Dave Wood

 “Mid pleasures and palaces though they may roam,

Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home.”       

                                                              --John Howard Payne

Payne wrote that 200 years ago and on this eve of Thanksgiving I’m saying it again. When I was a callow youth, I took this holiday for granted, never missed a[i]one of the fine spreads laid out by my mother, my stepmother, my grandma or Aunt Wylis—all of their menus were different, reflecting the cooks’ personalities. Perhaps the most spectacular was when my stepmother closed her restaurant for the day and cooked a meal that would overflow the most elaborate Horn of Plenty. A heavy hen or waddling capon, sage dressing on the side, riced potatoes, glossy gravy, green bean casserole, mashed rutabagas (for me), fruit salad dressed in whipped cream (for my stepbrother), pumpkin chiffon and pecan pie, homemade lefse, Parker House Rolls, cranberry sauce and jiggly cranberry Jello out of a can (for my sister.) Aunt Wyliss began the rite with martinis and Mogen David for elderly female guests, who clucked when she served both turkey and ham. Grandma’s Swede evident in the relative sparsity on her board which I never heard groaning. Grandpa ameliorated the offerings by serving “hot ones’’ in seldom used wine glasses (put sugar lump soaked in bitters in goblet. Pour over each lump one ounce 190 proof Everkleer grain alcohol, followed by three ounces of boiling water. Stir with lemon peel. Drink. And continue until Grandma shoos you into the dining room.)

Isn’t this a wonderful heartwarming story? Right out of an O. Henry fable? Something bad has to happen, or what’s literary irony for? 

What happened is that I grew up and was offered an assistantship at faraway Bowling Green University and I naively accepted the offer and headed out with a friend, Bill Wagner from Thorp, also far away from the state that gave us our six worst presidents (until recently).  Bowling Green. That can’t be any worse than Whitehall and Thorp—or can it? Things went smoothly enough. I rented a room a block from my office from Mrs. Jesse Cheek, widow of the town’s Presbyterian minister. I liked my profs and my students. Downtown was convivial enough if you could keep Buckeye beer from backing up on you.

The first omen occurred when my Aunt Wyliss sent me a package of homemade lefse, “So you could celebrate a proper Thanksgiving.” Mrs. Cheek kindly, if curiously, allowed me to store it in her fridge. On the day before Turkey Day, Mrs.  Cheek awakened me with news that “I’ve fried up some of that speckled stuff and we can have breakfast together.”

“Fried up?” That’s Buckeye cuisine for you. I survived breakfast and made a date with Bill Wagner to have Thanksgiving dinner with him.

Morning dawned and we walked down Clough Street wondering which of the college dives we should dine at. We reached Main Street and were not a little bit displeased to discover that the town was closed, most of the students having headed for home and the groaning boards of Cleveland, New York City, and Tontogany, birthplace of actress Lillian Gishy. Only one bar was open. A sleazy dump called Howard’s, where we were somewhat overserved Tech beer from Pittsburgh. Out we slunk onto Main and headed for the only open restaurant in northwestern Ohio, Petti’s Alpine Village, whose door we had never crossed because it was a hangout for full profs and deans and its owner was a well-known who refused to serve Afro-Americans but welcomed exchange students from darkest Africa “because they spoke better English.”

And then we looked at the menu which made it clear that we had spent too long and too much at Howard’s. We pooled our loose change and ordered two appetizers: Scallops sautéed in butter.  At least it wasn’t oleo.

I hope my tale of two Thanksgivings reminds you that “there’s no place like home for the holidays!”