"STOP IT," my mother screamed. "STOP IT YOU TWO."
She came running out of the kitchen whipping my dad and I with a dish towel.
"You'll break everything in the house," she added. "I said stop it"
Dad and I were on the ground. He was attempting to pin my shoulders to the ground as I was fighting him off. It was a fun little wrestling match we engaged in, as we did often, but it drove my mother's ulcer a little wider each time. Fearful that we would break furniture, or worse each other, she would act as policeman and attempt to break us up.
This day she was especially stressed for it was Thanksgiving. Spending hours in the kitchen cooking ham, yams, apple and pumpkin pies, and various other side dishes she took great care to make a it a great meal for us. Fearful that the meal would not be to our liking my mother's nerves were that of a meth junkie looking for a fix.
Dad and I broke up our play fight and we got to work. My sister and I set the table while Dad was being ordered out of the kitchen. The meal was served, grace was spoken in good Catholic fashion, and food was passed. My mother reminded my sister and I constantly of good table manners including why we shouldn't kick the hell out of each other under the table. Dad ate like he was going to be executed soon. Classical music played on the record player while candles provided more ambiance. After the meal I watched some football, then mom would put in one of her favorite movies.
Thanksgiving was a good day at our household. If I ever have a family I hope to give such an environment for my children.
No I won't add strippers to the feast, but I like the way you think.
"Thanksgiving dinners take eighteen hours to prepare. They are consumed in twelve minutes. Half-times take twelve minutes. This is not coincidence." - Erma Bombeck