I don’t have any stories of drama or intrigue stemming from my family Thanksgiving. It has either become all too routine to notice, or the level of crass commentary and the Jägermeister t-shirt worn by my four year old niece (yes, it was a child’s size shirt) was pretty tame this year.

The reunion still held the requisite promise of setting me into minor regression as I revisited places that no longer resemble the pictures that I hold in my mind. This experience is even more pronounced as I get older and visit the Cape with less frequency than those summer tourists I love to scorn. Still, it’s my home, and I can’t imagine myself ever leaving it completely. Like family, its significance casts a strange spell of devotional torment that causes one to jealousy guard it from any external force that might threaten its very existence. Maybe this feeling is applicable only to me, but I doubt it. Check out a recap of a classic “commercial” from Saturday Night Live, where the music album, “A Dysfunctional Family Christmas” is offered up for purchase:

Including hits like:


“Let’s Pretend We Like Each Other (This Christmas)”

“Someday I’ll Get Christmas Right”

“I’ve Got My Drinking Under Control For The Holidays”

“Peace On Earth? Where?”

“Can’t You Let It Drop, It’s Christmas”

“What I Want You Can’t Buy Me”

“Why Am I The Only One Who Knows What Christmas Really Means?”



[Disclaimer: my family is nowhere near this bad, and further, all of the familial observations that I make in this blog are my purely my own.]

 My foray back onto Amnesia Lane started off with the ride from my sister’s place in Cambridge: we took the Sagamore Bridge to Mashpee in such a way that the roads retraced the school bus route that I circled for years as a kid. New constructions have been put up, but most of the old ones remain. The Riverbend Motel still stands, but it appears that Zachary’s Pub (ahem, Strip Club) has joined forces with the cockroaches to cement its presence and outlast any other business occupying the building. Many of the houses in “old” Mashpee are dilapidated, and the roads in my old neighborhood aren’t even lucky enough to be described as pockmarked. Craters become little frog ponds on rainy days that make me wonder if the snapper turtles venture over from the swamp to take advantage of a change in scenery for the weekend.

 The minor odyssey of driving from my sister’s new condominium down to the town of our humble beginnings served as a strong reminder to me that a person’s memory comprises a very unscientific combination of fact and perception. The fact that each person remembers different aspects about the same bubble of life creates inherent conflict that has the potential to manifest itself in a fantastic display during the holidays. The ritual of coming together for a family reunion may be the same year after year, but the surroundings are always changing around us. How we deal with these changes through the course of our lives is the fodder that makes it all so damn interesting.


I think this year we were all still worn out from last year’s theatrics, and instead just chose to eat in gravy-drenched harmony for a change.