Thanksgiving was always a very special time for me. Even as a little boy I was fascinated by this special holiday. Maybe deep down inside it was because my dad was a wholesale butcher in the Bronx market -- a market itself that was surrounded by its own infamy, from Jack's Diner to the cops that were on the take, to the little fellas who took your numbers in the betting racquet along with your money, to the bookies who you would lay down even money on a sure thing and end up on the short end of the stick.
It was a joyful holiday -- off from school for four days with plenty to eat, drink and be merry about! In grade school this holiday meant a closer step to Christmas, the granddaddy of all holidays in my estimation. As a little kid a Thanksgiving play at school, turkey and all the trimmings along with every meat and treat you could imagine. I would even dress-up like an Indian and antagonize not only the pilgrims but anyone else I came in contact, especially family members.
My family was always very special to me growing up in an ethnic Bronx neighborhood and we'd celebrate with a Thanksgiving dinner that would go on for three to four hours at a time. And even then you weren't sure if it was over or not. After feasting it was time to rest your gut and sometimes having to down a few swigs of Brioschi, which was some kind of whop remedy for indigestion and even a bad case of gas. Whether this product did the trick, no one could be positive. I would think of the next day -- a Friday off. No such thing back then as "Black Friday," although it still was the kick-off of Christmas.
