking into my reverie. And I put down my camera and joined in the dancing.

* * *

In case you didn't get enough of Uncle Rod:

Uncle Rod gets down some more from Errin M on Vimeo.

Epilogue:

"We had a wonderful time," said Dave to Glenda, as he and Karen gathered their things to leave. Karen was struggling to balance the plates of leftovers Glenda kept handing her; she voiced her agreement.

"Wonderful time," she said. "Um, I don't think we need a whole pie."

"We will never, ever forget this Thanksgiving," Dave said. And disdaining the handshake completely, he threw his arms around Glenda in a hearty hug.

Like family.