A recent racist holiday was just celebrated by most and it helped me recall a true tale that I remember roughly 60-years later, with a smile.
The racist holiday – not Independence Day or Columbus Day, not Halloween nor Veteran’s Day – no, it was that gut wringing Thanksgiving Day, which led me to this story.
Thanksgiving Day is a
well-established holiday celebrated in the
President George Washington proclaimed Thanksgiving Day a national holiday in 1789, to be celebrated annually on the last Thursday of November. And it seems as though some self-anointed among us have been trying to shame the rest of us ever since – hence, the racist reference. But I digress.
I recall our family developing and modifying various traditions for this much anticipated fete over the years. Of course, the centerpiece of this meal is the turkey, followed by mashed potatoes, gravy, and cranberries.
Here’s where the traditional Thanksgiving Day fight begins, though. My personal family has dressing; it’s a concoction of old, dried bread seasoned-up to taste, to which celery and broth are added. It’s called “dressing” because it is cooked and served outside of the turkey.
Stuffing, on the other hand, is stuffed into the turkey cavity, where it is cooked and from whence it is served. Although dressing and stuffing appear similar, this where arguments start, but rarely end.
Then a traditional classic side dish consisting of green beans, cream of mushroom soup, and crisp fried onions, also makes its appearance on many Thanksgiving tables. And this is where today’s saga begins.
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| Typical green bean casserole |
It was more than six decades ago, when I was a young lad that my Dad had given up on growing grass in a particularly difficult spot in our yard. This sliver of land received only 11-minutes of sunshine per day, which is why my Dad couldn’t grow grass there.
Out of frustration, he “deeded” me this strip of barren mud to with as I pleased. I had a fleet of Tonka trucks and heavy equipment that could easily make quick work of developing this postage stamp-sized parcel, but I was gravitating toward being a farmer.
We were poor and didn’t know it because nobody told us. Don’t misunderstand – we had shelter, food, warmth, and transportation. Our clothes were neat and tidy, and we always fit in. But being a unionized factory worker who was regularly on strike, had its challenges.
As a roughly seven-year old, my plan was to help with providing food for the family by growing copious amounts of fresh vegetables for meals. And what a brilliant plan it was.
My Grandmother decided to make my dream come true. Off we went to Woolworth’s, via city bus, to secure some seeds and a Woolworth’s Lunch Counter banana split.
As I recall, seeds were in the nose-bleed price range of 5¢ per package; I bought carrot, corn, and green bean seeds, as an inaugural planting.
Being a novice, I was unfamiliar with planting rows of anything, so my carrots closely resembled a Picasso painting. Still, after some friendly advice from kin, I later used string as a guide to secure a more orderly path for the green beans to follow, as I did with the corn.
Each day I diligently checked on the progress of ‘north forty,’ while I conscientiously watered and weeded.
There’s an old adage about learning from ones mistakes; that’s because if we are successful, we make no improvements, even though there may be plenty of room for them.
It seems a though I was soon flush with wisdom.
That “free” land from my Dad was
free because the 11-minutes of daylight it received precluded any use other
than a rock garden. The soil wasn’t
properly worked beforehand, and those nasty city squirrels kept digging up –
and eating – my corn.
Eventually THE day came when I carefully picked the carrots which were the size of skinny toothpicks, I believe I pulled any remainder of the yellow corn crop up as a misidentification as weeds, and systematically removed all the green beans, placing them into a colander for immediate preparation.
There’s a Bible story about Jesus feeding a multitude of hungry fishermen and their families by multiplying loaves of bread and freshly caught fish.
Our dinner that night amazed even me. A large bowl chock full of green beans became the star of the meal. And accolades flowed freely from everyone seated at this banquet. I later realized that the green bean harvest was secretly augmented by my parents as well as my Grandmother. still, we all kept mum.
This agricultural experiment began in earnest and ended with a Thanksgiving-style feast which all enjoyed.
Memories of others attending our special non-thanksgiving Thanksgiving have faded or simply passed away. But my memory remains, begging for its place in history. And now you know why I selected my future career.
And no, it wasn’t farming.
