Turkey Day. Busily bustling about, we laid the table with Mom’s freshly polished sterling and her best bone china … dishes so exceedingly delicate that they were brought out only four times a year — Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years and Easter — unless somebody got married … or died. Those dishes were so fragile they had to be treated like cobwebs and Mom insisted that they only be washed by hand, then dried with nothing rougher than a bunny.

One of my jobs was to make place cards, Mom’s plan for keeping us four kids separated between adult guests, thereby mitigating any possible bad behavior. But, then, we knew better. This was a special day after all and there was the titilating promise of the wishbone to consider. With four kids, we had to take alternating years since the wishbone only had a double prong. But, this year it was my turn to make a wish and my hopes were still riding high for that miniature pony … the tree house … or the bedroom of my own. Whatever.

Our family only had grandparents so we would not soon be buried under a spill of aunts, uncles and cousins. Oh, how I wanted them. I could envision the scene at other people’s houses as all those kin spurted in through the front door. How fun it would be to be pounced upon by a pile of cousins and, additionally, what a terrific way to water down the focus on only my siblings and me. Yes, I could certainly see the merits of spreading out the bad behavior among a bunch of rascally relatives. To be sure, I loved our grandparents, but I knew they couldn’t hold a candle to the wild times that my friends were having.

I couldn’t stop envisioning what it must be like around other people’s holiday tables where everyone was surreptitiously eyeing everyone else. Which cousin was the cutest, the brightest, the tallest, the fattest, the smartest and what football position each boy held and how awesome he was in it. And then there were the whispered laments of … “Oh, dear, isn’t it a shame about teenage Billy’s complexion,” (not wanting to call acne what it was.) … “and, I do think Dawn is a tad young for eyeliner, don’t you? What is she now? In third grade?”

I wondered what they’d have to say about me if I were sitting at their table?

I’d also heard stories about those other mysterious creatures — aunts and uncles. You know the ones I’m talking about; the ones everyone wished had stayed home. My friends told me about the talk that went on later during clean-up time in their kitchens, when the gossip really got going. I wondered what “hussy” meant and if their Uncle Ralph was really that all-important-special because he got to go to AA meetings? Furthermore, there was talk of Aunt Glady’s long line girdle not doing a thing for her and Uncle Harry really needing to do something about his long nose hairs. My friends’ relatives sure did point out interesting stuff. At our house I never learned anything juicy because my grandparents didn’t talk about other people, coming from a generation that disciplined them to hold their tongues.

I never once heard of anyone inviting a real Pilgrim to Thanksgiving dinner, did you? Actually, did any pilgrims live in Austin or did they congregate only at their distant Pilgrim’s Rock? I suppose it was just as well, for how awkward would it have been to have a Pilgrim spill turkey gravy on her hysterically starched and ironed white collar? And who, I’d like to know, wanted to start up the washing machine during a holiday dinner? Yes, maybe it was to save just that kind of embarrassment that none of us ever included them. Still, I’m curious. If any of you ever invited a Pilgrim over for Turkey Day, please write and tell me.

One year when we were living in Tokyo, I decided to invite some Japanese to our military post for a Thanksgiving feast. It was held at the army mess hall. Our guests were excited as they anticipated this holiday for the first time. They didn’t know what to expect. Unfortunately, it started with a thud as we were asked to queue up into a line and each handed a tan melamine cafeteria tray. As I struggled to overlook this inelegance, I feared my shame was showing. But, still I knew all was not lost, for once my guests viewed the splendor of an American golden-brown roasted turkey, all memories of the tan trays would vanish.

As we proceeded down the buffet line, I looked for the turkey. Where was it? Where was that gorgeous ritual centerpiece that graced everyone’s Thanksgiving table? And then I saw it. On a large army mess hall platter it sat. It was beige. It was rectangular. It had come out of a can and it had square corners. It was a turkey impersonator. The Japanese said nothing, but must have wondered if American turkeys were raised in over-sized ice cube trays so their square corners would be more efficient for mailing to Japan. Trust me on this, if you want a bummer of a Thanksgiving, invite some foreign guests over to introduce them to a holiday treat and then get yourself a quadrated, tetragon, processed and pressed turkey. Then you’ll know how bum a bummer can be.

I also wondered how those Japanese saw our turkey dressing. As for me, I’ll be the first to admit that I have always had a serious concern over its unattractiveness. It looks so … so … used. Like it’s already been around once.

Really now, if you’re truly honest you will have to admit that a loaded Thanksgiving dinner plate is not designer special. Rather, it’s a sea of beige: beige turkey, beige mashed potatoes, beige gravy, beige rolls, beige dressing … the anti-Sherwin Williams comestibles. Thank goodness for that splash of color in the green bean casserole.

I also remember a Chinese neighbor we once had. She deboned her turkeys. Yes, that’s what I said. Removed every last bit of its skeleton. When her turkeys arrived on her Thanksgiving table, they were embarrassingly flat-chested, nothing holding up their former proud, plump breasts. I felt such humiliation for the poor birds, wanting to stuff something inside them to pooch them out where God intended for them to pooch out. People messing with tradition. Bah-humbug.

I don’t know about you, but I’ve never cared for lumpy cranberry sauce. Give me the solidified, strained, canned version any old day. My assignment each year was to open the can, somehow push it out without messing it up, and place it on its special cranberry sauce plate. I marveled at the precise indentations of the can all over its red shining surface, and wondered if my friend’s Aunt Gladys had the same kind of indentations on her body after she removed her long line girdle? I wasn’t sure. I heard, though, that she was pretty soft, so I was thinking yes.

I also suspected that cranberry sauce was a special treat-in-disguise for folks who were supposed to avoid sweets. Like when was it ever permissible to generously spread sweet, red jelly over virtually everything on your dinner plate and get away with it? Like never. God bless canned cranberry sauce.

Later that day, when we became weary of somnambulantly clustering around our black and white TV waiting for the test pattern to fade into actual images, the best part arrived. It was called Thanksgiving night. That’s when we re-stuffed ourselves all over again. Daddy brought in the leftover turkey from the outdoor back steps where it stayed chilled in the snow, a benefit of living in the frigid north where we saved money by not needing larger refrigerators. Nobody worried about plates then. Who cared if their paper plate broke or if there wasn’t a bunny to dry it? White turkey slices were laid out on snowy white Wonderbread along with mayonnaise, butter, salt and lettuce. It’s where “yummy” got its name.

No two ways about it, Thanksgiving is certainly about family, friends and food. With those things in mind, this year be polite to those kin grouped around your dinner table, even if you wished they had stayed home. Let them eat to their heart’s content while you avoid commenting on them. After all, this festive gathering comes only once a year. Burp.

(And, if I’m lucky, maybe next Thanksgiving I’ll find out for sure if that long line girdle really does leave dents on Aunt Gladys …)

Peggy Keener of Austin is the author of “Potato In A Rice Bowl,” which outlines her experiences living in Japan in the 1960s while her husband was in the military. Peggy Keener invites readers to share their memories with her by emailing pggyknr@yahoo.com. Memories shared with Keener may be shared or referenced in subsequent editions of “Full Circle.”