Just North of Whoville (13 page)

In fact, it would likely be my favorite holiday if it weren’t for its close proximity to Christmas. If we could move it to say April, when there’s not a whole lot going on…. I think it would really get the full attention it deserves. I wouldn’t even mind a few more Thanksgiving specials on TV. Or a really classic Thanksgiving film. It’s never been done. But I guess there’s not a lot of conflict in eating and sleeping.

Thanksgiving morning, I woke up early and watched footage of the President pardoning the turkey on TV. As much as I enjoy eating turkey, I’m always happy to see one little guy get away. I could never kill a turkey, or any animal for that matter. But if they’re already dead and in the supermarket…

I know that’s no justification for my moral conundrum. But turkey is delicious, and I’m not sure how safe it would be to eat an old turkey that died of natural causes. Even then, after all those years together, I’d have grown too attached to eat him.

Despite my love for animals, the closest I came to a pet as a child was a hamster. Cuddles. I had just turned four when Santa left a rodent cage under the tree.

An empty rodent cage.

“
Dear Dorrie,” my mother read the note taped to the cage. “I brought you a very sweet hamster for Christmas because you were such a good girl this year. Unfortunately, your hamster jumped out of my sack while I was putting presents under the tree. Go with your Mommy and Daddy to the basement where you will surely find him. Love, Santa Claus.”

It wasn’t exactly a horse. But I looked at it as a good omen for next Christmas. After all, he had noticed that I’d been good. This was likely a test. I just had to show Santa that I had the right stuff to take care of this little guy.

While Mom was busy with breakfast, Dad and I went down to the basement to look for him. We moved boxes and bags and practically mountains in our search party of two. As Mom called down to us that the eggs were getting cold, we were hot on his trail of hamster droppings. I saw something brown and white scurry behind a suitcase and started squealing. Within seconds, my father scooped him up in a cardboard box.

I was the happiest child in the world as I peered into the box and saw the new little man in my life---Cuddles.

We took him upstairs to his brand new home and let him settle into his wood chips and toilet paper tube.

The next day, Cuddles died.

Possibly from something he ate in the basement, my father surmised. I was a mess. My beloved hamster. Cuddles, we hardly knew ye.

Santa was going to be so disappointed in me.

“
Cuddles was a good hamster,” my father eulogized at the backyard funeral that afternoon. “He uh…liked to run on his wheel. And uh…”

“
He liked peanuts,” I reminded him thru my tears.

“
Yes, he did,” my mother added. “He liked carrots, too. Didn’t he, Dorrie?”

“
Yeah,” I said all blubbery.

But when my father picked up the shovel, I completely lost it. I fell to the ground sobbing and clutching the fancy perfume box that was Cuddles’ coffin. Chanel No. 5. Never had a dead hamster smelled so good. I kissed the box and cried and hugged it while my mom kept saying, “Oh honey, don’t open the box. Please. Just leave him in the box, honey.”

As Cuddles was lowered into the one foot-deep hole, I threw myself to the ground, ripping out bits of dried grass and sobbing till I could barely breathe. I couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. The next day, it started to snow. I began sobbing as snow fell onto his grave, worried he would be cold. I was allowed to take a blanket out to cover his grave and stay with him till I was told I would “catch my death”. I cried for almost two weeks for a hamster I’d barely known for twenty-four hours.

I devoted the entire next year of my life to animals. I begged to go to the zoo constantly, watched documentaries on TV about penguins and lions, played “Farm” with my miniature toy farmhouse, and colored pictures of almost every animal on the planet and stuck them to the refrigerator with letter-shaped magnets.

One of the nuns at my school noticed my love of animals, and told me about St. Francis of Assisi, the Patron Saint of Animals. To be honest, I was a little peeved because I had already decided to be a saint when I grew up----and that I waould be the Patron Saint of Animals. But that darn St. Francis beat me to it.

My first career disappointment.

Nevertheless, I decided that I could do better than a saint. The following year for Thanksgiving, I stood up at the dinner table and announced that I would NOT be eating turkey, because a turkey was an animal and eating animals was wrong. I would not judge them on their choice to eat the bird, but I refused to participate.

“
Well, okay sweetheart,” my Mom agreed. “You don’t have to eat the turkey if you don’t want to. What would you like me to make you for dinner then?”

I sat down righteously and declared, “I’ll just have a hot dog”.

I think I made my point.

I don’t mind Black Friday. Hard workers don’t always have a lot of time for Christmas shopping. So for those of you who enjoy taking that extra day you may get off work to get a jumpstart on the madness that is Christmas---more power to you.

But Black Thursday is another thing. Forcing poorly paid retail workers to end their “holiday” in the afternoon so they can get a few hours of sleep, and then up in time to be at work for the midnight sale…

Even during the Industrial Revolution they let the factory workers take a holiday off. Geez.

St. Dorrie of Milwaukee. Patron Saint of Retail Workers. It could happen.

Strangely, while the new American tradition seems to be opening retail stores on Thanksgiving, this doesn’t extend to grocery stores. Maybe because they have unions. Must be pretty strong unions if they can close on the one day when people need food the most.

I found this out the hard way.

“
Closed for Thanksgiving”, the sign read.

I knew my even going there was a moral conundrum in my bid for sainthood, but it wasn’t like I wanted a sale price on the latest electronic gadget. I just wanted some food.

Luckily, a halal butcher shop had chosen to stay open.

“
I have turkey feet,” the Pakistani man suggested.

“
Well….I can’t really serve feet as a main course.”

“
I have turkey neck.”

“
Thanks….but it’s just not as festive.”

“
Wait! Wait,” he suddenly cried out. “Just a minute,” he said as he ran into a back room. A minute later he came out with something wrapped in butcher paper. “Turkey breast,” he proclaimed triumphantly. Then he sniffed it to be sure, “It’s good.”

Taking his word for it, I then proceeded to my side dishes---some potatoes from the Chinese vegetable stand, a few canned goods from the Egyptian deli, some cider from the Spanish bodega, and bread at the 7-11 from the Indian guys.

A real American Thanksgiving.

As I made my way back to my apartment with my numerous bags, I suddenly realized my travels had led to a road block.

The Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

Shit.

I will never understand parades. It’s just a lot of stuff going by. Oh, here comes something. And there it goes. Oh, here comes something else. And there it goes. Probably what a goldfish thinks every time you walk past the tank.

The streets were blocked off with blue NYPD barricades for blocks as the parade was in full swing. North or South, there was no way I was getting past Sixth Avenue.

As I made my way thru the crowd, I saw a small break in the parade between the Cincinnati high school marching band and the Shriner’s Club Clowns. At the intersection, there was a break in the police barricades.

I guessed it was where you could cross.

I took a deep breath, held onto my grocery bags, and took off running across the street.

Just then, a motorcade of clowns sped by, causing me to trip over a large television cable and I dropped my groceries. My potatoes rolled down the street. A police officer tried to step in to help, but a clown got to me first.

I should probably mention now that I’m terrified of clowns. I believe it stems from an early Jack-in-the-Box incident. A clown helping me to my feet sent me into shock.

I just stood there. Frozen. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream. Meanwhile, the clowns began juggling my sweet potatoes and used my loaf of French bread as a baton.

And then they picked me up and paraded me around.

Oh my god. I was in the parade. I could just hear the parade commentators in my head.

“
What’s going on down there? Can we get a close shot on that?”

“
Looks like a young woman broke into the parade.”

“
Young? I’d say more like thirty-five.”

“
I think you’re right. About thirty-five. Boy, she looks terrified!”

Thankfully, one of the clowns realized I was going into apoplectic shock. They put me down and gathered up my groceries.

“
Sorry about that, lady,” the clown said in a deep Brooklyn accent. “They warned us at Clown School about people like you. But we’re the good clowns. We’re not here to scare you. Happy Thanksgiving!” he said as he handed me my shopping bags and went on his merry way.

As I stumbled past the barricades, I heard a familiar voice.

“
Ohmygod! Dorrie! Dorrie!” Timmy called out.

He broke away from a group of elves and came running towards me.

“
Ohmygod! You were in the parade!”

“
Why are you still an elf?” were the only words that came out of my clown-phobic mouth.

“
Just supporting my fellow elves in the parade.”

Out of nowhere, a microphone was shoved in my face.

“
Excuse me, ma’am. Can you tell us what happened out there?” a reporter asked.

And then there was a camera right in my face.

“
Um…I was just trying to cross the street.”

“
During a parade,” she laughed that fake reporter laugh. “What were you thinking?”

“
Hi Mom!” Timmy yelled into the camera. “This is my friend Dorrie! Happy Thanksgiving!!!” he screamed. Literally screamed, like a fourteen year-old girl seeing The Beatles on Ed Sullivan.

“
So Dorrie, anyone you would like to wish a Happy Thanksgiving?”

“
Um…no. That’s okay,” I muttered and tried to get away.

“
What did you think of your friend in the parade?” she asked Timmy.

“
Ohmygod! It was SO exciting! I was totally not expecting it!”

As she moved her focus to the more camera-friendly Timmy, my cell phone rang.

“
Hi honey. It’s Dad. We’re watching the parade on TV and....well, your mother is upset that you didn’t wish her a Happy Thanksgiving. You know how she’s been, with the change and all. Could you just say hello to her? Don’t ruin our Thanksgiving.”

“
Okay,” the reporter was winding up the segment. “from Clown Control to Mission Control…”

“
Wait…” I stopped her. “I do have someone to say ‘hi’ to. Hi Mom! Happy Thanksgiving!” I said as festively as I could.

“
Happy Thanksgiving to you too, honey,” my Mom said on my cell. Dad had obviously passed it onto her. He never was a big phone guy.

“
Did you get your ticket to come home yet?” she asked.

“
Um…no. Not yet,” I said both to my phone and the camera that was still in my face.

“
Oh sweetie, the flights are going to sell out,” she warned.

“
Happy Thanksgiving, Dorrie’s Mom!” Timmy yelled into the camera.

“
Honey, is that your new boyfriend? He looks a little young for you.”

When I finally got off the phone, Timmy was still standing there.

“
What are you doing for Thanksgiving?”

“
I’m…making dinner. It’s kind of last-minute.”

“
That still counts,” he said with his usual optimism.

“
Where are you going for dinner?”

“
Oh, I don’t know,” he sighed. “My family’s all back home. But there’s a diner by my house. The Thanksgiving special comes with a free can of soda.”