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A city boy’s first country Thanksgiving
By Mary Kay Nelson

One brisk fall day, I walked into the house and noticed the answering machine light blinking. Play. “Mom, I’m bringing John home for Thanksgiving. Okay?” My mother’s instinct was right on target. Earlier that summer, I knew Amy had found her life’s companion. There would be a Christmas proposal followed by a spring wedding. It was time for our extended family to meet her “intended”. Thanksgiving and our traditional celebration was the right time.

John, a city boy, was born and raised in Indianapolis. He and Amy were now both living in Chicago. His idea of being in the West was flying to Aspen to ski. A trip to rural Nebraska and the open prairie would be a new experience for him.

Leaving Chicago at dawn, the drive west on I-80 was cold and sunny, traveling across Iowa and into Nebraska crossing over the Missouri River. John had to pull in and fill up the car at the huge concrete Conestoga wagon gas station at the Millard exit just to tell his Chicago buddies about it. Then on west they traveled to our small town of Holdrege.

A bit of history

As they drove along, Amy told John about the Oregon Trail and about one great, great grandfather who left his children in Nebraska heading to the California Gold Rush, never to be heard from again. Two of her great grandparents came west after the railroads connected the nation. One great grandfather was instrumental in securing federal funding for the irrigation project that waters this land today.

The harvested fields looked empty and open. The long sunset had only a few high, windswept clouds to color the sky. Amy said it was just the way she wanted John to see Nebraska for the first time.

Dinner awaited their arrival. It is always fun to tell my friends that one of my children’s favorite meals is beef tongue. The recipe came from a Julie Child’s 1960 television program in vivid black and white. My husband, Clarke, said if the program had been in color, I would never have tried the recipe.

Being tedious and time consuming to make, the tongue dish is only for special occasions. Several years after John’s first Thanksgiving with us, he confessed to me that only the greatest love for my daughter made him take that first bite, repeating over and over in his mind: “pizza, pizza, pizza.”

Nebraska night sky

Amy spoke often of missing the night sky in the lights of the city. On this clear, cold night, they took a long walk under the Milky Way to enjoy the brilliance of the stars over the prairie.

When they returned, I was preparing the turkey to be roasted the following morning. John, whose mother did little cooking as he was growing up, becameinterested in the process. He helped me wash the bird and boil the giblets. “What are they for?” he asked. I assured him that they would be cut up in tiny pieces and hidden in the dressing.

In the morning, John helped stuff the turkey and slide it into the oven. During the next several hours of roasting, he could be seen looking in the oven door and remarking about how delicious the turkey smelled. When it was ready, John watched over Clarke’s shoulder until Clarke gave John the knife and fork and taught him how to carve.

Later in the evening, after Grandmother’s Christmas tree was decorated, turkey sandwiches on homemade rye bread were served. As everyone prepared to leave, packages of sliced turkey were given to aunts, uncles, cousins, grandmothers and friends to take home.

Our day after Thanksgiving is quite and relaxed; breakfast is available on the kitchen counter all morning. After a long run, Amy and John were in the kitchen fixing their juice and cereal, when I got out the large kettle and started breaking up the bony turkey carcass into it.

John turned to Amy and asked, “What is your mother doing now?” She replied, “Mom is going to make turkey soup for lunch.” “Man,” John said with a wink, ”Just imagine what she could do with a buffalo! “

You’ve got to love this boy!

Mary Kay Nelson writes about the rural lifestyle from her home in Holdrege, Nebraska.

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