Turkey Sammiches, Giving Thanks, and Sanding the Family Tree

The stories in this column are true. Averett lives a dull life in rural Southside Virginia with his wife Management, two children and a rotating assortment of goats, dogs, cats, snakes and other local fauna.

We had a wonderful family gathering on Thanksgiving Day. As always we had great food and this time everyone (including me) behaved, which is somewhat out of the ordinary.

As far as I am concerned I don’t need a special day to be thankful. I am thankful for just about everything-just about all of the time. I am always thankful for Management, family, friends, my children, my children’s spouses, the grand-brats, future grand-brats and dogs and cats.

I am thankful for the 29 long and lonely years I waited for Management. I’m thankful for the kind ladies who kept me company while I was waiting. I’m thankful that none of the foolish decisions I’ve made have had permanent negative consequences.

I am thankful that I grew up with parents who loved each other. I’m thankful that my parents gave me enough freedom to make mistakes and then let me suffer the consequences for those mistakes.

I am thankful for turkey sammiches. You should never confuse a turkey sandwich with a turkey sammich. A sandwich is a meal; a sammich is a work of art. First I find the perfect turkey, which I put in the oven the Sunday after T-day. There should be a new, untouched jar of mayo in the fridge at exactly the proper temperature. While the turkey is cooking The Godfather stops to pick up the freshest loaf of white bread in the store and the crispiest chips.

In my pre-Management days, I often spent less time choosing a date than I do choosing the perfect loaf of bread for sammiches. The Godfather arrives with bread and chips just as the turkey reaches the perfect eating temperature.

I am thankful that I was blessed by being born in the United States of America and I am thankful for the bonus blessing of being a Southerner. I am even thankful for the Damn-Yankee carpetbagger who married my great-grandmother making me 1/8 Yankee.

Speaking of that line of my heritage, I am somewhat upset with my Grandfather. He had a couple of steamboats on the Tennessee River. One of them was the Joe Wheeler that was named for a Confederate General. I inherited the purser’s safe and the bell from the Joe Wheeler.

Now we all know ancestors aren’t a big deal, everyone has them. We are who we are and we have to stand on our own feet and be responsible for our own actions. As the old country folks say, “Water past the dam grinds no corn.” On the other hand, some folk’s ancestors left them enough corn so they never have to grind any. I am thankful I didn’t have any of those.

Then again sometimes an ancestor did something that is difficult for future generations to match. They set the bar so high that we just can’t reach it. Personally I would be happy with a documented rogue and scoundrel for an ancestor but ancestors are like making furniture. Once the tree is dead you burn all of the scrap and only save the good parts which you sand and polish to perfection.

For example, this same grandfather’s obit says, “He wrote a book…but died before it was published.” The implication was that had he lived it certainly would have been published, and had it been published it certainly would have been a best seller.

One of my claims to fame is that I come from generations of frustrated unpublished writers on both sides. That is a legacy that is easy to match.

What I am upset about is that in researching the Joe Wheeler, I found out the reason I have the safe and bell is that my Grandfather wrecked the boat. How can I ever accomplish anything as impressive as destroying a steamboat?