Thanksgiving 1889 Revisited

* This letter appeared in The Times on Nov. 30, 1889. It’s so delightful that I’m including it in my anthology of letters to The Times, 1881-1889. I’ve been unable to find anything regarding the author and suggest the name may be a pseudonym--the letter reads like Mark Twain and the signature S.C. Clemons seems to add to the joke.

RALPH E. SHAFFER

Professor Emeritus, History Cal Poly Pomona

*

Los Angeles, Nov. 29, Temple Street: I passed through a sad experience yesterday, which I wish to publish in order to warn other unwary strangers of the dangers that lurk in the most harmless-appearing placards. Thanksgiving Day dawned as beautiful as a May morning, and I, being a stranger, sallied from my boardinghouse to “view the landscape o’er.” Suddenly I beheld what thrilled my heart with joy. There loomed up before me a telegraph pole and tacked thereon was a small placard announcing that for the small sum of 50 cents a certain church would furnish a “Bountiful and Old-Fashioned Thanksgiving Dinner.”

Visions of roast turkey and pumpkin pies came up before my mind’s eye, and at the time mentioned on the placard I presented myself before the doors of the place where the dinner was to be served. A gentleman standing in the door demanded 50 cents, which I gave him, and then handed me over to a bevy of ladies who wore red badges with the word “Reception” emblazoned thereon in white letters. They seized upon me and bore me off to a long, lonely table. No other diners were in sight. As soon as I was seated a swarm of ladies from the back of the room came down in a body, and many and unsophisticated were the inquiries as to whether I liked turkey, and “which part” would I take. After a great deal of fuss, I succeeded in obtaining a liberal supply of the above-mentioned fowl, and attempted to taste it, but was prevented by having a plate of bread thrust under my nose, with the words: “It’s home-made, you know.”

I accepted the bread, and again attempted to convey the coveted morsel of turkey to my lips. A hand interposed between my fork and my lips with a plate of rolls. “Now I think the gentleman would prefer some of these home-made rolls to that bread.” I declined the rolls, and again thrust my fork into the meat, but waitress No. 3 rushed up with a plate of sauce. “Now do try some of these cranberries. It’s all home-cooking, you know.” I accepted the sauce, and again essayed to lift my fork to my lips, but “there’s many a slip ‘twixt the cup and the lip,” as I found to my sorrow, for just then a very large lady bore down upon us, and as the little crowd around my chair separated, she cried: “Now I’m sure the gentleman is ready for pie,” and she commenced naming the various kinds at hand, ever and anon putting in: “They’re all home-made, you know.”

Just then another unfortunate, lured to his doom probably by the same seductive placard that attracted me, was seated by the “Reception” Committee, and the attention of my tormentors was turned for a moment. I hastily gulped that bit of turkey, and seizing my hat, fairly took to my heels. One of the waitresses followed me to the door, and called out: “Do wait and have some pie; it is home-made, you know.” Thus I escaped. Now, Saints, deliver us from church Thanksgiving dinners, where waitresses abound and every thing is “home-made, you know.”

S.C. CLEMONS

Formerly of Middlebury, Vt.