Thanksgiving: the only family gathering in my family's opinion.

Although I love thinking about the food at my family gatherings, what I remember most is, like Joel, sitting at the kid’s table. But unlike his family, no kid in mine ever wants to have to go to the big table, where they all talk about work, whether business-type work or yard work. I’m nearly twenty-three years old, and you can bet that this year I’ll be sitting at the kid’s table—maybe.

You see, one of the most important members of the kid’s table may have left us forever. My cousin Dean, one of my best friends since I was five, just got hitched last month. I was there, if sullen. I even served punch at the reception, if sullenly. When they asked me to wear a corsage, I said snootily, “This is banana republic and brand new. Absolutely not.” As for his wife, who is family now . . . well, let’s just say I don’t think she’s the type to carouse at the kid’s table with the kids.

Of course, the kid table has calmed down over the years. One of our favorite games to play when we were little was called “Good neighbor/bad neighbor.” Since I was the oldest little (and more than a little bossy), I was in charge. I’d yell, “Bad neighbor!” and we’d shovel food into our mouths, chew with our mouths open, bang the table with the cutlery and generally act like heathens. I’d yell, “Good neighbor!” and within a moment we were sitting properly and eating like marines at 90 degree angles. “Goodness,” we’d say in our most stuffy, proper voices, “have you heard what those terrible bad neighbors have been into lately?” “My word, how rude.”

When we got too loud (which was often), my Dad or Uncle would walk into the room and say, “How about being the good neighbors for a while?” Sheepishly, we’d nod. The only thing worse than being noticed by the big table was being asked to sit at the big table.

As we got older, Dean and Junior became more interested in throwing a football or practicing golf swings after Thanksgiving dinner, and I became more interested in talking on the phone to whatever guy I was dating at the time. Occasionally during the dinner, now, I’ll get lost in reminiscences of our childhood. I’ll look and catch Dean with that lopsided grin on his face, knowing we’re both remembering. “Bad neighbors?” He’d inquire in a whisper. “We’re always bad neighbors inside,” I reply, “even if we have to be good neighbors on the outside.”