Gravy Boats

I'm in the mood to stay in Brooklyn for Thanksgiving, but it will be good to head south to Arlington and see the family. Though swizzling down the turnpike and I-95 has about as much appeal to me at this moment as being hooked up to an IV.

I like to imagine that we're going to have Thanksgiving at Lefferts Manor. Can you imagine if there were a raffle in Brooklyn, the winner of which got to celebrate the the holiday there? It would be hard on the upholstery. After dinner the time would be ripe for some hayriding, wool carding, drop spinning, stilt-walking, and fiddling. You don't have to look to hard to find fiddling in Brooklyn, I think.

Can I ask, what's with the Oyster tradition? My family never made a feast of the bivalves at Thanksgiving. Were we not Yankee enough, not Wampanoag enough? I found these old menus for Thanksgiving Dinners on Naval Vessels, all of which seem to include some kind of Oyster element. Reading them made me weep, as I am predisposed to weeping, a trait many find unpleasant. At least I wasn't weeping for the fate of the oysters, but for boys on boats on oceans being served a feast of Thanksgiving called "Petty Officer's Mess" or something like that, boys far away from their mamas.

My uncle T-boy died aboard a ship in World War II. All I know about him was that he was sweet and inclined to drawing. The vessel didn't sink, but the Kamikaze ripped into the ship and took out my uncle and a few others. When my grandmother Hattie found out she stayed in bed for weeks. Years later she served my sister and I Maryjanes and bowls of cubed red jello floating in milk. She sewed tiny red velvet Christmas dresses for us. What can I say? No loss without love, no bitterness without sweetness, what unrelenting tensions bind us to our signature.