OutTakes
by Edd Merritt

I Say He Deserves the Chair

Ah, Thanksgiving – a time of remembrance, a time to give thanks, but also a time to find your “place.”
Yes, “place” has been an all-important concept for me at Thanksgiving ever since I can remember. You see, I was the youngest cousin in my family, and we always celebrated at my oldest cousin’s house in Minneapolis. I also happened to be an only child, so I wasn’t able to slip in unnoticed as one among several. I arrived as the last in line of our family of three.
I assumed I should act meek, speak only when spoken to, head immediately to the living room and take my “place” on the stool where I should look directly at Uncle Art. He, of course, was recumbent in his own comfortably stuffed easy chair, elevated just enough for him to peer down on the rest of the room. It was the throne from which he set not only the tone for the day’s conversation, but the two or three topics around which talk could revolve. Usually it had something to do with the virtues of Republicanism; hence the reason that another uncle – the lone Democrat in the family – was again not invited this year.
Important “place” number two was at the Thanksgiving dinner table. The dining room was always ablaze with silverware that hadn’t seen daylight since last November, water goblets that cracked if you looked at them cross-eyed, and, of course, my “place” between parents ready to micro-monitor my behavior. Uncle Art assumed his “place” at one end of the table, while the true leader of the day, his wife, Aunt Dorothy, after taking her “place” 12 feet down the runner opposite him, proceeded to instruct everything that happened in between, from the passing of cranberry sauce and the pouring of gravy to the thickness of turkey carvings and the use of the appropriate utensil. Her eyesight, blurred just a tad by several martinis, made her squint slightly while issuing each command.
No matter how often the ritual played itself out, I watched in awe, serious about learning exactly what I would need to know once I reached prime “uncle-hood.” My older cousins, particularly the males, seemed periodically unable to withhold their smirks as they surveyed the gathering. They were each like Dustin Hoffman at the end of “The Graduate,” grinning in the back seat of the bus while stealing the bride. Mind you, these same cousins during summer break had returned to Uncle Art’s camp in northern Wisconsin after a couple of Leinenkugels and deposited excess body fluids in his sacred rain gauge. The following morning he reported to the local weather service there had been shower activity during a cloudless night.
Well, last Thursday turned out to be my initiation into true seniority at Thanksgiving.
My wife will, no doubt, blame me for being absent from the room during several difficult moments. But, I really must say that my role in the occasion turned out to be easier and more enjoyable than I had anticipated. And “place” again played a significant part in making it comfortable.
First and foremost was the fact that Thanksgiving occurred at my son’s rather than my “place.” That means it was a four-hour drive with an overnight layover in New Hampshire – piece of cake. Once there, Beth and I were assigned (catch this) a bedroom! For those more familiar with the common offspring dwellings, bedrooms are “places” equipped with doors that close, beds that rest several feet off the ground and carry supportive items called mattresses. “Your own bathroom” sometimes adjoins them. And everything is located away from paths used by resident two-year olds who test their foot speed between the hours of five and six a.m.
Likewise, because some of their belongings still reside in our attic in Vermont, my son’s family’s Rhode Island dwelling is relatively free of clutter and unnecessary furniture. So, the main floor of the “place” presents its own Saratoga Downs. And, although the rails of this track are invisible to all but the horses, our two “grand ponies” circle at ever increasing speed the minute we arrive. Any chair dumb enough to get in the way better watch its legs.
I also discovered another new “place” at the Thanksgiving table. No longer wedged between towering adults, I formed my own Statue of Liberty at one end. The ponies sat stabled by trays locked to their high chairs opposite me, and we conferred throughout the meal – mostly about the amount of food that vanished from our plates in various ways – some eaten, some dropped, some purposely stored in nether regions of our chairs, some hidden for later when the fullness of the dinner itself wore off, and some slipped secretly to the hired help, aka Lola, the floor dog. I watched and learned, only wishing that I’d had the guts to try some of these things 60-plus years ago. In fact, maybe I did and was banished to the basement, a punishment so severe it drove the incident from my memory.
What an improvement, though, over pretending to give thanks for what was one of the most anxiety-provoking, recurring occasions I can recall from my childhood! No wonder that in college I used to sneak off to Green Bay for Thanksgiving to greet the Packers at the airport and join the rest of the city at Fuzzy Thurston’s Bar and Grill to toast a victory or mourn a loss.
I am even looking forward in coming years to holding Thanksgiving at our “place.” Oh, it will take some work getting the “place” in order for the troops. After all, we have been here long enough to collect things that impede runners, but maybe the knowledge that they’re coming will help us prepare the course. And I want to try smoking the turkey, so I’ll need to invest some time, energy and money into getting a new “place” ready for that process. My co-father-in-law just finished building himself an outdoor pizza oven – I wonder . . .
Lola will need her own “place,” so I’ll set up a well-protected haven nearby. We’ll check to see we have enough “place” mats, sufficient “places” at the table, “place” settings, a “place” for everything and everything in its “place.”
And, just so it does not go unnoticed, the “place” of honor – wherever it happens to be – shall be reserved and denoted in a very identifiable manner as belonging to none other than yours truly. Then we can all give thanks and savor the turkey, chucking caution and mashed potatoes to the wind.