RAM: The Open Book

My father pulled the car along the field and parked on the side of the road. We were on our way home from visiting family friends and it was late, for me, not for him. But Dad wanted to show me something, something I had never seen before. We got out of the car and he put me on his shoulders. We wove our way through the field, through rows and rows of other parked cars, all empty, all dark, just sitting in the field, until we came upon a clearing where hundreds of people were sitting on the grass on blankets. I rode on Dad’s shoulders seven feet in the air and watched other children below me run around with sparklers. Real sparklers. Stars glittered in the sky. People were chatting and happy and seemed to be waiting for something. Dad wasn’t really moving anymore. He was waiting and he told me to wait with him. Suddenly the crowd went silent. A whoosh cut through the air and light exploded in the sky, blotting out the stars beyond. Little speckles of white light fell to the ground and another whoosh went up into the air. A new flash of light and a spray of green flashed across the sky. It was beautiful. ‘What are these?’ I asked as I pointed to the sky. ‘Fireworks’, my Dad replied. ‘Aren’t they wonderful?!’

Half of my family was born on Thanksgiving.
My father and the twins.
My father is long dead, but I think of him on the 25th of November every year.
My sisters are long alive and I think of them every year on the 26th of November.

Thanksgiving was the first of three winter feasting holidays in my family.
My mother cooked all day in a steamy kitchen.
The menu was almost always the same.
Turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy, sweet potatoes, corn and a simple salad.
And pumpkin pie.
The good china and silverware came out of hiding.

The table cloth was white, and I now own it.
When it is on my table it brings with it the memories of those family dinners.
Everyone around the table.
Including my Grams and Uncle Jim.

We would watch the Macy’s parade and some football.
We would eat early in the day, so we could space out our helpings for hours on end.

And maybe it snowed.

Johnny Cash could have been my uncle for as much time as his voice spent in our house. There were other musicians who actually did spend a lot of time in our house, backing up my mother’s voice with steel and six-string guitars. But The Man In Black was always in the background, looking out from his album covers by the stereo.