The Greatest Memories Are Made Gathered Around The Table

Aunt Rita and Uncle John Loving Thanksgiving and each other..

No one in our family loved Thanksgiving more than My Aunt Rita. She called it “her holiday”—meaning it was celebrated at her house. She cooked for days, sweated every detail, and made you feel lucky to be there.

Aunt Rita was my mother’s oldest sister. The two of them were never particularly close and always had a contentious relationship, but our families celebrated Thanksgiving and Christmas together yearly (with my mother declaring Christmas “HER holiday”), so I grew up celebrating at Aunt Rita and Uncle John’s house as much as my own.

When you walked through Aunt Rita’s front door - always adorned with a beautiful wreath made with branches and trinkets she collected from flea markets and estate sales - she greeted you with a big hug and a smile. Her house was warm, a welcome relief from the cold Pittsburgh weather, and filled with wonderful smells.

She often made homemade yeast rolls with herbs and melted butter on top and focaccia (back in the 1970s before it was trendy). Both were a particular weakness for me. For appetizers, she’d have celery stuffed with cream cheese, green olives, and carrot sticks, most likely grown in her garden.

Her dining room never looked like something out of the pages of a magazine, but it was so perfectly her. In the fifty years that I can remember, except for the new carpeting in the late 1970s, it never changed. A collection of glass strawberry canisters lined the hutch, a barrel Uncle John turned into a liquor cabinet sat in one corner, a shelf packed full of photo albums sat on the opposite wall, and a bewildered-looking ceramic pilgrim family always had a special place at the center of the table. We ate our Thanksgiving meal off everyday dishes, but each place setting had a wine glass and a crystal water goblet. It wasn’t fancy, but it was cozy and felt special.

When it came to the main event, her turkey was always delicious. The popular standbys were her homemade bread and dinner rolls, canned cranberry sauce (still in the shape of the can but sliced on a plate), green bean casserole, and a variety of vegetables she grew in her garden and then canned. Of course, there was always stuffing, mashed potatoes, and gravy.

Dessert was homemade pumpkin pie with canned Reddi Whip and whatever else she surprised us with. One year, she made a pear pie with pears from her pear tree. Other years, there were cookies, cherry pie, and a pineapple upside-down cake.

After the meal and after the plates and kitchen were cleaned, she would bring out her paints and guide us through a craft. She wanted everyone to participate, and we did. Over the years, we painted Christmas ornaments, little wooden trees, snowmen, and even tiny ornaments made out of—I kid you not—eggshells.

There were a few mishaps through the years. One Thanksgiving, she forgot to put sugar in the pies. Another year, she announced she had unplugged the television and that there would be no football watching because she wanted the men to spend more time interacting with the rest of the family. There was some grumbling, but everyone survived, and in hindsight, she made the right choice. Football games are forgotten, but our memories and conversations that year were priceless.

The last Thanksgiving I spent with her was around 2007. A few weeks earlier, she and my mother had a falling out, and the sting of this one lingered. Eventually, my mother apologized (somewhat) for being the instigator, but the damage was done.

That year, my mother decided to have Thanksgiving at her own house with her family, and Aunt Rita decided to have Thanksgiving at her own house with her family. Caught in the middle, Bill, Justin, and I went to dinner at both houses, but it wasn’t the same. Our family was divided, and it didn’t feel right. That wasn’t how Thanksgiving was supposed to be; it was the beginning of the end.

Bill, Justin, and I spent the next couple of years celebrating with Bill’s family, but oh, how I missed the Thanksgiving traditions I grew up with at Aunt Rita’s. During those few years, it became apparent Aunt Rita had dementia. Her days of hosting gatherings were behind her, and my cousin Julie took over the tradition. For the last few years, Aunt Rita seemed happy to be among the family.

We lost her about six weeks before Thanksgiving in 2020. I hope she knows how grateful I am for the memories and how she brought us all together during the holidays. Thank You, Aunt Rita.

Julie and I sitting at the kid’s table at a non-Thanksgiving celebration. Thanksgiving at Aunt Rita’s meant no kid’s table.

The bewildered looking pilgrim family. They sat in the center of the dining room table each Thanksgiving.

A few of the ceramic strawberry canisters Aunt Rita collected. They lined the buffet in the dining room. Rumor is she bought them one at a time at various garage and estate sales.

A young Uncle John building his own house in the 1950s. The land around the house looks exactly the same today.

Our last visit with Aunt Rita before she died. At that point, she did not recognize us. Uncle John is sitting almost in the same spot as he was in the previous picture, where he building their house.