Thanksgiving

This is a story I wrote a while back. I've barely even looked at it since then, so I'm sure it needs a lot of work.

Grandpa had always hated Thanksgiving. He thought it was just a silly time to stuff yourself full of food and then feel bad after it. Of course, we all knew that Thanksgiving was a time to give thanks, and of course Grandpa said that he gave thanks every day of his life, and didn’t need any holiday to celebrate it. This made my mother so mad that even on Thanksgiving Day I could she that she was still touchy about it.

My grandfather was a funny man. He said that he despised golf, but he always wore over sized golf shirts and long brown trousers. My father would joke that he only had one pair of shoes because he always wore these unpolished dress shoes that somehow fit for six years strait and never wore out. Grandpa had deep grey green eyes, a short little beard, and a bald spot that he covered up with a red and green plaid hat. Even though he could be unbearably cranky, and had an unusually loud voice for an 83 year old man, I liked him. He was interesting. He had an amazing collection of small metal objects, and every now and then he would show them to me. There were nails and pocket knives, intricate gold buttons, and little silver figurines of cowboys riding horses. He kept them in a smelly cigar box that he put on the top shelf of the book case in his apartment.

His apartment. It was something my mother hated and my grandfather loved. I didn’t know what to think of it. The living room consisted of a hard gold colored couch, a ratty blue arm chair, a T.V, and a book shelf. The bookshelf was may favorite piece of furniture in the entire apartment. Not because of the actual piece, but because of what was kept on it. It’s shelves were covered in an array of old books. They were in bad shape. They had torn covers, loose pages, and cracked spines. They were kept from falling over by book-ends shaped like the heads of horses. I never quite took full interest in the kinds of books that were there, but I’m guessing there were philosophy books, science fiction, non-fiction, classics: everything. There was a lot of other things too. An old radio, the umbrella he had used in college, a box of pictures and letters, even a collection of old cameras. Every time I went to visit him I would look at his book case and smile. The rest of his apartment was a mess. His bed was never made, the bathroom counter never clean, pots and pans filled the sink, and dust was everywhere. It drove my mother crazy.

It was a week before thanksgiving and Mother and I were at his house cleaning up. I was helping to wash the dishes and clean the refrigerator shelves: a job I sorely hated. My mother left her job scrubbing windows and sat next to Grandpa on the couch. I could hear every word they said.

“Dad,” my mother said uncertainly, her voice slightly strained, “Are you sure you don’t want to come to spend Thanksgiving with us on Thursday?”

“Yes.” he said defiantly, it was a tone I had heard every Thanksgiving, “I don’t even celebrate Thanksgiving, Charlotte.”

“But Dad!” my mother pleaded.

“I already said no. I give thanks every day of my life, and I don’t need any holiday feast to celebrate it!” His voice was hard, and rising fast, “We go over this every year! Why don’t you just give up and let me be!”

It seemed that every other year my mother had kept her cool. She had stayed calm and tried to except her father for what he was. But this year, she burst. She couldn’t take it.

“Dad!” she yelled, “I want you to be part of the family! I want you to join us for once! Just once! Every year you refuse, saying that you give thanks every day of your life and bla, bla, bla! Well I won’t take it anymore! You deserve to be part of the celebration, and if you don’t come this year, I swear I will never speak to you again!” And with that, she stormed outside, making the coat rack wobble tediously as she pulled her coat from it and slammed the door. Putting my plate down I hurried into the living room. I glanced back at grandpa. He looked seriously uncomfortable and fidgety in his arm chair. “Do you need anything?” I asked. He shook his head. I hurried out the door.

My mother was standing by the curb looking out in the street, pacing. I could see her breath as she breathed heavily, trying to calm down. I could tell she was mad and I approached her slowly, trying to think of some way to comfort her. As I grew closer I could hear she was saying things under her breath.

“That cranky old man! Why, he doesn’t even know the meaning of family!”

“Mom?” I asked. She jumped.

“Oh. It’s you.” she said, “I think it’s best you go back inside, Emily, I’ll be in in a minute.”

“Mom..” I said hesitantly, “I’ll talk to him if you want me to.” Her blue eyes softened and a smile reached the corners of her mouth.

“That’s ok, Emily. I don’t think he’ll ever come to our thanksgiving dinner, so we might as well give up.”

“But I don’t want to give up.” I said.

“Oh honey.” she said, pulling back my hair. “It’s no use.”

“How do you know?” I said, getting frustrated, “I’m just trying to help.”

“Alright then.” she said sighing, “You may try, but don’t get him any more upset than he already is.” I nodded and hurried inside.

Grandpa still looked uncomfortable. “Grandpa?” I asked slowly.

“What, Emily.” he said softly. He talked in a soft low voice that meant he was upset, but too tired to talk about it. I took a chair from his dining table and pulled it close to him. “Grandpa, Mom really wants you to come to Thanksgiving dinner.” He frowned.

“Emily, don’t you think I know that?” he looked at me. In his eyes I saw a kind of defiance mixed with softness and understanding, but also with pain. His gaze made turn away, feeling ashamed. “Yes.” I said, “But why can’t you come?” I could see that he was getting frustrated.

“Emily! Haven’t I told you both enough! I don’t like Thanksgiving, it’s a silly holiday, where you stuff yourself and-”

“Grandpa, I know.” I said cutting him off, “But your family needs you. I need you, my mom needs you.” He looked down. I took his thin wrinkled hand in mine and squeezed it gently. “Please, do this for her.” I let go of his hand and left, going back to the kitchen where I had been washing dishes. Five minutes later my mom came back in and helped with the dishes.

“What did he say?” she whispered.

“I don’t know, but I think he’s coming.” She turned to my and looked into my eyes, her brown eyes sparkling. “Emily,” she said softly, holding my shoulders. “Thank you.” With that she pulled me in close. I knew I had done something that made a difference to her. And to my family.

On Thanksgiving my mother was a nervous wreck. She wanted this to be the perfect day for her father to actually come for Thanksgiving. I helped as much as I could, hoping that Grandpa would come. Hoping that I had broken through his hard shell. First my father’s mother came, then my uncle and my seven cousins. As it grew nearer and nearer to the time when our family feast would begin, my mother worried more and more. I waited at the window, looking out at the cold deserted street, but saw nothing. Finally my mother called everyone to the table . I could see that she was close to tears. Grandpa had still not shown up. Dad said grace and we went around the table and said what we were all thankful for. After that there was silence. The room felt empty, but not lifeless. The air around us was static, poised like a wild cat, waiting for something to happen. No sound came, not even a whisper. The door did not open, but each and every one of us was willing it to. If not our eyes, our minds were fixated on the handle, every nerve about to crack. Then the silence was broken. Not by the front door, but by the soft sobs of my mother. Dad put a hand on her shoulder and the room slowly awakened from it’s silence. My cousin got up to serve the turkey and people began to talk. I was still looking at the door, holding on to every last inch of hope I had. But it was slipping away, and fast. My mother saw me. She knelt next to the chair. “Oh Emily,” she said, tears shinning in her eyes, “We tried. Dad’s just set in his ways that’s all. We just have to except him that way, I guess. But don’t take it too hard. It will be okay.” I didn’t want to, but I began to cry. Why hadn’t I been able to make him come? Why didn’t he want to come? The only problem is, I was wrong. He wanted to come, and he did.

The door was flung open wide and there was grandpa, the same as ever, in his best suit and a long red scarf, leaning on his cane, and grinning the biggest grin I had ever seen an 83 three year old man wear across his face. The whole family rushed to hug him, nearly knocking him over. Our tears turned to tears of joy and we all sat down to the most delicious Thanksgiving dinner we had ever eaten.

From then on Grandpa came to all of our family get-togethers, but none were as joyful as that Thanksgiving day when he walked in the front door with that grin on his face. That was Grandpa, and nothing less.