Thanksgiving Tradition

Thanksgiving with the Leins family has never been anything fancy. There’s no ceremonial cutting of the turkey or pilgrim decorations or anything silly like that. But it’s always traditional, for the most part.

We gather around a long dining room table and pass things in circles. There’s football and small talk and pumpkin pie. There’s a traditional prayer over a traditional turkey around a traditional table.
For the past few years, the Leins family has broken bread with the Collins family for Thanksgiving. They’re friends of the family through my sister and we just keep getting invited back. And each time you can expect certain things. Mini traditions, if you will.

For example, my sister loves noodles. She’s not really a big noodle-eater the other 364 days of the year, but for some reason these noodles are special. These noodles have that magic ingredient that makes her gobble them up like she hasn’t eaten since the last noodle offering. But what makes it a tradition is that every year, without fail, she gets some lame comment about her noodle fetish during dinner. In my head I’m thinking, “Wait for it. Waaaaait for iiiiiiit.” Then it comes, usually from Bradley, the youngest of the Collins clan. “You sure love your noodles, Kristen.” Ah, there it is. And just under 2 minutes, a new record. And we all laugh because we’ve never heard it before and it never gets old. Never. It never ever gets old even though we’ve heard it every year for at least half a decade. Still hilarious and clever. Never gets old.

But there’s one tradition that makes it Thanksgiving. Every year, right before we caravan over to the Collins household, there is this anticipation in the air. It’s not that excited anticipation that buzzes during Christmas Eve, but a hanging uneasiness as we all think to ourselves, “What’s gonna happen this year?”
That’s the best part for me. I sit quietly back and wait for outbursts that I know are coming. They aren’t unexpected, just unprovoked. It’s like a precarious game of Jenga, you just never know when it’s going to topple and Mr. Collins is going to lose it on the closest family member.

You see, the Collins family is an odd bunch. I wouldn’t call them dysfunctional, because there’s no pregnant teenager or adopted wheelchair Somali slave. But it’s more of the opposite. It’s more of a super strictness that makes me half-expect to see them break into song about their age in true Von Trapp fashion.

Mr. Collins, the circus master of our Thanksgiving troupe, sits at the helm of the table, pretending his high-backed chair is a throne, barking orders at anyone who will listen. He’s the kind of dad that never really coached sports for their kid, but was right there to yell at the coach or the official or the mom whose turn it was to bring snacks. Ahhh, vicarious participation. Coach Collins is a lawyer. Though I’ve never really seen him in the courtroom, I imagine it like the scene from A Few Good Men where Tom Cruise and Jack Nicholson have it out about the truth. Only they’ve combined Tom and Jack into one incredibly angry part and he’s just lacing into people. I’m not really scared of him, just like I’m not scared of steam engines or balloons or anything else full of hot air. In fact, I appreciate his wild antics because it literally brings something interesting to the table.

Though usually taking the brunt of his verbal abuse is his wife. She has that quiet sophistication that everyone wishes he had, so we could all eat in peace. Mrs. Collins is a school principal, though you’d never know it with all the deprecation she endures when she’s trying to take the traditional Thanksgiving pictures. “Just take the picture already, dear,” Ray Collins Sr. will huff at her in front of everyone. She aims to please, making special arrangements or lending a helping hand, one that compliments her husband’s iron fist.

The twins are Kristen’s age, Lianne and Raymond, obviously not identical.
Lianne used to be a feisty little brat, folding her arms and giving icy stares where she deemed necessary. But maturity and freedom from parental tyranny the last few years has allowed her to become laid back enough to enjoy a little mockery from my brother and me. She’s a smart kid though, valedictorian and all. Though she can’t be all that intelligent, choosing voluntarily to go to the University of Texas.

Raymond, the other twin, used to be a really quiet guy. Bashful from years of neglect, I felt for this barely middle child. Though recently this calm, quiet nerd has given way to a full on cowboy. Texas Tech will do that to a poor innocent lad. He’s like some kind of horse whisperer or something, wrangling wild stallions with lassoes and keeping a stable in the country. As a strictly suburban Texan, I cringe at the thought of him upholding the stereotypes. This year should be interesting too since, in the last year, Raymond took quite a spill off a bull he was riding and broke his arm. Not a mechanical bull with the padding all around, but a real life raging bull. That crazy kid.

And then there’s Bradley. The baby of the family, he’s escaped some of the discipline that keeps the others from talking non-stop. He chatters on about anything and everything, as long as there’s someone within earshot. Sports are his favorite subject, as he’s dabbled in most of them and picked up how to scream at the TV from his father. I’ve inadvertently become his favorite and he latches onto me as soon as I break the threshold of the front door, prattling on about one of the games scheduled for the day. And somehow he graduated to the “grown-up” table at the same time as me, despite me being five or six years his senior. So he’s still right there, giggling and babbling. Unfortunately he’s six inches taller than me, so I’m dwarfed in his adolescent shadow, wondering who’s following who now. They grow up so fast.

Dinner consists of the usual round the table discussion about life and success in the past year, catching up on all the happenings of the various children. I usually sit next to my brother, slouching down in my chair and hoping no one directs a question at me. Just pass me the cranberry sauce. That sweet lump of reddish purple mass still shaped like the can. Hand it to me now, so that I can eat it quickly before Bradley can say, “You sure love your cranberry sauce.” And we’ll laugh and laugh. Because it never gets old.

So this Turkey Day I’m already in preparation mode, thinking to myself, “Here it comes.” But I’ll know it’s really Thanksgiving when I hear that first outburst from across the house. After all, it’s tradition.