Editor’s Note: This column was originally published in 2004.
IN 1943, Norman Rockwell painted a depiction of an American family sharing Thanksgiving dinner. The painting was titled “Freedom from Want,” one of four “Freedom” paintings inspired by Franklin Roosevelt’s address to Congress during World War II.
The painting, along with the three others, toured the United States and through the sale of war bonds helped raise more than $130 million for the war effort.
But that wasn’t all.
Little did Rockwell know that, in addition to raising lots of money for the country, his work would raise forever after the standards by which Americans perceived the fourth Thursday in November.
Today, more than 60 years later, it is still an iconic display of a traditional Thanksgiving Day celebration that we, in one way or another, seem to reach for every year.
Martha Stewart, Hallmark, Pottery Barn, Williams-Sonoma ... they’re all cashing in on what Rockwell thrust onto the American psyche decades ago.
So much for that “freedom from want.” Our appetite as American consumers has never been so insatiable as we vainly try to buy ourselves that picture of perfection.
The illustration centers around the turkey, browned to perfection, being effortlessly placed in its spot on the long white-clad tabletop by none other than Mother, whose clean white apron, by the way, shows no signs of grease, no smudges of cranberry sauce or gravy. Father, standing at the head of the table in his dark suit and tie, looks on with pride. Meanwhile, at each perfectly appointed place setting, china and silver just so, are numerous (white) faces, young and old, smiling, chatting and clearly enjoying each other’s company.
At first glance, it’s a very attractive scene, one almost anyone would like to be a part of.
But with all due respect to Rockwell and his work, of which I am a great admirer, the Thanksgiving Day illustration, I dare say, could use a little revision, not just for our sake, but history’s as well.
After all, the first Thanksgiving feast at Plymouth Rock 300 years ago was hardly a Rockwell-inspired occasion. There were no fancy table settings, dressed-up dining rooms, or long banquet tables in the Massachusetts Bay Colony in 1621, the year the colonists celebrated their first harvest in the New World. Their dining room, on that day, was the great outdoors. And forks didn’t even exist. They ate with spoons, knives — and their fingers.
As far as the menu went, the meal wasn’t an ode to the turkey, as it is today. Rather, it was variety of meats from the region, including lobster, clams, venison, duck, wild turkey, geese, even swan.
Since their supply of sugar and flour had dwindled, the Pilgrims did not enjoy a bounty of breads, pies and sweet desserts that we consider an essential part of our Thanksgiving. Neither was there milk, cider, butter, potatoes, or many other vegetables, for that matter.
And, as we all know, it wasn’t just a bunch of English Pilgrims filling their bellies that day. The feast included 90 Wampanoag Indians, with whom the Pilgrims shared the blessings that God had bestowed upon them, even after a year in which nearly half of them had died from their first winter.
I suggest here is where we should begin our quest for the “perfect” Thanksgiving Day. Looking at the holiday from the perspective of the other “Rock,” Plymouth Rock, may do us some good as we enter a season that can demand nothing short of a perfection, that promises to leave us disappointed and unfulfilled, if we aren’t careful.
After all, it’s those un-Rockwell-like Thanksgiving Day traditions, rituals and memories that become the most meaningful — and most memorable — over the years.
For instance, when I was 16 or 17 years old, we all woke up sick with food poisoning Friday morning after eating out for Thanksgiving the day before.
And then there was the year Chris and I volunteered to be hosts for the holiday at our home for my in-laws. Everything seemed perfect — until we pulled the turkey out of the oven and my father-in-law announced that I cooked the bird upside down!
Just a year later, we’ll never forget yanking a giant turkey leg out of our dog, Abby’s, mouth after she managed to help herself to the turkey platter before it had a chance to make it to the table.
And then there are those little things that just make Thanksgivings our own.
Like my dad’s turkey carving ritual, which does not involve a fancy polished heirloom carving set passed down from one generation to the next. His tool of choice: the electric knife. Never mind that hearing something like a chainsaw slicing through such a beautiful bird always seems to disrupt the elegance of the meal my mom worked so hard to prepare.
And Thanksgiving would not be complete without familiar and not-so-familiar faces around the table. In the spirit our Plymouth Rock ancestors, rarely was it only my immediate family partaking in the bounty.
Thanksgiving Day when I was a child was always a day to reach out and share food, conversation and our lives with others — international students, foreign-exchange students, elderly folk, family friends.
Today is Thanksgiving Day. And whether you and yours have already consumed the feast or not, we hope the tyranny of unrealistic expectations and the superficial canvas of a picture-perfect celebration didn’t squeeze the “thanks” and “giving” out of the holiday.
Only then can we begin to experience not only that freedom of want but the freedom to partake in the real spirit of Thanksgiving.
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