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Author's program note. Quick can you name your favorite Thanksgiving song? Unless it's "Over the river and through the woods" (1844), you probably don't have one. But I do. It's called "Turkey in the straw", and it is a traditional American folk song from the 1820s. And though strictly speaking it was not written for Thanksgiving, you'll have to forego its strict history in favor of the elastic meaning I shall give the tune and its use. I am sure, in due time, you will forgive me. In any event, start by going to any search engine, find the tune, and put on your dancing shoes... because this Thanksgiving you'll be dancing, not just filling out your embonpoint, and belching.
What my family usually did for Thanksgiving... celebrated, sanctified, dull.
I was brought up in an Illinois family which, like all our neighbors, believed in the verities of God, country, and family. These were the bedrocks on which we built our homes, our communities and our nation. And these three essential parts of American life came sharply together at Thanksgiving, an event which had to be arranged and celebrated in the grand manner... best china, best crystal, best silver and food that was quite simply awesome, no stinting contemplated, allowed, or accepted. We were Americans, part of the great heartland of the nation, and if we didn't have much to be thankful for, then who did?
Still, this holiday (and Christmas, too) always raised the issue of where to celebrate, for we were part of large extended families with matriarchs in various branches who made it clear their feelings would be hurt if we didn't grace their Thanksgiving Day tables, though why they wanted my sister with her tendency to scream while eating (admittedly she was only in pre-school) and my brother (but that is another story), I as eldest son and eldest grandson (on both sides) could never understand. I knew why they wanted me... "let me count the ways...."
The solution to this problem of venue was solved in most years by the simple expedient of appearing at two (or even more) holiday tables groaning under the weight of families who had done well... and stuffing ourselves to sickness accordingly. It is no wonder they felt queasy by day's end. Personally I always saved room (if at all possible) for the desserts... for here amidst so many culinary achievements... was sweet perfection in so many alluring ways. Pies of every kind (pumpkin de rigueur of course), cobblers, cookies with holiday themes... strudel (we were of Germanic stock and proud)... and the cakes... but enough. Suffice it to say there was no thought of mere sufficiency. It was all about excess... in so many ways so that no one could ever say anything else, or even suggest it.
Time -- and holiday arrangements -- marches on.
Sadly, over time things changed and my father and mother were significant reasons why the multi-mealed Thanksgiving came to an end. Specifically, we moved from Illinois when I was just 16 to California, where family (as Charles Manson and hippies from Haight-Ashbury proved) had an altogether different meaning. And so, unless my father decided (and my mother concurred), for father's sister and his wife did not love each other, unless, that is, we were going to our Carter cousins' ranch in Bakersfield, we stayed home... and invited people we liked, who were never related. In short, we went from the traditional Thanksgiving of too much of this, too much of that, people we "had" to like because we were related, to Thanksgivings we invented... and, as we discovered later when sociologists explored American migrations, most other people were doing the same thing. And that's why my mother, Shirley de Lauing Lant Phelps de Barlais y de Kesoun, and I were in the port of San Pedro, California en route to Baja California for Thanksgiving, 1985.
Fourth book, second Thanksgiving out of America.
I have always been of an industrious nature and my breakneck pace through 1985 made clear that I was a man on a mission, going places, meeting people. I had my fourth book underway, a publishing company to oversee, an international consulting business, a multitude of lectures nationwide, and a nationally syndicated program on the Business Radio Network. Managing time was of the essence.. and this precluded vacations and other ways of wasting time, including voyaging to a part of the world in which I had absolutely no interest. But, then, my mother did... and she was a very formidable woman. She named the destination, I ponied up for the tickets, and so we boarded one of the floating restaurants and bars they call cruise ships, where eating and lassitude are the order of the day, every day.
We were booked as Dr. and Mrs. Lant, which while absolutely accurate was also the seed for a memorable (and oh so wrong) deduction... because, you see, on this ship, as on all such vessels, the ladies of a certain age always out number the gents... and so the hopefulness which always accompanies these ladies on board always quickly wilts.
My mother was a stylish and youthful looking woman and made a point of so appearing, to best advantage. I was, as usual, slovenly, a demolisher of clothes, even those from the best shops in Boston and England. Still, as Agatha Christie once observed, old clothes properly cut are always suitable attire for a gentleman. My mother strenuously disagreed, but here her jeremiads fell on deaf ears.
Still...one memorable evening, a woman of the purple-haired ilk sidled up to POM (Poor Old Mother) and asked how long we'd been married... and how she'd managed it; (no doubt wanting instructions on how to secure as willing mate one as young, winsome, and obviously God-favored as I.) Freud must have had a conniption.
And that was just the beginning of the memorable holiday voyage.
My mother and I worked as a team; she was admiral, I cadet. The moment after we arrived on board, she took a page of her cream colored stationary as Baroness de Barlais y de Kesoun, gold coronet ablaze at the top, and sent a charming message (of which she was past mistress) to the Captain, advising him a celebrated author was on board whom she'd like to present. That "celebrated author" would have been me. That note she delivered post haste to the purser along with a First Edition of my book "Our Harvard," suitably autographed by that self-same author. She always traveled with a few copies...
The next day I sat in a deck chair, enveloped in a plaid blanket, hands chilled, writing the current book, "The Unabashed Self-Promoter's Guide: What every man, woman, child and organization in America needs to know about getting ahead by exploiting the media." For all that I had to be thawed out each evening, I was making lickety-split progress... and could still dance attendance on Her Ladyship, my mother. It was a model that worked...
The Captain requests...
In due course, of course, the Captain responded... not just with an invitation to the table at dinner where he held court but to cocktails in his luxurious private quarters. We dressed accordingly; (my Harvard blazer was wrinkled but its insignia buttons were solid gold.) When we discovered he was Greek, we should have recalled the old maxim "Beware of Greeks bearing gifts..."
He was a man of charm, information, and what we Midwesterners call schmaltz. As such he was very good company, paying every courtesy to the Double B (as we termed the double Baroness, in her own right, too). But there was something not quite right... which became instantly apparent when, in paying my mother an exaggerated farewell he tickled the inside of my hand, in a manner which could not possibly have been misconstrued. I meant to tell her... she would have roared with laugher and indignation. Which brings us to our unique Thanksgiving on the high seas.
On board, one ate and participated in activities which could never quite obscure their purpose: to let air out of bloated stomachs. One of these activities was the time-honored "talent show" which would have been anything but... except for POM. She had an idea to sweep the boards... she always did... and with her vision, energy, imagination and unparalleled ability to shame people into doing things, she generally succeeded. "The First Thanksgiving".
POM dragooned one passenger after another into taking part in what was certain to be the winning entry: a sure-to-please musical rendition of the first Thanksgiving, with dialog by me and direction by... but you can guess who. Despite frequent (ever escalating) reminders that the script needed to be written, yours truly did not write the script; instead falling victim to Demon Rum... and so when POM came to get me for dress rehearsal (a bare hour before the opening curtain) she found her boy drunk as the lord he was. No script. No excuse. No hope.
But still the show went on, though I had to ad-lib every word, including musical cues to the band, which gamely played our game. Pilgrims said the silly things they would say... Indians (face-paint perfect) acted aboriginal... and "Turkey in the straw" rang out frequently as passenger Pilgrims and Indians ran about the stage capturing passenger turkeys. Then le tout ensemble sang "God Bless America". Of course we were cheered to the echo, and I got the kind of hugs and kudos I expected... and she had deserved.
My Thanksgiving this year will be dull indeed without her... for she is making friends and raising cane in a better place, where she will know, for certain, I would write this article and remember....
***** What are your favourite Thanksgiving memories? Let us know by posting your comments below.
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About the Author
Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., providing a wide range of online services for small and-home based businesses. Jeffrey Lant is also the author of 18 best-selling business books.
Republished with author's permission by Christopher Hessman <a href="http://ProvenAutomatedBiz.com">http://ProvenAutomatedBiz.com</a>. Check out Fast Cash Commissions -> http://www.ProvenAutomatedBiz.com/?rd=ei5aIW6Z
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