Canadian Thanksgiving

It wasn't until I was in the Military, on my first base assignment, that I discovered Canadian Thanksgiving occurs in October.

My entire life, I was lead to believe that September 21 was the day Canada celebrated Thanksgiving. Every year, for all of my life, two things were sure to happen in September: I went back to school and I went to Granny and Grampa's cottage for Canadian Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving in my family was very important. Both my grandparents, born in 1918 and 1922, grew up in Canada, served their country for 20+years, and struck off on the open road for Las Vegas Nevada to find their fortune – tow headed girls packed into the back seat. They brought with them their entire lives, and tucked neatly into the various suitcases were centuries of recipes and traditions passed from mother to daughter, mother to son, father to daughter and father to son for over 400 years. That is, 400 years that I have been able to trace.

Canadian Thanksgiving was done differently than American Thanksgiving. We used Canadian dishes, we lit Canadian candles, we sang Canadian songs (the Anthem was curiously missing from the line up), and we always, without fail, had turkey with Canadian Stuffing.

Ah, Canadian Stuffing, the center piece of Canadian Thanksgiving. I hated it. It had all sorts of yucky foreign things that you would only discover upon chewing. By then it was too late. Whatever that squishy thing was, it was going down, whether you liked it or not. Canadian Thanksgiving involved far too much brown sugar, maple syrup, and the dreaded baked acorn squash.

Every year, my sister and I would spend 3 days with Granny & Grampa preparing the Stuffing. First, my sister and I would tear 6 loaves of bread, 3 wheat and 3 white, into bite size pieces. Granny would season the pieces with salt, pepper and Canadian herbs. We would wrap the bowl in a dry towel and place it in the fridge.

For the rest of the day, we would paint with Grampa, or we would play checkers and chess, or we would go for a long walk.

At sunset, Grampa would start the barbeque and Granny would prepare steaks. After dinner, Grampa would light a fire and his pipe or cigar, and he would tell us stories about his Uncle's haunted Dairy Farm, the haunted Train that drove through his Granny's Hen House, or the Haunted House he and Granny lived in together when they were first married. He told Ghost Stories all night long, until Granny and Grampa carried my sister and me off to our beds.

The second day always started with a huge breakfast. The entire family cooked together, no exceptions. No one in the house was allowed to sit out the preparation. By mid day, my mother and father would have arrived. Later on, it would be just my mother, after the Divorce (that is a whole other Oprah).

Around noon of the second day, just about the time my mother would have arrived, Granny would gather us girls to the kitchen and we would begin chopping. Celery, onions, carrots, potatoes, rutabagas, parsnips and radishes, all went into the huge pot. While my sister and I chopped, mom and Granny would mix herbs and spices. They inevitably brewed coffee and tea through out the day, and the stove remained in use with a flame burning non-stop through out the process. Without fail, something bubbled on the stove, and with out fail, Granny's wooden spoon stirred the pot.

Interrupting the workings in the kitchen was my Grandfather. In and out he would move, tickling my sister, pulling a quarter from my ear. He would do magic tricks for us while we worked. He dragged us outside for breaks, and chased us around with a hose. I found a photo album once from Canadian Thanksgiving. I believe it was 1976, and my mother had put the photos in the album in order. My sister and I start out in the morning very clean and very well behaved. By the end of the day, as the light has faded, we are completely covered in dirt from head to toe, and there is a wild unholy gleam in our eyes. By the time the sun had set, we were uncontrollable. From the energy of the kitchen, to the magic from Grampa, there was nothing to do but let it ride.

My poor mother was left to corral us into the bath tub, while Grampa and Granny cooked dinner. One thing our Granmother was firm about was being clean and dressed for dinner, even after a day of untamed wild banshee's terrorizing the property.

The second night's dinner table was sparse, due to all the preparations. We almost always ate on the patio, on paper plates. After dinner, Grampa would light the fire, but all 4 women would be in the kitchen, dressing the Turkey. Grampa poured sherry for Granny and Mom, and we would all wash and stuff the turkey. I believe now, years later, that is was the sherry which contributed to the family tradition of naming the Bird. It was always, Sam, Hugh, or Ralph, the later being entirely my sister's contribution and having nothing to do with the sherry.

When it was done, usually after enough sherry that Granny inevitably dropped the turkey (every year!), Granny would wrap Sam or Hugh or Ralph in tin foil, wrapped in plastic, and placed in the fridge. Magically, when my sister and I woke up the next morning, Sam or Hugh or Ralph would be in the oven cooking.

Once again, we would retire the fire and more of Grampa's stories. Once again, Grampa and Granny would carry us off to bed.

Day three was always the same: toast and hot chocolate and then play time with Grampa. We would paint or play cards, sometimes Grampa and I would play chess or logic games, other times we would go on a day long hike into the desert. We were allowed no food, except light snacks. By 3 in the afternoon, the very solomn act of Setting the Table would begin.

First the center of the table was set. Always a Silver candle, Gold candle and the platter for Sam or Hugh or Ralph in the middle. Each place setting was done formally, and the napkins always had the rings Granny and Grampa received as a wedding gift. Small bowls and plates of olives, pickles, black rye bread were placed strategically around the silver and gold candles. Granny always placed a bell on the table, next to the salt and pepper. All of the china was unique. And all of the symbols specific, at least, I know now.

As each dish was placed in a serving bowl, we carried it to the table. Grampa always plated and carried Sam, Hugh or Ralph. At the table we would join hands and my Grandmother would say, "Orville, will you please say Grace?" My Grandfather would squeeze my hand tightly and say, "Grace, hurry up, it's time to eat!"

One year, Grampa had a Canadian Cousin come to visit and when we sat down to dinner, "Uncle Scotty" told everyone it was nice to see people observing Canadian Thanksgiving in the US, my sister and I cried out that this was just a dinner for him, we had already celebrated Canadian Thanksgiving in September! He winked at us and said we celebrated Secret Thanksgiving.