Over the river and through the ‘hood.

Grandma and Grandpa Bishop lived in a tiny house on Bishop Place. The house was at one time an army barracks. Grandpa had won the down payment in a game of pool.

Every Thanksgiving, my family, along with my aunts, uncles, cousins would arrive at that house—stopping first to throw our jackets and sweaters onto the mountainous pile on the bed. Then the uncles would head for the living room and the football game, the aunts would head to the kitchen to help Grandma with the feast and the cousins would head to whatever spot was left in the tiny home. I usually sought refuge at the pile of National Geographics in the magazine rack by the front door and marveled at the photos of sharks, waterfalls and Swahili boobs.

There was a small dining room that separated the living room from the kitchen. In it, were two long tables‚ one for the grownups and one for the kids. You couldn’t graduate to the grownups table until you were married. One year after Mom was newly divorced and single, she was made to sit with the army of bratty kids. She grits her teeth to this day just thinking about it.

Also in the dining room was a sideboard where a few of the day’s treats lie in waiting. On it, was a plate of dessert that grandma made every year. It was lime jello, mayonnaise, fruit cocktail and cottage cheese whipped and frozen in soup cans then cut into round slices. At the time it was delicious. Now, I have my doubts.

Once dinner was ready, nearly two dozen of us would have to shuffle into the room single file, by family, in order to get everyone in their seats. The Zaelits, the Koesters, the Hortons, the Perry/Munsons and finally, Grandma and Grandpa— all making their entrance as if it were a State dinner in blue jeans.

Our prayer, “Good food, good meat. Good god, let’s eat” was always recited by one of the young kids who knew nothing about sacrilege. Non-traditional to say the least, but I do remember how truly thankful we all were to be together. The cousins and I would adorn our fingers with black olives while the aunts and uncles passed around the potatoes, marshmallow yams, the turkey, and a goose that grandpa shot that very morning.

After dinner, we’d exit the room in reverse order—the men headed back to the living room to nap, the women would head to the kitchen to clean, and the cousins would head to the gun closet where we’d laugh and snoop until Grandpa shooed us out.

Dishes done and football game over, we ate our pie. There was pumpkin, mincemeat and a lone banana cream saved just for Mom and Grandma. Finally, we grabbed our sweaters and hugged our goodbyes until we’d see each other on Christmas Eve —where we’d do it all over again.