November 23rd, 1995

The excitement in the stands is palpable.  Not ecstatic, not worried, just focused on the current moment.  The crowd numbers almost ten thousand, 98% of which are rooting for the home team, or so it seems audibly.  

Bo, the junior quarterback who has earned one syllable name status from fans based on his on-field play this fall, is the focus of most cheering.  With the Tarblooders, Glenville High School’s finest athletes, sitting just 3 yards away from scoring the go-ahead touchdown, the game is essentially over.

Granted, many fans, especially the older and wiser adult patrons who have seen this act before, silently acknowledge that with 4 seconds left, down by 5 points, there are only 2 possible outcomes on this play. 

Potentially the 2 most interested fans in the crowd, Bo’s parents, stand in their usual location: middle section of the metal bleachers, third row from the top.  The surprisingly calm demeanor they exude is betrayed only by their adjacent, entwined hands, veins protruding and tense.  Standing between them, completely oblivious to the death-lock of knuckles above, is their younger son.  At just 5 years old, he’s fully fixated on the action below, already dreaming of following in his brother’s footsteps on the field.  

The ball is snapped and pandemonium breaks loose: 22 testosterone fueled high school males rushing towards each other one last time today, 16 teenage girls sporting short skirts and absurdly bright red pompoms shrieking in high pitched voices, a bulk of the local villagers united in angst against their adjacent township, where the better grocery store happens to be, and at least 3 young couples making out under the bleachers, oblivious to the magnitude the next half minute of activity will have on the community at large.

This Ohio high school state championship grudge match features elite football programs from neighboring Cleveland suburbs, and the rivalry never disappoints.  That probably explains why scouts from half a dozen D1 universities in the Midwest are at this game, even though this contest is occurring on Thanksgiving Thursday night, instead of the typical high school Friday time slot.

The play is anticlimactic; no high school coach in the country is calling a pass in this pivotal moment and when your quarterback, 210 lbs at only 17 years old, is taller and heavier than half the opposing lineman.  The running back is simply a decoy. 

Run fake outside left tackle, bodies collide at the point of attack, including all three of the opposing team’s linebackers.  Deftly spinning and tucking the ball into the crook of his left arm, Bo turns nimbly and heads towards the far corner of the end zone, and the friendly fans who occupy that side of the field.  Though large in stature, Bo has deceptive quickness, opting for volleyball and track, over the traditional basketball and baseball path, in the winter and spring high school sports seasons.

This sneaky speed pays off, easily around the right defensive end Bo has just one smaller, and slower, safety to beat to the pylon.  It’s no contest, quarterback and football crossing the line as the clock expires, for a 26-25 victory.  No extra point needed, which is fortunate, since the Tarblooders are averaging just 25% on PAT’s this season.

November 28th, 1996

The weather is quintessential late fall on the southern shores of Lake Erie.  Sunny and windy with temperatures in the low 50’s, the yard still moist from the prior day’s rain, covered with a solid layer of colorful leaves: orange maples, red oaks, and yellow ashes, intermingled in a slippery, dynamic collage.

Centered in this picturesque scene are two young children, both in their second year of schooling, and thoroughly enjoying the time off to get back to the simple pleasures of nature.  A grassy green ring has been generated in the center of the yard, within which sits a 3-foot tall pile of leaves that the naive playmates take turns diving onto. 

Just as one of these romps culminates, a stern call comes from the doorway of the house.

“Willie!” “Beth!” “Come inside and get cleaned up.”

Unlike the common scolding from parental figures which often takes several repetitions for the children of acknowledge, this command is quickly recognized and followed.  Even for young, easily distracted minds, sense of timing and context is acute, maybe even more so than in some adults.  This is Thanksgiving morning, and any summons will inevitable involve tasty snacks.

Rushing to the door, the children shed their muddy coats on the ground and sit down on their bums in the obligatory, “we need help getting these rain boots off” pose.  Aid comes quickly in the form of Willie’s pudgy, but energetic, aunt. 

Beth has no idea who this lady is, as she just lives next door, but welcomes the help.  Willie is happy for the attention as well, having been an “oops” baby, with sister and brother 8 and 12 years older respectively.  He sometimes feels neglected, living in the shadow of his older siblings.

Wandering into the kitchen, the children’s noses are greeted with pungent aromas of cinnamon and sugar.  Plopping down on a low bench, Willie’s mom moves in with a massive cinnamon roll, fortunately cut in half, on a white plastic plate with accompanying flexible forks, one blue and one pink.

5 minutes later, the tasty breakfast snack is gone, and the young children are curled up together on the floor by the woodstove under a blanket provide by the accommodating aunt.  Holidays are simple when you’re 6 years old. 

November 27th, 1997

Rows of crops stretch out ahead, or they would, if half of them weren’t dead or already harvested.  Life on a commune is tough, even in the holiday season.

Trixy, in her best lily print dress, her only dress actually, hunts on her bare knees for the few remaining sweet potatoes in the field.  The colors of her garment have changed from the original pink-on-white pattern to a dull, dirt-stained grey; like a picture in black and white.      

Digging her grimy hands deep in the soft earth, Trixy finds the desired treasure and pulls a large, brown-orange oval free.  This exertion takes considerable effort for her frail frame, at 15 years old she still hasn’t crossed the 100-pound mark. 

The sweet potato successful deposited on a sling sack over her shoulder, she contemplates wiping the muddy right paw on her skirt helm, before deciding her dreadlock-entangled hair offers a better cleaning medium.

Trixy has lived on this commune at the western end of Lake Ontario outside Hamilton, Canada for over a year now.  She run away from home in the summer of 1995, as the fears of starting another year of education at the intimidating new middle school with no friends loomed.  She departed with only a backpack, a cell phone, and the passport which her parents had conveniently acquired in preparation for a pending family trip to Europe. 

Adjusting to commune living was hard, but in time she’s found a sense of comradery never present in her formal schooling years.  It’s thrilling to learning real life skills here like work ethic, culture, and, of course, interacting with boys; she is way more sexually open and free than she would be living back home on the other side of the U.S. border.

This is going to be her third Thanksgiving on the cooperative, and one of the few times each year she legitimately misses her family.  Trixy contacted her parents after getting settled in Canada, and talks to them on the phone about once a month, with the strict understanding that she will not reveal her location to them and they won’t try to find her, otherwise she will cease all communication.

Walking back across the field of clotted dirt, her black Converse high tops begin caking with mud.  A few hundred meters in front of her, the main communal building looms, a hulking pole barn with weathered board and batten siding, covered by a rusty tin roof which leaks habitually. 

Entering by the side door, she deposits her bounty next to the rest of the meal’s ingredients: a meager collection of wilted greens, a bunch of carrots almost indistinguishable due to the amount of dirt on them, and a few misshapen beets.  They rarely have meat at meals, which is fine with Trixy, since she’s a vegetarian now.

This commune is her life, and Trixy will make the best of it, Thanksgiving or otherwise.

November 28th, 2013

A siren buzzes twice, followed by the mechanical clanging of locks being opened.  At Southern Ohio Correctional, this is a welcome solace from the usual alarm, which typically goes off uninterrupted for minutes, rather than seconds.

Inmates take the obligatory two steps through and out of their cell doors, then stand silently in the cold concrete hallway, awaiting the next command.  Eventually, everyone is filed relatively calmly into the mess hall.

As a holiday courtesy, mail has been delivered prior to the evening meal, as evidenced by the various envelope flaps, and tattered spiral notepaper edges, protruding from several convict’s dark grey jumpsuit pockets.

This is by no means a maximum-security facility, in fact far from it; intermingling petty, white-collar criminals, with dumber, or more inept, jackasses from the violent ranks.  Each prisoner gets a standard 4-digit ID #, but most inmates have adopted catchy, one syllable, aliases in the hopes of returning to real life in a year or two without damaging their original namesake, either as a courtesy to their estranged significant others, or in hopes of enabling future employment.

Shuffling through the line with his fellow degenerates is Prisoner #1128, a scrawny lad of only 23 years.  Having clearly missed a few meals in the past, potentially in favor of a meth induced-stupor, a hearty Thanksgiving feast, even prison style, could do him good. 

However, as he nears the food line, cat calls come up from fellow convicts already seated at the long, hard aluminum benches which flank equally austere metal tables.  Having only been in prison for 2 months now, acceptance from other inmates is still a work in progress.   

Ignoring them, Prisoner #1128 grabs a plate and shuffles down the buffet line receiving the “specially prepared” holiday meal: a scoop of mash potatoes covered with thick, unwhisked gravy, a burnt-to-a-crunch turkey leg, this is the only piece of meat left, broccoli boiled almost to the point where it has turned to mush, and cranberry sauce, straight out of the can, with the telltale rings semicircular rings still visible.

As Prisoner #1128 reaches for a crushed slice of what could potentially be pumpkin pie to complete his feast, the script “WW” tattoo on his wrist becomes visible sticking out of the long sleeve, prison issued jumper.

Sitting by himself and eating slowly, Prisoner #1128, contemplates his bleak life prospects.  Only 4 more years, and 4 more miserable Thanksgivings, before his statutory rape sentence is up for parole.  His teenage years were tough, living a reclusive and turbulent life.  This recent conviction is just another tally on a long list of bad decisions.  Maybe with good behavior he can have his sentence reduced, and be out in two and a half.

November 27th, 2014

The table is covered with a venerable cornucopia of appetizers, an appropriate description considering the holiday.  Fancy cheeses, sliced meats, salty olives, and devilled eggs all are present.

Chef Droite surveys the scene, nodding approvingly to one of her servers who is adding a bowl of toasted walnuts with cinnamon and cardamom spice rub to the already overburdened table.  She touches the clasp on the necklace under her white chef’s coat.  It’s a cheap medallion in the shape of the iconic Phish band logo, an item purchased as a rebellious teen which she always wears now as a reminder of how far she’s come in life.

This is Mrs. Droite’s first attempt at a Thanksgiving offering in her restaurants, a first go at any holiday in fact.  Sure, she would rather be at home with family, but she and her husband, married just over 2 years now, have not yet brought a child into the world, and it seems like everyone in her family is so spread out now it makes getting together difficult. 

The Thanksgiving feast at this restaurant, Savore, was not her idea.  It’s materialized as a result of doing a good friend a favor, with the added benefit of a significant financial reward.  As a budding restaurateur and chef running her own business, Patricia Droite is always thinking about capital resources.

The event itself is pretty low key relative to a typical Saturday night at Savore.  15 important Chicago businessmen and politicians, each with their significant other, or some lovely guest that has been secured from who knows where, or at what price, for the evening.  This is a great opportunity to make an impression on some of the key leaders in the local community, and she isn’t going to turn it down.

The menu for the evening, while seemingly extravagant, is in fact quite simple to prepare, like nearly all the offerings at Savore.  Chef Droite prefers to focus on traditional French, rustic Italian, and modern American cuisine, using time honored cooking techniques with fresh local ingredients. 

This basic approach comes from her upbringing, catching the spark for cooking late in high school at family meals, she forwent college in lieu of a 2-year culinary program.  From there, she worked her way up the ranks, short-order line cook at a diner, sous chef in the restaurant at a national hotel chain, before finally striking out on her own.

In 2008, she opened a small breakfast and lunch joint in a cozy space in the Prairie District, and business was steady right from the start.  Mrs. Droite focused on comfort food: massive omelets, hearty soups, and thick grilled sandwiches.  This strategy proved to be a perfect match for her clientele, a mix of commodities traders looking for a quick bite before heading back to the pit, and construction workers with big appetites and early work schedules.

6 years later, Savore is now her 4th endeavor, opened just over a year, and going great. However, the original spot, The Commune-ity, with its unpretentious clientele and simple fare, is still her favorite to manage and work at. 

Along the journey, she met Bill Droite, a commercial real estate agent, and now the two are happily married, or at least as happily as one can be when both parties are working 60-plus hour weeks on drastically different schedules.  Her new last name, with its French flair, is an added perk in the restaurant business. 

The couple does make efforts to do breakfast together out once a week, as this is their only shared free time.  They rotate through the plethora establishments within walking distance of their downtown Chicago loft.  Both consider this activity work research, Bill examining the building sale and lease signs posted along the stroll, while Patricia analyzes the meal itself at each new restaurant. 

Chef Droite, glances back around to see the guest are being seated for the meal.  She’d better head back to the kitchen to make sure everything is in order for this pending Thanksgiving feast.  The first course is an Italian wedding soup with pork meatballs and diced zucchini, a 100-year old recipe handed down from her great, great grandmother.

November 26th, 2015

"Another god damn Turkey Tom float!”, Robert mumbles under his breath as he peers through the camera lens.

Robert is not a small man, about 240 pounds and well over 6’2” tall, at least he would be if not confined to a wheel chair.  Right now, he and his wheel chair, along with $40k worth of HD filming equipment, are situated on a rooftop patio 25 stories up in the Ritz-Carlton Hotel overlooking the intersection of 59th St. and 6th Ave. in New York City. 

The weather is clear and sunny, but colder than desirable.  Anticipating several hours outside with minimal movement, Rob has on his thickest wool-lined jacket, and a pair of thin leather gloves that still allow him to operate the delicate filming controls.  

Back in the day, Robert had been a successful football player, but a back injury in his early 20’s ended his sports career.  Initially undiagnosed after the accident, Rob was able to stubbornly get around without a cane as a young man, but his C6 vertebra damage never healed properly, eventually relegating him to the current seat-confined status.

His love of football has always remained, a passion which indirectly led to his current job behind an NBC camera lenses.  When participating on the field hadn’t panned out, Robert shifted his focus to broadcasting, initially targeting a sports commentary position. However, the challenges of a wheel chair ridden play-by-play announcer in the booth, or even more challenged in a sideline reporter role, proved unsurmountable.  If he couldn’t be in front of the camera, may as well watch the game from behind it, and after a few years shooting various NBC talent shows, he’d graduated up to a sports film crew position.

However, even the best laid plans don’t always work out.  Which is why Robert now finds himself staring though the rectangular camera display screen at a 30-foot tall kneeling Elf-On-A-Shelf, rather than making final preparations on-site at Lambeau Field for the Packers-Bears Thanksgiving night football game being carried by his NBC employer in a few hours.

Robert pans across a group of children walking below this massive inflated Christmas decoration, energetic youngsters ranging from 8 to 10 years old, all dressed in bright red costumes trimmed with white.  Elf suits, of course. 

They seemed to be enjoying themselves, despite the seasonable, but still brisk, mid 40°F temperatures in downtown Manhattan.  The current cold weather is not as friendly to Robert, who removes one frigid gloved hand from deep inside his coat pocket, and uses it to massage the seemingly ever-present knot in his right hip.

Despite the spine injury, Robert has never completely lost feeling in his legs, though that scenario would be a blessing at this point.  While he can feel sensations like touch and temperature, Robert lacks the motor skills to control his lower extremities, hence 15 years after the accident the muscles have now atrophied to the point where they are little more than dead weight for him to drag around.

Still single, Robert often blames his physical ailments on his lack of love life, but in reality, it’s likely just as much a function of his mental state.  He’d been on such a great path in high school, star of the football team, getting all the girls, life was easy.  College started out as more of the same, but with hints that his life was not completely under control.   The accident, and subsequent years of physical anguish, have only confirmed and hardened this façade.

Shaking his head, Robert snaps out of this self-loathing funk and focuses back on the parade.  Good timing, recently crowned Miss America 2016 is just passing by, a lovely looking lady riding atop a small platform on a prism-inspired float, waving vigorously to the crowd. 

Robert zooms the camera in as close as network television would deem appropriate, catching the women’s rosy, red cheeks flushed from the cold air, and long, wavy brown hair topped with a sparkling crown.  He needs to find himself a catch like that, Robert thinks wistfully.

November 23rd, 2000

The Thanksgiving dinner arrangements are set, 14 places around the white cloth covered table, with the maximum 3 wooden leaves in place underneath.  In the past, between children and grandchildren, the headcount swelled to the point where a kid’s table was necessary.  However, today is clean and simple, albeit still encompassing three generations of the Wright family, with Will having just turned 10, and grandpa Earl on the verge of his 80th birthday.

Per usual, name cards are laid out on the table in traditional positioning.  The Mr. Wrights, grandpa and father, occupy the two ends of the table, with the rest of the seating chart cascading down from there.  Spouses get seated to the patriarch’s right, of which there are only two, Mrs. Wright, the host and clear organizer of this festive holiday event, and the quirky aunt-uncle pairing that make it to nearly every family meal.  Once the adult’s slot into their identified spots, the kids fill the remaining open chairs.

Rob, encumbered with crutches and a cast on his right leg, takes the seat with easiest access at the far end corner of the table next to his father.  It’s been a pretty long 12 hours for Rob, who’s sporting a black eye and a heavy bandage on one hand to go along with his fractured tibia.  At least the hand injury is his left, so he can still hold a fork, and try to enjoy the upcoming feast.

Feeling the pain in his leg as he slides the chair in, Rob silently curses as he’s done several times already today.  It isn’t just the physical pain, but the frustration of poor decision-making, and bad luck. 

Last night, per tradition, Rob ventured out to the bars with his old high school buddies, many of whom were back in town from various colleges for the holiday break.  In past years, since most everyone was under 21, they had simply gone to the local watering hole where they knew the bartender, and everyone used fake IDs.  However, this year, since most of his high school graduating class has now reached legal drinking age, they decided to head into downtown Cleveland, to hit some of the bars frequented by graduate students and young working professionals. 

Rob remembers most of the evening vividly.  They went to a bustling brew pub for dinner, then a dance club, if you could use such a term to describe any establishment in Cleveland, Ohio.  His best friend Joey, the center for the football team in high school, organized the jaunt since he lives in the up-and-coming district near recently build Jacobs Field, where the Cleveland Indians play.

The rest of the evening is somewhat blurry.  Rob played it back over and over while lying in the hospital bed earlier this morning.  He remembers dancing with some cute girls; the club had an excellent ratio.  He remembers getting in the back seat of Joey’s Jeep Cherokee, he squeezed in the middle with 3 other friends, therefore didn’t put his seat belt on. 

After that, there are only bits and pieces of the memories, snapshots of small details.  6 guys in various stages of inebriation bantering on the ride home along dark, winding roads.  A patch of ice, why else would the front end of the Jeep suddenly jerk to the right?  The sickening sounds of wrenching metal, hissing airbags, and in Rob’s case, cracking bone, as the car came to rest in the ditch.

Fortunately, at least for his friends, Rob fared the worst of those in the car; apparently his left leg had gotten jammed under the driver’s side seat, while the rest of his body lurched forward and crashed into the center console on impact.  His friends are sporting a broken wrist, a collapse lung, along with all manner of cuts and lacerations from the crash, but, in reality, Rob knew Joey, himself, and the rest of the crew could have been a lot worse off.

However, from a selfish personal standpoint, this was the most devastating event of Rob’s life.  His senior season as starting quarterback at “The” University of Ohio, is now finished, and likely with it any potentially hopes for an NFL career depending on how the leg heals.  Not surprisingly, Rob’s appetite is minimal despite the enticing Thanksgiving meal in front of him.   

The last to take their seats at the Thanksgiving table are Patty and her grandma Phillis.  They have been in the kitchen since 8 AM this morning, getting the turkey stuffed and into the oven, then cranking through a menagerie of side dishes and desserts.  This impressive homemade feast is currently spread across the as-of-now pristine white tablecloth. 

This is the first Thanksgiving that Patty has been home for in 5 years.  At 18, she should be graduating high school this spring, but a few rebellious years in her teens when she ran away from home have now left her at somewhat of a crossroads in life. 

Initially hesitant to return and face the relatives, after being back home for just a few days she is already feeling comfortable, happy to be around her supportive family.  Most exiting is the opportunity to get to cook with Nana Phila as Patty calls her.  As a child, Patty remembers sneaking into the kitchen during holidays and getting treats from Nana; these snacks were always warm and delicious.

Living on her own with minimal possessions or money for several years, Patty appreciates a good meal, and the effort it takes to cook one, much more than in her earlier years.  Upon hearing Patty was coming back home this Thanksgiving, Nana Phila reached out through her daughter, Patty’s mom, to see if her granddaughter was interested in helping cook the Thanksgiving meal.  The Wright family is distinctly lacking on women, and Nana apparently wants to pass on some of the historical cooking traditions to the younger generation. 

Patty happily agreed, and went shopping with Nana on Tuesday, spent a fun afternoon doing food prep work yesterday, and then a full day today helping pull the final meal together.  It’s been an amazing experience, Nana’s energy and passion for cooking is contagious.  Patty is learning methods like making a proper rue, mincing vegetables in the correct ratio for a mirepoix, and the delicate touch required to knead dough which yields light, fluffy homemade biscuits; all flavors that she recognizes in meals from her youth, but has never through the consider the execution on.

Will is seated next to his mom, and directly across the table from his uncle.  This is not where Will wants to be.  He tries to control his instinct to shiver, staring straight down at his empty plate to avoid having to make eye contact with Ralph, his father’s older brother by two years, but that’s where the familial connection stops in Will’s malleable young mind. 

For the past few years, Ralph has taken a special interest in Will, initially this was masked as a friendly uncle helping out a young child.  First, these activities seemed harmless enough: a piggy back ride on a hike, lying together in a hammock on a sunny afternoon, helping Will change after swimming at the reservoir.  However, these encounters left Will feeling more and more uncomfortable. 

His worst fears had been confirmed just an hour ago when, while going to the bathroom, Ralph entered the room; unfortunately, Will is still too short to reach the locking hook on the downstairs lavatory. 

What followed is a series of acts that Will is already trying to erase from his memory, but which he knows he never would be able to.  Like is older brother Rob, who Will looks up to immensely, there is little space in his churning stomach for appetite, despite the tasty spread his sister and grandmother have been cooking all day.

Conversation at the Thanksgiving table is intermittent and somber, a combination of Rob’s injury, and the fact that most of the time people have food in their mouth.  Patty is very pleased with the meal; everything tastes great, and the compliments from the various diners exude high praise.   

As the evening winds to a close and the relatives disperse, the Wright family congregates in the living room.  Rob occupies the couch, watching the end of the Dallas Cowboys game, with his injured leg propped up on a pillow.  Patty is curled up in the armchair with her new prize possession, a cookbook Nana presented to her for helping out with the meal; this treasured item has been handed down from Nana’s grandmother in Italy through a similar gesture.  Young Will is playing with Legos on the living room floor, working on putting together a police car.  It is already passed Will’s bedtime, but with the holiday his parents are letting him stay up.  He isn’t tired anyways, after the traumatic encounter with his uncle earlier in the day.  

This is a Thanksgiving that none of the Wright family children will forget, and one that defines  the path of the family lineage moving forward.