Over Thinking Thanksgiving, Part 1

I sit on my grandmother’s couch and I look at all of these people around me, the ones that pass in and out of the room, the ones that plunk themselves down in front of the television, the ones who are trying to get a head count to see how many red plastic cups they should fill with ice. 

I think about my uncles, all of them with missing teeth and mullets.  They are all incredibly unhealthy, each of their diets consisting of greasy foods, beer and cigarettes.  My uncle Jerry always wears a black cowboy hat that clashes with his old man spectacles.  My uncle Tim, complete with his trucker hat, beak of a nose, and mustache that he’s been sporting since he was sixteen, has to duck to walk through doors.  I think about my uncle Jim and how he looks worse each time I see him.  He’s an alcoholic who lives on nothing but butter beans and Budweiser.  He used to go around wearing a Steven Tyler shag that cascaded from his baseball cap to his sharply pointed shoulders.  Now it’s been all cut off, I’m guessing either by him or the first blind person he could find.  He still wears a baseball cap and now the hair only juts out around the edges of the cap.  He came today with a week’s worth of stubble.  It’s gray now and when he walks under the light in the room, it shines as if someone’s thrown glitter on his face.  The contrasting shadows from the deep lines around his mouth really make him look decades older than he is.  He could barely speak above a whisper today.  My dad is worried that it is more than a cold because he’s been like this for a few weeks now but refuses to go to the doctor for stubborn reasons.  He looks like he could keel over any minute.  And he probably will.  His grandchildren call him JimJim.  Mom thinks it’s disrespectful not to call him granddad or papa or one of those names but I think it’s funny because he’s never actually acted like a grandfather to those children, just some shaky man who always smells of alcohol.

I think about my cousins.  I think about Stephanie, the one who regularly does drugs.  She’s pregnant now.  Most people would think it’s a blessing but she’s done nothing but complain about it ever since she announced it to us at my other cousin’s funeral a few months ago.  It was obviously unplanned and, I suspect, unwanted.  Her stomach juts out like a cliff now.  Her bottle blonde hair is pulled up into a ponytail and all the layers of drugstore makeup are not hiding what the years of drug use has done to her face, which has made it wrinkled and harsh.  It looks like sandpaper under the light which fits well with her abrasive personality.

I think about my other cousin, Kristie, and her two kids.  She and her brother, Jerrod, are the closest to my age and we used to be really good friends.  And now it feels like we are worlds apart.  She’s had two accidental babies so far and I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a third soon.  She never went to college and now supports her little girl and boy on a Pizza Hut salary.  Her boyfriend works in construction.  I remember all of the fun times we used to have and now we don’t even speak anymore.  She doesn’t wear makeup and is naturally pretty but her teeth are really crooked and her parents never cared enough for her to help her get them fixed.  Her dad is my uncle Jim, the sick one.  Her mother is someone whose name I can’t remember right now because she left Jim and Jerrod and Kristie to be with some other man and she hasn’t really been our family since.  She’s only come around during the holidays a handful of times, when I was young.  My only memory of her was one Christmas when she came over and she said to me in an alcoholic slur, “Well, it looks like you haven’t missed any meals, have you?”  Jerrod couldn’t make it today because he had to work.  He is gay and a total flamer but I don’t mind because he’s highly entertaining.  He’s fun to talk to for a while, until the clouds of smoke from his cigarettes become too much for me to handle.  He’s in his late twenties and already he doesn’t have any front teeth and so he wears dentures.  He quit school in the ninth grade and has hustled his way to where he is now, a sales associate at some clothing store.  He also tells a lot of grand stories of ambiguous authenticity and I guess that he does this because his life sucks so much that he has to fill himself up with tall tales to make himself feel better.

I think about all of the people I don’t know.  There’s always a handful of people that show up and I have no idea who they are or who they belong to.  Sometimes they are girlfriends or boyfriends that never come back.  Sometimes they are children from the family that usually don’t come but for whatever reason, showed up that year.  I’m standing in line to grab a couple of pieces of cornbread because it’s the only thing I can eat, what with the overwhelming selection of meats and vegetables, and there’s a tall girl who is actually dressed decently.  Her hair is combed and her makeup looks like it was actually applied in front of a mirror.  I’m intrigued but shy and then I think to myself, “Oh, Dear Lord I hope she isn’t related to me.”  Well, it is Alabama.  I joke, of course, it’s not like I had the hots for her but I was interested in knowing what she was doing there.  With her nice shoes and long knit jacket, she didn’t exactly fit the family mold of flannel shirts, muddy jeans, and cowboy boots with dried cow crap crusted along the edges.

I think about all of the babies, how there always seems to be a new one every year or so.  Replenishing the Jackson name I guess.  Someone has to do it because my sister and I certainly aren’t going to have children.  Shannon is happy with her two cats and I can’t handle the responsibility of children.  There’s always some drooling baby on someone’s arm and they usually find their way to my mother because she loves babies.  They usually coo or cry and my mom doesn’t care as long as she can hold them for as long as possible.  It seems like Kristie’s youngest was still a baby last time I saw him and now he’s walking and he won’t shut up.  Do they grow that fast or has it just been longer than I thought since the last time I saw him?  He walks into the living room where I am sitting and then immediately walks out, shouting to Kristie, “I don’t wanna sit there, Mama!”  Kids don’t like me, family or not. 

I think about my cousin, Blake, only a few years younger than me yet his voice is deeper.  I remember the days of him irritating me to no end.  I despised him but I realize now that he was just a kid and kids are annoying.  I remember when he went through puberty and a his face erupted in pimples.  I felt a sense of satisfaction because when I was going through that phase myself

, he said I was fat and had spots all over my face.  It was his turn and I thoroughly enjoyed that.  But now, all of that seems to have cleared up.  He’s muscular too.  He’s also just as country as the rest of them with his tight white shirt and his Wranglers with the cow crap boots and his well worn cowboy hat firmly planted down over his eyes.  We don’t talk either.  Last I heard, he’s a trouble maker but that doesn’t really surprise me very much. 

I think about my Aunt Sandy.  She’s a petite woman, as plain as a worn out cotton t-shirt, no makeup and with her plain brown hair pulled into a plain brown braid down her back.  I noticed that she hasn’t smiled much at all.  There’s sadness in her plain brown eyes and forms in a frown across her plain unpainted mouth.  She’s still hurting over the death of MJ, my cousin, the one who died over the summer in an ATV accident.  After the funeral, I said the holidays were gonna be tough for her, and now, the validity of that statement is staring up at the wall.  Any person who didn’t know her would realize she’s devoid of something.  It’s all over her, slumped on her sloping shoulders.  But, we know what it is.  There’s a hole in her heart where her son used to be.  And I think how tough it must be for her to see MJ’s infant son, also involved in the accident.  She must feel conflicted, thankful that he survived but at the same time, hurt when she sees his smile.  She must recognize bits and pieces of her son in that little boy’s smile.  Something in the nose or the eyes, maybe.  He’s a double reminder of both the loss of her son and the continuation of him in another form.  I can’t even wrap my mind around how that must simultaneously cut and comfort.

To be continued…