We Almost Had Turkey

When most people think of traditions or are asked to reflect on their fondest memories with family, almost always those memories are capsulated around the holidays. Often the holidays are a leveler of cultures, backgrounds, and perspectives on what brings value. Even through the commercialization of them, you will often here the focus to each individual still rooted in spending time with those that they love. I have known friends and acquaintances that spend holidays with other friends, at church gatherings, volunteering for organizations so they have company, and off in distant countries spreading good news to eager hearts. It is not necessary to have family be the sole part of the traditional narrative, and after this particular Thanksgiving, I wasn't sure we would ever amend to gather again.

Growing up there were obvious pillars to the structure and foundation that was our life. Like most of our culture in the heart of Appalachia, faith and family were the big two. There was a respect you maintained for yourself on behalf of your family. Gone were the days of the party lines, but that did not stop my Nan (my material grandmother) from ringing her 8 sisters daily to gossip about the latest happening of ALL the extended relatives. If your name was present on any branch of a Mullins family tree, or connected through an in-law whether in good standing or removed, you would always be open as a topic of discussion. There was no secret too small or deception too great to not be avoided. I will be the first to admit to you that part of the credit for good behavior, or developing a sneaky streak, is to be credited to the fear of being talk of the family. And don't believe that what one knew they wouldn't share. A cousin of mine who I hadn't seen in 4 years had to get an updated contact prescription and wouldn't you know - in 3 hours and a sitting spell on the porch swing, I knew what day her follow up was and when her new rims would be delivered to her house 3 states away. If you had an affair, before you brought the new fella over, I guarantee you at least one aunt had already told him what color your sheets were in a Facebook chat.

As interconnected as we were, we still made a habit to get together regularly, and I clearly remember spending at least one day from each holiday together as an extended family on the Mullins side. To put it in perspective, my Nan was one of 12 siblings who all married and averaged 3 kids. Growing up everyone was a "cousin" in some fashion because after you calculated my mother having 37 first cousins, it all got blurry. This particular holiday was Thanksgiving 2012. I was in my teens and my younger brother, Jeremy was around 12 years old. Now, what you should know about my brother - like all siblings, we were polar opposites. He was in part raised by Nan after she retired, which means he grew up with her house being one of his safe spaces. He developed this sense of place there where everything he wanted he got, and all was his territory to roam. Now Nan's house was a double wide trailer that had permanent additions over the years to include an extended family/living room space, front porch that housed two rocking chairs, a swing that could seat 3 aunts deep, and a single step that on any given day had 2 uncles and a cousin hovering about. In addition to the living space, there was also a back deck that doubled as a smoking area (that's supposed to be a secret - because none of my aunts have that bad habit...) and an additional master bedroom. This home at it's core, even with the love it had seen over time was no place to host 45 people for Thanksgiving dinner, but here we were all together.

What makes this day so memorable was the guest family that joined us from Cookeville, TN. I can't remember why my Nan's "most bossy" sister and her family joined us that year, but I will tell you the tension of having a sister just like her in the kitchen almost put my Nan over the edge. You see, this is the part about having a close knit family that I love. Even before arriving to the house, we could feel the tension of two similar souls in the kitchen. Geraldine was older than Nan, she was a little more adventurous to try new things, and she had no trouble telling you (even in your own kitchen) how to do something better than the way it had been done for 50 years. So this year, instead of baking the sacred turkey the traditional way, they were going to roast it in the crock pot. Mind you - we had NO crock pot large enough, so it was disassembled and stuffed in two for the purpose of - well for no other purpose other than "bossy Geraldine" said so.

As we drove the whopping 4 minutes from our house to my Nan's we debated how many cigarettes' my Nan had been through that morning since she had Thanksgiving company. We laughed at the potential for Nan's famous turkey dressing to be sabotaged by additional hands in the kitchen, and we took bets on what new gossip would surface about any of the cousins that just couldn't make it to dinner to defend themselves. As we drove, we anxiously anticipated what on earth could go wrong. In the end, as long as my brother had turkey nothing else really mattered.

Just as we had imagined, as we pulled into the side yard, for the driveway and main yard were already full of vehicles, we were greeted with smiling faces and a porch full of people eager to fill us in on the best hunting spots, new guns for trade, and most importantly - whether or not it is safe to go into the kitchen. As the boys mingled on the porch, mom and I headed inside to drop the dishes we were responsible for bringing where we were told to put them. Just like clock-work, we were also the last family to arrive, so it was on us to help finish setting up the serving line and the tables scattered all over the kitchen and dining room. It was obvious that Nan was in all sorts of distressed at the presence of her company overtaking her kitchen. At sight of her daughter, she pulled my mom into the back hallway and ranted about the fact that she had to dissect her turkey to "do it Geraldine's way". I followed the pair down the hall to two red crock pots sitting atop of a deep freeze where they had been moved to keep from tripping another breaker. We were on mission to get the last piece of Thanksgiving dinner plated and ready to serve.

Now my Nan grew up as part of the generations of miners in southeastern Kentucky. She grew up poor, she grew up strong, and she had no choice to grow up a little rough around the edges just like that Blue Diamond coal. It was of no surprise to me to watch her approach the crock-pot that had been placed on high temp for enough hours to roast a half a turkey, take the lid off, and proceed to lift the inside pot out of it's container. It took less than halfway out of the crock pot for the entire house to feel what I can only describe as almighty wrath, divinely inspired wrath, to come over my Nan. I am convinced every soul (dead or alive) within a 3 mile radius heard that woman holler, "GERALDINE! GET IN HERE!" I still have hair raising chills every time I think of that moment and all that transpired after.

Geraldine, in her true fashion walsted into the hall like a butterfly in a meadow on a spring day, not knowing it was about to get devoured.

"Geraldine, look at this!"

"Well Martha don't get so worked up, it'll still taste good, just bring it in the kitchen - I promise I make it like this all the time. Heather I'm trying to tell your mo..." Before she could even finish my Nan pounced at her.

"GERALDINE, IT'S COLD AND RAW!"

"That's impossible. We started this at like 2 this morning. Let me check it, I'm sure you are just confused. It won't always look like a roas....."

"WHAT DID YOU DO?!"

At this point the brave men of the family had walked to the back porch to ease drop and get a better idea of what they needed to avoid doing to make matters worse. Apparently we discovered, about the time my brother peaked his head into the hallway that after being moved from the kitchen onto the deep freeze, no one had plugged either appliance in. The turkey, in all it's pieces was in fact still oozy raw and in no state to eat. Still to this day neither sister will admit to the turkey catastrophe.

In all the chaotic commotion that was transpiring, much like in a movie, there was one lowly boy in the back devastated, not set on making a scene, but utterly distraught that all his desires in life would go unfulfilled. It took about 5 solid minutes, and a new box of cigarettes on the porch before my Nan heard my brother crying. He was hunched over in the corner of the open staircase leaning beside the house, praying for a thanksgiving miracle which had to include turkey. Out of all of the dishes on the table the only two that would ever touch Jeremy's plate was Nan's turkey, plain with not even a drop of gravy, and a heaping scoop of Stovetop stuffing. At site of "her boy" the fire was kindled again and all parties at that house were going to find and deliver something to this poor boy. The only store still open according to the local news's listing was the Kroger on the North end of town, and it closed in 18 minutes. My dad and a few other introverts took to the road while the rest of us continued to leisurely set the table and play interference to the dueling sisters.

About the time all the other dishes got cold, my dad arrived back to the house, with a single rotisserie chicken from Kroger that was no larger in size than a Danish Hen. While Nan's heart sank into her chest the rest of us in attendance cackled and laughed and knee slapped over which crow on the chicken's feet we hoped they had left so my uncle Ben could at least get a bite. It was comic relief, and it was an experience we had all together. I would leave it up to your imagination as to how much of that rotisserie chicken was left over, but in order to understand our family, I think it's important to know that we always save what is left of our turkey as a remembrance to the POW's that never returned home. When my Nan's middle brother enlisted the family refused to celebrate anything, not a holiday, a birthday, marriage, nothing until him and the rest of the men in our family returned home. After the war ended and they came home, their brother, my great uncle, James told his wife that he just couldn't have anything that may be the last when he believed they needed something to come home to.

Part of the traditions and values that space me are because I have been given perspectives from those great men and women in my life to consider all aspects and outcomes as meaningful. It is the intent behind those actions that determine whether you will live, or have life. So after a tragic start and quick finish to a 25 pound thanksgiving tradition, our time together ended with a single chunk of dark meat laying next to a wishbone. That was my single most memorable thanksgiving dinner.

It would be appropriate for the story to end there, but have you ever heard, "Lighting never strikes the same place twice?" That may be true, but I have found oftentimes it may strike too close to be mistaken as a coincidence. My second most memorable thanksgiving happened the year after. Geraldine was no longer invited to spend the day with us and Nan was back to roasting her giant feast in the oven, in peace, and for redemption of her house and holiday honor. We were the last family to arrive, per usual and we were floored when we arrived to find one of my most audacious, and recently divorced, cousins had picked a man up off the side of the road a mile down from the local prison and decided to bring him into my Nan's house for dinner. His name was Abe. Now Abe looks exactly like how you would image, covered in inappropriate tattoos, scarred from years living with the consequences of a bad habit he can't kick, and to top it all off - was missing his top right canine tooth. Up to this point in my life I had never actually seen this time up man so up close, he was almost a showcase piece on exhibit. But not to Nan. A full pack of cigarettes' in an hour while she paced and attempted to distract herself to this unfamiliar and uninvited man in her home. So as southern hosts to a holiday feast what do you do? Fix him a glass of ice tea, seat him closest to the door, feed him fast and kick him out with the threat to earn his meal he will have to wash dishes.

The tables were set in record time and the final piece to preparation was the turkey. Nan called her brother Ray into the kitchen to help lift and place. Ray slid past Nan, opened up the oven door closed it slowly and backed away. "Now Ray we have got to get this on the table, we've got to hurry and get these people fed!" Now to know Ray is to know Ferdinand the bull, ever graceful, ever kind, slow to speak and hard to anger. He is the closest thing to a grandfather I have other than our neighbor next door, Jack. Ray scanned the room and our brown eyes locked. "Um Marthy, I think you need to make sure it's done before I take it out is all." I immediately knew to prepare for a earthquake to happen as the gates of hell were about to bust open from the horrible thoughts that may or may not have come out of my Nan's mouth. Turns out, she never turned the oven on, just the oven light so she could watch it.

This time we were not waiting for the turkey, we were having ham from an aunt that no one ever touched, and that was that. Well that would have been that, except my brother wouldn't allow it. That year those not brave enough to stay in the kitchen and troubleshoot appliance malfunctions crowded around the front porch and listened to Abe tell stories until my dad and brother returned from Kroger, this year with the last two rotisserie chickens that the store had left. I am pretty sure Abe ate half a whole chicken himself, and still there was still a chunk of meat and a wishbone left at the end.

It goes without saying that Nan had never been allowed to prepare the turkey for thanksgiving dinner since, and now the task has been handed to the next generation to keep up. We haven't seen or heard of Abe since that day, but we talk about his unique appearance often, especially when times or people in formal family settings make us uncomfortable, or sometimes just to get Nan riled up. It has been year's since I've had a traditional thanksgiving with the Mullin's clan, but I find myself even amongst other company and with branches of my in-laws leaving something behind when we are finished I think that is the part about all of this that makes it so powerful to have as a memory, it's not the complicated, but the simple I'll miss.