LXXV. I Am Thankful

Jessica, you ignorant slut. (I've always wanted to say that outside the bedroom.)

Let's not kid ourselves. Thanksgiving is a nightmare of death.

Every year my family gathers, ostensibly to offer thanks, but really to traumatize the children. As a child in my grandmother's country home, I would stare with Rochester eyes upon the dead animals obscenely displayed on our table – the turkeys with legs spread wide, revealing vulgar openings stuffed with twigs, onions and car parts; the roasted fetal pigs in suggestive configurations behind shrunken caramelized squirrels; and the live possum swimming in the stew. My backwoods family cooked strange stuff.

One embarrassing Thanksgiving, I learned that the buffalo penis was actually a centerpiece, not food. Grandma kept it there to keep her "fertile" (rhymes with textile). I was halfway through it before she slapped it out if my hands and told me to put my clothes back on.

Grandma had three rules in her house: Don't go in the middle bedroom, stay in well-lit areas, and don't move suddenly around Grandpa. He kept a pistol. I also learned to avoid the aging great aunt whose self-neglect had produced a full billy goat beard and the trailing smell of potty.

Eventually, my family died off in farming accidents and insurance scams, so I now celebrate Thanksgiving alone. And you know what? I miss them, every one of them, even the drunken uncles with roaming hands and determined libidos. Thanksgiving isn't the same without them. I guess you can say family is important to me.
I am thankful for your listening.