Thanksgiving always brings back memories of my dad’s side of the family cramming into Aunt Maye and Uncle Ralph’s small two-bedroom home in the little town of Alma, Nebraska. Despite its size, the house felt exceptionally crowded every fourth Thursday in November. Entering the home was always a notable event. One immediately encountered a surge of warmth, sound, and, most importantly, the rich aroma of a serious holiday feast. Attention was drawn instantly to the massive dining room table—a piece of furniture that seemed disproportionately large for the room. It dominated the dining room, leaving only a narrow passage around it, necessitating a slow and careful movement to reach a chair or proceed to the kitchen.
And the kitchen was remarkable. Aunt Maye's culinary domain was quite small by contemporary standards. Many of us, accustomed to spacious granite counters and double ovens, would find the prospect of preparing a twenty-person Thanksgiving meal in that confined space daunting. Nevertheless, Aunt Maye consistently managed to produce what I still consider the finest Thanksgiving cuisine. The air was heavy with the scent of roasted turkey, savory sage stuffing, and her celebrated salmon salad.
With such a large attendance, securing a seat at the main dining table was considered an honor, reserved for the senior relatives. My cousin and I were never afforded that spot. We were designated the "overflow," the satellite group, a distinction with which we were perfectly content. Our personal banquet was served on the full-sized bed in the guest bedroom. We would delicately balance our plates, legs dangling off the edge, sharing laughter and indulging in the meal, apart from the adult conversations. That specific recollection—the soft texture of the mattress, the muffled sounds of the family party nearby, sharing a plate of mashed potatoes and gravy—forms a fundamental part of my cherished holiday memories.
These occasions—the congested rooms, the improvised dining arrangement, the altogether humble setting—effectively strip away any elaborate, magazine-perfect holiday pretense. They serve as a powerful reminder of the true essence of Thanksgiving. It is not about possessing a grand residence, a flawless table setting, or the latest fashionable recipes. It is fundamentally about being present together, expressing genuine gratitude for one's companions, and the simple, profound pleasure of sharing a meal, irrespective of the modesty of the environment. That small house in Alma was, and will forever remain, a testament to the importance of family and thankfulness.