BETHLEHEM, Pa. — We weren’t poor growing up, but by no means were we wading knee-deep in money.
Economists labeled us lower middle class. Mom and dad called it living paycheck to paycheck: pinching pennies, no extras.
Chandeliers adorned other houses. The only Lincoln we ever owned were the toy logs with which I built cabins on our living-room rug.
My late mom and dad were first-generation Americans — honest, hardworking, blue-collar folks who scraped out an existence working in the garment industry.
Mom was a seamstress who sewed many of her own clothes. Dad didn't make much money pressing pants, but he pressed on. He never called a repairman because we couldn’t afford one. By necessity, he studied up on how to fix things.
I don’t recall either taking a sick day. Missing work meant missing a bill payment, so they took two aspirin, blew their noses and went to work.
While we lived low on the economic ladder in our neighborhood, there were other families so poor they couldn’t reach the bottom rung.
One family in particular was so desperately in need that mom occasionally would bag up clothes our family had outgrown and offer them to a neighbor mother for her, her husband and two children.
And so on this Thanksgiving, when not enough of us are blessed to have nourishing food before us and a warm family around us, I think about those folks from years ago and, given how little we had, wonder how they ever got by.
"This is what neighbors do."My Dad
Thanksgiving Day usually started early at our house.
Mom or dad would wake up at the crack of dawn to put the turkey in the oven before returning to bed. The fridge would be bursting with all those mouth-watering side dishes and pies mom whipped up with her kitchen magic.
However, one particular Thanksgiving memory has stayed with me all these years.
Early commotion
I was 8 or 9. I awoke about 2 a.m. to go downstairs to the bathroom, which was off the tiny kitchen in our tiny house, where the walls seemed to be closing in on a daily basis.
There was mom, putting a turkey in the oven. Being half asleep and it being Thanksgiving, I didn’t think much of it and trudged back upstairs to bed.
When I awoke later that morning, I ate cereal at the kitchen table with my little brother as mom and dad rushed around the kitchen.
I watched as they pulled the turkey from the oven and scooped out the stuffing and placed it in Tupperware.
A Thermos was filled with gravy. Aluminum foil and plastic wrap covered bowls overflowing with sweet potatoes, vegetables and cranberry sauce. A pumpkin pie topped with whipped cream punctuated the feast.
It was far too early for such prepping and packing, I thought. So I just enjoyed the aroma and finished my breakfast.
After I traded in my pajamas for Wranglers and a sweatshirt, dad dispatched me to our basement to retrieve a large cardboard box. I did and set it on the kitchen table.
A morning trek
As he and mom began packing it with the meal, I couldn't figure out why.
Maybe, I thought, we were eating Thanksgiving dinner across the street at grandma and grandpa’s house instead of them coming to ours.
The day was a puzzle with a few missing pieces. Yes, it was Thanksgiving, and, yes, there was all this food, but I couldn't put it all together.
As dad punctuated the feast by placing a bottle of wine in the box, I asked where we were going.
“Just put your coat and sneakers on,” was all he said.
Dad and I walked into the cold morning air. He carried the enormous box of food; I carried considerable confusion.
We walked around the block and stopped at the apartment building of a neighbor. We climbed two flights of creaky stairs. I recall seeing a broken handrail and walls of chipped paint — a place to live yearning to be a home.
His hands full, dad told me to knock on the door.
When it opened, there stood the woman to whom mom had often given our old clothes. She appeared tired and surprised.
As dad extended the box toward her, he said only this: “This is from us. Happy Thanksgiving.”
The woman fell speechless, mouthed a silent “Thank you” and tears filled her eyes.
Safe and warm
On our walk home, dad explained that the woman had told mom a week earlier that her husband had recently lost his job, and that she didn’t know what they were going to do, much less be able to afford a traditional Thanksgiving dinner.
Knowing even at that young age that we were not a family of great means, my knitted brow elicited this explanation from dad.
“This,” he told me, “is what neighbors do.”
They may be the five most impactful words he ever said to me.
When we returned home, mom had our turkey ready for the oven and was preparing side dishes she’d be cooking in a few hours.
The tiny house where I grew up was drafty and nurturing, old and loving, safe and warm. On Thanksgiving Day — and every day.
No chandeliers, no Lincoln, little money.
But so incredibly rich.
Phil Gianficaro is a reporter for LehighValleyNews.com. He grew up in northeastern Pennsylvania.
