Gratitude is not only the greatest of virtues, but the parent of all others. – Marcus Tullius Cicero
The plan was to resort to whatever funny Thanksgiving story I surely had previously written and post it here to avoid disappointing my adoring throng. But, lo and behold, no such story exists. Upon further reflection of the lack of a humorous anecdote, I realized that fourth November Thursday was the singular day the Ward family somehow managed put their vast dysfunction aside and enjoy life. Perhaps that’s why Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday.
With that revelation in hand, my thoughts turned to whether I might have enjoyed a particular Thanksgiving, and sure enough, I did!
I’m reasonably sure the event unfolded on November 24, 1977. “How do I know this,” you ask? Because I’d graduated from Evanston Township High School the year before and the ATF wouldn’t darken our doorways until the summer of 1978. As my favorite female curmudgeon, Sharry Lynn Blazer, aptly noted, “That has to be the funniest life dividing line I’ve ever heard! B-ATF or A-ATF.” That’s because only Jeff Ward could connect Thanksgiving to being, or not being, the prime suspect in the UNABOMb case.
Those of you who’ve already listened to the magnificent Pineapple Street Studios Project UNABOM podcast already know that the North Shore General Staff was our Northwestern University-based Dungeons & Dragons and wargaming club. And the core members of the 1977 assemblage were Paul Montague, Ray Kunstmanas, the ultimately nefarious Dave White, and of course, yours truly.
I understood why Paul didn’t want to have to endure O’Hare en route back to Virginia, but considering that Dave’s family lived in La Grange, Illinois, and Ray’s hailed from the South Side, I’m not sure how everyone ended up at Casa del Ward, but they did. My best guesses are Dave’s family pathology put even mine to shame and Ray’s parents were headed off to some distant exotic relative’s locale like Newark, New Jersey.
Nonetheless, the method by which mother managed to squeeze nine people into that 1,800 square foot south Evanston domicile’s tiny dining room would’ve made Mari Kondo desperately jealous. And let me tell you, the four of us temporarily existing in the same non-gaming location, particularly without the pressure of the UNABOMb investigation, led to the kind of shenanigans that would’ve been the source of an epic Monkees episode.
I wish I could remember more of our humorous hijinks, but I do recall a couple of them.
Like many family matriarchs, my mother would record her four sons’ advancing heights on the small yellow kitchen entryway side wall. Nobody saw him do it, but armed with a sharp number 2 pencil, Dave proceeded to insert some rather silly D&D interjections. The singular addition I do recollect was “Frank the dwarven giant.” And God bless my crazy mother. She left those notations up for the duration such that, whenever I walked through that 833 Reba back door, that sight always cracked me up.
Let’s not get too maudlin here! Laughter echoed throughout that hallowed Ward household on far more than one occasion. But the situation became increasingly bleak as years passed and “Frank the Dwarven Giant” always reminded me of a time when laughter was the norm.
But the highlight of that hilarious holiday repast was the competitive Olympic olive toss. I’m not sure who started it, but immediately after making short work of the turkey, those black oval spheroids were hurtling across the table in copious quantities. The object of said competition was to toss the ebony fruit with enough force that it would fly in a linear trajectory directly into an opposite-side-of-the-table contestant’s awaiting mouth. As you might imagine, that rather difficult targeting proposition led to some serious olive-related collateral damage.
I’m not sure who emerged victorious, but I do remember the winning number was two, with the rest of us coming in at zero or one. And my mother and father were actually quite amused by the inelegant proceedings.
Sadly, after the ATF showed up a year later followed by the FBI in 1980, the four of us would go our separate ways. But on one glorious Thanksgiving in 1977, four fast friends got together and turned it into a night to remember. And every subsequent Thanksgiving get together has been prefaced by, “Do you remember the story of the olive toss?,” and the tale gets told one more time.
My fondest wish is that you, too, can fall back on a similar memory to remind you that life is good and gratitude is the most potent force in the Universe.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Author’s note:
If you have a great Thanksgiving memory, please share it in the comments!
And if you’re really lucky and the aforementioned Ms. Blazier is in a writing mood, tomorrow I’ll post the story of how her mother and aunts got totally snockered on Thanksgiving gravy.
Author’s note part two:
The attached depiction of my youthful home, including the house number, will not be fodder for cracking any passwords because I never resort to the obvious.
