The Thanksgiving Plague, or How I Almost Died in a Coal Mine

Thanksgiving 2008 will always be remembered by my family as the year my grandmother brought a stomach bug to dinner.

Mammam Edie was a lovable curmudgeon. None of us — her children or grandchildren — ever had any doubt she loved us, but often her affection took the form of reminding us we were pains in her ass. She was stubborn and feisty and straight-talking, and she was God-fearing and kind and funny. She lived her entire adult life in Pennsylvania, but when she called us “Baby” or “Sugar,” the traces of the Southern drawl from a North Carolina upbringing were unmistakable. In my childhood memories, she is a large woman with an even bigger personality. She would often declare, only half-joking, that she was perfect, and she would add that I was perfect, too, because I was her granddaughter, and I was just like her.

In her later years, Mammam Edie liked for us to make a fuss over her, but she would never have admitted as much. She didn’t want to cause a fuss, but if we happened to bring her a cup of coffee so she didn’t have to get up, she would be most delighted. She didn’t want to be any trouble, but if we thought to reserve the turkey neck for her when preparing Thanksgiving dinner, she would know we really did love her. And if we failed to make the fuss she’d been hoping for, she was sure to let us know how…