REPORTER’S NOTEBOOK

Jennifer K Mahal

Every Thanksgiving, my family knows where to find me. Not at my

mother’s house or my sister’s apartment. Not with my Avtar-uncle in

Seattle or my Uncle J in St. Petersberg. But at work. That’s right, I’ve

been at work for every Thanksgiving since I left college. It’s kind of my

own private -- now public -- tradition.

It started the year I moved to Key West and became a reporter. Flying

home to California on my tiny stipend was not practical. Add to that the

fact that I was low woman on the holiday totem pole and one article on

soup kitchens and free meals on Thanksgiving Day coming right up.

That first Thanksgiving far away from home was only made bearable by

the people I met that day. Men and women who had far less than I did, but

insisted that I eat alongside them. People who had far more than I did,

yet decided to spend the day feeding others, rather than indulging

themselves.

It reinforced something that I knew, but always am happy to be

reminded of: I have a lot to be thankful for. The next year, when

Thanksgiving rolled around, I volunteered to work it.

There have been occasions when I’ve longed for the Thanksgivings of

years past.

When I was 7, my mother took my twin sister and I on a trip to

Plymouth for the great turkey day. Lara and I had read a Bobbsey Twins

adventure that had Nan and Bert and Flossie and Freddie solving a mystery

among the cranberry bogs of Massachusetts. We were psyched to see

Plymouth Rock.

It was a crashing let down when the rock of our imagination turned out

to be, well, a gray rock. However, Plimouth Plantation, a recreation

pilgrim village complete with craftsmen, was a big hit. And the turkey

dinner at the John Carver Inn wasn’t half-bad either.

When we became teenagers, my mother decided Rock Cornish Hens were a

much better choice than turkey for our holiday meal. Thus started the

annual cooking and stuffing contest, in which my sister and I would

challenge each other to see who could make the best and most unusual

stuffing. This was preceded by the annual Cornish Hen Dance, in which the

poor birds would be forced to boogie while washing underneath their

wings.

On my second Thanksgiving away from home, Lara reported that I missed

a classic moment. In her haste to make a wonderful cooked turkey for my

sister and her husband, my mother forgot to take the clear plastic wrap

off the bird.

Apparently the family was alerted to this fact when a strange burning

smell started wafting through the kitchen. My mom thought the bird could

have been saved, had they just scraped the singed plastic off. My sister,

a chemistry wizard, decided that the bird was cooked. She trashed it, and

they all had ham.

Two years ago, I was able to have Thanksgiving dinner with my mother.

It was not the best of times. My mother -- who is in a wheelchair -- was

in a nursing home in Long Beach after suffering a severe broken leg. We

had to sell our San Diego home and figure out what would be the best

course for my mom, who needs help on a daily basis.

The nursing home held its meal at 11 a.m., early enough for me to

spend it with mom before going to work. As I sat in the home’s patio

feeding my mother bits of mashed potatoes and cutting her turkey, I found

myself strangely thankful. Many of the people in the home had no one. We

had each other. We still do -- she is now happily living in a house in

St. Petersberg near my Uncle J.

The events of Sept. 11 have made this Thanksgiving seem more poignant

than ever. We will be counting our blessings as a nation of people who

are privileged with freedom. It’s a powerful thing.

This Thursday, I will watch the Macy’s parade, call my family and then

go to work. And I will be thankful.

* JENNIFER MAHAL is features editor of the Daily Pilot. She may be

reached at (949) 574-4282 or by e-mail at o7

jennifer.mahal@latimes.com.f7