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Thanksgiving, 1990-Something

By Alexandra Sedlak

By Alexandra SedlakPublished about a year ago 3 min read
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Thanksgiving, 1990-Something
Photo by Juliette F on Unsplash

It was the Thanksgiving of 1990-something. I still lived in my childhood family home in Toledo, Ohio, my grandparents were still alive, my brother was still alive, my parents were still happily-ish married, and my aunt’s most-favorite-dog-of-all-time was still alive and well. Not to start on a morbid note. But all things considered, it really was one of the best memories I have of Thanksgiving, as fucked up as it was.

In my childhood memory palace, every Thanksgiving and Christmas included snow. However I’m well aware of the way in which memories can often twist and deceive the best of us. So for that reason, I can’t say for sure if this particular Thanksgiving was truly a white one or not. But for argument’s sake, let’s say it was. Yes. It was a white, snowy Thanksgiving in Toledo, Ohio; the year was 1990-something. Thanksgiving that year was held at my Aunt Julie’s house, which at the time felt like a mansion to little me. She had a fancy piano and a spiral staircase. She always dressed in furs and leather boots, and her perfume was thick and dizzyingly sweet. Musky. I couldn’t tell you what it was called, but I could definitely pick it out of a lineup if necessary.

My brother, Nick, and I mostly spent our time running around the house, exploring, stealing treats before dinner, drinking way too much pop (yes, I said pop) and crafting original masterpieces on the piano for all to hear. The adults busied themselves in the kitchen, cooking, drinking and chatting up a storm. Occasionally my mom would lovingly shriek down the hall at us to “keep the music down, goddammit!” She wasn’t yet aware of our brilliance.

Holidays when you’re a kid, if you’re lucky, often include the swirling scent of spices, herbs and roasted chicken, the sharp taste of sparkling fruit juice (which made me feel very sophisticated thankyouverymuch), and the sounds of storytelling and laughter imprinted against a backdrop of a warm, crackling fireplace. I had all of these things that Thanksgiving, and then some.

As we sat down to dinner, I watched from the kiddie table, sad and shoved off to a corner of the kitchen, as the adults said prayer and gave thanks. Back then I thought it so selfish and unkind to force us kids to sit at a dinky side table in another room. Now as an adult, I totally get it.

At this point in the evening, everything is a blur. I remember waves of booming laughter, notably coming from my dad, whose boisterous laugh absolutely demands the full attention of everyone within earshot. I’ve come to love it. I remember the dance of sounds echoing from dishes and crystal wine glasses clinking and clanking in merry celebration. I remember the pitiful whines and hurried steps of the dog weaving in and out of the dining room as he pleaded for table scraps.

And then I remember a panicked hush falling over the dining room as my dad howled in pain. I peeked around the corner from where I sat to see to see my mom jump to her feet, almost knocking her wine glass over, and rushing to my dad’s side. One by one the adults were up and on their feet, fluttering about in disjointed concern and confusion. “Call 911!” my dad cried, followed by more groans as he clutched his chest and bunched his face up in utter agony. Oh shit.

The ambulance was there within minutes. My dad was strapped on to a stretcher and rolled outside. I think I cried. I probably cried. But in the moments that felt like forever, while Nick and I were told to just stay out of the way and be quiet, we found ourselves apprehensively making our way to a darkened stairwell. We sat there in silence with our desserts on a plate, for which we no longer had appetites. I don’t know how long we sat there. It could’ve been 10 minutes, or two hours. Along came the dog. Did I mention the dessert was chocolate cake? We gave our cake to the dog. We thought we were doing a good thing. Now I know better.

The next thing I remember is my mom busting through the front door with her hands in the air, as if to say, I give up, shaking her head in tow. I heard the commotion outside, and that booming, infectious laugh. I was so happy to hear that laugh. I ran outside and found my dad slowly, but triumphantly, making his way back inside with the help of my uncles. As it turns out, my dad ate too much. He simply… ate too much. Now he knows better.

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About the Creator

Alexandra Sedlak

Indie Rock Artist l Actor l Filmmaker l Witch

Nashville, TN

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  • Hannah Mooreabout a year ago

    This was such a lovely, flowing read. Nicely done.

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