Featured Essay: A Little Ska, a Lot of Thanksgiving Memories

by Christopher Smith

The stereo cabinet in my living room is mostly silent throughout the year. My late mother spent a pretty penny on the system, right down to its premier turntable. Before it wound up out of commission though, it was the place where me and my family would throw on some vinyl to fill the entire downstairs floor with music. That was especially true on holidays and in the days leading up to them. These days, I think about Thanksgiving the most, because that was when the record player set the mood for my mother and for me.

Thanksgiving has gotten to be a bittersweet time for me. I lost two uncles on that day, decades apart - my Uncle Delroy when I was in my sophomore year of college, and my Uncle Derrick due to Parkinson’s a few years ago. And since my mom passed away almost three years ago and my father seven years since, I have become more acutely aware of how this time of year can represent loss. But I also have become acutely tuned in to all of the good memories this time can bring about. And it starts with that old turntable and the batch of old records next to it.

Thanksgiving back then would start out somewhat late, with a toss-up between a slate grey morning greeting my block in Southeast Queens or actually having some sun crack through the blinds, waking me up. Mom would already be downstairs, enjoying her cup of coffee and looking at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, on the phone with friends and relatives. The turkey would be in the oven, along with another dish. It wouldn’t be until about 11:30 when she’d make her way to the turntable and put on the opening record for the day’s soundtrack - more often than not it was all about honoring the music from her and my dad’s homeland, Jamaica. The vinyl would crackle before the opening raucous notes of “Jamaica Jump Up”, by Byron Lee and the Dragonaires filled the air.. She’d go on to tell me how back home, they were once neighbors in the capital city of Kingston, and she’d hear him practicing at various hours of the evening.

I saw how the smile began in her eyes when she was playing those records. I can still recall her voice humming along to some of the tunes. “Pressure Drop” from Toots & the Maytals, followed up by a string of songs from John Holt. We would talk about how it was to just hit the old record shops in downtown Kingston, and even about two of my uncles, Owen and Leon Silvera, who would have their own global recognition as ska pioneers with songs like “The Fits Is On Me.”

Those songs were like a rainbow bridge leading back to all of those days back to her starting a family and working career back in Jamaica. In talking with her about those times, there seemed to be more of an ease in how life was. A few of those records she had managed to bring up when she and my siblings emigrated here along with their father in 1967. 

We’d talk about those times as the music played, and I helped her out with cleaning up the dining room table and getting the settings right. During my high school years, I’d wait for a time to dip out and just check if “March of The Wooden Soldiers” was airing again on WPIX 11, or to go hang out with my friends on the block and play a game of football.

That changed when she and Pops split up. I was willing to stick around more, especially as she let me play some records during her time cooking and cleaning before the rest of the family arrived. She was open to certain rap songs - mainly, Pete Rock & C.L. Smooth’s “They Reminisce Over You.” It shouldn’t have surprised me - the family had been smitten over Heavy D’s early records like “Mr. Big Stuff” and “The Overweight Lover’s In The House.”, supporting another Jamaican.  But “T.R.O.Y.” would stick around, without anyone telling me to “change that mess”. The sweeping saxophone-heavy production put us all in a reflective mood, thinking about all those relatives no longer here with us. 

Thumbing through the records both my parents had, there’s a treasure trove that speaks to both of their moods. Pops loved his jazz, but he had some reggae and soca hits in his stash. A lot of Mighty Sparrow, which went well with one or two Lord Kitchener 45s he received from an older cousin, Barrington.

I have a suitcase record player, one I got on a deal during the early months of the pandemic. The last couple of years, I’ve cracked it open and spun a record or two from Pops’ stash of 45s. I’ve also gotten a chance to get to play one or two of Mom’s old ska records. The moment the opening notes of a song like Ken Boothe’s “Freedom Street” play, I find myself catapulted back to those Thanksgiving afternoons and evenings with Mom, sitting in the same living room I am in now writing this, wishing that I could stay in that memory. 

Sometimes I wipe away tears, but I mostly just smile and laugh to myself as I recall her own laughter as well as that of my siblings as we all gathered around the table with the ska playing, creating our own vivid foundations of home. And being thankful for being able to do so.

Christopher A. Smith is a freelance writer who previously worked in  post-production departments in film and television before turning to the profession he has always loved, writing. His work has appeared in various  outlets and publications, including HuffPost, Insider and PCMag. He hails from the borough of Queens, New York Cityand enjoys being immersed in great music and traveling.