By Ed Hayes
The Orlando Sentinel
(KRT)
My dad was a man of few words, especially when offering benediction at our Thanksgiving Day table. Or at any table, now that I think about it.
He'd recite a simple, short prayer that he'd memorized as a schoolboy - a suitably earnest invocation for any gathering at any meal. And which his three sons also put to memory and spoke daily through the years in good faith.
This is not to say that Dad didn't glory in his moments of loquaciousness. Listen, he loved participating in lively conversation in any congregation of fine friends and/or relatives.
As an example: times when company was seated in a circle on our lawn on a hot summer evening under the stars, and the beer pail was being passed around to keep the gents cooled off and their tongues loosened up.
Evidently, the women didn't require such spirits.
Anyhow, moving briskly ahead to a more modern time, into the exuberant days of post-bellum World War II, I was invited to break bread with a family in Arkansas on Thanksgiving Day.
Only weeks before, I'd driven down from St. Louis to begin work at this small city's daily newspaper; and undoubtedly, I looked the part of the lonely bachelor.
"There's always room for one more at our table," said the woman of the house.
Well, maybe. After I took my seat to become one of the chosen 12 at that small table in that tight room, there was just barely room for the turkey.
The man of the house gave the blessing. Ah, that made me feel at home.
His words, like my dad's, were tastefully brief.
"Amen," we all said cheerily.
Not so fast, folks. Now the woman, the chef, arose to have her say. We all clasped hands again.
Recommending that we close our eyes, she ran off a long litany of benefactions that had been bestowed on her during the past year. Eventually, people began opening their eyes and looking around numbly.
The two sticks of butter on a saucer near my end of the table were melting.
Now, with harmonic sobs, the woman began praying for folks not at the table, running down another elongated list, remembering kin and friends, the dearly departed who were unable to share the holiday bounty.
Soon, almost everyone was crying, including me, and I had no inkling whom she was talking about.
All this while the big bowl of turkey gravy seemed to be turning an odd color, and gathering a crust.
Next, guests were enjoined to take turns, clockwise, to stand and enumerate the blessings for which they felt most thankful.
I don't remember exactly what I said when my turn came, but it's doubtful I remarked that it was the most memorable Thanksgiving dinner I almost never ate.
But I'm not complaining - new kid in town, taken in by practical strangers. I felt blessed, actually.
Anything can happen when you go into a situation cold turkey - so to speak.
© 2003, The Orlando Sentinel (Fla.).
Distributed by Knight Ridder/Tribune Information Services.
