Channeling the enthusiasm of Mickey –“Hey kids, let’s put on a show”-Rooney, for most of my childhood, Thanksgiving always included a play starring my cousin Amy and me at our Nana Sadie’s apartment.

My safety backup career plan as a child – in case that art thing didn’t work out -was in the theatre.

These were no Pilgrim pageants. There were no buckled shoes, wide-brimmed hats, breeches, bonnets, or aprons. Instead, they were often a nostalgic homage to the 1920s, 30’s, and 40’s with original scripts written by me.  I researched, directed, and sang in these “highly produced” musical shows.

Truthfully, I could be a bit of a stern taskmaster with my poor younger cousin. Homework be damned, I expected perfection, holding mandatory and lengthy rehearsals after school and weekends in our finished basements.

Dialogue was perfected, dance routines choreographed, and cedar closets rifled through to put together the best costumes. I wasn’t satisfied until our rendition of “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree” rivaled the Andrews Sisters, even if we were missing one sister.

At the appointed hour on Thanksgiving, while the Butterball turkey got its last round of basting and after chopped liver had been noshed and cheese balls nibbled on, aunts and uncles, parents, and cousins gathered in the living room. They all sat attentively as a hush came over the room as the show began.

My relatives all smiled, chuckled, and applauded at just the right time, even if was likely helped along by the addition of a cut-glass filled with Scotch or two.

Perhaps there was a stern directive in the programs that the taking of pictures was strictly prohibited, because the only snapshots I have of our shows are these few from 1970 when I was 15.

I miss my big family Thanksgivings and yearn for all those who once made it a family.

And yes, I still miss my annual show.

Moe better watch out. There may be a wig or 2 in his future this Thanksgiving.