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Jocko's Thanksgiving Mailing
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Smirkov Grinn
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Nov 28, 2003 07:19 PST
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The Brothers Grinn present our
November 27, 2003, mailing!
Our special "Keep Topica from killing the list" mailing!
Thanksgiving dinner and other forms of ritual madness.
By Jocko Grinn
With the holiday season nearly upon us and my daughters' fourth and
first birthdays now in the recent past, I find myself wondering about
the holiday traditions my wife and I will be able to create for them.
Family traditions, after all, are what make some holidays stand out, and
others, well, not stand out. They’re why we will make a big deal out of
Christmas next month but will notice Presidents Day only if we don’t
have anyone in the White House when it rolls around, which given the
current state of affairs doesn't always seem like a bad idea.
I find myself wondering what sort of traditions my older daughter is
starting to associate with the holidays. Will she grow up with memories
of a Christmas tree left up until July? Or will she remember tearing the
Christmas wrapping paper from her presents in a disgraceful display of
self-indulgence before breakfast, only to realize too late that she’s
unwrapped her little sister's presents and hers are still under the
tree?
Christmas is still a little while off, but with Thanksgiving now here, I
find myself thinking more and more about how my family celebrated
Thanksgiving when I was a child.
Thanksgiving always began around 10 a.m. with a bowl of Cheerios and a
televised broadcast of the Thanksgiving Day Parade in New York City.
(Christmas usually began at 3 a.m.)
After about 23 seconds of nonstop excitement listening to someone talk
about the Spider-man float and get her facts wrong, I would tear myself
away from the television and join Smirkov in looking for something to do
until dinner at 6 p.m.
Einstein once theorized that time slows the faster you go. If that’s the
case, Smirkov and I must have been traveling at something dangerously
close to light speed the entire day. The eight hours between breakfast
and utter gluttony were the slowest we ever knew.
Part of the problem was the lack of anything structured to do. The TV
schedule consisted mainly of annual holiday specials like "It's a
Wonderful Life," and it didn’t take a genius to realize that if George
Bailey’s friends had bailed him out for the past six years, they
probably would rescue the old deadbeat this year too.
Our chief escape from monotony was to take our dog, a half-Rottweiler
spaniel, half-Chihuahua, half-German shepherd, half-Russian wolfhound
mix named Sargon, out for a walk. (Sargon looked as if someone had
melted all the dogs in the world together and poured them into one
mould. A very large mould.) At first, Sargon shared in our excitement,
just as relieved as we were to get out of the house and do something,
and he would jump for joy as we reached for his leash, leaving us to
run, terrified and screaming, as he chased after us.
But as the day wore on, Sargon’s enthusiasm would ebb, and by the 4 p.m.
"Intergalactic Thanksgiving" cartoon, the poor dog had had enough. One
of us would reach for his leash, and Sargon would jump and bare his
teeth, and we would run for cover under the living room sofa, trying to
get as far away from those teeth as we could.
The ennui was even worse when we visited a relative for Thanksgiving,
especially if we had to wear the unbearably stiff dress clothes usually
reserved for making us uncomfortable during church Sunday morning.
(We mostly endured those visits, but we actually enjoyed ourselves one
year when Smirkov missed the warning that the punch bowl had been
spiked.)
I think Sargon secretly was relieved to have the house to himself for
the day those years, and when we came back home, the hunted expression
usually was gone from his eyes, although it was replaced by a more
dangerous, "You forgot to feed me before you left" expression.
Eventually, whether at a relative’s house or our own, the waiting would
end. Amid building excitement, the turkey would emerge from the oven,
cooked to a golden-brown perfection and filled with steaming-hot
stuffing the Society of Worry-Warts Who Want to Ruin Your Day now tells
us it should have given us all salmonella poisoning.
And then, right on cue, our father would get off the sofa in the family
room, walk through the kitchen to pick up the bird, and carry it to the
dining room table with the ceremony of someone who has slaved over a hot
stove all day to make a perfect meal. Our mother, unnoticed, slumped
into her chair, exhausted.
The seating arrangements also were fixed. My father sat at the head of
the table, where he would put the food on plates and serve it to us. I
sat at my father’s right hand, within easy swatting distance. At our
father’s left, also within swatting distance, sat Smirkov, sandwiched
between our two parents since that was the only way they had found to
control him.
We always ate Thanksgiving dinner by candlelight, a tradition that made
the holiday all the more magical, particularly since no one could tell
when we slipped pieces of yams under the table to Sargon, who had come
into the room once he was sure this wasn’t another ruse to get him to go
on a walk. That magic usually ended once the lights came back up and we
realized that he didn't like yams any more than we did.
In truth, I’m not sure why we ate by candlelight. Part of it could be
that every time someone stood up at the table, they would bump the
chandelier with their heads and as a result we never had more than half
the lights in it working at any given time.
I suspect the chief reason is that in the dark, my parents could pretend
they didn’t see us hit each other and could even get in a swat or two of
their own and feign innocence.
But it was during dinner that the biggest tradition came. This was a
tradition so important that we observed it every holiday without fail.
Someone, some time, had to spill a glass of milk.
Ma and Pa usually were exempt from spilling anything since they aren’t
big milk drinkers, even at Thanksgiving, and I did my best to avoid
making a mess. Since that leaves Smirkov, I’ll let you figure out for
yourself who usually did the honors, and we’ll leave it that.
And then, as fast as it had begun, it was over. The lights came up,
revealing lots of fresh bruises and we would make our annual unpleasant
discovery about Sargon and yams. Soon the table was cleared, the milk
was cleaned up, and it was time for dessert.
And so it would go year after year. And so here I am, wondering what
traditions I will be able to create for our family so they can treasure
these special days as they grow older.
And more than that, I’m wondering how we’ll survive the process.
TO COMPLAIN THAT MAILINGS ARE TOO INFREQUENT, write to
Smir-@BrothersGrinn.com.
TO GIVE US A WEDGIE, appoint a nearby friend or relative as a "Surrogate
Jocko" or "Smirkov Stand-in" and yank away.
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II. LEGAL STUFF
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Brothers Grinn, BrothersGrinn.com, Cousin Otto, Grinn News Service,
Jocko Grinn, Markle City, The Markle City WOW, Smirkov Grinn, and other
distinctive characters and institutions created by the Brothers Grinn,
and their images and likenesses are the intellectual property and
trademarks of Ravensmyth Corp. Unauthorized use strictly prohibited,
used here by permission. We're thankful Ken Collins and everyone else
still loves us, despite our erratic mailing schedule. (Did we say
erratic? We mean "inadequate.")
Editorial note: Jocko's feelings of inadequacy are not necessarily
shared by the rest of the editorial establishment -- The Adequate
Brother. :)
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available at permis-@BrothersGrinn.com.
4. Smirkov's Hazardous Experiment of the Day: Deep-frying FROZEN
turkeys. (Warning: Don't try this at home; try it at a friend's house
instead.)
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