TheBanyanTree: Thanksgiving Pasts

[Monique Colver]

Many Thanksgiving pasts, when I was 11 or 12, and I lived in in the family
from heck. At this particular Thanksgiving, my dad and stepmom were
separated, either because he had not yet learned to toe the line, or
because there was entirely too much furniture throwing going on. So my dad
took me and my brother to live with him in a duplex he owned, which he'd
probably hung onto just for this sort of thing. When we'd lived in the
duplex previously it had been the the on the left, and the duplexes each
had two bedrooms. Prior to meeting his future, and last, wife, he had three
children at home, ranging in age from pre-teen to teenager, and for a
little while, another teenager, who was sent back to his mother for reasons
we won't go into here. But the three of us, me, my brother, and my older
sister had to share a room, because dad wanted his room all to himself.

But when he separated from my stepmom, my older sister was out of the
house, having gotten herself knocked up and then married. It wasn't until
many years later, as in a few years ago, that I found out that the father
of her child was not the same person she had married. So it was just me and
my brother, and my stepmother insisted that 1) she get to live in the
family house with her three kids, and 2) my brother share a room with dad,
because it was unseemly for us to share a room. I did not disagree with
that. Who wants to share a room with an icky boy?

Our duplex was right next to my school, so there was that. I had my own
cat, so there was that too. All in all, I was pretty happy. Now and then
stepmother would show up and she and dad would go somewhere, shopping or
something. Maybe for Christmas. Who can tell? It was always sunny in
California.

When Thanksgiving came, the three of us were expected to show up at the
family house all shiny and empty in order to participate in the annual show
off of how well off we were, what sparkling children, for all the people
stepmom had invited, always her family, never ours.

As I've said, my dad had not quite yet learned to kowtow to the queen, so
on our way to the house, we stopped for breakfast. Dinner wouldn't be until
2 or so, it was morning, and she wanted us there early to cook and clean
for her, and dad, thought breakfast would be a good idea. The three of us
very much enjoyed our breakfast, and when we were done, we went to the
house.

"What took you so long?" was my stepmother's greeting.

"We stopped for breakfast," dad said, as if it were the most natural thing
in the world.

If it were possible for someone's eyes to literally pop out of their heads,
that would have happened to stepmom. Her face grew red, a shade similar to
a beet. And then the shrieking began. "WHY DID YOU DO THAT? They'll be
eating in just 5 hours! BREAKFAST? Are you crazy?"

Unfortunately, her eyes stayed in her head, because that would have been a
welcome bit of comedy. She slammed around the kitchen a bit, assigned us
our tasks, ranted and raved some more.

The answer was that yes, of course, dad was crazy. He'd married her, hadn't
he?

A month or so later dad thought he was having a heart attack, cooked our
dinner and told us to eat, then locked himself in his room, from which he
called his mother and his wife, both of whom came rushing over to save the
day. Grandma never liked stepmom, but she never really liked anyone, so
nothing new there. After the ambulance took dad away stepmom bundled us up
and took us back to the house. Dad didn't have a heart attack, though they
kept him overnight. And that was the end of our separation, the last chance
we had to live a somewhat normal childhood.

But I like to remember her outrage when I need a laugh.