When Thanksgiving dinner cost $2000 — I knew it was time to stop.
Once upon a Thanksgiving, a great-looking redhead with an amazing bod — one amazing bod wrapped in a bathrobe — sat on her front lawn.
Her right hand held a glass of Chardonnay and her left waved at a stream of incoming guests.
She had cooked non-stop for three days.
“At that moment sitting on my lawn, I decided this was the last time.”
Great stories come at you unexpected. Like when you are in the canned vegetable aisle at the grocery. It stinks because you don’t have a recorder, phone or even a slip of paper to take notes.
This Tuesday, while working out with my trainer, Beverly Morris, we started talking about spending Thanksgiving alone. Friends invite you to their feast, it’s good but bittersweet because it’s not your family. You don’t get all the jokes about the year the turkey took 5.2 million years to cook because Aunt Maude forgot to defrost the bird.
Exhibit A: Beverly
A photo from another post a few years ago.
“I wish I could connect with a group of friends who don’t have family around,” Beverly said. “I used to do that you know. The last year I did it, I entertained 65 people in my house — most of whom I’d never met.”
This grand grateful shindig of Beverly’s started innocently enough. Most people don’t wake one day and say I’m going to cook seven turkeys and four hams. Mash a hundred pounds of potatoes. And have a seated Thanksgiving dinner for 65.
Beverly had a friend, Mr. Pete. Mr. Pete was an older gentlemen whom she had helped with a real estate problem. At the time, Beverly worked in real estate and lived with her two school age sons. Mr. Pete felt indebted to Beverly but didn’t have anyway to repay her. He was forever coming over and doing little odd jobs around the house. Picking up pine cones. Cleaning out the garage.
Around Thanksgiving, it became clear Mr. Pete didn’t have anyone to spend Thanksgiving with much less money to buy a turkey and dressing.
“Come over and eat with us, Mr. Pete,” Beverly suggested. And Mr. Pete did just that bringing a few of his friends. Friends who were Thanksgiving Lone Rangers as well.
Seems the word got out on the street and every year, the Lone Rangers all gathered at Beverly’s. Each year, more older singletons mostly forgotten by family ended up with their feet under her table. Or should I say under her tables.
Beverly whipped all the sweet potatoes. Roasted all the birds. Crushed and sprinkled all the fried onions for the green bean casseroles.
Yes. She prepared the entire feast. “They didn’t have any money most of them.”
All Beverly asked in return was that they bring something Christmas to decorate her house. So as the story goes, guests would arrive and get to decorating. Betty would string colored lights around a tree in the front yard. Bob might hang an ornament in the front window.
“It was crazy,” she laughed. “Wherever they put something that’s where it stayed.”
The Thanksgiving she was standing at the checkout holding a receipt totaling $2000 that’s when she decided this would probably be her last year.
That was also the year she cooked non-stop for three days. The year she ended up in the lawn chair on her front yard greeting guests.
“Since it was the last year, I made sure we all sat down together.” Tables and chairs lined the halls and the rooms.
Under each plate rested a slip of paper. On it were two questions.
Ugh. Here’s where I wish I had a slip of paper because I don’t remember what those questions were . . .
She laughed telling me how they got to talking about their best memory of the year. Or whatever had been the question on the paper.
Everyone — all 65 — spoke in turn. Everyone — all 65 — listened. There was so much talking, laughing and crying “it was two hours before we started eating.”
I wish you all a wonderful Thanksgiving. I’m grateful to anyone who stops by this blog to read.
I’d like to wish Mr. Pete one — but Beverly said he’s been gone about 15 years now.
I wish Beverly the best Thanksgiving. xoxox
And maybe next year we (you and me – Beverly) can start a new feasting tradition?
Small. It’s best to start small. Right?
NaBloPoMo 26
