The sweet smells wafting from the kitchen, the turkey cooking, my wife and daughter present, stern-faced and frazzled in last minute time-juggling between kitchen duty and getting dressed for the soon arriving family and friends.
It’s no place for man, or beast. I’ve done my duty. Ice in the ice bucket, fire set and ready for the match, shaved and dressed, but the Lions and Packers game is still an hour away. Staying under foot is out of the question. The sun is not yet over the yardarm, and the bar is by the kitchen in direct view of wife Dorothy and Jenny. “Don’t even think about it, George!”
Tossing the football around used to be a way to pass the time. This year the grandchildren are in Long Island with their parents, and other grandparents. And besides, I’d have to throw an underhand lateral; among other things, my shoulder is also shot, and running out for a pass is out of the question!
I’m content to reread, “Thanksgiving Day Turkey Shoot 1944,” hunkered down in my office with the door closed, and wait for the 12 o’clock whistle, reveling in the memories of happy times gone by.
This year, 2018, will be on the quiet side. Son Graham, Paulette, and our 4 weasels: Graham Jr., Bradley, Tory and Duncan will be traveling to Long Island for Thanksgiving.
In preparing to blog this year’s reflections, Jenny reminded me of another “off- site” family gathering, this one including my cousin Michael, his wife Sherley, and their three boys, Mike, Jr., Tim and Scotty plus their Portuguese water dog, Seaweed.
Mike and I have neighboring cottages in Lonelyville, Fire Island, near where we were both raised on Long Island. We decided to celebrate “Thanksgiving at the beach!” with our respective kids in varying stages of prep school, college and grad school. It was the early 1990s, as I recall. Many of the details have gone fuzzy in time, but here are the highlights, at least how I remember them…
The Tuesday afternoon before Turkey Day, Dorothy and I loaded our 26-foot skiff, CUTTY SARK with provisions for the Thanksgiving holiday; Rosie, our Heinz 52 rescue (mostly poodle); and a 25-pound turkey and headed for open water and the 25-minute trip to Lonelyville. The sea state was calm, the temperature around 50 degrees. We docked, unloaded and a made a fire to warm the house. We settled in for the night. On Wednesday, Mike and Sherley arrived by Jeep. Later in the day the kids came in by ferry. Our two got a ride to the Coast Guard Station, and rode their bikes more than a mile into a stiff, chilly east wind, arriving with reddened cheeks.
Thanksgiving Day arrived, the temperature dropped as preparations for the feast began in earnest. We cooked the turkey; the dinner was held at the Furguesons. The trimmings were prepared in both houses.
Around noon, there was a knock on the door. In came a middle-aged pair who were “on assignment,” journalists for a Long Island daily paper. They had spotted smoke coming from our chimney and asked if they could write about our Thanksgiving festivities. I greeted them and asked if they would like a drink as we talked in front of the fire. Several drinks later, it was time to gather at the Furguesons. We invited the reporter and photographer to join us.
No surprise to anyone who knows me, I was game to tell my story. We moved to the bay house. Cousin Mike offered drinks on our arrival. The reporters were taking notes. Visions of a feature article with photos above-the-fold and accolades from readers all over the island danced in my head. Out came the football. Teams were divided. The game was on. We gave our best “perfect family playing touch football” Kennedy-esque poses – Hyannis Port had nothing on us. All the while Dorothy and Sherley were putting the finishing touches on dinner and Mike Senior was the perfect host, talking with the reporter and photographer between the football and Scotch. The players would be immortalized. The celebration would become legend. I would frame the newspaper spread and hang it on the wall – I knew just the spot.
After a wonderful meal, the journalist duo departed and headed east to Ocean Beach, and then back home to the mainland. They left thankful for the story, the Turkey and trimmings and took one final Rusty Nail for the trip home.
The remainder of the weekend was great family time. We left early Sunday. The next generation said their goodbyes and were back off to school. What memories! The anticipation of reading about our exploits as we got back to civilization was icing on the cake.
After securing the CUTTY SARK and unpacking the car, I went in search of the paper. Several stops later, I was in luck, one copy left of Saturday’s edition. I started to search for the article. There it was, the article by the two reporters by name. But there was no picture, no story about Thanksgiving in Lonelyville, and not one mention of the Furguesons, the Riders or the five second cousins!
My red hair took over. By the time I got to our house, I was boiling. What about our hospitality and that of my cousin, to say nothing of the bottle of good Scotch they drained and the turkey dinner fit for a king? I burst through the door, grabbed the phone and started calling, bouncing from one recorded instruction to the next. Not one human to yell at! This made me madder. I finally settled on leaving a blistering message with my return number.
Monday and back to work in New York! Dorothy called me at noon. “Dear, the lead reporter just called with apologies and an explanation. He asked you to read the story their editor had gone with instead. He said when you read it, you’ll understand why you got cut.”
Here’s the tale that won the big spread about the wonders of spending Thanksgiving on Fire Island – kicking the Rider-Furgueson family extravaganza off the front page…
(Paraphrased in my words from my meandering and prone-to-Irish-exaggeration 86-year-old memory…)
Drained by the hectic pace of living and working in New York City, a professional psychic and her friend decided on a quiet Fire Island Thanksgiving celebration. The day was chilly, breezy and clear. In spite of the cold, they decided to leave their bags in the heated downstairs compartment of the ferry for the exhilarating fresh air of the open top deck.
As the ferry neared Ocean Beach they returned to their seats on the lower deck only to find a happy yellow lab munching on what was left of their turkey. The psychic hit high “C,” awakening the dog’s owner – a laid-back Fire Island local – who had dozed off reading his book. She called him, the dog, and the ferry company enough four-letter expletives to evoke memories of a Fort Sill drill instructor, hammering on about how hard she worked every day as a psychic, how this was her first vacation in ages and how – sans turkey – her holiday was ruined.
The dog’s owner, now wide awake, let her fire off the salvos, and then calmly looked at her, and said, “Lady, I gotta ask you something. If you’re such a great psychic, then why didn’t you know my dog was going to eat your turkey?”
Needless to say she was still screaming when they got off the ferry!!
I continue to this day my disappointment about not having my Camelot-style family photo-op shared with the world, but I do think the editor may have had a point!
Hope you had a Happy Thanksgiving one and all! Here are some other of my Thanksgiving tales of past to savor while you plunder your leftovers. Til next time!! George
https://redriderfi.wordpress.com/2010/11/21/thanksgiving-day-turkey-shoot-%E2%80%93-1944/
https://redriderfi.wordpress.com/2017/11/21/thanksgiving-family-holiday-scandal-2011-coming-of-age/
Red Rider's Ramblings: Rants, reminiscences and repartee from a 91+ year-old rookie writer 