Renderosity Nick: garblesnix Greetings from the 1st ANNUAL WEST FAMILY HOLIDAY NEWSLETTER. We pray you are as blessed as we at this most special time of year. Holidays are a time of Gathering. Whether it be family, friends, or just thoughts, it is a time of being together. My family, like many families these days, is scattered around the country, each trying to find their place, each succeeding a little and failing a little, but each never giving up their dream. My sister Michelle pursues a radio career in Billings, Montana. My other sister and younger brother, Maureen and Shawn, each strive to one day own their own restaurant, one in Cannon Falls, Minnesota, the other in Birmingham, Alabama. I live in Los Angeles, California, tracking the elusive “acting job” while working the necessary “day job”. Our parents, retired now, live in Omaha, Nebraska, Dad Jim a former computer programmer, Mother LaVonne an accountant. Our tradition of gathering began when we four children had reached the ages of 15, 16, 17, and 18 (having been born, or bartered for, in rapid, Baby Boomer-style succession). Our parents asked us to promise that, barring emergencies, we would always gather together for at least one major holiday a year. It didn’t matter which: Easter, Fourth of July, Thanksgiving, Christmas, so long as the family was together. Through the sour, bronze haze customarily surrounding our family meetings, we all agreed. This year we have decided once again upon Thanksgiving. It is my personal favorite because the holiday is based on eating and being thankful for whatever good things we think we remember happening. One needn’t fret over presents, wearing clothes for dinner, or attending church services where the frowns of the righteous tend to mar the atmosphere of our familial jamboree. The meal is always a grand affair. Little has changed over the years. The first course prepared will be an appetizer, beige or white in color, and obliged by family oath to contain salt and be deep-fried. This will be followed by the preparation of the salad course involving of a wedge of iceberg lettuce slathered with Thousand Island dressing. (Amusing anecdote: my brother Shawn, in an effort to appear “grown up”, once brought a lemon-pepper-dill dressing he had made in culinary school. It still stains the wall where father threw it, exclaiming “What are you, some kind of sissy-half-woman? Is this your way of telling us you’re gay?” We all laughed, because Shawn, being the youngest, and, in accordance with Natural Law, is the object of much teasing). Our turkey will be prepared in traditional fashion: hunted down, cornered, mocked for its inherent weakness, slow-killed by mother with a bladed instrument, the feathers torn from it while it is still warm and slightly twitching. It will be thrust gingerly upon a sharpened stick (the point never to extend beyond the skull lest we appear brutish), then paraded through town as a trophy honoring our family’s prowess in the hunt. The catcalls from the other townspeople are a time-honored tradition and serve to bolster our pride. Mother’s words always sustain us: “Cowboy up, or no one eats.” When we get home, mother will cast the carcass to Abigail and Loki, badgers from the nearby woods. Their growls of “thanks” warm us as we enter the house, racing to see who can get to the Yellow Pages first, the winner being allowed to choose the restaurant from where the turkey, and attendant side dishes, will be delivered. Our beige appetizers and salad wedges, made more for tradition than consumption, will be boxed up and sent anonymously to a shelter for those less willing to work for God’s bounty. Once our food arrives, and the delivery boy given his usual tip: “Don’t drive into any trees”, we will take our seats at the table. The glow of the candles, reflected in the aluminum pans holding the meal, will cast a warm, silvery light around the room. Upstairs, Grandma Adeline’s muffled pleadings to be let out of the attic will be an amusing counterpoint to our prayers of thanks. Father always delivers the blessing: “Lord, it’s been a good year. No diseases, no accidents, no black helicopters. Thank you, Lord, for this bounty. Amen” “Amen” we will say, knives and forks quivering at the ready. Then the feast is set in motion. Mother will go to the kitchen to get the main course: a large, green ceramic bowl of Makers Mark bourbon. Six straws jut out of it, each of a different color, giving the impression of a madcap clown. She will move the tray of turkey aside with her knee, placing the bowl in the very center of the table, careful not to let the ash from her Pall Mall Red fall into the amber potion. We will eat and talk and laugh and argue, at regular intervals taking large sips of bourbon through the straws, further fueling the passion of our discussions. The meal will end, as it always does, with father yelling “Next year in Jerusalem!” We will all laugh and gently remind him once again that we are Catholic and of German stock, and that such a statement might be poorly met outside our walls. When we awake some hours later, having fallen prey to the good Thanksgiving “nap”, we will be greeted by the amusing site of Grandma, fork in hand, engaged in her yearly wrestling match with the badgers over the table leavings. Her determination to be free and to eat will be an inspiration to us all.