LANI PETERSON: Have you ever noticed on Thanksgiving Day, at the top of the newspaper, there's a poison control hotline?

(audience laughter) Did you ever wonder what that's for?

MELAN ÉE ADDISON: When I pulled my turkey from the oven, it had a beautiful golden-brown skin that would rival my mother's.

MATTHEW DICKS: He invites me to Thanksgiving dinner, and I sit at that dining room table.

I sit right beside him.

It's like having the father I never had.

♪ PETERSON: My name's Lani Peterson.

I'm in the Boston area.

I'm actually trained as a psychologist, and I've been working with stories for over 20 years in an applied storytelling way.

So in addition to storytelling, I actually do a lot of story listening and story empowerment.

So I work with people from C.E.Os.

and organizations, looking at storytelling as a leadership skill.

I also work with people whose voices are marginalized, so I'm in homeless shelters.

I work with formerly incarcerated, as well as in prisons.

Well, that is an extremely important mission.

What do you feel is the common thread in storytelling that allows it to be effective and important and valuable for so many different groups?

Yeah, as human beings we are... Our brains are wired for stories.

I'm sure you've heard that, that they talk about that a lot now.

But what that means is that we are, um, making meaning of the experiences that we have and through that, uh, defining ourselves, creating ourselves, our identity is formed through the stories that we have lived and that we hold within how we talk about ourselves.

So essentially, in any moment, we are, uh, defining how we hold and know ourselves and how we want others to see us.

I think we all have a need to be known and to be seen, to be valued in that, and that that is, is part of our basic humanness, whether you are feeling like you're at the top of the world or at the bottom of the world.

♪ When I was a kid, my mother did holidays up big.

And if you had asked me when I was little what my favorite holiday was, I probably would have said Christmas.

But as I got older, I really began to appreciate Thanksgiving.

Our family would come from all over not only the state, but New England-- cousins, uncles that we hadn't seen all year long would gather.

We would have to put every leaf in the dining room table, and then every cardboard table around, multiple tablecloths, to fit 25 chairs around the table.

And then, about 3:00 in the afternoon, the ancient great-uncles would come in the door, barely walking in with their canes.

My grandfather had immigrated to this country from Sweden with his five brothers.

All Petersons at immigration changed their name to Pete Peterson, so I had five Uncle Petes and a Grandpa Pete, all there around the table with their scraggly beards.

And as the wine got poured and the stories just filled the room, I thought, "Thanksgiving."

Now, my mom would start preparing for this massive group of people at least two, maybe three days beforehand, and in that she had four small children, she would put us to work, because we desperately wanted to help.

She became an expert at creating craft projects to keep us busy while she made the five pies.

She was very creative.

We would do, uh, customized place cards and placemats.

We would make pilgrim hats for all the ancient uncles to wear during dinner, we had papier-mâché cornucopias.

We had turkey salad, which was actually a half of a pear with sliced carrots to make the turkey's tail, a piece of celery for the long neck, and a pecan on top, and you could almost hear them gobble when they were there on the table.

(audience laughter) Meanwhile, she was busy peeling all the squash and the potatoes heaped with butter, and the little pearl onions and the peas and the cranberry bread and the pumpkin bread.

And we were just busy making our crafts.

And then, of course, the turkey.

Now, she had thought that in order to have a very moist turkey, it needed to cook long and slow, so she would put it in the night before at 200 degrees.

(audience laughter) But it had to be basted every two hours, which meant she got up at midnight, 2:00, 4:00, and 6:00, before feeding 25 people, in order to baste this turkey.

Now, you would have thought that this would be the centerpiece of Thanksgiving.

But I am here to tell you, no.

The most important part of Thanksgiving?

You probably know.

It's the stuffing.

Now, the stuffing needs to be made very carefully.

It's not just breadcrumbs and turkey's juice.

There's the sausage, but then the secret ingredients: apples, nuts, apricots, and the most secret ingredient of all, bourbon.

(audience laughter) Just the right amount of bourbon.

Now, people loved my mother's stuffing so much, that to make just that amount that fit inside the turkey would never have done it.

So she, somewhere early in her marriage, went out and bought a really big, beautiful clay stuffing bowl.

It only came out once a year, at Thanksgiving, and as she pulled it out of the basement, it almost had that smell of Thanksgiving just to get us salivating before things happened.

I loved this bowl so much that when she went around and asked each of the kids, as she was older, what we wanted from the family, all I wanted was the stuffing bowl.

But what I didn't realize is that if you got the stuffing bowl, you also got Thanksgiving.

(audience laughter) So there I was, several years later, with four little children of my own, and I realized how brilliant my mother was to have crafts, because all that help makes a very long day.

(audience laughter) We did the placemats, the place cards, and then I got the brilliant idea-- tie-dyed T-shirts.

I bought each of my four kids five white T-shirts, 1,000 rubber bands, so they each had 250 that they had to wrap around five T-shirts.

In addition, I got 12 boxes of Rit Dye royal purple number 12, and when all those shirts were done at the end of the day, we filled the sink with boiling water, and as many boxes as we, we could put in, and let them soak.

However, all those shirts didn't fit in the sink, and I thought, "How are we going to get all these shirts done?"

And then I remembered the big clay stuffing bowl.

In the shirts went, in the boiling water, and another six boxes of Rit Dye royal purple number 12, to sit for hours.

(audience groaning) Oh, I didn't know.

(audience laughter) When all was said and done and put away, I stayed up late that night and made the stuffing and put it in the fridge.

And in the morning, I had four children with purple hands in their purple shirts, and purple stuffing.

Have you ever seen a purple apricot?

It is not pretty.

(audience laughter) But I had to serve it, because if you don't have stuffing, it's not Thanksgiving.

But then, of course, I'm afraid I'm going to kill them.

So have you ever noticed on Thanksgiving Day, at the top of the newspaper, there's a poison control hotline?

(audience laughter) Did you ever wonder what that's for?

I always did!

But thank God it's there.

I called poison control, and when they stopped laughing at me, they had to do some research, because quite...

They let me know they had never been asked this question before.

They let me know, "You won't kill anybody.

It might not taste great."

I can handle that, I've got bourbon.

But, "Go ahead and serve it."

So what we realized was that in order to pass this off, what we needed, in fact, was a really good story.

So we sat down and we thought about it.

And, of course, it all made sense.

Traditional Thanksgiving, Pilgrims, Native Americans, grapes.

Lots and lots of grapes added to the stuffing to give it that purple tint and hue.

This was the most traditional Thanksgiving, in fact, we've ever had.

(audience laughter) And so, as the great-uncles and aunts and cousins came in the door that Thanksgiving, there were my four beautiful children, with their purple hands, in their purple tie-dye T-shirts, with one for every guest.

And as we served our purple stuffing, we were sure nobody had a clue.

(audience laughter) Except that next year, when my great-aunt said, "Are you going to serve that purple stuffing again?"

And then I thought, "Well, you never know.

"Come and find out, because at the holidays, there's always a surprise."

(audience laughter) (applause and cheering) Thanksgiving is still my favorite holiday, because I think everyone is there for the same reason, which is about connecting, about catching up, about that, that gratefulness of, um, where we've been, who we are together.

And although there's often the tension of the holidays and the stress of, of pulling it all together, I think ultimately it's, um, it's just a holiday that, that feels good.

♪ ADDISON: My name is Melanée Addison.

I'm originally from New York City, from the Bronx.

I'm a recently published author, and I also am really big in herbalism and wellness.

So that's another passion of mine.

And of course, I love telling stories.

And you have also journaled for 30 years.

ADDISON: Uh-huh.

WES HAZARD: And I'm just really interested.

How did that become such a big part of your life?

Well, I, I think it was making up for lost time.

I always had things that I'd wanted to say, but had a fear of keeping a journal because I was, like, "Oh, I don't want anyone to see it, don't want anything to happen," and someone to find out my innermost thoughts.

But at the time that I really did start to pick up a journal, it became such a place of self-discovery for me.

It opened up myself to myself, you know?

And that's just a very different perspective, when you're able to read your thoughts on a daily basis.

Is this your first time telling a story on stage?

My own story.

HAZARD: Hmm.

ADDISON: I've been in theater before, so I've done monologues and told other people's stories.

But this is my first time telling a personal story in front of people.

And what have you learned while crafting the story that you're about to share with us tonight?

It's very much like journaling.

I'm able to tell a story that I was experiencing at one point in real time, but definitely from a different vantage point.

I can go back and feel the experiences and relive them.

But now I have this different perspective that I'm looking at it from and seeing things from, and even that speaks to different things that I might be, you know, looking for answers in my life in a different way.

So storytelling is just, it's just a window of discovery to help you understand yourself and the world around you, at whatever stage you happen to find yourself in.

♪ This is a sweet victory after a long, hard-fought battle.

You see, I'm the youngest of four children by ten years, otherwise known as, "Whoops!"

(audience laughter) But more commonly referred to as the baby of the family.

And after about 30 straight years of doing so-- about the time I hit puberty-- it was becoming really obvious to me that my mother was quickly tiring of this child-raising gig.

And throughout my adolescence, I would often hear the familiar sound-bite.

"I can't wait until you get grown "and get a place of your own, then you'll know what it feels like."

(audience chuckling) Now granted, she would often be saying this while picking up my items carelessly strewn about the house, or opening up the refrigerator to find the milk and juice containers empty.

But most definitely every time there was an unexpected spike in our phone bill.

(audience chuckling) Nevertheless, in my mind, the expectation was set.

As my siblings had all left the house at 18 to either join the service or get married, at 18, I, too, would be on my own.

And so when that time arrived, I had gotten a decent job, built up some savings, and approached my mother with an ad for an apartment.

Now, to my surprise, she completely does an about- face, and tries to convince me that I really am not just quite ready to face the world on my own.

Well, not only is this a challenge to my young-adult ego, but she had been unwittingly sowing these seeds of independence in me for so long that they had already sprouted, and I was determined to continue my quest for freedom, my own promised land, a place where I no longer had to hear how money didn't grow on trees, or hide in the closet late at night to have secret phone conversations with my boyfriend.

(audience chuckling) But best of all, with my own place, I could come and go as I pleased-- no curfew.

So I would find these adorable apartments and excitedly bring my mother to see them only to have her go at it with these landlords-- "slumlords," she would call them-- with a slew of complaints, like, for instance, the lone hairline crack and the misaligned tile behind the bathroom door.

(audience laughter) Or the insufficient water pressure.

And let's not forget the mysterious drafts due to lack of insulation that no one else felt.

And needless to say, my mother and I would be promptly sent on our way with my fully returned deposit.

But after a while, I began to catch on, and the last place I showed her was with a signed lease already in hand.

So now I'm on my own, and I am determined to prove to my mother that I truly am a competent and capable adult.

So that year, I insist on making the Thanksgiving turkey.

(audience laughs, reacts) Now, in our family, Thanksgiving is my mother's full domain, and God forbid anybody try to encroach upon that territory.

But, after a few moments of hesitation, to my surprise, she agreed, and then proceeded to bombard me with phone calls, asking, do I know the right-size turkey to get?

Am I using all the correct spices and seasonings?

Am I allowing enough time for the turkey to thaw before cooking?

And finally, frustrated, I say to her, "Mom, enough, I'm an adult now.

I'm not a child-- I know how to make a turkey."

I mean, I'd spent years watching her make the Thanksgiving turkey, and even, on some occasions, unwillingly recruited to help.

So I knew what I was doing.

And, as expected, when I pulled my turkey from the oven, it had a beautiful golden-brown skin that would rival my mother's.

And so on Thanksgiving Day, I walk into her apartment proudly, regally cradling my beautiful creation as if a newborn, and purposely ignoring all the nervous glances being cast in my direction.

I, with great fanfare, ceremoniously placed my beautiful bird in the center of the table.

So now we're all gathered around the table, and after grace, my brother proceeds to carve the turkey.

And as I proudly look on as he delves the knife deep into my masterpiece, red bloody juices start to flow.

(audience laughter) And everyone stares, stunned, as their Thanksgiving feast is now an array of sides and some corn bread.

(audience laughter) And as I'm watching the bloody juices pool into the bottom of the platter, I can't help but feel betrayed by my bird, my beautiful bird, that I spent hours massaging, caressing, cajoling... with... (chuckles) With visions of Thanksgiving victory.

I can't even bear to look at my mother.

And so instead, I just fixate on the ever-growing pool of blood.

Eventually, my mother gets up and she goes into the kitchen, and she returns back into the dining area with a beautiful brown bird of her own.

(loud laughter) Like, where did she get this?

Like, out of nowhere!

And to spite me, everyone breaks out in loud cheers and applause.

(laughter) And as I'm sitting there, quietly, watching my undone bloody bird being unceremoniously ousted from its place of honor, two things hit me.

Number one, my mother's words from adolescence echo back to me.

And for the first time, I think I really do know what it feels like.

But secondly, and most importantly, I am humbled by the very adult realization that sometimes independence means knowing how and when to be dependent.

Thank you.

(applause) ♪ What a good way to start off on my journey of independence, to know that my mother was still there for me, that I could still explore.

I could still take risks.

Um, and I appreciated her, um, from a different way.

♪ MATTHEW DICKS: My name is Matthew Dicks.

I live in Hartford, Connecticut.

(chuckles): I have a lot of jobs.

I'm a elementary school teacher by day.

(mouths) DICKS: I'm an author.

I publish novels and nonfiction, I'm a columnist, and I tell stories.

And I teach storytelling in Connecticut, but really all over the world.

What's the hardest part of storytelling for you?

For me, it's always the beginning of the story.

I build my stories by starting with a moment that I want to share with people, and it's always the end.

It's what I call a five-second moment.

It's a moment of transformation of some kind, and that's sort of what my story is always leading to.

But finding those right words to grab people instantly and to deliver them perfectly is really the greatest challenge for me.

So I fight for great first lines, and sometimes I give up.

Sometimes I'll say, "I can't find the right words."

I'll move on to another story, and two years later, the first few lines will hit me.

And then I will have, like, the key to unlock that story.

So that's, that's a tricky thing for me, is finding those first lines.

♪ I'm sitting at the dining room table in my girlfriend's parents' home.

I'm eating a cookie.

My girlfriend, Lisa, is beside me, and she's talking, but I don't hear a word that she says.

I'm staring at the front door.

I'm waiting.

I'm waiting for it to open and for her father to come home.

I'm a 19-year-old boy waiting to meet my girlfriend's father for the very first time, and I am terrified.

(chuckles): And then the door opens and the man walks in, and I stand, and we meet in the middle, and I reach my hand out to shake his, and as his hand wraps over mine, I can feel the roughness of his skin.

I can feel the calluses.

I can see the dirt and the grime under his fingernails.

It's like shaking hands with a Brillo pad.

These are hands that build and repair.

This is a man who can fix plumbing.

He's a guy who can change his own oil.

He's the type of guy who can take a tree down and then, like, put it back up if necessary.

(audience laughter) And as I'm shaking his hand, I realize I'm in a lot of trouble, because my hands are nothing like his.

I have the hands of a boy who plays Ms. Pac-Man at the arcade on Friday nights.

I have hands that roll 20-sided dice onto card tables in basements while playing Dungeons and Dragons.

These are hands that play the flute.

These are not hands that build and repair, these are hands that purchase and replace.

(audience laughter) And as I shake his hand, I know I'm in trouble, because I'd been in this situation before.

Before I loved Lisa, I loved Laura, my high school sweetheart.

Laura's father's name was Butch, and he was the dictionary definition of that word.

I met him in his driveway one day next to his dump truck, his bucket truck, and what I would later learn was a stump grinder.

Shaking Butch's hand was like putting your hand into a bag of broken glass.

I asked Butch what he did for a living, and he said, "Whatever needs to be done."

(audience laughter) I am not a man who does whatever needs to be done.

I hire people to do what needs to be done.

And so as I'm shaking Lisa's father's hand now, I know I'm in trouble, because the reason Laura and I aren't together anymore is because, even though she loved me, she respected her father more than any woman I have ever met in my life, and I was never going to match what he was.

And now I am worried that I'm not going to match what this man is, either, and I'm already starting out behind.

Lisa's father is a car guy, and six months ago, I owned a 1976 Chevy Malibu with a 357 V8.

I don't know what those numbers mean, except I know that car guys like those numbers.

But I have sold that car, and I am now driving a powder-blue Toyota Tercel.

He looks at my car and I swear he wants to punch me in the face.

(audience laughter) He asks me where I live, and I tell him in Attleborough with some of my friends, but I can never take him to my home because it is the home of boys.

The walls are plastered with Bart Simpson posters.

I've got two rabbits that run around my house like cats.

They use the litter box and eat out of bowls.

We got them because we thought we would get girls-- which we actually kind of do-- but he can't see this.

And we have 20 hamsters that are spread out in cages all over the house, with tubes connecting all over.

It's like steampunk Hamsterville.

Wherever you're standing, there is a hamster over your head.

(audience laughter) I cannot bring this man into this world of boys.

And I am a McDonald's manager, and I know it's the hardest job I will ever do in my life, but to him, I know I am flipping burgers.

It is gonna be a hard win in this case, but I've got a plan.

I'm gonna win this guy over-- he's Portuguese.

So I decide I'm gonna learn everything about Portugal, which in 1991, is a very big deal, because to learn something in '91, you have to to a brick building during office hours.

You have to slide open a card and find that card and use it to find a book.

And none of those books have control F. You have to read the whole damn book to find the one fact that you are looking for to impress your girlfriend's father.

It is a commitment that I, I stick to.

And then my rabbits become a problem, because they're chewing through the cords.

They've knocked out our television and one of our lamps.

My buddies and I decide we need to get rid of the rabbits.

And one day, I'm at Lisa's house, and I see that her father has a hutch full of rabbits.

And so I say, "I've got a problem with my rabbits, sir.

Would you like my rabbits?

", and he says, "Yes."

And I swear, as I pass my rabbits over to him, it's like we get closer.

Like, we don't become friends, but we become friendly.

And then he invites me to Thanksgiving dinner.

And this is a big deal for me, because for the past two years, I have not had a Thanksgiving.

My Thanksgivings are the Dallas Cowboys and Domino's and despair.

And so having an actual, like, Thanksgiving with real food and a family is a big deal for me.

And so I go to their house, and I sit at that dining room table.

I sit right beside him.

It's like having the father I never had.

And there is turkey and there are breads and there are stuffings and there are stews, and I feel like a member of the family-- I have done it.

And then he turns to me and he says, "What do you think of my stew?"

And I say, "I love it."

And he says, "You should."

(audience gasping and groaning) "It's your rabbit."

(audience laughter) And I can't believe it.

I turn to Lisa to see if she's in on this, and she's just as appalled as I am.

And so I turn back to this man, and he is smiling.

He thinks it's funny that he has just fed me my pet rabbit.

We stare at each other for what is probably three seconds, but feels like three years-- there is silence at the table.

And then I stand up, and for the first time in my life, I speak to a man like a man.

I tell him what a terrible thing he has done.

I swear at him at his dining room table.

I tell him exactly what is in my heart, and then I turn and I leave his house.

My hands are just as soft as when I was 19 years old.

I cannot change oil.

I cannot fix a single thing in my house.

I cannot assemble a single one of my children's toys.

But that was the moment a 19-year-old boy stood up and became a 19-year-old man.

And for the first time in his life, he told another man exactly how he felt.

Thank you.

(applause and cheers) Fantastic story, let him know!

(cheers and applause) THERESA OKOKON: Watch Stories from the Stage anytime, anywhere.

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