Old Enough for Make-Believe

Another year.  Another Thanksgiving.  Another day where everyone disagreed with everyone wholeheartedly, yet managed to maintain an overall atmosphere of love.

I stood at my bedroom window, forlornly watching for the first cars to arrive.  My great-aunt was bringing her small dog named Van, my aunt and uncle were bringing their new baby, my cousin was bringing her boyfriend, and my grandfather - well, he was bringing himself.  Grandma had passed away earlier this year.  This Thanksgiving would be different, and we all knew it.  I was twelve years old, homely and awkward, and I missed Grandma more than anything in the world.  Every Thanksgiving she had braided my hair, smiled at me, and said, "Now, that's what every little girl ought to look like at Thanksgiving!"  Then she would let me help her carry the dishes into the dining room where everyone sat waiting.  Of the nine dishes she always made, everyone agreed that her dressing was the best.  Every Thanksgiving, Uncle Phil who forgot things would turn to her and say, "What is your secret ingredient?"  And every Thanksgiving, Grandma would smile her mischievous smile and reply, "When I'm dead, you'll know."

Well here we were now, and none of us knew.  I hated cooking, so I stayed as far away from the kitchen as I possibly could.  Besides, a kitchen at Thanksgiving without Grandma seemed so unappealing and insipid.  I decided to let my parents handle the cooking without my twelve-year-old supervision.  "Let them cook," I thought bitterly.  "They're the ones carrying on without Grandma."  

At last, everyone had arrived.  Aunt Boo, with her infamous blue scarf, was making outrageous statements about the recent presidential election as she stuffed crackers into Van's mouth.  My aunt and uncle kept quietly to themselves, pampering their infant with kisses and bottles.  My cousin and her boyfriend helped themselves to spinach dip from the tray on the living room coffee table.  I watched Grandpa.  He sat, observing the conversations, enjoying everyone's zest for life, and I loved him so much.  I curled up next to him on the couch, and he put his arm around me as he said, "I miss her too.  But guess what?  I have a surprise for all of us later on at the table."

My curiosity piqued.

Two hours later, we sat our big dining room table.  Eight dishes of steaming food waited to be served as we joined hands, thanked God for His blessings, and smiled at random memories of Grandma.  I, however, was not all too impressed.  "Where is the dressing?" I demanded.  My mom shook her head.  

"Grandma never gave me the recipe for that dish.  I'm sorry honey.  It was top-secret, whatever it was."

"Yeah, she always had a knack for making that stuff magically appear every year," Aunt Boo laughed.  She took a big bite of mashed potatoes and stared into space dreamily.  Grandpa grinned.

"Well folks," he said with his lovely raspy voice, "boy-a-howdy if this don't beat all.  I do have something to show y'all."  He stood up, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a slip of paper.  "Everybody close your eyes, and I'm gonna read this to you.  This is from Grandma - she wrote this for me several years ago."  We shut our eyes, and slowly, Grandpa began to read.

"I wish to goodness I could give y'all a recipe worth having.  Lord knows, y'all deserve it.  But I can't bring myself to tell y'all that the dish y'all love the most is none other than a store-bought mix brought to life.  Joke's on y'all though.  I hope y'all are having a wonderful Thanksgiving.  Love, Grandma.  P.S. This all started when I burned Grandpa's Thanksgiving dinner when we were first married.  Blame him for getting me into this scrape."

"Uh, y'all can open your eyes now," Grandpa said.  We all looked up helplessly and burst into laughter.  Grandma had been a rascal, after all.

That night, Grandpa died from a heart attack.