by Phyllis McCrossin

I trust everyone had a happy Thanksgiving.  Ours was fairly quiet, it was just King, our daughter, her twin sons and me. I cooked. We ate buffet style, serving ourselves straight from the pans on the stove. Cleanup took 15 minutes. It was great. My mother is turning in her grave.

Mom always pulled out all the stops for Thanksgiving dinner. She started cooking days before – she would dry bread in the oven for stuffing (that was in the days before Stove Top Stuffing), grind the cranberries for cranberry sauce and bake pies.

Lots and lots of pies – pumpkin, apple, mincemeat and lemon meringue – a favorite pie for every family member. Everything was from scratch, including the pie crusts. Leftover pie dough was cut into triangles, sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar, baked and served as an after school snack. When we were older my sister would add pecan pie to the mix. 

There were also several different types of jello salads, green bean casserole, corn, squash, mashed potatoes and the Dutch favorite – applesauce. No Dutch meal is complete without apple sauce –  I don’t know why, I think there is a rule book somewhere. Mom’s applesauce was always homemade.

Busy as she was, Mom always took time off the day before Thanksgiving to attend our school Thanksgiving program. In those days Hamilton Elementary School held a program at the Hamilton Community Hall. The elementary school went through the fourth grade. Fifth- and sixth-graders attended school in the east wing of the high school.

(As an aside, my fifth grade year at the high school was one of the most terrifying of my life – my fifth grade teacher being the most horrific man imaginable, but that’s a story for another day).

My oldest sister left for college when I was in third grade. So many of my memories also include the excitement of having my sister home for the holiday and her locking herself in her bedroom most of the weekend to study for finals. I guess it was a good thing, she had a 4.0 gpa.  I was never that studious.

Grandpa Stehouwer and his brother Andy would drive from Grand Rapids to spend the day with us. When Grandpa was no longer able to drive and Uncle Andy passed away, Dad would get up early to drive to Grand Rapids to pick him up and bring him to our house. Mom planned the meal preparation around the 9:30 a.m. church service and the arrival of Grandpa.

Once he arrived and was served coffee, we would watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade (in black and white). Mom loved watching the parade. Then my sisters and I would help put the leafs in the dining room table, stretching it out to its full capacity and set it with Mom’s best tablecloth, best china and the sterling silverware.

We generally had dinner early in the afternoon – mostly so Grandpa could drive himself home during the daylight hours, and when Dad started driving to Grand  Rapids to pick up Grandpa, so that he could drive back at a decent hour.

We had one very unusual tradition. I don’t remember how it started, but it became a tradition nonetheless. Every Thanksgiving, after the meal was consumed and the kitchen cleaned (a two-hour task), Dad would dig out his cowboy boots, a denim jacket, my sister would saddle one of the horses and Dad would take a solo ride around the block. As far as I know that was the only day of the year he rode a horse.  I suspect it was possibly a chance for him to get out of the house and smoke a cigarette, but I really don’t know.

In later years, when our children were teens and the horses long gone, we still had dinner at Mom and Dad’s house. Dad and our sons would sneak behind the garage to smoke. I caught them back there one year and Dad looked sheepish, but when Mom rounded the corner he shoved the cigarette into my hand. Better I face the wrath of Mom then him, I guess.

Ahhh memories.