What’d a Fifties Thanksgiving Look Like?

Kids today can’t imagine life without a microwave, instant mashed potatoes and packets of turkey dressing. It’s possible to purchase a fully-cooked turkey from the store and just reheat. If going the cook-it-yourself route today, most turkeys are sealed in a bag so the cook need not pull the turkey out to baste the bird. Drawing from childhood memories, I’ll answer the question: What’d a Fifties Thanksgiving Look Like?

Some things never change

Even in the fifties, the day began with the beautiful Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade–in black and white until the mid-sixties. Later, a football game played on in the family room, while ladies washed up dishes before serving the dessert.

If the home hosting the meal didn’t have a Kids’ table for the short-legged youngster, something needed to be put on the adult-size chair to bring the child to the height of the table. For me, Grandma used a stack of mail-order catalogs. The number needed varied in inverse proportion to my growing height. Families in large cities used their phone books.

An old-fashioned Thanksgiving at the farm

For young readers desiring a glimpse at the fifties celebration, and for older readers ready to compare notes, I offer you this familiar memory of all Thanksgiving’s enjoyed at Grandma and Grandpa’s house.

Bouncing up and down on the back seat of the two-door, white, Ford Fairlane, my sisters and I filled the vehicle with the sounds of “Over the River and through the woods, to Grandmother’s house we go,” and other tunes of the season.

Once Dad brought the car to a stop next to the farmhouse, Mom opened her door, tipped her seat forward, and the three of us hit the frozen earth at a dead-run. “Grandma! Grandpa! We’re here!”

Standing at the side door, stretching to reach the handle, the chorus continued. “Grandpa! Grandma!” We’re here!” Impatiently, we waited at the side door that would welcome hungry little visitors out of the November chill.

Once inside, the smells from that narrow section of their two-part kitchen enveloped us. Is there anything so inviting as the smell of fresh bread just out of the oven? Unless it might be the luscious aroma of those apple, pumpkin and mincemeat pies cooling on the back counter. Or, perhaps, the heart-stopping savory scent of that roasting turkey coming from deep inside the belly of that shiny black behemoth of a wood stove.

As I hugged Grandma, I looked up to see her familiar smile. Grandma had such perfect, white teeth. Grandma hadn’t been born with these teeth; she bought them in the city. Sometimes she only used the top half, but on holidays she often smiled with both halves.

“Grandpa,” she called into the other room where he and Daddy had just started talking about farm stuff. “Look who’s here now, will you? Please get some wash water before we sit down.”

Loosening our grip on Grandma, we turned to see Grandpa standing in the doorway. He wore his comfortable red flannel shirt; his faded long-johns peeked out of the end of his sleeves and open collar. His arms were ready for us. His smile said, “Here I am,” without moving his lips or making a sound. How wonderful it felt hugging my Grandpa. Like my father, he smelled something of Old Spice aftershave and another unique scent I just knew as Grandpa’s alone.

Rising from the squatting position he’d used to hug us, Grandpa patted each head and stepped into the nearby room to fetch his water bucket. Of course, I followed on his heels.

“I’ll go with you, Grandpa!” I said, latching onto his free hand. I didn’t need my mitten on that side; Grandpa’s large hand swallowed up mine so it’d be plenty warm even outside.

“Not this time, Punkin,” said my father. “You need to get washed up for dinner.”

As soon as my mother removed my one mitten and jacket, she pulled me into the little storeroom where she had just washed my sister’s hands. My grandparents had no running water in their house. I stood, hands out for Mom to wash over a second basin. I watched my sisters drying their hands on each end of the large towel stretched between them.

When Mom slipped the last platter into place, everyone moved to their designated spot at the familiar old kitchen table. I had no trouble finding my chair; it had two thick Sears and Roebucks catalogs on it.

I stood behind the chair, arms out away from my sides, and let Daddy lift me over and down. My father pushed the chair close to the table. I squirmed only a little until I felt settled on my mealtime perch.

All eyes turned to look at me, as Mother asked me to thank the Lord for His bountiful provision and His blessing over the meal. Though only a small child, I took this charge very seriously.

With a strong, clear voice I gave thanks to the Lord—for the food, my family, my mother’s family in Australia, and my uncle who currently served in the Army in Germany. After the “Amen,” I briefly thought of the reel-to-reel recording we’d be making to send Uncle Tommy later that day. The clatter of serving spoons brought me back to the present moment.

The large platter heaped high with slices of roasted turkey meat provided the table’s centerpiece; both dark and white meat filled the plate. The drumsticks adorned the edges of the full platter about long enough for a photo. Mom knew I couldn’t wait much longer.

My mother lifted small servings of each dish onto my plate, beginning with the sweet potatoes with marshmallows melted atop a sweet glaze. She spooned a helping out of the mountain of homemade mashed potatoes and ladled some of the thick, brown turkey gravy over the steaming mound.

Next, Mom scooped out a child’s serving from the heaping bowl of bread dressing. The sage-aroma tickled my nose as I picked up one of the soft bread cubes to pop into my mouth. I felt her gentle correcting tap against my hand before she drizzled some gravy over the dressing.

I loved the green beans in a mushroom sauce with crunchy onion rings from the can on top. I reckon the green peas and carrots from Grandma’s garden found a place on my plate somewhere, too. Maybe hidden by that huge turkey drumstick?

Grandma always had freshly baked dinner rolls, soft and chewy treats with melting butter lathered on top of the open roll. (Nope, nobody even talked about fat grams and cholesterol in those days.)

Though not a consumer of cranberries sauce, I did love the red color the dish added to the table. Small glass bowls of finger-food veggies intertwined between the large serving platters and bowls provided even more color.

Beautiful bowls of cut Crystal held black olives, green olives and a third with small green olives stuffed with some tiny red thing. I usually took the red stuff out and pushed the olive onto the tip of my finger before eating it.

Filled branches of celery about three inches long contained cream cheese, an orange Cheez-Whiz I liked a lot, or peanut butter.

Grandma’s homemade pickles found a spot on every family dinner–dill spears, slices of sweet pickles and a dish of bread and butter pickles.

The Lord had given me only one sister who also liked the turkey drumstick. What a blessing, since the turkey only had two to give. I loved the drumstick as much for the convenience of holding it in my hands as for the delightful taste. Never able to finish it in a single setting, it always went home with me.

Though I tried hard to avoid this, at some point during the long meal, I needed to be taken to the outhouse. No running water meant bundling up for a trip to the outside restroom. The two-seater had been constructed out back. Single file, Mom and I inched our way across the narrow wooden bridge over the creek. Relief came only when we stepped back inside the warm house.

At last the adults finished their long discourses at the table and declared that they now had room in their tummies for some dessert. Out came the smaller plates, clean forks and all the pies! I loved pumpkin pie just as it was, no whipping cream on it.

The adults all had dark black coffee with their meal; the kids drank milk from the separator not a grocery store carton. We’d seen the fascinating machine in the corner of the narrow room with the monstrous wood stove. We knew that every day Grandpa brought the milk from his cows and separated the cream from the milk. It’s the only milk we ever drank at the farm.

Finally, the long day of celebrating and sharing God’s bountiful blessings came to an end. Back at home, we had our baths and donned flannel pajamas.

However, before the Goodnight’s and bedtime prayers, my younger sister and I pleaded for just a few more tiny bites from the leftover drumsticks. The treasure proved as good cold as hot. Better to take a few bites now than to just dream of doing it, right? Oh, what a wonderful, wonderful day for a child!

What childhood Thanksgiving memories fill your thoughts today? Feel free to share them.