Thanksgiving at my grandparents' house
Thanksgiving in my grandparents' house was always a delicious, uproarious occasion. When we arrived, the house was filled with the aroma of turkey, mincemeat pies, and home-baked breads wafting from the oven. The shrieks of rowdy children tumbling over one another echoed through the downstairs rooms, and the bellow of a basset hound rang from the back steps. The antique armchairs and sofa were positioned with exquisite care, and the living room sparkled from hours of dusting, sweeping, and scrubbing. Familiar candelabra on the mantel added an extra light and warmth to the crackling fire in the fireplace. The dinner itself was a high point of the year, with bubbling conversation and laughter that never subsided long, with teasing of shy children by good-natured uncles, and the endless family gossip. The Thanksgiving turkey seemed tenderer and juicy every year and a child could wallow in mounds of mashed potatoes with huge dollops of gravy.
Homegrown beans and peas, canned since the summer, along with tart cranberry sauce, filled stomachs so full that the hot dessert pies sat cooling on plates while youngsters poked half-heartedly at them.
After the party the room was a mess. Two overturned chairs huddled in a Connor, one with both back legs broken off. The ivory couch decorated with crimson blotches of spilled punch, protruded at a strange angle into the center of
the room. Handprints and graffiti in green, red, and yellow crayon had defaced the elegant wallpaper, and the beige carpet was beautified by three enormous pink stains. Rainbow-colored streamers hung limply from the ceiling; and paper hats and horns covered the floor, the table and the television set. Several gloves had been left on the armchair, and a knit cap and scarf lay under the coffee table.