“Becky, I need you to polish the silver for me,” Mother called from the kitchen. She’d been after me all morning to get to my assigned task, and I’d been dawdling.

Polishing the silver was one of the chores she gave me. It was something I could do (theoretically) without causing too much mayhem, though the year before I’d gotten careless and knocked over the whole can of polish.

Thanksgiving was now only a day away.

I opened the drawers on the dark, mahogany-veneer buffet in the dining room and pulled the box of silver out. It was heavy.

Each item of cutlery was wrapped in soft grey silversmiths’ cloth. I polished the dinner forks, salad forks, knives, butter knives, all the spoons of various sizes, and even the serving spatulas.

After I was done polishing, Mother washed the silver in lukewarm water and had me dry each piece.

What a process!

Mother placed the extra leaf in the dining room table. There would be a horde of us: four adults and seven children.

She spread a crisp white cloth over the top. The cloth was mostly white. Here and there were faded stains from Thanksgivings past—the splash of cranberry sauce, the remnant of gravy—try as she might, Mother’s scrubbing had failed to remove them completely.

Thanksgiving was my favorite holiday.

Christmas was a close second, with all the presents and the glitter. Easter was special, too, with the bunnies and baskets and bonnets.

But, Thanksgiving was special.

Falling as it did just as autumn gave way to winter, Thanksgiving offered a moment of pause in the rush to the end of the year.

There was a quietness about the celebration.

Thanksgiving was well suited to the environment around it—or at least to the environment I knew in Wake Forest, North Carolina. The bright and vibrant leaves had left the trees. We’d raked up most of them, but a few determined stragglers rustled softly underfoot as we passed on our way to church or school, the sidewalks now dotted with pale browns and faded russets. The stinging cold of December had yet to arrive and so there was a gentleness to the landscape—like stepping into a sepia photograph.

Usually around this time my father would take my brother, Luke, and me on a short drive to a wooded area where we would let the beagles run. Probably he meant to get us out of the house so Mother could begin the work on the Thanksgiving feast—or clean up the aftermath. The chilly air nipped our cheeks and our breath puffed white.
Daddy would point out the different trees: pecan, poplar, and pin oak. Luke and I would nod dutifully and soon forget the way he explained the differences. We were just happy to be out with him, away from the hum of activity in the house.

Aunt Winnie and Uncle Bob always drove from Fayetteville to spend Thanksgiving with us. Winnie was my mother’s younger sister. She and Bob had two children, Robbie and Doug, who were close in age with my brother and me. Built-in entertainment for us. Not having other children living nearby, it was fun to play with our cousins.

Robbie was a bit of a girly-girl. Aunt Winnie always dressed her in pretty frocks, crisp with crinolines, and twined her dark blonde curls with ribbons.

Copeland Family Gathering 1965. Robbie, seated on the left, I’m seated on the right.

Robbie liked to play with dolls.

I preferred the adventure games Luke and Doug enjoyed.

It seemed like dinner would never be served, and then the call would come. We would race each other to the table.

Every year it was the same, or nearly so.

A huge turkey dominated the center of the table.

One year Luke, who was only four or so, asked Mother. “Did this turkey walk across the Sahara dessert?”

“Why no, Luke,” Mother answered, surprised by the question.

“Well, it sure is dry!”

The table roared with laughter. Later, Luke got in trouble. “Apologize to your mother,” Daddy commanded. “She worked all day on the dinner and what you said hurt her feelings.”

He wasn’t wrong, though. Turkey was never my favorite food.

I was more interested in all the fixings that came with it:

Dressing (Mother had saved scraps of bread for weeks in advance. She mixed it with celery that offered a delicious crunch, onions, pecans, and all kinds of seasoning.)
Green beans stewed to oblivion in bacon fat.

Sweet potato casserole with browned marshmallows on top.

Years later, when my mother tried to put some on my father’s plate one Thanksgiving, he demurred.

“Honey, I thought you liked sweet potatoes!” Mother noted with surprise.

“I never liked them,” Daddy responded gruffly.

“What?”

“But, Daddy, you always ate them!” one of us challenged him. He was then, we realized, leaving us behind for the world of Alzheimers.

“No. I NEVER liked them.”

He was certain.

I think Mother felt a little hurt by his declaration, but we were all impressed by his ability, all those years, to hide his true feelings about sweet potatoes. We were glad he was now liberated from his charade!

A dish of relishes—mostly pickles.

A dish of wiggly cranberry sauce, still holding the shape of the can it came out of.

Corn, potatoes, rolls, and more, always more.

We ate and laughed, spilled things, cleaned up, pushed back our chairs and waited for dessert.

There was a leisurely air about Thanksgiving.

We were not bothered by parades or sales or gifts or hunting for eggs.

Thanksgiving was just for family. And food. And reminiscing over the same memories, the same stories.

When I left home as an adult, Thanksgiving was always the time I felt most nostalgic, even homesick.

I remember an early Thanksgiving spent away from my parents. It was 1978. Mother and Daddy were in Japan. I had just started my graduate work at Columbia University in New York.

Luke was a student at Appalachian State University, and as he, too, was a bit of an orphan that year, he took a bus up to New York, and we celebrated together.

With no place to prepare our own meal, we ate at Tom’s Restaurant on Broadway and 112th Street. It was about the only place I could find serving Thanksgiving fare. We feasted on turkey and fixings. It was good, but not like home.

Years later, when the restaurant became the setting for the Seinfeld Show, we gained new appreciation of the meal we had. Thankful in hindsight, I guess!

Those days of sitting around the table with my parents and their kin are now long gone, but for the memories.

Thanksgiving still warms my heart, though.

With no family of my own nearby now, friends have included me in their Thanksgiving celebrations. Nancy, a vegetarian, introduced me to tofu-key. My friend Laura turns Thanksgiving into a culinary excursion with dishes from all variety of countries. No need to stick with the usual, after all. And as I no longer eat meat, it’s hard to really serve up a traditional turkey dinner.

I still enjoy the fixings. The taste of dressing, green beans, and cranberry sauce always returns me to those days sitting around the long table in the Wake Forest house. The memories lodged in my heart like a sepia photograph.