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“Your money’s no good here, son,” he said, looking down at the folded twenty dollar bill that I’d just slipped him. “One of your cousins just tried the same thing — with a fifty! It didn’t work for him either.”

“But…”

“You guys know the rules. You gotta wait your turn just like everybody else.”

“Listen, Tiger, if I take your money I gotta take the money from all of your cousins and they’ll all be expecting the same thing. You just gotta wait your turn. All of y’all,” he said. We were talking on the lawn of his small house located not too far from the geographical center of Atlanta, Georgia.

My Great Uncle Roosevelt called all of his nieces and nephews “Tiger.” He meant it as a compliment to our youth and energy and, as he had been “up in age” for a few years already, it was easier to call all of his nephews by the same name rather than try to distinguish me from Kevin from Reggie from Phil.

“Uncle Roosevelt, I’ve been waiting! For years. You’ll remember that I graduated from college a few years back. I’m a branch manager at the bank now. I think that I am old enough to eat at the ‘Grown Folks Table.’ “

“Yeah, well I suspect that Vera knows all of that,” he laughed. “But you know that your Aunt Vera has her rules. Seating at the table has always been by seniority or by the distance traveled to get here — with the small babies beside the big folks. Some folks came from Seattle this year, so you guys have no chance,” he cackled. “You four boys will just have to eat at the Children’s Table, like you always do. There’s just no more room at the big table. Besides if Vera ever found out that I took a bribe, she’d make me sit at the Children’s Table. By the way, the ‘surprise’ meat this year is ostrich. Killed the animal myself,” he kidded. And then in a quick flash that belied his apparent age, he went into the house and disappeared into what looked for all the world like “a thousand Cantrells” already gathering for dinner.

Not terribly satisfied with the outcome of my bribe attempt, I’d started to ask the old man what Vera would do if she ever found out that he was still “playing the numbers,” but I thought better of the whole thing and said nothing. The old man had apparently forgotten to give me back the picture of Andrew Jackson that I’d put in his hand a few minutes earlier — the same one that he said “was no good here.” I’d thought better than to say anything about that, too. And while Uncle Roosevelt sometimes had trouble distinguishing between his nephews, he absolutely had no trouble distinguishing between Andrew Jackson and Benjamin Franklin on legal U.S. tender. At the time, I didn’t know what shocked me more, the fact that a man who regularly played the numbers would not take a bribe to allow me to sit at the Grown Folks Table or the fact that, at thirty years of age, I was still going to eat Thanksgiving Dinner at the Children’s Table. Again.

*****

Thanksgiving at Aunt Vera’s was an event — an all day affair that was part reunion, part family Olympics, and the rest, a feast that would lead one to believe that Vera Cantrell had invented the very concept of the “All U Can Eat” smorgasbord. If you were a Cantrell, Vera’s Thanksgiving was not something that you ever wanted to miss. For one thing Vera did not take the absence of a family member lightly. Or kindly. Acceptable excuses included serious illness (such as bubonic plague), overseas duty in the U.S. Armed Services, or an official national emergency as long as it was designated as such by the President.  While I’d never missed a Thanksgiving at Vera’s, my cousin Kevin said that he’d endured two long in-person lectures about it from our favorite aunt during the next year after he’d elected to spend one Thanksgiving at a new girlfriend’s.

After the “talking to” that he’d received from Vera on the concept of family, responsibility, and the need to put family above everything but God, he confessed that he would never miss another Thanksgiving at Vera’s. He laughed and said that he also now realized that, at the same time that Vera had invented the concept of the smorgasbord, she must have also invented the concept of the “sermon.”

The other reason why no Cantrell ever wanted to pass up Thanksgiving at Vera’s was that she was an exceptional cook. It was said that Vera could make even rocks or old shoes taste good if she included them in a meal. On Thanksgiving, the woman regularly “outdid herself.” The repast itself was a religious experience — meats, dressings, vegetables, breads, casseroles, desserts, and appetizers — all available in remarkable amounts. (One year, there was so much food that I thought that Vera must have cornered Jesus Himself in the kitchen and that He had expanded His repertoire from fishes and loaves to include turkey, dressing and biscuits.)   In addition to all of the traditional foods, every year, Vera served up a surprise — an exotic food such as shark steak or ostrich stew. One year she included black bear meat. Another year it was alligator. (Tastes a lot like chicken, by the way.) It required two full dining room tables to lay out all of the foods. One year, just before saying the grace, Uncle Roosevelt made all of us, stop and view all of the spread that Vera had prepared and loudly and proudly  proclaimed that this is “why the rest of the world hates us.”

The problem with eating at Aunt Vera’s was that there was limited space and just not enough room for everybody to sit at the same table. The kid’s table, sat six people that usually included me, three of my first cousins and two or three smaller cousins. The table was located in a separate room from the main dining area. The room was drafty and unless November had been unseasonably warm, we cousins would often end up eating our meal donned in our overcoats. Most annoying of all, though, is that we had no idea what the grown folks were talking about and since there were very often two or more prepubescent Cantrells we would,  as often as not, have to engage in topics that ranged from Sponge Bob Square Pants to Teletubbies. We were required to do this, lest our younger cousins start crying or making mischief with their food.

Eating at the Children’s Table continued until I was well out of college. Because of Aunt Vera’s seniority seating system, there was just no room at the main table. None. None of the nephews could even remember the last time that there was a vacancy or even the rumor of an opening at the Main Table. The fact of the matter was that most of the Cantrells that we knew refused to die. Just refused! All of us so –called “kid Cantrells” were thirty years old — or very close to it — and we could never remember ever going to a family funeral. In fact, the last known death of a Cantrell was during the Coolidge Administration. The older Cantrells were just steadfast in their determination to keep their places at the Adult Table.  About the time of my 16th year, me and my cousins estimated the average age of the senior Cantrells to be somewhere around 104. The longevity of the Cantrells was amazing. It seemed that no matter how sick and infirm they might be, they would hold onto life like … well, grim death. And while this longevity was and still remains an encouraging aspect of being a member of the family, I must admit that when I was younger I sometimes wondered whether we were related to vampires.

On that long ago Thanksgiving that I had attempted to bribe Uncle Roosevelt, the rest of the day passed by largely uneventfully. I suspect that my uncle didn’t even say anything to my aunt about my attempt to “influence the seating arrangements.” For all I know, he even forgot about the whole incident. If I know Uncle Roosevelt, though, he didn’t forget about the extra seventy dollars in his pocket.

Six months later our great Aunt Phoebe Cantrell passed away at 107, the result of natural causes. And while I miss Great Aunt Phoebe, after her demise, I was able to sit at the Grown Folks Table on the very next Thanksgiving.

In the spirit of full disclosure, I must admit that I was disappointed to discover that there were no ancient family secrets being discussed. I figured out that the topics among the adults all these years had been limited to the weather and Uncle Cyrus’ lumbago. In essence, they had been talking about … well, nothing of real import all those years. I wondered why I ever wanted to eat with the old folks in the first place. I also wondered what my cousins were talking about.

© Copyright 2009 Will Cantrell

1. Maisha says:

   November 25, 2009 at 7:43 pm

   I love this story! Brings back a lot of memories (my little brother was relegated to the little table quite often growing up–mostly because he’d wolf down a plate of food before grace was said otherwise. LOL).

   In any event, you’re a wonderful writer. Can’t wait to read your book.

   Reply