Memories of a Youthful Family Thanksgiving: Turkey, Cranberry Sauce, Pumpkin Pie, and, of course, the Famous Turkey Bowl Football Game!

To me Thanksgiving is the forgotten holiday. It’s sandwiched in between the craziness of Halloween, which has become an almost month-long celebration, and the unfortunate commercialization of Christmas and, to a lesser extent, Hanukkah. You can’t watch television or check your news feed these days without seeing ads for Black Friday, Cyber Monday, or an assortment of sales for unique holiday gifts.

Indeed, when was the last ad campaign you witnessed for Thanksgiving? Ok, I’ll concede that there are occasional newspaper ads for turkeys and hams, and maybe cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie mix, but that’s about how far it goes. Very few Madison Avenue advertising agencies – I dare say – are pushing Butterball Turkeys or Ocean Spray cranberry sauce this week. Instead, they are mounting campaigns to get us to buy new cars, the latest iPhone, Big Screen TVs, and the like.

And that’s the beauty of Thanksgiving. It might be understated in the Metasphere, but it’s understood where it counts the most – in home and hearth. Most of us know what Thanksgiving means, and we respond accordingly. Rushing home from afar to be with family and friends, eating way too much turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes and apple pie, and catching up on all the goings on in everyone’s lives, from jobs, relationships, and relatives to politics, football and entertainment.

When I was growing up Back East, Thanksgiving was an all-day ritual. My mom would pop the turkey in the oven by mid-morning and she and my older sisters would set about making the other fixings – stuffing, squash, the aforementioned mashed potatoes, green beans, cranberry sauce (of course), and any number of pies, from Pumpkin to Apple to the dreaded Mince Meat. My Dad loved the latter, with a hunk of Limburger cheese on top; I still can’t stomach it to this day.

Back in my growing up days in the early-to-mid-1960s, we played football on Thanksgiving morning – just like the pros on TV – in what became to be called “The Turkey Bowl.” In my little ‘burb of Westvale, N.Y., outside of Syracuse, we had two teams: the Knights and the Warriors. Each team played in a regional league against squads from other nearby places like Split Rock, Baldwinsville and Camilus. No matter how good or bad our seasons were, the grudge match and final game was always against our local rivals.

I was on the Knights. We wore green jerseys, white pants, with lots of padding, and yellow helmets. The Warriors sported red jerseys, with the same complimentary uniform and helmet that we wore. We were colorful, for sure, but not necessarily bitter opponents. After all, most of us went to some of the same schools together – either parochial or public – or lived in the same neighborhoods.

It was sort of, kind of, a friendly match, until there were penalties assessed, a few shoving matches here and there, or what we perceived of as “dirty play.” I was a pint-sized little kid at the time – all of 70 pounds soaking wet – who was assigned to play on the line, both on the offensive side and defensive side of the ball. In the world of “kiddom” back then (and probably similar to this day), parents ruled. If your dad was the coach, an assistant coach, or knew one of the coaches, you got preferential treatment.

There were guys on my team who ended up in “skilled” positions – quarterbacks, running backs, split ends and so on – solely based on who they knew or whose son they were, not necessarily by their ability.  They got the prime-time assignments while the rest of us were banished to the line. It was liking serving a sentence in Siberia. I could have protested to my dad, who knew a lot of my coaches, but I didn’t have a leg to stand on. My dad was a referee, and he refed a lot of our games donning his pinstripe shirt, black hat, whistle and red flag.

I used to try and disguise the fact that my dad was the ref, but he would blow my cover from time to time during a game by saying “nice play” to me if I made a decent block or tackled a runner in the open field. “Dad, be quiet, would you!”

Anyways, the Turkey Bowl was played on a field – nestled on the base of Westcott Reservoir – that by today’s standards would be considered a cow pasture. There were lots of ruts, holes, mud, and dug up grass, but we didn’t know any better. It was football in late November. The weather could be cold, really cold, like the year it snowed, or it could be nice and sunny, with temps in the ’50s. Nevertheless, we played on and had a blast doing so.

Looking back now, I can’t remember in the years I played whether the Knights beat the Warriors, or the Warriors beat the Knights. What I do remember is returning home and walking into the kitchen to the smells of Thanksgiving. After my mom schussed me into the bathroom for a shower, I returned and started pestering everyone about when dinner was going to be ready. Soon, they assured me, soon!

After my great aunt and uncle arrived, the feast was on. We always said a blessing and thanks to the lord for all our gifts before my dad would start carving the bird. As the youngest, I always felt shortchanged at mealtime, but not on Thanksgiving. We ate, shared stories, chatted it up a bit, and ate some more, including Pumpkin Pie with a dollop of whip cream on top. To a pre-adolescent boy, there was nothing better than that!

Photos courtesy of Unsplash.com and Microsoft Bing. For more information on Syracuse N.Y.: Things To Do in Syracuse NY | Food, Festivals & Fun

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