The house was quiet when I awoke in my bedroom under the eaves in the house on Minnesota Street. There was hardly a sound except for the rain pounding on the roof.

It was a day off from school and usually that would have been enough to propel me out of bed. But I didn’t feel in any rush to get up — even though it was Thanksgiving day.

Every year on Thanksgiving, my family dined with one side of our parents’ families. This year, it was our mother’s side, so over the river and through the woods, to Grandmother’s house we’d go. And while the day was sure to be full of food, it held no promise of being filled with fun.

Even getting there was no fun. Our dad would drive and Mom, in the front seat, would be issuing orders to us kids in the back. Actually, not to all of us. My sister, Patty, was always perfect in every way. She needed no coaxing to be good. My little brother, Mike, with his curly hair and dimples was so sweet that everything he did was cute.

That left me — and that’s who Mom was looking at through the mirror on the visor in front of her.

“No running,” she ordered, “and no yelling. Stay away from the table until dinner. Eat nicely, clean your plate and don’t put olives on your fingers.

“And do NOT spill anything!”

All the while, I’d be thinking about Thanksgiving with our dad’s family. All the aunts and uncles and cousins would gather in someone’s house early in the day. The women would busy themselves in the kitchen and our dad, granddad and all the uncles would be in the living room, watching whatever football game was on TV.

My sister, Patty, and the older girl cousins would be in the bedroom, listening to Elvis records and reading movie magazines. My little brother, Mike, and I, along with the rest of the cousins, would be outside — in the garage, if it was raining — playing, in honor of Thanksgiving, pilgrims and Indians. Invariably, it turned into cowboys and Indians, because there just wasn’t much of a story line with pilgrims.

Just about the time we’d exhausted our imaginations, dinner would be ready and we’d troop into the utility room, where two tables were set up: One was for the adults, and that’s where the food was. The other was for the kids. That’s where the fun was.

And then the feast would begin! There would be the turkey, of course, carefully tended and basted since the wee hours of the morning. There were bowls of stuffing, potatoes and gravy. There were vegetables, which few of the adults and none of the kids ate; and celery stuffed with cheese from a jar. Also on the tables were three kinds of pickles and two kinds of olives (although it was beyond me why anyone would want to eat the green ones)

Behind the adults’ table, the washer and dryer, covered with tablecloths, held the desserts: pumpkin, mincemeat and apple pies; cake; and Jello with fruit cocktail.

As soon as everyone filed in and sat down, we’d fill our plates and dive in, and soon, the room would be filled with the sounds of talking and lots of laughter.

Not so at Grannie’s house.

At dinner there, the house was so quiet you could hear the ticking of the captain’s clock. And no kids’ table, either. We sat together at the table set up just for that day in the living room — on the carpet!

It’s not that dinner there wasn’t good. It was always delicious. And our grandmother was so sweet and welcoming. She loved and indulged her grandchildren. And Grandpa Bill, who had married our grandmother, loved and indulged her — so he put up with us.

But just eating the meal was nerve-wracking. Grannie used her best china and silver and there were candles on the table. At each place, there were little, teeny bowls of salt and pepper with tiny little spoons. I usually spilled mine just climbing up to the table. Our milk was in big, footed crystal glasses and they were filled to the brim. I had to get pretty thirsty before I’d even attempt to pick mine up — and I could sense my mother’s relief when I took a sip and safely sat the glass back down.

Since the table was set up on the carpet, I knew there would be zero tolerance should I spill something — so, of course, I always did. Usually, it was the cranberry sauce. I would watch with horror as it slithered off my fork and landed with a muted plop on the carpet. Grandpa Bill never said anything, but his face got so red I thought he was going to explode. (I secretly wondered just how much sauce I’d have to toss before he did!)

I could feel my mother’s eyes boring into me, but I was careful not to look her way. Then my grandmother would reach over and pat my hand and tell me not to worry about it.

“It will clean up,” she’d say with a smile.

This year, Thanksgiving dinner will be at my house. Family and friends will gather for what promises to be a fine meal. There will be lively conversation and lots of laughter.

And dinner will be served in the dining room — on the carpet — so just to be safe, I think I’ll pass on the cranberry sauce.

(Kathy Mannila Erickson is the editor of The World.)