Personal Narrative Essay: Thanksgiving Vacation

I cram back into the overly packed white sports-mom van that my dad owned and shake the snow from ugly, brown crocs. I feel bad about Andrew's glasses, but a simple bottle of glue will fix whatever damaged I caused with the snowball. Dad reminds us how close we are to our “Thanksgiving vacation.” We stopped for gas about two hours from Great Uncle Willy and Great Aunt Rosemary's house in Ohio. Hearing this, I sink back into my seat and lean my head back onto the broken headrest. I cannot help but remember who these people are. They not only raised my father after his mother's death and his father's abandonment, but also, they hit the age of 70 long before I came into this world. Aunt Rosemary sends letters in incredibly illegible handwriting, only translatable by Dad himself, all the time. However, Dad has never particularly

spoken of Uncle Willy before. I look up and calm my nerves by reminding myself that Dad turned out not only a great father, but also someone who people at church look up to as well. However, when I think more about Dad at church, I remember that he explained that his aunt and uncle were catholic, which make me more unsettled; I remember all the catholic rules they expected of my dad.
Dad turns into the same neighborhood for the third time as he tries to find Uncle Willy and Aunt Rosemarie's house. Andrew, Jacob, and Daniel fell asleep about an hour and a half ago. To me it did not matter that the sun went down two hours ago, I feel so car sick it would not matter if I had not slept in three days. The uneasy feeling of showing up at someone's house who to me are strangers, only made things significantly worse. Dad finally found his old house, and makes a left turn that wakes up my younger brother. I ask him to wake up Daniel as I shake Andrew awake and we begin to slowly clean up the mess an eight or nine-hour car ride creates. We struggle all of our belongings into the old house. With The lights off and nobody greeting us at the door, I immediately assume that Uncle Willy and Aunt Rosemarie decided to go to bed before we arrived since the sun set three hours ago. Considering such a big dinner is planned for tomorrow, it does not surprise me too much that they decided to not wait for us to arrive. I look over to Dad and he points to the room Jacob and I must sleep in. It sits directly across from the only shut door in the house, which I assume implies it is Uncle Willy and Aunt Rosemarie's room. After such a long drive and a lot of car sickness, I do not even bother staying awake any longer than required, so I switch into my gym shorts and an old tee-shirt and immediately fall asleep.
After hearing doors opening and closing throughout the house, I decide that maybe sleeping in past seven in the morning seems unlikely. I sit up and look around, trying to remember where I am. When I do, I cannot help but frown a little as I realize driving here was not just a vivid dream. I walk out into the main room where I see two people I do not recall ever seeing before. Before I knew it, Aunt Rosemarie, who does not quite reach my height yet, hugs me as tight as extended family typically does. A strange feeling overcomes me as she hugs me not too tight, but not awkwardly loose. While I am by no means a hugger, I enjoy my personal space, I felt oddly okay with getting a hug from Aunt Rosemarie. We sit down in the living room with Dad and Dawn, who woke up early to prepare for dinner. They all begin having a conversation, that without context, make no sense. I look around to take in my surroundings, and from the kitchen I could hear a door open and close. I glance over and see a thin, tall, man with short gray hair and a long gray beard. Dad never described what Uncle Willy looks like, and while I cannot reimagine my my prior mental image of him, I did not think he would look like Dr. Wagner. He extends his arm for a handshake, which after the hug from Aunt Rosemarie, catches me off guard because I expected another hug. As we shake hands, he comments how much I look like my father, and then make a joke how that does not particularly imply any good. Cracking jokes to someone you just met, make me realize that this person definitely raised my father.
We sit around the living room table and make general conversation until all my brothers come out of their room. When Andrew finally walks out around noon, we prepare the table for breakfast, which at this point has becomes brunch. As Uncle Willy continues to make more and more eggs that comes from one of his neighbor's chickens, Aunt Rosemarie and Dad write up a list of things we need for the dinner. Of course, Aunt Rosemarie and Uncle Willy only bought the turkey in advanced, so Dad and I must go to Kroger to get potatoes, stuffing, etc. I cannot say I am too thrilled about getting back in the car, but I still feel rather out of place in here, so I will take what I can get. As we walk up and down the aisles of the unfamiliar Kroger, I ask dad a few things about preparing the turkey. I've helped with cooking the turkey for eight years now, but I want to make sure I know everything for sure before I make the turkey virtually by myself. After spending 15 more minutes looking for stuffing and driving back home, Dad and I yell at my brother to get them to help unload the car into the kitchen. I greet Aunt Rosemarie who was playing solitaire in the kitchen and ask where Uncle Willy went. He and a friend who lives down the street are working on a wood-working project together (a hobby of Uncle Willy), and he would work down at his house for a few hours so that he does not take up space in the small kitchen we already do not have. Dad and I need his help with some of the cooking, but we figure it would not be worth interrupting him.
For the next 45 minutes, I take the turkey out of the bag/bucket it stayed in all week to thaw, chop the apples, celery, and onions, adding spices, and putting pads of butter under the skin.

As I slid the knife under the turkey's skin to put more butter under it, I look over to my side to see the door opening. Before I even get the chance to greet Uncle Willy, he already has his mouth open yelling for Dad before he turns to me. I do not think anybody told him that I would be preparing the turkey, as upon seeing me with a knife to the turkey becomes immediately enraged. While he shouts at me trying to figure out why “a child” decides to prep a 40$ turkey, Dad runs in to find out what exactly I did doing wrong. Dad tells me to wash my hands and go sit in the living room while he talks to Uncle Willy, but at this moment I currently cannot breathe very well, so I decide to catch my breath outside. I cannot help but feel slightly relieved that my brothers were elsewhere, likely upstairs playing the Wii we brought, so that they did not witness that. My brothers watching or listening would have made that scene more unbearable than I already found

it.
After sitting outside for 10 minutes, I can feel my shaking die down, but still present, but I can breathe normally again. Dad walks out from the sliding door and sits down next to me. I guess he can notice my shaking because I did not say anything before he begins to explain what he talked about. He asked Uncle Willy why he came in “guns blazing” and explained that Uncle Willy did not realize that I know how to cook and that everyone except for him knew I was cooking the turkey. I find myself still confused to why it was such a problem that I cook regardless of my age, and I ask dad if Uncle Willy did the same to him when Dad was a child and under care of him and Aunt Rosemarie. Dad explains that 35 or so years ago, he has just started to grow out of the “turtle stage” of living without his birth parents and he began doing the reckless things a new teenager would typically do. He continues to add that Uncle Willy was always tough with him growing up to make sure he wouldn't end up like Dad's dad did; someone who abandons his son when he needs his only parent left.
While Dad cannot be completely sure, he assumes that Uncle Willy took a look at me, and with him at such an old age and me looking so much like dad, he worried about me cooking such an important meal by myself. Hearing Dad explain Uncle Willy and his actions stops my shaking and I stand up to hug Dad. I admit I came here afraid of Uncle Willy, but hearing that he truly had the best intentions in minds I understand not only more about Uncle Willy, but also Dad. He pats me on the back and opens the sliding door back up and leads me back into the kitchen where Uncle Willy is currently sitting. He extends out his arm like he did when I first arrived at his house last night and apologizes for everything. I accept his apology not just because I cannot say I have ever heard of someone not accepting an apology, but because while I still wish he had not stormed in to yell at me, I have a newfound respect for him. Dad, Uncle Willy, and I wash our hands and pick up where I left off: putting as much butter under the skin of a 20 pound bird as possible.