THANKSGIVING

Thanksgiving

On The

Lower River Road

By Gordon Russ

L to R Grandma Bertha Russ, Lois Russ, Wayne Russ, Jean Hamilton,

 Violet Hamilton, Earnest Hamilton, Orville Hamilton, and Gordon Russ

 “Bob, come and cut the turkey, I think everything is ready?” with this announcement by my mother, Lois Russ, it was time for another Russ Thanksgiving dinner to begin.  I always found it interesting that dad was the turkey carving wizard.  He could hardly boil water.   He did have the appropriate tools of the trade though.  As a young man he worked in a meat market in Tacoma, Washington, so he was the proud owner of a quality Butcher’s knife and sharpening steel.  The steel did look a little like a wizard’s wand.  With a couple of swipes of his knife along the sharping steel he was ready to produce perfect thin slices of turkey for the platter.  The turkey was always cut in the kitchen and placed on platters for serving.

In the Russ household just about every part of our Thanksgiving meal was raised, picked, butchered, canned, and dressed on our farm.  Salt, sage, raisins and yams were about the only thing that came from the grocery store.   Given time I am sure my dad would have produced those as well. 

The center piece of our Thanksgiving meal was the regal Turkey.  It was not a packaged frozen bird. It was not purchased over the meat counter in Kamphers’or Pigley Wigley’s markets along Sixth Street.  The Thanksgiving turkey arrived in the back seat of dad’s 1948 Ford Sedan resting alive on test tubes, note books, ear tags and a package of Fig Newtons.  Dad always had a package of Fig Newtons stashed in his car for a snack.

 For several weeks the turkey lived a life of luxury roaming around the pasture. He was fed plenty of grain as he awaited his holiday fate.   A few days before Thanksgiving, he would be dispatched in somewhat of a family ceremony.   Well the ceremony was Wayne and I watching dad butcher, pick the feather and clean the bird.  As young boys we knew where food came from in all its forms.  At times we would refer to the meat by its given name, Judy, Brownie and so on. 

One time dad came home with about a dozen baby turkeys in the back seat of his car.  His idea was to raise them, and then sell the turkeys we didn’t need.  The young turkeys were placed in a wire pen that could be moved about the pasture so the young birds would have a clean area with fresh grass.  As they grew the pen grew smaller.  Rather than put them in a larger pen or several pens dad decided to let them roam the pasture on their own. He was sure they were too large for their undeveloped wings to fly.   Right!  While doing choirs one evening I happen to look to see how they were doing.  They were gone!  After some searching we found them roosting in several poplar trees that grew along the Lower River Road, across from the Roger Horn place.  Those turkeys could fly!  At least high enough to in order find a roosting spot.   I really don’t remember how we got them down.  I suspect it was with the universal persuader, food.  Once back on the ground we clipped their wings.  Several days later they were butchered packaged and sent to the freezer.  That was the last time dad had turkeys, except the usual grown one for Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving Day was usually spent with mom’s sister Violet Hamilton and her family.  We would trade homes each year. They lived in Central Point, Violet’s husband, Orville, managed the Table Rock Pear Orchard.

Lois Russ was the youngest of the Louis and Margaret Loesch family and Violet Hamilton, the oldest child.  Their parents divorced when Lois was twelve or so.  So Lois missed having family celebrating Thanksgiving when she was very young. So, when she married in 1939 and started a family, she looked forward to starting a tradition of Holidays with family members.  World War II started shortly after her marriage, so family holidays were put on hold until after the war.  Once the war was over and she had her own family, home family traditions were a must.   To her, Thanksgiving was a special time to be spent with family.

Several days before the holiday meal the process would start with pie making.  Pumpkin and Mincemeat pies were always the order of the day. Mincemeat pie was her favorite.  It didn’t matter if anyone else in the family liked it or not she was going to have her Mincemeat Pie.  For others eaters’ pumpkin was the most important.  Although there was a debated whether a pie made with real pumpkin or if a squash pie was better.  I was never sure what the winner was. There was a difference in color. True pumpkin pie had a pumpkin color and a squash pie was a squash color, hum.  I just know they both tasted good when covered with fresh whipped cream.  No matter the ingredients they were always called pumpkin pie.  One concession mom did make though was that, she used canned pumpkin or canned squash.  We grew both pumpkins and squash in our garden, but she could see no reason not to use canned.  By the time you loaded it with sugar and spices how fresh did it have to be? Preparing garden fresh pumpkins is not easy and sometimes convenience is more important.  As for the Mincemeat pie I am not sure how she made that.  It was made from scratch, though with no liquor.  Mincemeat pie was not a family favorite, we stayed with the pumpkin pie and whipped cream as often as possible;  not to say there wasn’t a little pressure to try some.  To mom, Mincemeat was a Thanksgiving tradition.  She also made Fruit Cake for Christmas, without the alcohol.   

 Preparations of the Thanksgiving dinner would begin the night before the big event with the making of the stuffing.  You could tell it was Thanksgiving Eve with the smell of cooking giblets and the light toasting of bread in the oven of the wood cooking stove.  As the ingredients were blended the sweet smell of sage would permeate throughout the evening hours.

Thanksgiving morning would begin early.  The morning air would be crisp and fresh, a light frost would cover the ground.  I found it exciting with the anticipation of company coming and the building of the dinner.  It was also like a day off.  You really were not going to be bothered with anything other than the normal chores.    Dad would head to the barn to milk the cow, feed the chickens and gather the eggs. Mom would start her morning by fixing a small breakfast, and then the food preparation would start in earnest. Starting with the bringing of the wood stove’s oven up the correct temperature to cook the turkey.   She was an expert in using a wood cooking stove.  While waiting for the oven to get hot she would stuff the turkey.  Wayne and I would be assigned duties as needed.  Washing pots and pans, setting up the card tables for over flow from our small dining table.  We, generally, just stayed out of the way.

Around Ten O’clock Aunt Violet and family, along with other guests, would start to arrive.  It was exciting to see everyone.  I was always amazed how close together people arrived even though they had to travel a fair distance.  It was almost like they gather some place earlier than pop in at the same time.  

Mom would be in the kitchen peeling potatoes to be boiled for the mashed potatoes.  My Aunt Violet would jump in and start where needed.  The sweet potatoes had to be cooked and prepared for a candy coating of brown sugar and butter.  Sweet potatoes caused an interesting question which had the better flavor yams or sweet potatoes?  I don’t think there was ever an answer to this annual question, but they were called sweet potatoes no matter what they were.

Many of the dishes were the same year to year.  Small fig leaf glass bowls filled with olives, carrots, cheese filled celery and green onions.  A Tomato Casserole, which was made with canned tomatoes, was placed in a large casserole dish with milk added and couple slices of bread placed on top then baked.  Lime Jell-O with infused grated carrots was covered with a light coating of mayonnaise.   Green bean casserole with canned French Fried Onions sprinkled on top.  Someone always brought a thick apple pie to be served with a slice of cheese for dessert.

Slowly the meal would come together. 

“Boys, start setting the table!”  Mom would order.  Wayne and I were always “Boys” when called together and this was often.  Our Sister, Barbara, thought that was our names “boys” until she was three or four.  When that command came we knew dinner would follow shortly.  The good dishes and silverware came out and the tables were covered with linen cloths. Wayne and I set the place settings.

While all these activities were being orchestrated by the women in the kitchen, the men were in the living room or outside discussing the latest automobile designs, farming implements, or just solving the world’s problems both on the local and national level.   The closer to the meal time the more often you could see them eyeing the platters and bowls that were placed on the table.  Once in a while an over whelming urge came over them to quickly snatch of a crumb or two from some magnetic dish.  The olives, carrots and celery sticks were the safest, though.     

Once the table was set and the last of the dishes were being prepared the call came, “Bob, come cut the turkey”.  That was the sign to locate your place at the table.

Once seated, we started with a short prayer, at my mother’s urging.  Then the food was passed back and forth and the eating began.  There was not a lot of ceremony when it came to eating.  These were farm people who ate with a purpose so they could get back on the job.  Habits didn’t change for Thanksgiving.  Once everyone had eaten their fill and a little more and other cup of coffee was poured and people would proclaim the meal to be the finest yet. More than one belt was let out a few notches or a pant button was undone. 

It was a rule that no dessert was to be served until the dinner dishes, pots and pans were cleaned that put away.  After clearing off their place setting, hot soapy water made and the women started the dishes.  In the meantime the guys got out the board games and set them up on the freshly cleaned card tables.  Monopoly, Parcheesi were the games of choice.  People could talk and enjoy each other’s company without getting too involved in the games.  I don’t remember any card games being played.  Personally I liked Parcheesi.  It was short and to the point.  No thinking involved. 

As the conversation began to slow down someone would inquire about dessert.  That was the sign the day was about to be called to an end.  Mom and her sister would head to the kitchen.  Pies would be cut.  The Mixmaster would whir whipping the cream.  Fresh coffee would be brewed.  The call would come “what kind of pie do you want?”  That was a tough choice on several levels.  The answer usually was “A small slice of each, please”.   These were not stupid people.  As the coolness of the evening set in and the sun began to drift over the horizon the company would gather their belongings and package a portion of the meal for their homeward journey.

After good byes were said Wayne and I would head for the barn to feed the chickens, put down hay for the cows the evening milking would begin.  Once the cow was milked we would put down more hay for the morning milking and the head for the house.  By then the sun was down and another successful Thanksgiving had passed into our memories.