Thanksgiving Dinner

In 1969, my family and I lived in Kenya in a very small town called Eldoret.  I was only about three but I vividly remember Thanksgiving that year. My father was a peripatetic civil engineer and my mother a very intrepid wife. Where my father moved, my mother hauled three small daughters with her and made the best of whatever came her way. We were, as I remember, the only Americans living in Eldoret, and my parents had planned a large Thanksgiving dinner that would include all the expats. Naturally, everything had to be perfect. We were representing the United States of America. My sisters were even brought home from boarding school for the weekend.

My mother was a wonderful hostess for whom entertaining was a huge responsibility. She generally worked herself into hysterics before the event, during the event was all smiles and graciousness, and afterwards collapsed, swearing never to do it again. Our expat entertaining was far worse than what we endured in the states because, as we were told constantly, we represented my father, his company, the great state of Wyoming and the entire United States. It was a daunting responsibility.

On this day, the village butcher brought our turkey early in the morning. I was standing in the garden as he trudged up, the naked plucked bird slung over his shoulder. By its still attached feet. As he slung it down for my mother's inspection, the head and neck flopped onto the porch. The still connected head and neck. Our maid, garden boy, my sisters and I froze in horror and all eyes slid to my mother. She stared at the bird on her porch and then at the butcher and we could see words that should never be uttered, especially as guests in a foreign country, rising to her lips. She blinked a few times and grasped her good manners firmly. The garden boy vanished around the corner of the house. The butcher went away singing to himself. The maid picked up the bird, its head and neck dangling obscenely. My mother went in search of my father, who as a ranch kid had surely dealt with animals in need of further butchering.

That evening, the perfect turkey was served up to the acclaim of our English and  Italian neighbors. My father carved. My mother lead the conversation. We listened silently from the children's table in the corner. The reputation of my father, his company, the great state of Wyoming and the entire United States was upheld one more time.