“I’m gonna stay little and not grow up!”
When all seven siblings belonging to John and Olivia Walton went out to the barn to crack walnuts for their mama’s applesauce cake, Elizabeth spoke those words to her brother Jim Bob up in the hay loft during The Homecoming: A Christmas Story, which was first broadcast on television when I was a little whippersnapper in kindergarten.
The youngest of the Walton children went on to say, “Anytime I feel myself growing, I’m gonna squeeze myself and push it back in.”
That’s what this mild-mannered eighth grader was attempting to do when he spent the weekend with several of his Price cousins in the back bedroom of their paternal grandparents’ former abode on Palmer Avenue in Kenmore, New York — the same place where Uncle Fred and his family now lived.
Although there were still eight of us — four boys and four girls — sharing the same sleeping quarters, the names and faces had changed since spending that first Thanksgiving together so long ago.
Like it or not, times were definitely changing, and we were longing to recapture a piece of our cherished youth by “squeezing ourselves and pushing it back in,” as the dawn of a new decade was right around the corner.
As a handful of spring chickens from the third generation of our expanding family lay atop those old familiar metal buck beds, we shared a lot of love and laughter while reminiscing about some of those nostalgic moments which were tucked away in our collective hearts.
Shortly after the hostess for last year’s Thanksgiving dinner — Aunt Joan — and her family moved into the other half of the duplex where Grandma and Pappy Price now lived on Grand Island, N.Y., Uncle Fred and Aunt Lani decided to host the holiday dinner at their house, which they hoped would stir up all those time-honored traditions where the extended family spent fifteen years creating precious memories.
“I’ve got a totally groovy idea,” declared Fred “Freddie” Price II, after discovering four sets of dismantled metal bunk beds down in the basement. “Since we’re hosting this year’s Thanksgiving feast, why don’t we recreate the slumber party atmosphere for all the cousins by reassembling the bunk beds in the back bedroom?”
“This high school senior seconds the motion,” agreed Pamela “Pam” Price, placing an arm around her younger brother’s shoulder to give her full support for the ambitious endeavor. “Considering we live in the Buffalo-Niagara Falls Metropolitan area, we’ve never experienced the camaraderie the Pennsylvania cousins shared every year.”
“That sounds like an awful lot of work for one weekend,” assessed Uncle Fred, scratching the stubble on his chin.
“You won’t have to lift a finger,” assured Pam, clapping her dad on the back. “Not only will we bring up all the furniture from the basement, but we’ll also tighten every single nut and bolt without any help from the Grand Poobah himself.”
With only four weeks until the traditional family holiday, the Buffalo News newspaper editor finally warmed up to the idea after surrendering to the pair of teens’ persistent nagging and gave them his blessing.
“To the victor belong the spoils!” exclaimed Freddie, running into the kitchen with a screwdriver and wrench.
As soon as the official proclamation came down from the king of the castle, the high schoolers each penned a letter to their Pennsylvania cousins with details about an epic pajama party to rekindle an old Thanksgiving tradition.
The postman delivered one such letter to the Ellwood City Assembly of God church parsonage a few days later, and it was addressed to John, Mark, Kathleen and Michele Price.
“Where’s the fire, Flash Gordon?” inquired Mom, when I came flying through the main entrance of the Cape Cod-style dwelling. “Since you and your siblings received a letter from Freddie Price, I thought my little wordsmith might like to open it; and then maybe you can send your cousin a reply.”
“Jumping Jehoshaphat,” I exclaimed, after reading the one-page handwritten correspondence from my summer partner-in-crime. “After finding the old bunk beds in their basement, Freddie said they’re going to put them back together for Thanksgiving; so, we can have a sleepover for the holiday weekend with all the cousins.”
I’m going to have a hand cramp by the end of the night, because I need to write letters to Chris Honneffer and my cousins Freddie and Rhett.
Why do you need to write a letter to your cousin Rhett?
We need to plan some activities, but it might be easier just to call him.
By the time my animated siblings and I arrived at the two-story colonial the night before Thanksgiving, we were practically salivating just thinking about all the excitement a weekend with the Price cousins would bring.
Following a myriad of fun and games mixed with a trip to the kitchen for a midnight snack evoking a vivid recollection from the past, these eight close-knit cousins changed into pajamas and brushed their pearly whites before crawling into bed.
“These puppies took Pam and me an entire week to put together,” explained the high school freshman with spectacles, glancing down from one of the two top bunks on our side of the room. “After assembling two sets of bunk beds, we had to make a trip to the hardware store to buy some more nuts and bolts, because we lost the ones for the other two sets somewhere between here and the basement.”
“I’m waiting for the girls’ bunks to come crashing to the floor,” snickered Rhett Price — the long-haired baseball pitcher, flashing me a wink and a smile from the other top bunk on our side of the partition. “Because we all know that girls don’t know a screwdriver from a wrench.”
“The joke’s on you, Ding-a-ling!” quipped GiGi Price, before slapping her pesky brother’s hindquarters from the other side of the curtain separating their elevated beds. “According to Pam, she put together the bunk beds on your side of the room and Freddie reassembled ours; so, have a good trip when your face hits the linoleum.”
“Of course, you would be in the top bunk on the opposite side of the divider from me,” Rhett groaned, rubbing the sting out of his backside.
As the Sandman sprinkled fairy dust on the drowsy dreamers one by one, we ended the unforgettable evening with our usual goodnight ritual, which began many moons ago.
“Good night, John-Boy! Good night, Daddy! Good night, Elizabeth!” stated different cousins calling out the names of the numerous Walton family members.
And then, in perfect unison, my siblings and all the cousins called out to me by saying, “Good night, Mary Ellen!”
Their little playful barb fell on deaf ears, because I had already fallen under the Sandman’s magic spell.