OPEN FORUM: A Moapa Valley Thanksgiving

Editor’s Note: The following is a description of a family Thanksgiving dinner which took place in Logandale in the mid-1950s. Esther Robison Olson was born in Overton in 1937 and grew up in the Moapa Valley. She passed away on May 21 of this year. This essay was written when Esther was an eighteen year-old college student, away from home, and fondly reflecting upon her beloved family. We publish this essay as a Thanksgiving gift from the PROGRESS family to yours! Happy Thanksgiving!

By ESTHER ROBISON OLSON

Through the cornfield which separates my Father’s house from the home of my Grandmother is a well beaten path. It is over this path that our family hurries on Thanksgiving Day as dinner time draws near.

The ten of us never leave home empty-handed, for Mother hadn’t cooked all morning long with nothing to show for her labors. My four older brothers lead the way, each loaded down with pumpkin pies or pans of dressing or turkeys. My younger sister and I follow, carrying an assortment of fruit and vegetable salads. Asahel and Johnny, two of my younger brothers, come next lugging a large kettle of fluffy mashed potatoes between them. Little Elmer (Lee) tags along at their heels carrying two or three bottles of Mom’s relish. Julianne, age two, brings up the tail end of the line, hanging on to Elmer’s shirt tail with one small hand, and in the other carrying a can of olives.

Mother and Daddy, who ride the half block in the car, usually beat us to our destination; but relativfes are still arriving when we get there. Aunt Rose and Uncle Rod, from Long Beach, drive with their two girls. Aunt Juanita and Uncle Bert, from Las Vegas, with their grown children and grandchildren soon appear. Uncle Ben and Aunt Mildred, from Overton, are right on schedule. Aunt Josephine and Uncle Charles, who live a stone’s throw down the road, have everyone a little worried; they are late as usual.

The greetings are happy and noisy, but as soon as everyone has arrived and has been seated at one of the four tables in the dining rooms, silence falls and attention is centered on Grandmother, who sits at the head of this happy family group.

Grandmother, who is nearer ninety than eighty, smiles at each of us and each of us feels a throb of Thanksgiving that she is our “Grandma.”
She is so sweet, so merry, so brave. Ever since she was a baby she has walked with a crutch, but she’s never let it change her activities even a little.

Most of her life she has lived in pioneer conditions, lived a life so hard that it would wear out even the most husky. But here she is, all seventy-five pounds of her, durable as the desert.

There are tears in her eyes as she asks Uncle Ben, the oldest of her sons, to offer out Thanksgiving Prayer. Grandfather should pray for us all, but he isn’t living anymore.

Even Julianne is quiet during the prayer.
“Amen,” we say, and there is a sudden rush and clatter as the women rise to start the platters moving and the men and children begin to fill their plates.

I can see that golden brown turkey now as it is being carved and set on our plates with the rich brown juices oozing over it. I can remember that dressing as though I had eaten some yesterday, light and fluffy and spicy. Those mashed potatoes that mother makes are like none I have ever seen: fluffier and whiter and better-tasting than any in the world, with rich brown turkey gravy ladled over them. Next, the vegetables are put on our plates, the ripe ears of corn, the tasty green beans, the delicious candied sweet potatoes. All this with relish, pickles and salads help make our main course.

Then, the pies are brought on: pies made of pumpkin, mincemeat, apple or any other kind you could wish for.

After the dinner is over the men and boys sit around and talk; and are thankful that theya re men and don’t have to do the dishes. The women, as they clear up the tables, are thankful they are women and can please the menfolks.

The day that begins so grandly and should end with a band playing and the family taking a bow, begins to peter out as the little children begin to fuss and Mother whispers to Daddy that Julianne is fussing and should be in bed.

Gradually each family gathers its brood together and the farewells are said.

As our tired, happy family walks home together in the twilight, we are again silently thankful for our many blessings and for being able to be together in this large troubled world.