"No!" A louder chorus followed, "Noooo's!"

Four aunts, three uncles, seven cousin Excited father showing off his brand new Texas tan extra-long Hudson sedan.

A Hudson! Stylish Hudson! His heart is full of pride. The first non-square Ford car that anyone in the family has ever owned. 

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The mouths of several cousins ​​were still filled with pumpkin pie. An aunt is throwing away the third eggnog, but the rest of the small family twittered happily because my father had saved money for this car trophy for several years.

Not long ago, Dad sneaked away from the table and parked Hudson in front of the house to get the most attention. It gleams in the sun, like some movie stars in the southern border, very different from the monotonous Chevrolet and Plymouth that are also parked on the street. 

Then suddenly there was the sound of braking to stop fighting, whimpering like a disaster-stricken bird. The sound of hard steel hitting painted metal-the color of Texas tan. The voice of joy and achievement dissolves in despair. This despair accompanied a good man through the Great Depression until the day he can dig into himself and buy a prize for himself. 

The tilted car seemed to single out the Hudson from all the other cars parked in front of our house. It bumped it onto the sidewalk and slid onto the lawn in front of us, like a toy thrown by a grumpy child through the window. 

I don't remember what happened that day. All I know is that the look I saw on my father's face was the first time I learned the fact that plans can change in an instant. But I also learned that in the arms of my father, family and friends will always care about you, not the most beautiful Texas tan Hudson in the world.

A few years later, Aunt Vivienne and Uncle Sylvan brought their relatives to celebrate Thanksgiving. These are my favorite aunts and uncles. Vivienne, a chubby redhead, always makes everyone laugh, and Sylvain, a quiet plumber and a gentle-speaking Catholic, although he has two opportunities to go to church every week, every time The conversation was strung together with elaborate curse words, even my father didn't seem to hear it.

As a hunter and fisherman, Sylvan will provide guests with fish from lakes in northern Indiana, the venison and squirrels he just caught, and of course, the turkey he will bless the sacrament like a priest.

There is always Bonnie by his side, an English Cocker Spaniel who accompanies him on hunting. He hates everyone except Sylvan. It was in this energetic and joyous atmosphere that the aunts and uncles with rosy cheeks were finishing their bluegill course, and Vivian had just put the maple-colored barbecue on the table and Sylvan caught him Chest.

He made a sound that didn't sound like a curse, but it might be that he collapsed on the floor. Panic prevailed.

The relatives got up to help. Someone called for an ambulance. The tablecloth was pulled aside, and antique dishes filled with cranberry sauce and gravy, olives and pickles, Betty Crocker biscuits, and even fish wrecks slid to the floor and were pressed against Vivienne's new carpet.

Bonnie got on the table and stood on the fallen enemy corpse like a gladiator. As Sylvan was panting on the floor, Bonnie tore the turkey. I learned another lesson that day about the depth of loyalty and the importance of choosing friends carefully.

Sylvan recovered. One side bluegill is the culprit. After that, I always wanted him to practice cursing on Bonnie and let her sit down and watch him have one or two drumsticks.

Then there is only one person.

I was 15 years old. Is a new member of Ballet Russe de Monte Carlo, a company based in New York City. Before I joined the company, I stayed at the Martha Washington Women's Hotel; now during the Thanksgiving holiday before the tour westward, all the other dancers have gone home. But for me, returning to Indiana by Greyhound is clearly out of my price range.

So I found myself in a drugstore on the fourth Thursday of November, thanking the open lunch counter and the sleepy waitress in the blue dress. "Are there any benefits?" or something similar, she asked.

She was dark and beautiful, and apparently there were no customers for a few hours. "Turkey?" I asked. A faint smile crossed her lips. "Isn't it?" "Where are you from?" I took a risk. I can hear a piece of music or two from a small radio she put on the shelf-it may be against the rules. "Puerto Rico," she smiled brighter. "Do you like Puerto Rican music?"

I shrugged and said I don't know​​. In Indiana, I have never met anyone who speaks Spanish. But when she turns on the radio, I can nod enthusiastically, "Yes." I like Puerto Rican music!

She clapped her hands. "Es meringue!" Her shoulders began to move back and forth, her center of gravity moved regularly, her hips circled back and forth, and her blue uniform was spinning on her legs. She walked around the counter and stretched out her hands to me. I took them away.

For the next hour, Inez taught me to dance Puerto Rican style dance on the linoleum floor of the drugstore. We swayed back and forth in the empty aisle, and when we turned the medicine bottle into a little maracas, we raised our heads and laughed. We shared some turkey and spices, and then we danced some more. little more.

Later that night, back to Martha Washington’s cell, I compared all my other Thanksgiving with this Thanksgiving. A sumptuous feast and family warmth. Barking dog and destroyed car. And decided that Inez's Thanksgiving Day may be ranked high.

I learned that I don’t need a turkey or even my family to find happiness or gratitude. On a cold and lonely afternoon, stretch out your hand for a little bit, and there will be happiness. I will always keep this knowledge. And share it.

Contact Marina Brown at mcdb100@comcast.net. Brown is the author of the RPLA Gold Award and Book of the Year, The Orphan of Pitigliano and other novels.

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