A Thanksgiving to Remember

As Thanksgiving fast approaches, I feel a certain nostalgia for holiday seasons past. Like the Thanksgiving at my aunt's when the disposal backed up into the washing machine in the basement and the house across the street caught fire. Or the year we cooked a turkey at college and accidently left the turkey neck inside the bird. But the family favorite is the year of Hearts.

At the time, my parents and I lived in Atlanta, Georgia. We'd been there a few years and had no other family in the area, so we felt no compulsion to stay in town. Somehow, my parents found this "resort" in the north Georgia mountains. It may still be there, so I won't name it by name, although it is scored into my brain like a tattoo.

On the way up, we stopped in Dalonegha, which is a north Georgia town famed for its brief but fully-documented-for-the-tourists gold rush. It is also known as a prime eating location. We had lunch there--a family-style lunch. Mashed potatoes. Gravy. Ham. Beans. Fried Chicken. Greens. Every other carbohydrate known to man. Good stuff. We ate like we would never get a chance to eat again. I should point out that this was Wednesday before Thanksgiving.

So we continue our drive to the resort. Now, part of the point of going to this place was the fact that it had a gourmet restaurant. My parents planned to sleep in on Thursday, maybe take me fishing or horseback riding, then go to a fabulous dinner at a quaint resort. Good plan, altogether.

We get there. We check in. My mother, ever thoughtful, asks about reservations to the restaurant the next night for Thanksgiving dinner.

"Oh. We're closed for Thanksgiving."

Excellent.

Of course, not wanting to miss the possibility of eating in this fabulous gourmet restaurant, my parents make reservations for that night. So, on top of the trough-style lunch we'd eaten about five hours previously, we were forced to eat steak, potatoes, salad, side-dishes and dessert.

We took a wheelbarrow home.

And home? Well, let's just say it was...rustic. Actually, for the north Georgia mountains, it was fine. It was a cabin. They had a room. I had a room. Then there was a big room. And a sort-of kitchen. No tv. No radio. Little water pressure. A cottage, basically.

The problem was that, down the hillside, the resort had just built some lovely townhome-type places. With new carpeting. And nice appliances. And better water pressure.

Those townhouses mocked my mother. "Look at us, down the hill. We're all new and shiny and it looks like no one's staying here. Wouldn't you rather be down here with us?" She tried to shame my father into transferring us down there, but was unsuccessful in that endeavor.

So, for the actual Thanksgiving? No tv, so no football. No gourmet restaurant, so no turkey. We resorted to playing Hearts and eating peanut butter on crackers.

Hearts needs at least two people. This is the game where you pass three cards to your right and get three cards from the person on the right. The point is to end up taking absolutely no hearts or all of them, plus the Queen of Spades. Otherwise, you don't want the Queen--it is the highest amount of points and you want to end up with the least. You all have it on your computers, don't act like you've never played.

So we played Hearts. And I am not someone who collects them. I am not a risk taker. I want to give them up. As well as the Queen. My mother, however, kept passing me the Queen. I was, to put it mildly, not pleased.

I was probably 10 or 11 on this trip. Old enough to know some obscene finger gestures. Which I began employing liberally. Under the table. At my mother. And, apparently, not very slyly.

I got caught. And got sent to my "room." They might have withheld the peanut butter crackers, too. It was kinda like when Baby and her family went to the Poconos and her dad was mad because of the abortion and he wouldn't speak to her for weeks. But with a more rustic cabin, no Patrick Swayze and no sex.

We didn't play Hearts for a while after that one.