One of the missions of this blog is to encourage each of you to tell your story. In the telling, you have the opportunity to practice your writing techniques, thus increasing your skills. Since we’re into the holiday season why not share a memorable tale. I have one about Thanksgiving.
I grew up in a traditional family home where we shared dinner every day around the dinning room table. The table was always set and we were in our seats before my grandfather was called. These were the times when black men did back-breaking work their entire lives. So, when they came home from work, they expected a calm and predictable routine. These men reigned supreme in their households. At dinner no one ate a grain of rice until my grandfather sat down at the head of the table and said the grace.
On Thanksgiving, like the rest of America, we always had a beautiful roasted turkey, just like the ones you see in magazines: crispy golden brown. Then one Thanksgiving my Grandmother decided to alter the menu. I remember it to this day. She decided we would not have turkey.
My godfather, who often went deep sea fishing, always shared his catch. So my grandmother decided to surprise us by serving a large barracuda he’d given us. This new feature meant nothing to my sister and I because we were not big eaters anyway. But when my grandfather came to the table and saw, not a turkey, but this big fish on a platter in the middle of the table, the normally quiet grandfather we knew turned into a stranger. He was so upset, his round eyes grew rounder and wider. For a moment he was speechless. When he finally spoke, it was to demand that on the next day when he arrived home he expected to see a turkey on the table. We carried on with dinner, but I don’t remember anyone eating the barracuda.
The following evening we had a proper Thanksgiving meal with a picture perfect turkey as the center piece.
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