The first time I heard that old saying about somebody turning over in their grave was when one of my mother’s sisters showed up at our house with her hair dyed red.
It was a striking change from her natural light brown tint. My mother said, “Gussie would turn over in her grave if she saw this.” They often referred to their mother by her first name, but only after she died.
I was a little surprised at my mother’s reaction to something as common as a lady having a different shade of hair, even if it was her own sister.
Ladies in our neighborhood got together regularly when I was growing up to give each other home permanents and hair dyes. I stayed outside when those hair-fixing sessions were at our house, because the smell of home permanents seemed lethal.
I had known the ladies in our community all my life, but it was hard to recognize some of them when they left after having their hair curled or colored.
So my mother’s comment about somebody being so shocked at something that they would turn over in their grave got my attention. I have not used that term much, but it seems appropriate right now.
My mother would turn over in her grave if she heard that folks are being advised not to muster up all the family members they can to celebrate Thanksgiving.
National health organizations and virus experts like Dr. Anthony Fauci are recommending that holiday gatherings be limited to just members of households instead of relatives from far and wide.
People are also being urged to make other modifications to their Thanksgiving plans like having the meals outdoors if possible and assembling for just an hour or so instead of all day.
One health guru even went so far as to say that Thanksgiving gatherings should not include watching football on TV. He said cheering and shouting would worsen the spread of the virus.
All these efforts to alter Thanksgiving celebrations would upset my parents, who always had those events at their house. The mid-day meal was the main attraction, but there were other activities.
Kinfolks, neighbors and church friends shared my mother’s famous Thanksgiving dinners. She had turkey for folks who liked it but baked big hens and huge hams for my dad and others who preferred it.
Her chicken and dressing with giblet gravy was legendary, and it was accompanied by green bean casseroles, candied sweet potatoes and desserts like pecan pies and coconut cakes.
Everybody filled up at noon and went back the rest of the day for leftovers that stayed on the stove and kitchen cabinet and to refill their glasses of sweet tea.
Grownups watched ballgames on television and played Rook on card tables set up in the living room and on the porch. Some just sat outside under shade trees when it was warm enough and talked about colorful aunts and uncles who were no longer with us.
The preacher and his wife usually came by for dessert. My dad waited until they left to open a Pabst Blue Ribbon.
Kids rode bikes and tire swings, threw footballs and fired chinaberries with their slingshots. Our old dogs were under foot hoping somebody would drop some ham.
My folks lived through the Depression, World War II, some public health threats and other hard times. They experienced air raid drills, food rationing, shortages of household goods and the loss of friends and relatives in combat.
But they were born too late to witness the ravages of Spanish flu in 1918 and would never have understood today’s pandemic.
I can’t picture them in masks, and my mother was too much of a hugger to embrace social distancing.
Advanced technology like making long distance phone calls unless somebody died defied logic for my dad.
If he could hear these suggestions for people to celebrate the holidays virtually with Webex and Zoom instead of getting together, he would be turning over in his grave.
REPRINTED FROM THE NATCHITOCHES TIMES