Returning home for Thanksgiving means turkey, cool weather, and awkward family moments. The Journal’s staff recount their quirkiest holiday stories:
I was at my aunt’s for Thanksgiving during second year, and my family had all had a sufficient amount to drink.
We’d finished dinner, and my triplet sister and I were talking to our cousins about university. I don’t remember how it came up, but they started asking us about our university houses. I mentioned I wouldn’t want to move because it would be a hassle to transport my double bed. My mother chimed in to say that my current bed was the last bed she’d buy me, but since she hadn’t bought my sister a new bed yet, she’d pay for one more for her. My sister joked that she was saving her new bed until she had a room big enough for a double one.
This led my father to say, “She’ll get a double bed when she’s ready to share it with a partner.”
My sister and I both stared at him in shock. We’re not an open family, probably due to our British roots, and we never talk about those things. My cousin then picked up the bottle of wine, handed it to my sister and me, and told us to drink up.
—Tessa Warbuton, Production Manager
I live in Scarborough—where there are no turkeys—and one Thanksgiving weekend, when I was nine years old, a turkey appeared in my backyard.
My brother and I needed to get rid of this turkey, which seemed colossal compared to my hand-sized cards, so we trapped it between our backyard gates. He shooed the turkey in between the gates and had me stand guard at one end while he bolted around to lock the other gate. After both gates were locked, he came back to my side of the yard and we watched as the turkey shot us one last look before hopping the gate with minimal effort.
We never saw the turkey again.
—Aysha Tabassum, Features Editor
Instead of helping my family prepare for Thanksgiving dinner, I spent the evening doing exactly the opposite.
My brother and I were playing hide-and-go-seek with my cousin, Ian—yes, this was many years ago—and I was the ‘seeker.’ After making it my life’s work to find my brother, neither of us could find Ian. He was far from his first growth spurt at the time, so we checked every corner, cupboard, and crevice—nothing.
After 20 minutes of searching—which I now realize lacked any sense of panic—I spotted a pile of blankets approximately his size wrapped up in a ball by the fridge. Without hesitation, I grabbed the blankets and flung them in the air yelling “GOTCHA,” but Ian didn’t fly out—the turkey did.
A torrent of yelling and chaos from my Mom and Aunt followed, and minutes later we found him lying on the tucked-in dining room chairs.
—Matt Scace, Managing Editor
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