We arrived in St. Louis late in the afternoon on the Friday after Thanksgiving. The annual Thanksgiving family football game was already underway. This is where Lindsey and her cousins (all of whom are younger than her, and male), her little brother (Clark), mother (Nancy), stepfather (Ray), aunts, and uncles all get together to play a nice friendly game of flag football at a local recreational area in St. Charles.
On this particular occasion it happened to be approximately a degree Fahrenheit in St. Charles (roughly 450 degrees too cold to burn books) and I, being afflicted with the pesky ankylosing spondylitis, deemed myself ineligible for the afternoon's frosty affairs. I was therefore benumbed on the track surrounding the field of play, where I periodically snapped digital photos of the contest and froze my blessed nads off. I did capture some lively stills, however, including one of Lindsey making a lengthy touchdown run (I would post it here if I had it). I should note that this touchdown was only deemed thus through the (possibly biased) call of the line judge, who happened also to be the day's photographer. Lindsey's uncle, of the opposing team, was less than pleased with the call, apparently unaware of the fact that he was playing a family game of flag football with what could primarily be described as a group of children. Such are the ways of the avuncular.
After our overly competitive and pitilessly lengthy frozen gridiron extravaganza, it was on to the house for our 2nd Thanksgiving dinner of the year. The meal was delightful (though, like most meals, it had nothing that could compete with the Wilson stuffing), and I was particularly charmed by an elderly gentleman named Ken, a longtime companion of Lindsey's great aunt Georgia, who attends these family gatherings every year. Ken looks a little like late-life Victor Borge, and has the sharpest and quickest wit of any septuagenarian (octogenarian??) you're likely to meet. We enjoyed a few rousing exchanges, but my appreciation for his presence was perhaps most evident when it was time to watch "Jeopardy!"
(Let me just add, semi-randomly, that although Merv Griffin gave us many great things, the exclamation point at the end of "Jeopardy!" is not one of them. Nor is that fucking song, which, although charmingly appropriate on the show, has long since been the mindless and toneless invocation of every asshole who has ever been witness to a pause in anything.)
Anyway.
Apparently, Erica, a 3rd (?) cousin of Lindsey's, had recently been a contestant on that beloved quiz show, and Erica's mother came to the Thanksgiving celebration with complementary "Jeopardy!" DVD in tow. Though we all watched intently, none watched as intently as Ken, who had positioned himself at the rightmost edge of the television with his large Borgean nose not more than a few centimeters from the screen. Despite Georgia's repeated pleas for his relocation, he remained unmoved. As if this wasn't hilarious enough, he would periodically extend the index finger of his left hand and tap chidingly on Erica's scoreboard whenever she happened to venture an incorrect answer. The overwhelmingly endearing nature of the event was almost enough to distract me from the fact that I was nearly wetting myself. To boot, Georgia informed us that Ken had already watched the episode multiple times, and in much the same fashion.
Another interesting personage I met that night was Lindsey's uncle Max. Max lives in New York City with Nancy's sister DJ. He's a set designer (ever heard of Law & Order?) and she's a highly reputable hair stylist (ever heard of Bob Dylan's...manager?). Max told us all about how he and DJ purchased a house in Mexico for when they retire. It's in a protected historic district, which is, by his description, breathtakingly beautiful. Lindsey and I wasted no time in privately discussing methods by which we might fall further into the favor of this (childless) couple, in the hopes that we may, oh, say, get that house when they croak. If this seems tasteless to you, consider your own profligate materialism, you American scum.
Anyway.
The next day was Saturday, and tradition dictates that the Saturday following Thanksgiving shall be a day of extravagance for the ladies of the family. Lindsey and her aunt DJ were manied and pedied while Nancy and Kathy set off in search of a new pair of glasses for Kathy. While the broads were out getting their nails and eyes did, I hung back at Don's house, with Don.
Don is Lindsey's dad. He's a dangerously good cook with a penchant for football, Bud Light, and Perry Mason reruns. He's also a hell of a guy. Being freakishly oversensitive, emotionally unstable, liberal, and completely indifferent to sports, I had more than once considered myself somewhat of a lost cause in the presence of a man's man like Don. However, I really like and respect him, and I think we get along pretty well. At this particular juncture, he and I were sitting in his living room, discussing the health of our aging relatives. I need not go into what was said (as you will no doubt find it even less interesting than the rest of this blog), but it was a nice, candid exchange. Daughter's boyfriend that I be, I like to think of this as "progress."
That evening, Lindsey and I met up with Nancy, Kathy, and DJ at a downtown St. Charles "public house" called Lewis and Clark's, where we began a night of familial merriment and hooch consumption. Kathy was particularly frazzled by the day's search for spectacles, and wasted no time in ordering her libations "double." Here is a picture of Lindsey's mother and aunts at that very locale:
Nancy, DJ, Kathy (aka Bo)Here is a picture of them prepping for that picture:
From there, we trod the brick streets of St. Charles down to the Vine restaurant, where we ate dinner and got drunker. On the way to the Vine, I was fortunate enough to hear a breathtaking a cappella rendition of Gillian Welch's "By The Mark" performed--in harmony--by Lindsey and her mother. I walked several steps behind, swooning, contemplating the infinite nature of the soul.*
*This is a metaphor. Much like the sometime "spiritual" words of Einstein, Hawking, and a good many of the founding fathers, it denotes nothing literally supernatural.
After swilling wine with Lindsey, Lindsey's mother, and Lindsey's aunts, it was time to meet up with Don at Tubby's, which is neither a restaurant, nor a sports bar, nor a bowling alley--but rather all three. Such sophistication! (I kid the place.) It was the evening of the Mizzou v. Kansas game, in which "we" were victorious. At some point near the end of the game, there was in "our" favor a safety, resulting in a roar from the whole bar, and prompting Don and I (both a little drunk) to engage in some sort of high-five-esque handshake motion akin to an arm wrestling grip in the middle of the air. (Regrettably, my memory of this incident will remain unsubstantiated by eyewitness testimony; Lindsey was in the bathroom at the time.)
Following the game, we found ourselves at another of Don's favorite watering holes, Greiner's. It is here that Lindsey often fulfills her role as local starlet/karaoke darling, and I was myself privileged to take in a few of her performances, including Nat King Cole's "Unforgettable" in the form of a father-daughter duet. Now, I know what you're thinking--there's no way the Don described earlier in this blog would get up and sing karaoke, let alone an exceedingly tame easy listening standard (I'm not knocking it; it's a beautiful song). I once harbored those same doubts. However, in addition to it being the cutest and most heartwarming thing I've ever seen in my life, their performance was also quite emotive and technically astute. After the song, Don and I engaged in an engrossing discussion regarding our favorite films, and I learned that his is The African Queen. That being said, we of course spent the next 15 or 20 minutes talking about how Humphrey Bogart is unspeakably fucking awesome. It was a delightful evening, one that (hopefully) further solidified my somewhat tenuous standing as a plausible candidate for Lindsey's affections.
And so, after 2 opulent meals, some karaoke, an episode of "Jeopardy!", and a fair amount of imbibing with family and tenured academics, our transcontinental Thanksgiving adventure came to a close. Join me next time (won't you?) when I weave a tale of shopping, prejudice, and a flaming piano, in 2007 Holiday Retrospective, Part Three: Christmas.
I know you're holding your breath; but at this rate, it's not a good idea.
