The last turkey Dad made was roasted upside-down. His vision was so bad, he did not realize the bird had been flipped until he tried to carve it. We didn’t say anything; he was embarrassed enough. Then we tasted it; it was so good, so moist and flavorful.
Thanksgiving was always my dad’s holiday. He let Mom bake the bread and mash the potatoes, but he was the chef.
He baked pumpkin pies, enough for dinner and for each child to take one home. The stack sat in the back of the refrigerator and no one ever dared to pre-sample one.
Wednesday he chopped. I have never seen celery and onions chopped so fine. He chopped all the salad ingredients and stored them. Then he stuffed the bird, the night before like you’re not supposed to do, but he was the chef and there was no arguing.
At 0-dark-thirty Thursday morning, he was up, putting the bird in the oven and the sweet potatoes on the bottom rack. He peeled and cubed the white potatoes before settling in for a cup of coffee.
During one of those coffee breaks I once asked him what the big deal was — after all, it was just a “made-up” holiday.
He looked as though I had shot him.
“Aren’t you thankful?” he asked.
He didn’t wait for an answer, but began to tell me about his childhood. His father was a coal miner, until his constantly worried wife made him quit. He left still owing money to the company store. So he farmed, but didn’t make much money. But Grandpa had a fondness for the poker table and he lost the farm. It was the beginning of the Great Depression. Jobs were scarce. Grandpa did what he could.
Dad appreciated his father’s efforts, but it was Dad who, after school, had to go out and get the meat for the family table — fish, rabbit or deer, whatever he could catch, trap or shoot.
“Have I ever made you hunt for your dinner?” Dad asked.
In springtime and summer he searched for wild spinach, asparagus and onions. Sometimes farmers let him glean the leftovers after harvest — squash or potatoes.
“Have you ever had to scrounge for your food?”
The little family might have quietly starved, but the government began the Commodity Food Distribution program. Food was distributed at the local school. Flour and sugar made his mother cry. Peanut butter. Preserves with whole strawberries floating in a delicious jam. His favorite was the big can of orange juice. It was his first taste and he could never be convinced that fresh was better.
The Food Commodities program was criticized on both ends — for giving farmers government money and for handing out free food. Times were hard, but compassion overruled those who objected to giving “handouts.”
Farm subsidies still exist. In 2010, farmers were paid $194 million to grow tobacco. Yet we are facing an epidemic of obesity. Our least expensive foods are high in carbohydrates and fat. Perhaps it’s time to redirect those subsidies to pay farmers to grow fresh fruits and vegetables, then pass those savings on to consumers to encourage better nutrition.
Thanksgiving was Dad’s way of celebrating his ability to provide for his children without assistance, but he was never ashamed that the government stepped in to feed him during the Depression.
My dad repaid that favor with 28 years of military service, serving in World War II, Korea and Vietnam. He was awarded a Purple Heart as well as the Bronze Star. He proudly stood for the country that had stood to assist him all those years ago.
It’s time for us to stand for our next generation. Let’s stop paying to grow tobacco and start paying to grow healthy food.
Jo Ann Viola Salazar of Durango (joann.salazar@gmail.com) blogs at .
