Thankful It's Over - For Now

I stepped inside, away from the cornhole game to grab another beer. At 11AM on Thanksgiving Day,  it’s not an option, it’s survival. Already the kitchen bar was lined with empty Miller High Life bottles and an empty fifth of Fireball cinnamon whisky. Out of the corner of my eye, through the front window, I saw Uncle Earl drive by.

‘Keep going, keep going,’ I muttered to myself. But he was just parking his sleek and shiny electric Beamer a couple of doors down – away from our yard full of F250s and Dodge Challengers. Among the trucks and street racers were TRUMP2028 flags, Calvin Peeing decals, and a particularly large “My Guns are Lubricated with the Tears of Liberals” bumper sticker. Brother Todd’s Ram has “I Brake for No One” written in white shoe polish on the rear window. If someone in this family could have afforded it, there would be a “General Lee” replica from Dukes of Hazard (though it would probably be up on blocks.)

Earl didn’t need a bumper sticker. That BMW EV in this neighborhood might as well have had a Kamala Harris portrait painted on the hood with rainbow flag decals on the doors.

He was the uncle that everyone talks about, the one that brings his politics to the table. The pot stirrer. But the thing is, I mean, I kinda LIKE Uncle Earl. Over the years, I just go all Zen on Thanksgiving… I used to try to make the peace. These days I just enjoy the show. Uncle Earl flips the script in the family. Rather than the redneck druncle, he’s the sober one. Smart, educated, and obviously, he makes a little money. I’m the middle nephew of the clan, never really fit in, but I'm not Earl enough to bring down the wrath of the MAGA hordes.

As that middle nephew, and without the temperament to scream at kinfolk, I was permanently assigned to the role of peacekeeper. Not because I’m indifferent—far from it—but because I’m a moderate. Nothing inspires solemn responsibility like disappointing everyone equally. Christmas, Easter, and Thanksgiving all follow the same predictable script: someone says something inflammatory (usually racist or sexist in nature – big surprise, eh?), half the room explodes, the other half cheers, and I wander between the two sides, handing out rolls like Trump hands out paper towels during a hurricane cleanup.

This Thanksgiving looked no different. The living room – full of red hats, camouflage hoodies, and enough whisky breath to set off the CO alarms.

Grandpa was hungry, so that meant that it was time.  Grandpa—the family patriarch and religious enthusiast—announced that this year’s prayer would not be our usual round robin of giving thanks for random personal gratitude. We would need to give thanks for the generous “gifts” that our president has brought to “every patriot.”

How perfect.

I found Uncle Earl perched on the edge of the avocado-toned, corduroy loveseat—what we call “the safe spot” because it’s as far from the TV as possible. He sat stiffly, his smile frozen in place like he’d been Botoxed into mild terror.

“Hey, champ,” he said when I approached. He always calls me champ, even though I’ve never demonstrated any exceptional athletic ability. Or unexceptional athletic ability. “How’s work?”

“Not bad,” I said. “Busy. How you?”

He let out a mournful sigh. “I just want to get through this without anyone yelling at me. Or about me. Or near me. Maybe I should get a to-go plate.”

Before I could reassure him, Grandpa clapped his hands together. He always claps loudly, like Yul Brynner in the King and I, calling all of his wives and children.

“Alright, everyone,” he said. “Form the prayer circle. We’re going to give thanks to baby Jesus for the many miracles done for this country by our great President Trump.”

Yes, “Baby Jesus.” You see, Grandpa did not view “Talladega Nights” as a comedy, but as an inspiring drama.

We gathered in a large circle. Hands were taken reluctantly (in Earl’s case) and enthusiastically (in cousin Billy’s, who squeezes harder than medically advisable). Men shuffled the circle so that they would not have to hold another man’s hand. Mom dimmed the lights. Someone reduced the volume of Fox News... slightly.

Mama noticed that someone was missing, and whispered, “Where is cousin Craig?”

Craig was almost 30 years old, lived at home, and had the intellect of, well, any almost-30-year-old that lives in his room playing video games 24/7. I didn’t think it wise to poke the incel, lest he have a cache of guns ‘n ammo that he might employ to make us the lead story at 6 and 10.  

“Craig, git your Got-Damn ass down here, NOW,” bellowed grandpa. “We are fixin’ to PRAY!”

Aunt Becky jumped a bit, looking nervous and embarrassed at the same time. 

“I’m almost to Level 6! ‘Sides, I don’t like turkey anyways.”

Grandpa fumed, and by the looks of the veins popping out of his face, he was about to stroke out.

Before he could detonate, Mama tightened her grip on his hand and firmly commanded him to “leave Craig the fuck alone and git on with this fucking prayer.”

Becky added that she would microwave some Mac ‘n Cheese for Craig, later. “He really likes Mac ‘n Cheese” she reassured us.

I thought for a second that I heard a tiny whimper come from the sinuses of Uncle Earl.

“Baby Jesus,” Grandpa bellowed, in a tone that would alarm any baby. “Baby Jesus, today we are here to offer our thanks to you, and especially to your Chosen Son, Donald J. Trump, the greatest president that ever lived.” (Don’t attempt to understand contemporary American theology, just roll with it. Have faith, or something.)

“Let us begin by thanking Trump for the $2000 that we’re getting, and the $1,000 that little babies are gonna git. Thank you for the billions of dollars our farmers are getting as a bonus.”

A smattering of “Amens” rippled around the circle.

I looked over at Earl. He was biting his lower lip so fiercely that I was sure blood would flow. Words seemed ready to fly out of his mouth. I shook my head at him. I was trying to Zen out. ‘Focus on the food,’ I told myself. And looking over at the big bird and the dressing and mashed potatoes and all that gravy…

“We thank You,” Grandpa looked to the ceiling fan, “for lower inflation. Lord, prices have dropped so low it’s practically sinful.”

Dad nodded vigorously. “Unbelievably affordable.”

My sister looked teary-eyed, “I bought eggs for $1.19,” she whispered.

“They were $5.99,” Earl whispered. He was gonna blow, I didn’t know how long he could hold it.

But it didn’t matter. Momentum had taken over. I concentrated on the pie table.

“We thank You,” Grandpa said, “for peace unfolding in Ukraine. The Blessed peace of Baby Jesus.”

“Glory!” cousin Clay shouted.
“Glory, Glory” a couple others chimed in.

“We thank You for the perfect healthcare plan Trump is bringin’ to us,” Grandpa said. “With the low premiums, high coverage, and the cheap drugs to manage my bursitis. And my high blood pressure. And my diabeetus.”

“I. Just. Can’t.” Earl muttered. He knew that the old outside world with all its “facts,” and “science,” and “rational thought” and all that stuff was collapsing. And our family was the picture of those “alternate” facts. It made him crazy. Oh, it did me, too, but I had laser focus on those rolls in that basket.

Grandpa droned on: tariffs making us wealthy, gas prices plummeting, Christian values restored like a vintage truck, and a Trump Tower being built on the now peaceful Gaza Strip.

Then came the moment—the dreaded passing of the prayer baton.

“Now,” Grandpa said, “we’ll go around the circle. Each of you will share what miracle from President Trump you’re most grateful for this year.”

Dad:

“I’m thankful Trump fixed the border once and for all. Haven’t seen a illegal Mex'kin in ages. He solved it.”

Mom:

“I’m grateful that he brought the Bible back into the White House. First one to really do it. Reads from it nightly. Jesus is back! And, (she teared up,) we can say “Merry Christmas again! Glory Hallelujah!”

My sister chimed in: “You know he prays before every meal. Just like we’re doing.”

Around the circle, the hallucination continued.

Cousin Clay: “Groceries are cheap thanks to Trump.”

Aunt Linda: “That beautiful, golden ballroom that he’s building for the people!” (A chorus of ooohs and ahhhs were whispered around the circle.)

Cousin Becky: “That he forgave my student loans.”

Every time someone spoke, Uncle Earl twitched like he’d been shocked through the floor. Just twitchy as all hell.

Then Grandpa turned to him.

“And now, Edward Earl,” he said, “tell us what you’re thankful to President Trump for.”

In the quiet that followed, I watched as the cranberry sauce in its traditional can shape seemed to melt.

Uncle Earl inhaled like a man preparing to confess to a crime he did not commit.

“Well,” he began shakily, “I’m…thankful for this family.”

A safe answer—a feint, I assumed. Like Trump talking about Somalians eating babies in lieu of releasing the Epstein files.

“But,” he added, “I’m also thankful for…the truth.”

The family braced. The final assault was coming. The air strike had been called to rain down on our own position.

“And the truth,” he said louder, “is that none of the things you all listed are real. Not one. He didn’t fix the border. Inflation didn’t vanish; hell, prices are skyrocketing. There is no perfect healthcare plan. Tariffs didn’t pay for themselves—tariffs NEVER pay for themselves. The student loans weren’t forgiven. There’s no peace in Ukraine, or Gaza for that matter. Nothing you’re saying actually happened!”

He looked around the circle, his breathing was getting heavier. His face was turning a deep shade of, well, cranberry.  

The room reacted with the hushed scandal of a congregation discovering that the pastor has been diddling half the choir and a couple of teenagers.

Dad shook his head sadly. “Earl. Buddy. Why do you do this?”

Aunt Linda clucked her tongue and murmured, “Poor man. Brainwashed by the deep state.”

“Every year,” my sister whispered, “he tries to ruin it.”

Cousin Clay said gently, “You’ve got to educate yourself. Quite watching all that woke news! Do your research!”

“I don’t watch woke news!” Earl shouted. “And I’m more educated than anyone in this God-forsaken room!

This last declaration landed in the room like a whipped turd on top of the punkin’ pie.

Grandpa sighed—long, theatrical, biblical. “Earl, Thanksgiving is a time of gratitude, not for your ugly elitism.”

The others murmured approvingly.

“We will pray,” Grandpa said solemnly, “that in this next year, the Baby Jesus frees you from the grip of all this… thinking. Woke thinking, I mean.”

“Amen,” everyone echoed.

Uncle Earl gaped. “Has everyone here lost their Got-damned minds?”

But the family just rolled their eyes affectionately, as if he were a tired toddler who had just made a poopie diaper in front of the assembled.

I squeezed his hand. He looked at me as though hoping I might confirm his sanity.

“Let’s have us some mashed potatoes, huh, Earl? We can reheat that gravy. I think it’s all congealed.” I tried to smile.

And just like that, we dropped hands, shuffled to the food table, and loaded our paper plates—equal portions of fat, carbs, and sugar to go along with chunks of the big bird. Like hooking us up to a family-sized I.V. bag of glucose and tryptophan.

I thought I heard that whimper again. Like an orphaned puppy. He was going to be OK.  

Political discord: forgiven and forgotten when smothered in gravy.

Besides, there was pie. And pie heals.

Not to worry. Christmas is just around the corner.