Thanksgiving in Iraq

The holidays can really sneak up on you over here. There are none of the traditional warnings that you get back home. Halloween had a few: trinkets and such in the base exchange, and a ghost hanging from a pole by the abandoned mosque. But when you get as engrossed in your work as I have, you kind of tune it out.

It was my upcoming birthday that reminded me Thanksgiving was around the corner, since they frequently coincide. So I told my mother to expect a phone call on the big day, and on Friday morning (my time), I sat down at a phone and dialed up Lackland Air Force Base. They patched me through to home...

Now, everybody has their own special way of celebrating Thanksgiving, and each one is unique for reasons that we can never really put into words. When you're not there, you realize even more sharply what it is you're missing. It's not the turkey or the brightly-colored tablecloths, it's the little things.

We cook our turkey in oil in a pot over a gas burner. It's a complex, precise process conducted by men - which means that there are a thousand disasters just waiting to happen. The cook is usually my Uncle Ralph. The assistant cooks, whose job it is to tell him how he should 'a done it, consist of four or five brothers and cousins who stand around holding cans of beer, which in South Texas is a liquid which apparently generates wisdom and experience to all who imbibe it, since they are never short on volunteering their turkey-cooking suggestions.

It would probably be easier to cook the turkey indoors. Since my sister married a professional chef 10 years ago, it would also probably make more sense to get him to do it. But tradition is tradition. So the big silver pot is it. In goes the turkey with a chorus of fizzles, pops and crackles. Dogs stand wide-eyed at the big bird and cautiously approach the pot before a splash of hot oil or a human hand deters them from investigating any further.

There is usually a big crowd at the farm, as both my mom's side of the family and my dad's shows up, turning a normally empty field into a parking lot. Kids trapped in the cities year-round have enormous fun running around the farm, riding along on the tractor, or playing on the hay bales, where they jump from bale to bale along long rows along the fenceline. Occasionally, a football game springs up, which usually involves stationary adults not too excited about running tossing the ball to a crowd of kids, who seem to have passion for nothing but. Other adults toss horse shoes, and the clank and ring of the shoes on iron posts is one of my fondest memories.

Inside, we have a large open room in our 94-year-old farmhouse. Setting a table the length of the room, there is usually seating for up to 30 people. The kitchen table is jammed with an assortment of stuffing, corn, fruits, vegetables, ham, turkey and numerous pies. The pecan pies are often made from the harvest of the nearly 90 pecan trees growing right here on our farm.

For each face that sits around the table, I could tell a dozen stories. One uncle, who grew up in inner-city Houston, tells hilarious jokes, taking on a voice that sounds kind of like Dallas Mavericks coach Avery Johnson. His brother tells only scatalogical and sexual jokes and finds a way to take any thing you say out of context by saying, "I knew a girl like that." My cousins on the other side, who are a walking "You know you're a redneck if" jokes, add in their repertoir of humor.

These are the memories I have of Thanksgiving back home, but of course, I'm not home now, and it's sometimes hard to imagine it all. Although the temperature falls down to the 40s during the night time now, it's still fairly warm out during the day. There's dust and blowing sand everywhere, and pollution on top of it. Sometimes you can't even make out the towers of the grand mosque downtown, or even the ones a mile away for that matter.

Nonetheless, on Thanksgiving Day my boss surprised me by letting me off early - only an eight hour shift instead of the usual 12. After making a run back to my trailer, I returned to the palace in time for the 11 a.m. Thanksgiving Day service in the rotunda. About 200 servicemembers attended. Most of the crowd was a sea of Army digital green cammo, and I stuck out, along with a few other Navy and Air Force guys, in my tan DCU uniform. After an invocation by the chaplain, we had some music by a civilian woman who sang "America the Beautiful" and some original songs. The highlight was the speech of a Vietnam vet who recovered from a near fatal injury to become a motivational speaker.

In the chow hall, they pulled out all of the stops. The line out of the building was long, but the food was worth the wait. There was turkey, dressing, and all the traditional favorites. The food was actually prepared and served by American officers, mostly chaplains, though the mix of Kuwaitis, Indians and Pakistanis who run the chow hall did everything else. They seemed a bit confused on their American holidays, though and served egg nog.

The room was filled with mostly Americans, but not entirely. I actually saw a soldier from Turkey eating turkey. There were Bulgarians, Lithuanians, Koreans, El Salvadorans, Tongans, Australians and Brits. Thanksgiving to them may not have nearly as much meaning, but the massive feast was a welcome change, I'm sure. The Ghanaians, particularly, seemed stunned by the outlay of food.

With the rest of the day off, I enjoyed myself. I went to the gym to exercise for a while, and then back home to read. But it was getting near 5 p.m. and my bed time, so I took it easy. After all, Thanksgiving may be finished in Iraq, but it was only just dawning back home, and I had an early morning appointment with the telephone.

...So as the operator at Lackland patched me through, I listened to the old familiar ring. After only a moment, my mother answered the phone. After some work, she put me through on speaker phone.

The table was set, and all the family was around. I said my general greeting to everybody, and my mom called off the roll call of who all was present. Cousins and their kids, some able to speak now, and others just crying infants. Aunts and uncles. Brothers and a sister. As each one was named, they would call out a greeting. When my sister was called out, I made a comment about the upcoming A&M/Texas football game, since we both went to A&M. She gave a "whoop" in response. When her daughter spoke up, I thanked her for the little good-luck bracelet she made for me and sent me with their last package. One aunt said she was worried because she heard about an attack. I told her not to worry, this place is as big as Houston, and that base was ten miles away or more.

Finally, when all that was done, everyone on the other end of the line grew silent. I wasn't sure what was going on until I heard my mom speak:

Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts, which we are about to receive. From your bounty, through Christ Our Lord, Amen.

On the other end of the phone, no one could see the tears welling up in my eyes. I don't get emotional too often. Before dad died, the last time I cried was Sep. 11, and the last time before that was when the A&M bonfire fell in 1999. But for some reason, hearing my mom say the blessing of the meal nearly broke me up.

That's when I realized that no amount of turkey, no amount of dressing or rolls or pie can really make the fourth Thursday in November a day of Thanksgiving. It is those special people, and those special moments, that make the day. That image in my mind of all those I know gathered around, praying over their food did more to make me homesick - but more to raise my spirts as well - than anything the Army could do to raise morale.

The reasons we fight over here burn up a lot of ink back home, but when it comes down to it, they're fairly simple. We fight the larger war on terror so that people back home can have things to be thankful for. We fight this war in particular, so that these people here can know a life of freedom and not live a nightmare of terror. On this Thanksgiving Day, I am thankful that I've shared so many great experiences in the past, which comfort and sustain me in the long days over here. I look forward to the end of my time here, when I can go back, and once again be among friends and family, and taste the companionship, as well as the food.