Thanksgiving memories come in blaze orange

Every year at this time we gather around my mother's table to break bread and give thanks. It used to be my father's job to stack the table with enough people to orchestrate a deer drive after the feast - thus we've collected some colorful dinner guests through the years.

It's been this way as long as I can remember. Thanksgiving in Wisconsin equals deer season. When I was 8 years old, I saw a commercial on television where people were sitting around the Thanksgiving table dressed in holiday finery, which prompted me to ask my mother "Why aren't they wearing orange?"

My dad passed away several years ago, so now we have a collection of Dad's leftover people and sometimes a couple of new people to enhance the hunting numbers, along with a few folks who have nowhere else to go. Today's hunting party includes my cousin Bob, his son Bobby, my brother and my two nephews and "Uncle Billy" - who isn't really our uncle, but who showed up with Bob many years back and has come back every year since. A while back, Uncle Bill's Russian friend Paul (who last year quit his job because they wouldn't let him have deer season off) joined the group.

The hunting shack, per se, is actually my mother's basement, where the hunters spread out their orange clothes and their gifts of food and drink. A recent trip to the basement netted me a piece of gourmet chocolate, a glass of raspberry black currant brandy and a bowl of the world's best chili.

The hunters' generosity does not end with gifts of food and brandy. Throughout their stay, they've been known to do chores for my mother and lend a helping hand to anyone in need. They are a good group of people. When my dad passed away, they all piled in the car and drove seven hours to be with us. The hunting crew has since even been known to take a beer to the cemetery so Dad could be part of his beloved hunting season.

Maybe, by some people's standards, it's an odd collection of people surrounding our Thanksgiving table. We're certainly not dressed in our finest or on our best behavior (it's OK to throw dinner rolls to the other end of the table.) But every year when I sit among these folks, I do not differentiate who is technically family and who is not. This is our Orange Family.

Each year I am filled with a sense of peace in their presence. Having them here for this brief period makes me breathe a little easier, laugh a little louder and feel a little safer. The rock-solid traditions and the card playing and back slapping go on year after year. Hunting, really, has very little to do with it. The stories grow dearer and funnier through the years. My nephews grow taller and Uncle Bill's menus grow more complex. From Mickey Mouse pancakes when the boys were little to Dad's traditional barbecued rib recipe, food is always a big deal at the hunting shack.

But what's more important, are the lifelong memories the Orange Family is creating. Several years ago, I unwisely remarked to my nephew: "You do know Uncle Billy isn't really your uncle?" to which he replied, "You might as well tell me there isn't a Santa Claus."

There is. He's just wearing orange.

Columnist Holly Kelsey-Henry is a writer who lives in the woods in Northern Wisconsin.