I have been thinking about the past Thanksgiving, and I have always wondered where we put everyone. It is not uncommon for us to cross the river, through the woods, and go to the houses of various families for Christmas, but I only remember the few Thanksgivings we did not spend at home.

Our house is not that big.

Nevertheless, except for one Thanksgiving at the home of Uncle Stewty and Aunt Carol in Traverse City, one in Mobile with my maternal grandparents, and one in Chicago with my aunt Sharon and cousin Jim, I Believe that we also received all the others.

My favorite Thanksgiving is the year I graduated from the "children's table" in the living room, and filled the space on the adult table. My 101-year-old great-grandmother left in August, which made it possible to move. I hate to see my mother leave, but this is an opportunity.

My dad just remodeled our attached garage and turned it into a huge luxury dining room next to the kitchen. It makes me very excited to think that Cousin Pam is just above the concrete floor, and my best friend Jackie and I just skinned a muskrat three weeks ago. I like Cousin Pam, but her hair actually resembles a muskrat, especially the brown and black tail that hangs down the middle of the back.

By the standards of the time, the new restaurant was huge. What once housed a lawn mower, four bicycles, and a 1961 Chevrolet Impala station wagon can now accommodate our large dining table with three leaf inserts.

If you don't mind the occasional poke of the sharp elbow of cousin Cousin Mary Margaret, the parquet table can hold 20 people. Not only does this table make you feel like you are sitting on a football field, but I'm sure it is slightly crowned in the center to let the overflow flow away.

Fortunately, my mother has a lot of table service. Since my grandfather traveled to France many times during his post-war stationed in Germany, she had a porcelain cabinet filled with a violet-patterned Haviland Limoge. Although there are other occasions throughout the year to trot out Limoges, Thanksgiving is the only time my brother and I are allowed to touch them.

I realized how difficult adult life will be on that Thanksgiving Day. The gravy boat stopped in front of me, and I learned that you should always use a ladle, even with a very good spout at the end. If there is a foot pedal attached to the bottom, you must be careful not to put it in the sweet potato, and never use a ladle to make a mashed potato "well" to hold the gravy.

I have a better understanding of our homeowners’ insurance policies.

Uncle Stewty, who is famous for eating a whole piece of angel cake at a time, is asked to say grace. We all bowed our heads, and the Professional Presbyterian pastor looked serious and said, "Bless this food, and bless the people we eat. Ah man!"

That either came from Deuteronomy or Ma and Pa Kettle.

The turkey was trotting and singing the chorus of Oo and Ah. Uncle Gary said "Wait! Wait! I must take this picture!" Gary took out his Instamatic camera and used its flash as the starting block. We all rushed. Go in.

Uncle Gary has never taken any pictures of his four children, but he has snapshots of every Thanksgiving turkey, dating back twenty years. He can recognize them too. "This is 1965. Remember? It was the year when the rolls were overbaked."

Mom was the last one to leave the kitchen to join us. She sat next to me and breathed a sigh of relief when she sat down. I watched her in the kitchen all morning. Like an orchestra conductor, she moved, pointed, explained to the other ladies in the kitchen where to put things, and guided them to the drawers to pick up spoons.

My mother was worried about the wrong meal all morning, but of course, it did. It is perfect. I thought she did. I can't imagine Thanksgiving without her.

Now, they don't have her anymore. Over the years, almost every seat around the Thanksgiving table was empty. Others have graduated, and the seats are still warm.

I am still surprised that our house can accommodate all these people. I can't tell you how grateful I am that my heart has room for them.

John O. Marlowe is an award-winning columnist for Sagamore News Media.

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