Thanksgiving was always hectic for my mother. If it was not due to the hopping from place to place, it was due to the alcoholic flare ups from my Grandma Mary. A day meant to give thanks for God''s provision and for our loved ones always seemed to end in turmoil or violence.
One year, Mom decided to change things up and prepare a Thanksgiving feast for us at home. I completely understand. After years of running around, bringing a prepared dish to contribute to dinner, it is very special to prepare the entire meal for others to come and enjoy. Not only that, but we could relax and be comfortable after we filled our tummies. Jami and I were excited to have our own Thanksgiving, seated at our very own kitchen table! My step dad, Van, seemed to be his regular self, but happy. This Thanksgiving was one every one of us was looking forward to. My little sister and I were six and eight years old this particular year.
Mom began cooking the day before and was in the kitchen most of Thanksgiving Day. Jami and I always loved to help crack and peel the hard boiled eggs. Today, we were so eager to taste all the goodies Mom cooked up, that we kept running to her to sample her creations. This Thanksgiving dinner was very traditional. There was a huge stuffed turkey, mashed potatoes, yams candied with melted marshmallows, potato salad, green beans, and cranberry sauce. Our mother told us, "No more picking! You'll ruin your dinner!" Munching on raw potatoes was also always a treat, for some reason.
Van kept away from the kitchen, from what I remember. He really did not do much around the house at all, except hang out with the dogs in the backyard. That was only when he was not beating on or teasing us girls. Mom usually kept us clear of him when she could. Today he was calm and also in the Thanksgiving spirit.
We could not sit down to the dinner table fast enough. Mom had the table decorated with a table cloth and covered it with bowls and platters of everything she had worked so hard to prepare for us. Our table was small and oval, with enough seating for six. When we all sat down to eat, our parents would be seated at each end of the table, while my sister and I sat across from each other. Today, Van chose to sit next to me instead of at the end of the table.
When you cook a meal like this, the biggest joy comes from watching your family enjoy every bit of it. I also get that from my mother. I tend to wait to dig into my own plate so I can see how the family likes everything. Of course, we always started out our dinner by saying grace. "God is great. God is good. Let us thank him for our food. Amen."
As my mother began serving up our plates, I felt my step dad poke at the side of my right leg with his finger. He liked to tease us as much as possible in order to get a rise out of us. I remember trying to ignore him while holding my plate up while Mom served my dinner helping. As I set my plate down, he poked my bare leg with his fork. The instant reaction I had was to push his hand away. I also remembered whincing, "Stop it."
It was in that split second of pushing his hand away and telling him to stop when he grabbed me by my throat, lifting me out of my chair, then slamming me against the kitchen wall. He was squeezing my neck and shaking me as he held me up there, nearly three feet off the ground. My sister started screaming. Mom came at him, pounding on his back as she screamed for him to let go. My sister and mother were both frightened for my life and crying hysterically.
I fell to the floor as he let go, while my mom tried to comfort me and check my neck. While I was crying and gasping to breathe, Mom kept yelling at Van, "Why?" I remember him saying something about my table manners.
The attack certainly did not end with me. All of us were so shaken that we could not think of eating. My recollection is that my mother nearly threw all the food out the front door. Van continued his rage, directing it at Mom, while we hid in our bedroom. It was not until later that evening that Mom ended up bringing our dinner to us, and tried to smoothe over the wounds.
Needless to say, Van was successful in stealing our very first Thanksgiving in our own home; the only one I actually remember.
And here we are, approaching Thanksgiving again, more than thirty-five years later. Reflecting on this day has not been easy. When you write something like this, you relive it. Memories and visions surface that were once buried in time. However, it does remind me of so many things I am thankful for, including the fact this monster is no longer in any of our lives. What is most important is that God is always good.
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