THANKSGIVING DINNER 1951

As told by Maggie Fitzgerald

I was nine years old, going on ten when this holiday event occurred at Fitzgerald House, my family's seaside country home outside of Winthrop Harbor near the Illinois/Wisconsin border. It’s a well-preserved and charming Victorian home sitting atop a hill off Buttermilk Lane with an amazing view of Lake Michigan. The house, which had been in the family for several generations, was surrounded with beautiful gardens manicured to a leaf by my father.

Atop the house is a turret which I claimed as my very own, only because no one else cared about it. I spent most of my time as a young girl in the turret, keeping watch for enemy pirate ships on Lake Michigan, and dreaming dreams only a child can dream before the door of childhood closes.

I have eight siblings which I knew from a distance as they were much older and were mostly away at school as I grew up. I was the last one born into the family, long after my mother thought it was over. One afternoon I overheard Mother talking with Grandma Fitzgerald about my appearance so late in her life. Granny, in her usual blustery manner, said, "Marge, it ain't over, 'til it's over.” I didn't understand what she meant until my own children began to appear one after another, seven times.

I still live in that wonderful old house on Buttermilk Lane where I married my beloved Seymour and where we raised our seven delightful children – five girls, and two boys.

The tale I am about to tell happened over half a century ago. My Seymour is gone now, and my children have their own families in faraway places. Except for holidays – when they return for a few days – I’m alone with my three curbstone setters and my memories. Though I was only a child at the time this tale unfolded, it remains as clear in my mind as if it happened only yesterday.

The dining room in Fort Knox, as I called it then, is huge. Our family affairs were held in our home because it was so large. It could easily accommodate the entire family and friends for those long weekend celebrations which rang with laughter, visitors coming and going at all hours. However, after this Thanksgiving dinner, the house became quiet for over a year and never quite regained its gaiety until years later.

And now the tale.

It was late afternoon on Thanksgiving Day in 1951. Daylight was slowly giving way to growing shadows of the oncoming evening. Snow flurries swirled merrily outside the three large windows in the dining room, adding to the festivity of the moment. The dancing flames from the fireplace cast beautiful shadows across the ceiling and walls. Electric lights had been turned down allowing the two table candelabras and several wall sconces to provide illumination.

Of all the guests, my Aunt Judy was the terror of every family gathering. I was too young to realize what was going on other than she was the only one who provided entertainment in what was otherwise a very boring event – at least for me. She would become verbally insulting with each glass of wine or whatever it was she was drinking. Interestingly enough, what she had to say was the truth which no one wanted to hear; the more she drank the more the closet doors flew open much to the chagrin of those seated around the table, especially my sainted mother who would pinch her lips in silence. Chagrin for everyone except for me. These were the good times, or so I gleefully thought at the time.

 I was the only one who missed Aunt Judy when she passed away. I thought of Isadora Duncan when I found out how Aunt Judy died. The only difference, Aunt Judy was riding one of her Harley Davidson motorcycles. She was so like Isadora in her bohemian lifestyle, the flamboyant clothing and those trademark scarves trailing behind her. I came across a painting of Isadora and was surprised at the similarity in resemblance to my Aunt Judy.

Aunt Judy had been roaring down the highway between San Francisco and Los Angeles with one of her scarves trailing behind her when it caught in the rear wheel of her motorcycle, somewhat like Isadora’s accident. The end, I was told, came instantly. I was shocked at her passing and grieved terribly for a long time. I never showed it because I knew everyone in the family was privately glad she was gone. I was not glad, I still think of her with deep affection.

My relatives thought they were safe now that Aunt Judy was out of the way. But I remembered the secrets they were hiding and I dreamed of writing a book in memory of Aunt Judy with all of those secrets shouting from each page. Of course, I never wrote the book. It seemed unimportant as I grew up.

I remember the afternoon Aunt Judy came up to the turret to visit with me. During the laughter and giggling, she told me that after she went to heaven, she wanted her earthly remains to be cremated and have her ashes thrown on Douglas Fairbanks, Jr. My ears perked up … I was being assigned the task of carrying out her last wish.

When I told her I thought Douglas was kind of old, she waved an airy hand, "Doesn't matter, my dear. Find him and cover him with my ashes.” She did a little swooning movement with her head. "Oh, my dear, he is such a hunk.”

A hunk of what? I thought to myself. It took me years to figure that one out.

At the time, I knew it would be great fun to throw her ashes on Mr. Fairbanks, and I promised I would do it, but, of course, I never did because, at the time of her death, I was in school in Illinois and her cremation took place in San Francisco.

Had I done as she requested, it would have been interesting to watch the expression on Fairbanks' face, who probably would not have appreciated the sentiment intended.

Years later, while vacationing in San Francisco, I removed Aunt Judy's ashes from the Neptune Columbarium and took the urn to the middle of the Golden Gate Bridge. The Santa Ana winds were blowing in from the desert that day as I spilled her ashes over the side of the bridge and watched the warm winds carry them out to the Pacific Ocean. Aunt Judy would have been pleased and may have said something like, 'Oh that's a dashing good idea.'

Right now I feel her looking over my shoulder as I write, 'You're far too sentimental Maggie Fitzgerald. Now, dry your tears and get on with the tale.'

Of all the events that took place in our dining room, which seated eighteen and more if you pull your elbows in, the best was the food fight on Thanksgiving Day in 1951. It still ranks as a classic in my mind.

It began while Aunt Judy was babbling on at the dinner table about one of her adventures in Europe. In one hand she held a glass of wine while the other hand waved dramatically in the air above her head, illustrating what she was talking about.

Someone and I suspect it was Aunt Edna, who was sitting two seats to my left, had had enough of her sister. Suddenly a drumstick flew across the table, hitting Aunt Judy alongside her head. I heard the strike but missed the throw. I had been leaning over, feeding Prissy, our Calico cat, under the table.

There was dead silence as I sat up in my chair with a start, knives, and forks suspended in midair, no one moved a muscle.

Aunt Judy turned and slowly rose from her chair in classic Gloria Swanson-style. It was so exciting I could hardly stand it. Fire flashed from Aunt Judy's large, beautiful, emerald eyes. She and Aunt Edna never saw eye-to-eye on anything, so it seemed obvious she knew who had done it. No one moved except Aunt Edna who continued eating from her plate in a flippant manner which bespoke, 'Yes, I did it, so what. Now, shut up!'

Without taking her glacial stare from Aunt Edna, Aunt Judy skillfully scooped up a hand full of Mom's delicious potatoes with bacon bits and threw it with such accuracy and force, Mel Mallette of the Brooklyn Dodgers [my favorite pitcher] would have been proud. And she threw it with her left hand just as Mel would have thrown it.

The potatoes hit Aunt Edna in the face with such force it almost knocked her off of her chair. More deadly silence as Aunt Edna wiped her astonished face. I stifled a laugh at the sight of a piece of bacon bits stuck on the end of her nose. I thought of the wicked witch in the Wizard of Oz. Lions and Tigers and Bears, oh my; here we go.

Aunt Edna reciprocated with a homemade buttered roll I had baked that morning. Aunt Judy caught it and fired it back at Aunt Edna, hitting her below the chin. It stuck for a second and then slowly slipped down into her cleavage, she was big busted so there was no way that roll was going anywhere else. I could have sworn I saw steam coming out of Aunt Edna's ears.

Everyone got involved as sides were taken. The menfolk liked Aunt Judy because she was a dish, and could drink most of them under the table. She was also a big flirt, though nothing ever came of it as far as I know.

My mother never commented on Aunt Judy’s behavior, she would just press her lips and frown when others made unpleasant remarks about her sister. She liked Aunt Judy and I suspect she was somewhat envious of her lifestyle.

So you can guess how the sides were drawn. Mother tried, unsuccessfully, to referee the food fight, but it was too late. In seconds it was in full swing. All the pent-up grievances everyone had, and there were plenty of them, were brought into play. It was wonderful. It was so hilarious and exciting, I didn't know what to do with myself except stay out of the line of fire.

Everyone had come to dinner meticulously dressed in an attempt to outshine everyone else. Within moments, there were rivers of Mom's beautiful turkey gravy streaming down this one's coat and that one's dress. My head was turning so fast, trying to catch sight of all that was going on, I thought I was going to get whiplash; I was in seventh heaven, occasionally ducking a flying drumstick or the green beans. I did get a partial hit of the tossed salad and chunky Bleu Cheese dressing which I can still taste today when I think about it.

It only lasted a short time, and then it was over. The screaming was replaced with deadly silence. The chaos was total, complete, and glorious beyond belief. Everyone stood there after the venting exhausted itself, glaring at one another. I can only imagine what they were thinking. A few under-breath insults were thrown out as everyone departed. Aunt Judy was first – feet first; she had passed out, as usual.

As the air cleared, I came up from under the table to find that the dining room was a complete and unbelievable disaster. I looked on in amazement; food was stuck in places I didn't think possible. The coving of the ceiling is covered in an intricate Victorian pattern. If you look closely today, you can see things up there that do not fit the pattern.

It was by far the most fun I ever had with my family.

My poor mother and father were left standing alone, wondering what in the world had happened. Mother was in tears at the sight of her beautiful new damask table linens, ruined with spills of everything on the table. Prissy, our calico cat, jumped onto the table and ate her share of what was left of our Thanksgiving Dinner. And my poor father, he just grumbled. I knew what he was saying under his breath because I've heard the kind of language he can use when he’s angry. The cellar air would turn blue when a project didn't turn out as he expected. He knew mother did not approve, so he kept it to himself, but he did chuckle when he caught my knowing smile.

I helped, but not much, I wanted to savor the moment. I tried to save some of those delicious potatoes but it was too late. I still can't make that recipe the way Mother did. I suspect it was the bowl of bacon drippings she kept on the stove top which accomplished her cooking magic.

No one spoke to one another for over a year. It wasn’t until years later I realized the hurt feelings that abounded from the things said in the heat of those few moments. I felt a sadness which had escaped me at the time.

The ensuing silence was sad, at least for me. I spent many an hour in the turret reliving those precious moments. God love 'em for providing me with the happiest Thanksgiving Day Dinner, ever. Oh, for the good old days.

Love, Maggie

The End

Thank you for reading this story. The tune below will send you on your way. Cheers, JT.

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