Thanksgiving Dinner - 1951(JT Evergreen) THANKSGIVING DINNER 1951
By Marge Claybourne

I lived with my parents Marge and Clyde Claybourne in an old Victorian home perched on the top of a hill overlooking the ocean. The house was complete with a lookout turret on the top floor which is where I spent most of my time as a young girl - dreaming those dreams which only a child can have before the door of childhood closes.

I have eight other siblings which I knew from a distance as they were much older and mostly away at school. I was the last one born into the family long after my mother thought it was over. I remember overhearing my mother talking with Grandma Marge about my appearance so late in life. And Grandma Marge, in her usual blustery manner just said, “Marge, It ain’t over until it’s over.” I didn’t quite understand what she meant until my own children began to appear one after another - seven times.

I still live in that wonderful old house on Buttermilk Lane where I eventually married my beloved Seymour and where we raised our seven delightful children, five girls and two boys. But that was then and this is now and the tale I am about to tell you happened over half a century ago. I was only 10 years old at the time.

So please join me as we step back through the years and into that warm and cozy Victorian dining room of Claybourne House. The candles are lite, the fireplace is ablaze and the aroma of delicious food mingles with the laughter and good cheer filling the room. Please, be seated and enjoy Christmas Dinner with me in 1951. My name is Marge Claybourne.


The dining room in Fort Knox, as I called it then, was huge. All of our family affairs were held in our house because it was so large and could accommodate the entire family, and then some, for those weekend celebrations. The house always rang with laughter -- visitors coming and going at all hours. But after this dinner, the house became eerily quiet for over a year and never quite regained its gaiety until years later.

And now, the tale . . . My Aunt Judy was the terror of every family gathering. I was too young at the time to realize what was going on other than she was the only one who provided entertainment at these affairs. She would become very insulting with each glass of wine, or whatever it was that she was drinking. But usually what she said was the truth which no one wanted to hear. And the more she drank -- the more the closet doors flew open - one after another -- much to the chagrin of those seated around the table - especially my sainted mother. Everyone except for me. These were the good times.

I think I was the only one who actually missed Aunt Judy when she passed away. I thought of Isadora Duncan when I found out how Aunt Judy died -- the only difference was that Aunt Judy was riding on one of her Harley Davidson motor cycles. She was so like Isadora in her bohemian lifestyle and flamboyant clothing and those trademark scarves which were always trailing behind her. I even came across a painting of Isadora and was surprised at the similarity in their likeness.

Aunt Judy had been roaring down the highway between San Francisco and Los Angeles with one of her scarves trailing behind her when it got caught in the rear wheel much like Isadora. The end I am told came almost instantly. I was shocked at her passing and grieved terribly for a long time, but I never showed it because most everyone in the family was privately glad that she was gone. I was not glad and still think of her often and with deep affection.

Once, Aunt Judy came up to the turret to visit me. During the laughter and giggling from tales of her many adventures around the world, she told me that when she went to heaven she wanted to be cremated and have her ashes thrown on Douglas Fairbanks, Jr.

I told her I thought he was kind of old. She just waved an airy hand, “Doesn’t matter. Just find him and cover him with my ashes,” and did a little swooning move with her head. “Oh, my dear, he is such a hunk.” A hunk of what - I thought. It took me years to figure that one out.

But I thought it would be great fun to throw the ashes and I promised her I would do it. But, of course it never happened. Although, it would have been interesting to see the expression on Fairbank’s face, I’m sure he would not have appreciated the gesture.

Instead I took her ashes to the middle of the Golden Gate Bridge on the east side. The Santa Ana winds were blowing in from the desert and out to sea as I slowly let the warm desert winds carry those beloved ashes along with my tears away and out into the Pacific Ocean. I think she would have been very pleased and may have said something like, “Oh that is a dashing good idea.” Right now I feel her peering over my shoulder as I write, “You are far too sentimental Marge. Now dry your eyes and get on with this tale.”

Of all the events that took place in our dining room, which seated 16 and more if you pulled your elbows in, the best was the food fight on that Thanksgiving Day in 1951. I considered it a monumental classic at the time - and still do. Aunt Judy was babbling on at the dinner table with a glass of wine in one hand and waving the other -- illustrating what she was talking about. Suddenly and quite unexpectedly someone had had enough of her [I think it was Aunt Edna] and a drumstick flew across the table hitting Aunt Judy along side of the head. I heard the strike but missed the throw.

There was deadly silence -- knives and forks stopped in mid air -- no one moved a muscle. Aunt Judy slowly turned and rose from her chair at the same time in classic Gloria Swanson style. It seemed as though fire flashed from her large beautiful emerald eyes. She and Aunt Edna never quite saw eye to eye on just about everything so it seemed obvious she knew who had done it. No one moved except Aunt Edna who continued eating from her plate in a somewhat flippant manner which bespoke “Yes, I did it - so what.”

Without taking her glacial stare from Aunt Edna, Aunt Judy skillfully scooped up a hand full of mom’s delicious mashed potatoes with bacon bits and threw it with such accuracy and force that Mel Mallette of the Brooklyn Dodgers [my favorite pitcher] would have been proud. And she threw it with her left hand just as Mel would have done it.

The mashed potatoes hit Aunt Edna in the face with such force it almost knocked her off of her chair. More deadly silence as Aunt Edna recovered her composure and reciprocated with a homemade buttered roll, which I had baked that very morning, and then everyone got involved as sides were taken. The men folk liked Aunt Judy because she was a dish and could drink most of them under the table - most of the time. She was also a big flirt though nothing ever came of it as far as I know. My mother never commented on her sister’s conduct - she would just press her lips and frown. She did like Aunt Judy a lot, however, and I believe she was a little jealous of her lifestyle. So you can pretty well guess how the sides were drawn.

The ensuing chaos was total and quite glorious -- I was in seventh heaven, occasionally ducking a flying drumstick or the green beans. I did get a partial hit of the tossed salad and some Chuncky Bleu Cheese dressing. I can still taste it.

When it was finally over, the dining room was an unbelievable sight to behold. There was food stuck in places I didn’t think possible. It was by far the most fun I have ever had with my family.

Everyone eventually left - Aunt Judy was first - feet first - she passed out as usual - and my poor mother and father began to clean up the mess.

Mother was in tears at the sight of her beautiful new damask table linens which were all but ruined with spilled -- everything; and Dad just grumbled. I knew what he was saying under his breath because I’ve heard the language he can use when angry. The cellar air would be blue sometimes when a project didn’t turn out as expected. He knew mother didn’t approve so he kept it to himself today. But he did laugh when he caught my knowing smile.

I helped. but not very much - I wanted to savor the delicious moment; and try and save some of those mashed potatoes. I still can’t make that recipe the way Mother did.

No one spoke to one another for over a year. That was sad -at least for me. I spent many an hour in the turret reliving those precious moments - god love ‘em all for providing me with the happiest Thanksgiving Day Dinner ever. Oh, for the good old days.

Love Marge.



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