Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday.  A time to eat turkey and stuffing, no purchases necessary.  As for so many in others, it's been a tough year financially and otherwise, so my husband L and I have decided we are not exchanging gifts with anyone this year. 

Still, there is no avoiding the barrage of TV commercials in full effect demanding that we BUY, BUY, BUY!  And the Salvation Army Santas are soon to appear on New York City streets, shaking their hand-held bells so loudly you want to rip them out of their hands and clock them on the head; one exception was last year's Grand Central Station Santa who shook his bell with such elation and danced his ass off to updated versions of “Jingle Bell Rock” and other hip holiday tunes.  I always gave him a dollar for the sheer joy he brought me and for knowing he did love his job.  Then come the firm holiday parties where most everyone is on guard not to get soused and say or do anything that might be fodder for gossip the following morning.  At my firm, dancing was banned from holiday parties years ago after a male staff member began a striptease--not in compliance with the Company Way. Unfortunately, that pre-dates my tenure with the firm. 

Anyway, on to the real story.  Thanksgiving on Long Island, 2009.  My mother still had her wits about her, relatively speaking, and was made up, hair done and dressed in an attractive sweater, corduroy skirt and boots.  She looked beautiful.  This would be the first time that she and any of L's family members would meet.  She stayed in the psych ward for our wedding in 2008 even though she was permitted furlough for the event.  It was her decision not to come, saying to me, she “might make a scene.” 

L lovingly refers to his dad’s side of the family as “God’s frozen people.”  L’s late grandfather was Sven Arthur Andersen, a Norwegian immigrant, prominent thoracic surgeon, and not the warmest of men.  He legally changed his name to “S. Arthur Anderson” to blend in.  He gardened in his suit pants, vest, shirt and tie and an apron, and wore the three piece suit at all other times.  He died from Alzheimer's Disease years ago.

Meet our cast of characters (initials and pseudonyms) for Thanksgiving:

Grandma A, L's paternal grandmother, 80-something, the backbone of the family who raised 5 kids and was married to Sven, 20 years her senior; she was the Director of Nursing and VP at Jamaica Hospital for many years; in later life became a school bus driver until she retired in her late 70s.
Dennis, L's dad, the second youngest child, brilliant, musician, twice married, in and out of rehab, does music gigs such as weddings part-time, on financial disability, heavily medicated.
Beatriz, Dennis's girlfriend, whom he met in rehab, very sweet Central American woman who takes very good care of Dennis, also on a fistful of psychotropic meds.
Wes, the eldest son of Grandma A, who lives with her and his 12-year old daughter Samantha.  Wes is a former navy man, now a construction worker, great sense of humor, easygoing, fun to be with.
Trish, Wes’s girlfriend, don't know much about her except that she loves life, is fun to be with and takes things in stride.
Lena, the youngest sibling, psychologist who lives in Maryland with her husband Bill.  She is a really good cook, soft-spoken, gentle and kind.  Bill is really nice and makes great pies.
Mom, very talented, accomplished actress and singer, raised two kids, divorced, has not worked since 1975, mentally ill most of her adult life, only income is SSI and help from me, on heavy psychotropic meds.
Me and L, we are bonkers too. 
Missing from the brood were Gwen and Lillian.  Gwen was at home with her family in DC; Lillian lives in Australia and cannot visit every holiday.  Neither gets along with Dennis. 

Cheese and crackers and beverages were served in the living room.  At my prompting, Mom indulged in half a glass of Chardonnay.  She never drinks at home, only when I take her out to dinner or she visits with others.  Everyone was getting along, and mom and Dennis seemed to really hit it off. 

At dinner, mom was fortuitously positioned next to me.  When the food arrived, her eyes popped out of her head.  I knew she was unaccustomed to being at a table with so many people at once, and worried about a possible outburst, so I fueled myself with as much Chardonnay and other alcoholic beverages I could lay my hands on.  Meals with the Anderson Clan are served family style.  The dishes were passed and people helped serve one another.  Grace was said.  Mom started eating before everyone had a chance to fill their plates--oh well.  She ate like she hadn't seen food in weeks. 

“This is delicious,” she said and continued to gobble unabashedly. 

“I'm glad you like it,” said Lena, who, along with Bill, had done most of the cooking. 

In between bites, I heard the tell-tale “jesu, jesu”.  It had begun.  A note on the “jesu’s”:  they are a sibilant, hissing mantra Mom mutters under her breath most of the time, which increase in volume and speed when she feels stressed. Mom's “jesu's” continued for the duration of the meal even while she was chewing and swallowing, except when I engaged her in conversation.  I prayed that no one heard the “jesu-ing” except for me, but I'm sure they did.  I felt like I was in elementary school again, embarrassed about my mother acting weird in front of the other kids and teachers.  All I could do was smile. 

As delicious as dinner was, I was grateful when it came to a close, and it was time for Dennis's usual pre-dessert musical interlude.  Folks gathered in the living room while Dennis played Christmas carols on piano.  An Anderson tradition.  Both he and Grandma A belong to the church choir.  After a few piano tunes, Dennis pulled out his guitar and started playing. 

I piped in, “Mom is an excellent singer, a professional.  She knows a lot of standards.” 

“Do you know this one,” Dennis said, and started playing “The Girl from Ipanema.” 

“Yes,” she said, and started singing along with him. 

After “Ipanema,” Dennis said, “What other tunes do you know?”

“What about ‘One for My Baby,' mom?  I did that one in my cabaret show,” I said. 

Mom started singing “One for My Baby” at the top of her lungs and I sang along, but not as loudly.  Beatriz, Trish and Bill sat and smiled, while Lena and Grandma cleaned up in the kitchen.  Wes and Samantha futzed around in the general vicinity.  L stood behind my chair, hand on my shoulder.   

Dennis started playing “Joy to the World,” and Mom sat and listened for a few minutes, until she started talking about the revival of Finian's Rainbow on Broadway and what a wonderful show it was, while Dennis was still playing. I continued chugging Chardonnay with a vengeance and felt L's grip tighten on my shoulder. 

“How about this one?” she said, and started in with, “Then You May Take Me to the Fair” from Camelot.  She sang it in full voice as if she were on the Broadway stage, sans mic (they didn’t use mics in her day) and Dennis continued “Joy to the World.”

It went something like this: 

Dennis sang and played, “Joy to the world, the Lord has come.” 

Simultaneously, Mom sang, “Do you recall the other night that I distinctly said you might serve as my escort at the next town fair?” 

Dennis played and sang louder, “Let earth receive her King; let every heart prepare Him room.” 

Mom sang louder than him, simultaneously, “You'll bash and thrash him?  You'll give him trouble?”

 And on and on it went.

Dennis’s countenance could not belie grave discomfort with the situation at hand.  It was the Battle of the Egos, Dueling Crazies!  My heart stopped and the room went black.  I imagined myself in the film Deliverance.

All I could think of saying was, “Paddle faster, Dennis!”  But I didn’t. 

Samantha and I made eye contact and rolled eyes in unison, but the others, as Frozen People do, remained unfazed. 

As Mom reached the climax of “Take Me to the Fair,” Dennis rose, guitar in hand, and vacated the room.  Score one for Mom!  I think Dennis went out back for a smoke with L. 

When Mom’s performance had concluded, she was greeted with applause and beamed from ear to ear.  What a wonderful family!  They endured the weirdness with grace and patience:  she was officially part of the family. 

Mom intermittently hummed and sang during dessert and coffee.  At least she wasn't “jesu-ing”! 

Bill made several pies, including cherry and blueberry.  I asked for a half a slice of each. 

Mom turned to me and said, “You really don't care about your figure, do you?”   

Score two for Mom!  She blindsided me with that one, but at least she didn't insult anyone in L's family.  Maybe I should heed her advice and return to my anorexic ways.  Last I checked, I wasn't tipping the scales at 200 pounds, but hey!  I could tell by the Cheshire Cat grin that she found her comment amusing, and continued humming another song and talking about Finian's Rainbow. 

The next day, Mom called me to tell me she hadn't had that much fun in a long time and hoped that no one thought she sang too much.  She also mentioned how much she liked Grandma A and L's dad. 

L’s dad said to him, “Are we going to have to do that every holiday?” 

In spite of it all, the Frozen People and Mom from Milwaukee got to break bread, quite possibly their first and last Thanksgiving together.  Mom won’t be upstaging Dennis again since she no longer sings and is afraid to venture out of the nursing home for Thanksgiving this year.  I wonder if she even remembers that day.  I’ll have to ask.