I can look upon my memories of Thanksgivings past with fondness: warmth, love, family and—what seems to take over the entire holiday itself—a bounty of delectable dishes. I remember cooking and baking with my mother for our Thanksgiving dinner. How much I helped and whether or not I stayed around to wash the dishes, I cannot say. I hope I was a good girl, but I have my suspicions that I could have been found on the couch post-supper. I am grateful that along with a great feast, my parents taught us that God is good and that all blessings stem from Him. We were greatly blessed to have plenty and I remember grocery shopping to provide a proper Thanksgiving feast for those who could not provide their own. My parents did not forget the important message of service that goes along with a thankful heart and for that I am grateful.
Life is so busy; one month bleeds into the next, and before we know it the holidays are upon us and we haven’t taken the time to reflect on the reason behind the celebration. That is what I want to avoid; thanksgiving is not just a dinner party. It is a time to reflect, pray, serve and spend with our loved ones. Jeff and I are so glad we live close enough to our families that we can eat our Thanksgiving meals (one with each family—lucky us!) with them. We know living close by will not be the case in a couple years, so we cherish it now.
One tradition Jeff and I have started this year to help us remember the reason for the season is our Thanksgiving Journal. Each member of the family writes down at least one thing he or she is grateful for each day for the month of November. This exercise has helped us to feel the spirit of thanksgiving and has opened our eyes to the small blessings that might have gone unnoticed had we not be watching for them.
It’s starting to get late. Coy wants to go into the casino and try out his poker skills. I’m hesitant. I have no idea why I’m so uncomfortable all of a sudden, but it doesn’t really seem like I can just tell him no. Wordlessly I follow him into the casino. It looks fancier than the one at the Stratosphere. Coy joins a table, and I hover behind him. I hope no one thinks we’re trying to cheat. I make sure my eyes don’t wander. Coy’s first bet is pretty low, which I find reassuring. As the game progresses, I can see that he has a decent hand. Good enough to win, anyway. Coy gives me a kiss for luck. I smile at the other people at our table. A guy our age who is obviously drunk says “Can I kiss your girlfriend for luck, too, man?” I blush, embarrassed. Coy winks at the guy and says he can if he wins the next hand. I swat his shoulder playfully. Luckily for me, Coy wins again. He increases his starting bet on the next hand, but I see he’s got nothing. He tries to bluff, but the other players see right through him and keep raising the bet. He folds, and excuses himself from the table.
I hope he’s not mad. I look up at his face, searching for clues to his mood. He looks back at me and smiles as if he knows what I’m doing.
“Uncle Jack was right,” he tells me. “My poker face is hopeless.”
“At least you had two good hands,” I say soothingly. “How much did we win?”
“We?” he teases.
“Good luck charms are entitled to fifty percent of all winnings,” I inform him.
“Ah. Well, we lost the last hand, so I’m doubting your luckiness.” I think he is pretending to be disappointed.
“Okay, we’ll split it forty-sixty and call it even. Final offer.”
He laughs. “How about we get dessert and I use the rest to pay for the room?”
“Deal.”
There is a small café that sells gelato on the way outside, so we grab a treat to go and watch the fountains one last time before heading back to our hotel. The walk back is much more spectacular, as the dark has fully settled in. The lights are a sharper contrast, a rainbow of electric explosions. We walk more slowly than we did on the way down, stopping to point out our favorite displays. Even though it’s late in the evening, the air is still warm. It must be 90 degrees out here. We get back to the Stratosphere and head straight back to our room. Coy remarks that Uncle Jack probably managed to get in bed by himself, so we should be quiet in case he’s asleep. When we open the door to our room, the lights are on. No Uncle Jack in bed. Coy checks the bathroom. No Uncle Jack there, either. We face each other, and I can see that Coy looks frustrated.
“Maybe he went back to the buffet,” I suggest. “Or went to the shops.”
“Maybe he’s getting married in the Chapel in the Clouds,” Coy says, dripping sarcasm. “He’s at the casino. Of course.”
“But he said he wasn’t going to gamble!” I protest.
“No he didn’t. He told you to relax, he didn’t actually say he wouldn’t gamble.” Coy throws himself facedown on one of the beds and groans.
Coy’s face lights up when we come out. He is wearing a shirt and tie and… his tie has purple stripes like my shirt! He waggles the tie in my direction. “What are the odds?” he quips. Parked in our driveway is a bright blue van. It reminds me of the Mystery Machine, from Scooby Doo. Coy laughs when I tell him this, and informs me that this shade of blue is Uncle Jack’s favorite, so he had the van custom painted. My dad sits in front next to Coy, who is driving. I crawl in the back to sit by Uncle Jack.
He shakes my hand. “Are you ready for your next show?” he asks me. Auditions for our fall play, Dracula, will be held at the end of August.
I am definitely ready for a break from the theater, so I roll my eyes and make Uncle Jack chuckle by exaggerating my response of “Absolutely not!” My dad entertains us for the rest of the ride by retelling a story about two little kids destroying the children’s section of the library while their mom read a magazine with her headphones in. I make a mental note to up my childbearing age to 32.
We have dinner at my dad’s favorite steakhouse. I don’t like steak, but I think my dad chose it for Coy and Uncle Jack. I stick to a loaded baked potato and a salad. My head still hurts a little, so I try to drink as much water as I can. Uncle Jack eats his potato with a look of rapture on his face.
“I love potatoes,” he declares. “I mean, really, is there anything as delicious as a classic, Idaho-grown potato?”
“Steak,” Coy jokes. I decline to respond to that, sucking down another quarter of my glass of water.
My dad looks thoughtful. “How do you know,” he asks, “if the potato really came from Idaho?”
Uncle Jack peers at the menu. “It says so on here.” He points at the description of the various side dishes the restaurant offers.
“Yeah, but how much do you trust what it says on those menus?” Dad counters. “How is some copywriter in Texas going to know if the potatoes actually came from Idaho?” Uncle Jack and Coy have both stopped eating, and both sets of blue eyes are staring at my dad as if he is trying to answer one of the great mysteries of the universe. Dad keeps going. “It seems to me like the only way to guarantee that you are eating an Idaho potato is to drive to Idaho, go to a potato farm, and ask the farmer for a potato. Demand the genuine article.” I want to demand that we talk about something else, but I decide not to be rude. Instead I gnaw on a crouton from my salad and look around at the other diners.
Uncle Jack gets a wistful look on his face. His tone of voice is dreamy. He says, “I’ve always loved Idaho potatoes. Maybe I should actually drive to Idaho and eat one.”
Coy laughs. “You can call the Make-a-Wish foundation. Don’t they help people like you achieve their dreams?” Uncle Jack smiles.
“I think they help kids. Besides, I could do it myself. Boise is only, what, 9 hours from here?” The couple at the table across from us are feeding French fries to each other. I frown, thinking that I have never fed Bryce a French fry. Or anything else, actually.
Coy leans back in his chair. “So let’s do it. Let’s go get you your genuine, guaranteed Idaho potato.” Uncle Jack and my dad both look skeptical. I start to pay attention to their conversation again. Coy continues. “Seriously. I don’t have to be back in Chicago until the middle of August. That’s plenty of time to go to Boise and come back.”
Uncle Jack slaps his hand on the table, startling the French fry couple. “Why not?” he exclaims. “Let’s do it! Let’s go this week!” He and Coy share an excited high-five.
“Can I come?” I surprise myself by asking this. My dad also looks surprised. Uncle Jack stretches his arms out wide. “Of course!” he cries, still excited by the prospect of the trip. “Of course!” Coy grins at me.
I have no idea why I want to do this. I do love potatoes, but I’ve been content not knowing their origin for the past 22 years. I do enjoy spending time with Uncle Jack and Coy, but I can see them when they get back. I think I’ve never done anything as spontaneous as drive to Idaho simply for the fun of it, and right now I feel a little reckless.Our dress rehearsal is terrible. Ellie has run out of base and lipstick, which means a hurried rush to restock so Phil can see how the actors look under the lights. The high school band sounds great, but plays so loudly that Steve constantly has to readjust Maria’s microphone volume. Gretl von Trapp has a sore throat, and I’m pretty sure Rolf tried to grab my butt as we crossed paths in the tunnel. Phil claims that all these calamities (except the possible groping, I’d rather die than mention that to Phil) foretell a smash hit on opening night, so we all cross our fingers that he is right. On opening night, Dad and Uncle Jack sit together in the row with a big open spot for Uncle Jack’s wheelchair. I can see them through the small gap in the curtain on Stage Left. Coy and I are dressed all in black- black shoes, socks, pants, long-sleeved tees. We don’t wear black caps because we both have such dark hair it would be pointless. In a moment of giddiness an hour before the curtain goes up, Coy writes “Backstage Goddess” on the back of my shirt with a black Sharpie marker. With 10 minutes to go, I pull my hair back into a ponytail, and send Coy through the tunnel to Stage Right. Phil leads the actors in a “shake out” where they all stand in the green room and shake wildly to release the nerves. Even Captain von Trapp participates, and this is his 5th show with us. Everyone is full of energy.
And of course, Phil’s prediction comes true. Opening night is amazing. Coy, Rolf, and Captain von Trapp manage to change the sets in less than 3 minutes. The band doesn’t drown out Maria. No one tries to cop a feel before they are herded onstage. After the show, my dad gives me pink carnations, as he does every opening night. Uncle Jack shakes my hand and tells me he can’t wait to see it again tomorrow night. Coy and I exchange high-fives that turn into hugs. The whole cast is on fire.
Hope it made you laugh!
