Category: Laginappe

As a somewhat fully functioning adult, I was thinking the other day about the dreams I had as a child.

Every child has dreams. Doctors, lawyers, firemen, nurses, and teachers all originate in the hearts and minds of dreaming children. Family can play a part in this. Police work seems to run in the veins of some families. Often, preachers beget preachers. What we see as children impacts our dreams.

Likewise, geography may shape our dreams. You won’t find many kids here in the Mississippi heat who aspire to be hockey players. Nor will you find a child in Kansas breaking the news to his parents that he wants to be a shrimper.

Growing up on the Mississippi Gulf Coast in Pascagoula, there were many young boys of my generation who dreamed of operating the drawbridge.

Pascagoula sits on a little point of land that is almost an island. Rivers wrap around the western and northern perimeter, and the Gulf lies to the south. If you have a fear of bridges and need to flee, you will have to head east toward Mobile.

While the drawbridge fascinated young boys, it caused those in a hurry to say things that would later have to be confessed in prayer.

I vividly recall one day riding in the backseat of my parents’ car over the drawbridge into Pascagoula when a shift change was taking place. The man coming on duty was carrying a guitar. There was a small television set in the booth.

And you got to work the drawbridge.

I had a dream.

More than one person has told me that they dreamed of riding on the back of the garbage truck growing up.

The garbage truck, to young eyes, is impressive. It’s loud. Garbage trucks don’t tiptoe around in the morning. They beep and bang, I think, in part to let sleeping folks know they’re already at work.

I remember my brother-in-law telling me that one time, when he was in high school, he overslept because he had mistaken his alarm clock for the sound the garbage truck made while backing up.

What got my attention was the place on the side of the truck where the workers stood.

For kids who explored town on bicycles, riding through neighborhoods while hanging on for dear life seemed like an adventure not often found in Pascagoula.

I had a dream.

Most of those dreams, of course, never panned out. But one dream I think about occasionally took place while I was attending Central Elementary.

Around the fourth grade, we got a new student by the name of Polly.

Polly was confined to a wheelchair. She struggled when she spoke. Watching her struggle saddened me.

In my child’s mind, I just felt like if someone had enough money, they could take Polly somewhere and she could be cured.

At the time, I lived and breathed baseball. I made up my mind that if I ever got rich playing baseball, I would “cure” Polly.

Oh, if life were that easy.

Sorry, Polly.

These were the things I dreamed about. Things that had I achieved them, I thought would make me happy.

One dream I never had was… being married and having children.

While some kids, especially little girls, grow up dreaming about their wedding day, it never really was something that was on my radar. I wasn’t against the idea. It just wasn’t something I aspired to.

But now, after twenty-five years of marriage and two teenage daughters, I have come to realize something:

Sometimes we don’t know we are dreaming until we find ourselves in the middle of a dream.

Perhaps today you look back at your life and realize it hasn’t turned out the way you had dreamed it would. Maybe the dreams you had as a child never panned out.

Pause. Think about all the ways you have been blessed. Think about the people you love. The people who love you. The things you never planned but wouldn’t trade for anything.

And realize that perhaps you are in the middle of a dream right now.

          There is much debate about what warrants a position on the Thanksgiving table. I have a highly unpopular view in my family that if all the dishes we prepared at Thanksgiving were really that good, we would eat them throughout the year. I’ve never been sitting in my office thinking, “Boy, I hope Angela has made a green bean casserole for supper.”  Green bean casserole is one of those things you tolerate (notice I didn’t say like) or you don’t. Thanksgiving dishes can split otherwise decent people into hardened factions. Cranberry sauce either consists of fresh cranberries cooked down in a mound of sugar, water, and a touch of orange juice, or it comes in a can and makes a sucking noise as it flops out. There is a whole generation of people who were raised believing that cranberry sauce came with ridges. Pick your side, but do so carefully because whatever you choose will be served from now until your last Thanksgiving. Dressing is also up for debate. Does it have stuff in it…like oysters, for instance? Does it have sage in it?  Does it have ground sausage in it?  These are all things that need to be discussed with your preacher prior to your wedding.

          The one thing that seems to cause less debate is turkey. Now I’ve heard some heathens don’t do turkey at Thanksgiving. Turkey is passed over for substitutes. Never trust a man who eats lasagna on Thanksgiving. That’s the kind of behavior that makes old church ladies whisper during the invitation hymn. Some people are intimidated by the process of cooking a turkey and will say that it’s too much trouble. That’s the kind of laziness that should cause concern for the future of our nation. Now I’m not saying that you have to cook a turkey on Thanksgiving.  You don’t have to wear shoes to a funeral either. Just know that neglecting either will cause people to talk.

          When I was a kid, my mother and later my brother were in charge of cooking the turkey. My job was to sit and watch the little red thing pop up when it was done. I took this job seriously and probably added to the cooking time by constantly opening the door to check and see if we had a pop-up yet. To me, it ranked right up there with watching the TV and seeing the ball fall on New Year’s Eve.

          I also remember a Thanksgiving where, after resting a moment after eating, my brother Bob decided it was as good a time as any to make a new door between rooms. Saws came out, and construction commenced. Most families watch football on Thanksgiving. We altered load-bearing walls. That’s probably better left to another story.

          Somehow, as an adult, I have assumed the role of chief turkey cook in our home. I’m not sure exactly how this happened. But I do remember vividly the first turkey I cooked for Thanksgiving. Like my family growing up, Thanksgiving was big in Angela’s family as well. On the occasion of my first turkey cooking, we gathered at her grandmother’s house, Mrs. Sybil. Just a heads up here, when you want someone to cook something they have never cooked before, you might want to not have them do it on Thanksgiving, with the centerpiece of the meal.

          Mrs. Sybil was a special lady. When I came to know her, she was older and bent over from age. But I remember that at her house, she was always humming or singing hymns under her breath. And she always bobbed her foot up and down to keep time with the song that only she could hear. She was the first person I told of my intentions to ask Angela to marry me. She was so happy. Partly because her granddaughter was getting married, but also because she knew something that no one else knew yet.

          On that first Thanksgiving turkey test, I had done my homework. I had researched the art of turkey preparation. I assembled all the ingredients, picked out a sturdy pan, had my turkey roasting bag, and was ready to cook. I even had a turkey that had the little red pop-up timer. What could go wrong? Overconfidence is dangerous around a hot stove and family. I removed the neck from the cavity and filled it with all the things I remember seeing in our turkeys growing up…butter, chunks of onion, oranges, garlic, and spices. I also had a pot on the stove with orange juice, butter, and spices that I used to baste the turkey every 30 minutes.

          When the popper popped…it looked good. It smelled good. I was pleased. As I was beginning to take it from the pan to a platter, Mrs. Sybil quietly pointed out something that saved me.  On the other end of the turkey, the…well, you know…was a little white bag of something. I didn’t know about this bag. When I pulled the neck out of the cavity, I assumed that was all the “parts.”  I didn’t know that the modern-day turkey was prepped like an Egyptian mummy. Apparently, Butterball believes a turkey ought to enter eternity with all its belongings. There isn’t a more embarrassing thing to do than to take a set of tongs and extract a hot bag of turkey organs before serving your family.

          That Thanksgiving taught me a couple of lessons. There was a practical lesson I learned: always look at both ends of the turkey before beginning the cooking process. There was also a lesson buried in my faux pas. I learned that the event was more important than the actual food itself. Most people can’t remember a single Thanksgiving menu from ten years ago, but they can remember who sat at the table. I remember those Thanksgivings with my family and now Angela’s family, but I really don’t remember any special dish. I remember watching for the timer to pop up. I remember tearing out a wall, just cause. I remember the look on Angela’s grandmother’s face when she saw the edges of that little white bag sticking out of a freshly cooked turkey. Thanksgiving, even if you eat cranberry sauce that makes a sucking sound when it slides out of the can, is really about family, kids’ tables, stories, and remembering who’s missing from the table.

Until the next page…

Scott Sullivan

The Notebook

Editor’s Note: This story is adapted from my upcoming book, A Taste From My Past, a collection of stories about family, faith, laughter, tears, and food growing up here along the Mississippi Gulf Coast.

Graduation time is here.

Oddly enough, my thoughts haven’t been on caps, gowns, diplomas, or even the future. I know all those things are important. But my mind has been somewhere else.

I’ve been thinking about, of all things, press-on nails and the toy aisle at Dollar General. I’ve been thinking about the sound little plastic princess shoes make when they’re trying to keep up with you. I’ve been thinking about the excitement in the eyes of a little girl when I bought her a toy she didn’t need…but wanted with all her heart.

I’ve been thinking about the little blonde-haired girl who wanted to go with me on every errand, not because we had anything important to do…but just because she wanted to be there.

I remember one night in particular. We were riding in my truck with the windows down, eating boiled peanuts and tossing the shells out the window. Out of nowhere she said, “This is the best night ever.”

And she meant it.

This is the same little girl I once bribed with a Happy Meal if she would just stop talking. She was born talking. It was as if she had so much to say and was afraid time would run out before she could get it all out.

I’ve also been thinking about answered prayers.

I remember how her mother and I prayed for a child who would be compassionate, have a tender heart, and come to know the Lord at a young age.

And I remember the night she did.

I can still hear her little voice asking Jesus to save her. And I know He did.

I remember night after night of homework, when we both wanted to drop out of math so we could talk about things that mattered more…history, theology, and politics.

Now here we are.

Don’t take this wrong. I’m excited to see what the Lord does with her life. She is smart, strong, and, thankfully, still tender-hearted and compassionate. I know the world will try to beat some of that out of her. I pray it never does. Whatever she chooses to do, she’ll do it well, because that’s just who she is.

It’s not that I don’t want her to grow up.

It’s just that, this graduation season, my mind keeps wandering back to boiled peanuts…little plastic princess shoes…and the toy aisle at Dollar General.

Until the next page…

Scott Sullivan

The Notebook