Thanksgiving brings back one particular memory for me; a recurring memory, an annual tradition in my family that has been celebrated since I was a little snowbird. In my childhood, Thanksgiving Eve was a time of preparation, not only for the feast to come, but also for the inevitable transformation of my father. Days before Dad starts getting punchy. It’s like he can hardly wait.
As dawn approaches on Thanksgiving morning, the house is still. My sisters and I are tucked away in our beds, dreaming of sugar plums…er, parades and pies. Dad, an early riser, begins stirring downstairs with great stealth. In my slumber I barely hear him mumble in the distance.
“Gobble gobble.”
Still in a dream state, I roll over and drift back to sleep. It’s much too early to open my eyes. It is so warm and dark and comfy in my footie pajamas, rolled up in my rainbow sleeping bag with my bear and my rabbit.
“Gobble gobble.”
Oh no. Not yet. I’m so tired!
“Gobble gobble.”
The high pitched call is getting louder. He’s closer. Closer still. Coming up the stairs. In my grogginess I try hard not to giggle.
“Gobble gobble.”
Oh, no he’s here. Though my eyes are closed I can picture him standing over my bed. I pretend I’m still asleep and hold my breath. I know my fate; I am the oldest child, so I am First.
“Gobble gobble.”
Silence.
“TURKEY GRAM!!!
Turkey gram for: KATIEEEEE!!!”
Dad tickles me as he exclaims his anthem in the loudest, highest pitched voice he can muster. For a few short moments I giggle hysterically and try to protect myself from tickle torture. Then, as suddenly as he pounced, Dad withdraws and is off to his next victim in the bed beside mine.
“Gobble gobble.”
The cycle continues until he has startled every child in the house. And although we all protest his antics, we look forward to it every year.
Dad still follows his routine, although my Turkey Gram doesn’t get delivered until I arrive for dinner at my parent’s house.
But I do not let my husband get out of bed without a Turkey Gram.
Happy Thanksgiving!
