Personal History and History History - by Hal McBride A holiday gets me thinking about holidays past. For me, holiday history takes two shapes, personal history and history history.
Thanksgivings we say with considerable pride is the uniquely American holiday. It is.
On Dec. 21,1620, after scouting the area for a few weeks, the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth Rock. After less than a year they were giving thanks for a good harvest and their good friends, the Wampanoag tribe.
I suppose after the Pilgrims initial celebration there had been some kind of observation of thanksgiving most falls.
In 1863, President Abraham Lincoln issued a proclamation declaring the last Thursday of November to be a National Day of Thanksgiving. I suppose proclamations were the Executive Orders of the day.
In 1870, Congress passed a package holiday bill and President U. S. Grant singed it into law. Christmas and New Years Day, Independence Day and Thanksgiving Day were made National holidays.
Given the proximity to our Civil War, there were folks residing south of the Mason-Dixon Line that suspected there must be some conspiracy lurking. None was ever found.
My Thanksgiving dinner began to settle. Through this post-dinner fog visions of Thanksgivings Past begin to appear. Turkey wishbones from each grandchild’s first Thanksgiving dangled on ribbons near her back door.
In my family the most beloved story is The Tale of the Gravy Knife. It was Thanksgiving of 1936. My parents had married the previous spring, making my mother the first daughter-in-law to grace the McBride Thanksgiving table. Dad had two older siblings. His brother Howett had recently graduated from the University of Oklahoma and was teaching in Haskell County and his eldest sister, Sherwell, was attending college. My father’s baby sister, Anna Lee, was in high school.
Cooking for the ladies of 1936 was a matter of identity and pride. My grandmother protectively assigned her new daughter-in-law to making the gravy, an easy task I’m told. My Mother in her desire to do well over thickened the gravy. Way over thickened the gravy. Thanksgiving prayers were said, turkey was carved and all were seated.
Then, Howett, my redheaded scoundrel of an uncle asked, “Shearon, would you pass me the gravy knife?”
I’m told my father stiffened and rose from his chair, steam sprayed from his ears and nostrils. He directed a string of obscenities toward his brother that brought my grandmother out of her chair.
Howett laughed. The wrong response for the circumstances. My dad sprinted after his brother. Howett laughed harder, obviously enjoying his younger brother’s anger and exasperation. Dad’s verbal expressions of his displeasure increased.
Some of the ladies smothered their laughter. All blushed.
Round and round the table they went, the nature of the situation stymied my father. Then, my grandfather extended his foot, Uncle Howett tripped and awkwardly spilled in a pile. The room descended into an uneasy silence.
My grandfather did not speak. The glacial glare for which he was well- known throughout the family fell upon his sons. He pointed toward the kitchen door.
I never heard exactly what he said to my father and my uncle on the back porch but the balance of the 1936 Thanksgiving meal was uneventful.
Come 1939, President Franklin Roosevelt moved Thanksgiving from the last Thursday in November to the fourth Thursday in November. Politics being politics, the Republican labeled the day “Franksgiving.”
I am grateful for what I am and have. – Henry David Thoreau
