Nana's Table

 

I confess to a general dislike of family holidays but I do sometimes think back and miss my grandmother’s Thanksgiving table.

It meant church clothes, of course, and we each had to pass an inspection of our fingernails and the backs of our ears and once we were ready, we were seated and warned not to move lest we wrinkle or spoil the final effect. And then we were carefully led to the old Mercury station wagon, settled in and driven to Nana’s. We sat stiffly for the short trip and there was no talking. She lived in the next town over and there was barely time for the heater to kick in on some of those frigid November days, especially if there was snow, but we sat more or less patiently. We might have been shivering with cold but we knew better than to complain.

Nana’s house was always toasty warm during the winter and kitchen smelled wonderfully of turkey and fresh rolls and cinnamon dusted apple pie. The table was set for our family of five, Aunt Helen and Uncle Eddie, and my grandmother. Nana always put out her best china and linen napkins for Thanksgiving and each place featured a crystal glass for ice water and a small sherry glass for apple or tomato juice. Dinner was turkey and gravy, stuffing, white and sweet mashed potatoes, onions in cream sauce, those green squash, halved with their centers cut out and refilled with butter and maple syrup, and Parker House dinner rolls. A huge crystal tray set in front of Nana’s place, neatly arranged with celery, green and black olives, cubes of Vermont made cheddar cheese and cocktail onions. There were two silver gravy boats, one for each end of the table, two butter dishes, and a centerpiece of fresh flowers surrounded by white, tapered candles in gleaming silver holders that gave off just the slightest hint of vanilla. If ever I was to choose one image that would be my ideal of a family, it would be that table and it’s hand crocheted tablecloth. It wasn’t, of course, and it wouldn’t last but for a few precious moments before my mother or Aunt Helen would begin sniping or the boys would start fighting, it felt like a Norman Rockwell magazine cover.

The tradition continued until Nana was in her late 70’s and decided she didn’t want to put in the time and trouble anymore. Nobody else was willing to either so we began to go to restaurants – my favorite was The Red Coach Inn – but it was in Wayland and that meant a considerable drive (a stuffy half hour) so we usually ended up closer to home at places with plain vanilla fare and very little ambiance. We settled for whatever holiday menu they offered and made the best of it. Only my mother seemed to enjoy these dinners but I often suspected it was because she didn’t have to clean up the kitchen and wash dishes afterwards. Sentiment wasn’t part of her nature but for that one day every year, it was part of mine, at least for a little while.