A Red Oak Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving 1964, one I’ll never forget. I was 14 years old. 

Mother was decidedly against it. “They’re different, Lane, not like us,” she said. “I don’t mean that they’re bad. They aren’t… just different. They’ll have family and friends down from Jackson and probably some up from New Orleans. No, the Sharps won’t be attending.” And that was that for a couple weeks. 

I was in a jam when Mr. Reed asked me again while I was cleaning the kennels. “Looking forward to having you and your mother for Thanksgiving. The DuBons will be up and Tilly is supposed to be here, too. Y’all gonna be able to make it?” 

It seemed that Mother was right. Charles DuBon was a banker from New Orleans. He made several trips each season to hunt with Mr. Reed. He was a poor shot but loved the dogs. I had never met his family. Tilly was Mr. Reed’s daughter. I had met her on several occasions. How a girl could go 18 years and never get dirty was beyond me, but she had somehow managed to do it. She hated Red Oak and everything that came with it.

At this time in my life, I had yet to acquire the domestic skills one needs to negotiate politely through life. Discretion, tact and social aplomb wouldn’t arrive for several years. I was still naïve enough to be totally honest. I answered Mr. Reed, “It would be better if you or Ms. Reed asked her. She’s leaning against it. Says y’all are different.” 

Mr. Reed chuckled, tasseled my hair and said, “Well, Lane, I guess we are. I’ll stop by and see her.” What that conversation entailed I’ll never know but later I did get a lesson in repeating what others said.

Mother wore her blue dress. It had white embroidered lace around the collar. She complained all morning about a stain on the sleeve. I told her no one would ever notice. It was her best dress. The small rust stain came from when the car got hot and we were pouring water in the radiator. It wasn’t bigger than a dime but it was still bothering her when we left for the Reed’s. 

“Don’t slurp,” was just one of the table manners Mother reminded me of. “And don’t eat like a duck,” was the last. She had such a descriptive way with words. 

We arrived at 12 o’clock sharp. 

Mr. and Mrs. Reed greeted us at the door and introduced us to the guests. Charles DuBon and his wife, Dr. Sandra DuBon, were accompanied by their son Charles, Jr. “And, of course, you know Tilly,” Mr. Reed continued. Mother shook each hand and I followed her lead. They didn’t seem so much different, except Tilly. 

We were led to the long oak table in the dining hall. Mr. Reed sat at one end of the table and Mrs. Reed at the other. To Mr. Reed’s left sat Mr. DuBon , his wife, and then Charles, Jr. I sat directly across from Mr. DuBon. Mother was across from Mrs. DuBon. Tilly, who had by now fallen in love with Charles, Jr. was thrilled to be sitting across from him. I had seen the table and room once before when Mr. Reed invited me inside to see a painting he had commissioned of Rowdy, his derby champion. He had the portrait hanging along the wall with several other Red Oak champions. They provided good conversation topics to those interested. 

I settled into my seat and was listening as Mr. Reed bore deep into conversation with Mr. DuBon, describing how Rowdy had convincingly won the championship. As Mr. Reed reached a crucial point in the account, Mrs. Reed interrupted by tapping her glass with a spoon. When she had our attention, she spoke from the far end of the table. “Dear, why don’t you start.”

Clearly disgruntled by the interruption, Mr. Reed stood and stammered, “Yes, ah yes. Glenda and I are so happy and thankful all of you are with us today. Before we begin our meal, we thought it would be fitting if we each offered a thanksgiving, you know, something special that you are thankful for. He paused for just a moment, allowing us time to reflect. 

I was thinking about what I might say. It wasn’t hard to recognize many blessings. My grades so far this year were pretty good. Mother was able to get work at the drug store in Liberty, which meant we were not so dependent on her sewing. Mrs. Reed sold us her old car and let us pay by the month. Deluxe, the dog Mr. Reed gave me, won the derby stake over in Poplarville. Mr. Reed kept the trophy but gave Mother and me the winner’s check, $900. Mother said it was a godsend. I was especially thankful for the job Mr. Reed had given me. With that $10 a week, I was able to put $3 of it each week toward a Savage double I had on layaway at Richardson’s Hardware. We had so many things to be thankful for. I was eager to tell of our good fortune when, to my disappointment, Mr. Reed turned to his left and said, “Charles, why don’t you begin?”

Mr. DuBon raised his glass of wine toward the table and then to Mr. Reed specifically. “As you will see tomorrow morning my dear friend, my lovely wife presented me this week with a new shooting piece. For this I am especially thankful.” It occurred to me that Mr. DuBon had carried a “new shooting piece” just about every time he visited Red Oak. It wasn’t a new gun he needed. He had a habit of looking at the dog when the birds got up. I saw it the first time he visited. I wondered if he had ever shot a Savage? We all congratulated Mr. DuBon as he took a sip. 

Mrs. DuBon spoke quietly in a French accent. “Thank you, thank you, merci. This very week I was accepted to the board at Turo. My medical practice will suffer I’m sure, but the position means so much to me. I am so grateful for my career.” Mother’s new job paled in my mind for just a moment until I remembered the chocolate sodas, free every time I met Mother at the store. I couldn’t imagine any job meaning more to our family, but I wouldn’t risk mentioning it for fear of embarrassing Mother. 

Charles, Jr. spoke with an accent thicker than his mother’s. “I was so thankful this week to get home to my parents, to tell them the good news. You know, I am top of my class, and will soon be headed back across the ocean for permanent residency. France is so beautiful, I miss it so, and the Sorbonne Université is wonderful.” He was clearly very intelligent and capped it off with a closing comment. “And,” he paused for an instant, “I am so much looking forward to our shooting trip tomorrow morning. ‘Tir aux cailles’, as they say in Paris.” I decided right then I dare not mention or count my grades as a blessing. 

“Tilly?” Mrs. Reed prompted her daughter. “I bet I know what you’re thankful for.”

Tilly rolled her eyes and then regained her poise as she directed her gaze back across the table. Mrs. Reed spoke up again, “Tell us about your new car dear.” Tilly didn’t answer. A new car, I thought, and then noticed the stain on Mother’s sleeve. I was sure if Tilly’s car ever ran hot she wouldn’t know whether to open the hood or the trunk. Mother did. It seems that everything on my list was slipping away. When my time came I’d have nothing unique to announce. 

What I first thought was Mother speaking out of turn, I later realized was Mother handling the situation with the social grace of an elegant socialite. Mother was seldom, if ever, out of place. Not only was she graceful, she was also staunch in her beliefs, resolved in any situation to do the right thing. She was equally clever. “Well,” Mother started, diffusing the tension at the table, “I’m sure it’s beautiful. Cars can be so fickle.” Mother continued, “As for me, if it’s my turn now, I’ll say I’m thankful for Lane. He’s my challenge, and my love, my heart.” 

A stillness fell over the table and everyone, save Tilly, turned their attention to me. I pondered for a moment, every item on my list had been bested. Even Tilly without saying a word beat me with a new car. I realized I had nothing to say. Mr. Reed, with his array of champions lining the hall, realized it, too. From my dog to my Savage, Thanksgiving had passed me by. 

Perhaps it was that Mother had overwhelmed the guests, or maybe Mr. Reed was just too hungry to hear what I had to say, but at any rate, Mr. Reed assessed the situation and reached for a little bell sitting by his plate. He lightly shook the bell as if ending the time allotted for giving thanks. The ringing summoned three crisply dressed attendants who began to serve our meal.  

The hum of conversation began again among the guests. Mother spoke with Mrs. DuBon, congratulating her on her new position. Mrs. Reed had all of the right questions about Paris, and Jr. was politely answering them, though he was visibly uncomfortable from Tilly’s attraction. 

Of course, Mr. Reed was talking nonstop about his dogs and Mr. DuBon was describing his new gun all in the same conversation, neither listening to the other. Me? I was slurping shrimp gumbo and bobbing my head up and down into my plate eating mashed potatoes and gravy. 

The table was thriving with conversation, laughter and banter, at times loudly. I don’t know how many times she had asked the question, but by the time I heard her, the entire table had heard her, too. “Do you shoot ducks?” Mother repeated, this time softer. “Ducks? Mr. Reed, do you shoot them?” Mother had apparently asked several times before she was heard. “Mr. Reed, do you shoot ducks here at Red Oak?”

“Why, yes Ma’am, we do. Why do you ask?”

She also had my attention. I knew why she had asked the question. I quickly corrected my posture, straightening my drooping shoulders and my bent neck. I began eating again, this time slower, bringing the potatoes and gravy to my mouth instead of bobbing my head up and down to them like a duck. 

She continued, “Oh, no reason in particular, just curious.”

Everyone returned to their conversations. The table became alive again with each person recounting the things they were happy for. As I looked around the table, I realized Mother was right, they were different, and I had become one of them. Only mother remained steadfast and grounded, unfazed by things. Now that I had corrected my posture, Mother very nonchalantly reached her arm around my shoulders and patted my back assuringly. No one was ever the wiser. Thanksgiving hadn’t passed me by. My thanksgiving was sitting next to me, full of love and concern for her favorite duck.