It's Thanksgiving­

This year our family Thanksgiving will be a virtual party, sadly, but then it does save me driving two hours each way to my sister’s house, just to sit in a corner and read or knit with a big glass of wine while she overcooks the turkey and focuses on her grandchildren. The guys sit glued to the TV, watching football, not moving or helping, because they can’t take a chance they might miss a throw, sack, or touchdown.

Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday; there are no mandatory gifts involved, and it’s mostly about all my favorite foods; add in friends and select family members, it's perfection. Although football is also a big part of Thanksgiving, it’s not for me. I am a single event football fan; the Superbowl. The half-time show and commercials are usually worth watching, and sometimes the game is too.

If I were to ask Dr. Freud for an opinion on my football aversion, I bet his psychoanalysis of why I’m not a fan would be because of some traumatic event(s) in my childhood. He would be close—starting with the frenzied Friday nights when we lived in Tucson.

I played flute in my High School band, my sister was a junior varsity cheerleader, and my brother was on his Junior High football team. My mother made sure all of our uniforms were washed, ironed, and ready to go every Friday. Then the logistics came into play. My sister had to be at the JV game at one school. I had to be at another school for the varsity pre-game performance while wearing my heavy wool band uniform in 90-degree Tucson weather. My brother had to be at a third school for his football game. My parents fed us, then morphed into chauffeurs and cheerleaders running from school to school.

Luckily (for my parents), about three weeks into my brother’s first football season, he suffered a broken finger and was summarily released from the team. I’m sure my parents expressed their sympathies to him while secretly doing their happy dance.

Eventually, I went off to college, Northern Arizona University, in Flagstaff, Arizona, with flute in hand but a little reluctant to join the marching band. I would rather have partied with friends at the game instead of rehearsing, learning new music every week, and marching in freezing weather. Then I met the cute trumpet player, and I was hooked and joined the band.

Football meant: no partying with friends on Friday nights. I was either sweating in Tucson, or freezing in Flagstaff while wearing ugly uniforms, rehearsing, learning new music, and pretending to root for teams I didn’t care about. Even the cute trumpet player wasn’t worth the effort. He already had a girlfriend; I was toast.

I enjoy watching most sports, especially soccer, tennis, baseball, and basketball, but football is too slow. There is a 15-second play, then 20 minutes is spent discussing the said play, checking it from every angle, then we go to commercial. The players wear so much plastic padding that they look like weirdly shaped aliens running down the field. At least in other sports, you can ogle at muscles, cute outfits, and athleticism, even if you don’t understand the game.

Last year was the best Thanksgiving I had in many years. It was a Waitsburg friends’ potluck, with about 30 people. Daniel was here for a visit and cooked an amazing risotto. There was great wine and food, no stress, no traffic, and no drama. I hope next year Zoom will be a distant memory, and we can all gather together again, even if it means watching football.

Stay safe and happy Thanksgiving!