Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday--always has been--and possibly my parents' favorite as well. To me, Thanksgiving is synonymous with family, and all the baggage that comes with throwing 10-30 related but totally different individuals into a room with lots of carbs. Of all my memories over the past 63 years, I have the most memories (good and bad, sad and funny) from Thanksgiving celebrations. There was the time my crazy biological mother threw the turkey into the bowl of mashed potatoes because she was, well, unbalanced. Another Thanksgiving found us in a Holiday Inn in North Dakota the day before Becky had a bone barrow biopsy during her cancer treatment, and more than a few when Alex was deployed overseas, and on a remote tour in Korea. One year, my dad flew out to Minot, ND, alone--seems he was in the dog house again. That was also the year Scruffy the cat walked all over my freshly baked sweet potato pies and I was so mad I threw the pies at her and got pie filling all over the kitchen. And one year, we got a call to pick up a new foster daughter from the juvenile psych ward--an hour before we were to sit down for Thanksgiving dinner. We've celebrated at our house, at our parents' homes, at the homes of our grown children, and once on the beach.
We have had smoked turkey, roasted turkey, deep fried turkey, brined turkey, and even just turkey breast one year--sometimes the cook even remembers to remove the wax-coated bag of innards from the inside before putting it in the oven (not naming names here, girls). Cranberries are always the REAL kind, the whole berries, not canned, but the rest of the sides vary depending on who is hosting the meal and how receptive the hostess is to input. Sweet potatoes and mashed potatoes with gravy are pretty much a sure thing, and of course there is the stuffing (although the stuffing ingredients and method of baking, i.e. in the bird or not in the bird) is variable. Vegetables, however, are the wild card--peas, green bean casserole, beets, Brussel sprouts, and even squash with pecans have shown up. Pies? Too many to mention, but always yummy, with whipped cream or Cool Whip or ice cream or even plain. The one constant, though, that makes it a day of giving thanks, is the presence of family, namely my dad and my stepmother. If they are present, it is Thanksgiving.
I've lost count of how many Thanksgivings we have shared with them--they are both so much a part of our Thanksgiving tradition that it doesn't really seem like Thanksgiving if we aren't together. A week before each Thanksgiving, every year, you can bet my dad will ask me "what are you doing for Thanksgiving next year?" Every year we watch the stupid Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade on TV, followed by football. Then, when all the food is presented on the table, of course someone must take numerous photos of the feast before we can even begin to eat--heck, he even used to take movies of our Thanksgiving dinner table...movies. Of food. That does not move. It's a tradition. Just as it is a tradition that he brags he is the only one who knows how to carve the turkey, or that someone will make a construction paper pilgrim hat for him to wear, or one of the children would make some crazy centerpiece out of Legos and dead leaves and sticks and we have to say how beautiful it is before we make room for all the dishes.
A meal that took a year to plan, two weeks to shop for, and 48 hours to prepare, is gone in less than 30 minutes. We talk about whether this year's turkey was the best, whether we should cook it upside down next time, and if speedy buns are better than crescent rolls. We sit and pick at the little pieces of turkey on the platter and dream about that turkey sandwich with mayo that we will have in a couple of hours, and we protest how we couldn't eat another bite--until the pies come out. Then we watch more football, kids go off to play, and we all sit around and talk or play cards or charades or fall asleep in recliners. And we talk about the logistics of next year's Thanksgiving--where, who, what side, who is going to bring pie, etc.
Last year, we had Thanksgiving at our log home in North Carolina--me and Alex, his brother and a friend, my mother-in-law, my brother, and of course, my parents. Dad at the head of the table, and Alex at the other end. During pie we planned for 2018--we will have it at our place again! Same company! Awesome! A month later, my dad nearly died--took him four months to recuperate--and my brother moved in with us. By spring, we planned tentatively to celebrate at our house, or even at their home in Knoxville. Then my mother-in-law got too ill to travel, so we talked about having Thanksgiving at her assisted living facility.
She died September 23rd.
We did not even feel like celebrating Thanksgiving at all, not 60 days after a funeral. But, we gingerly and cautiously started thinking about having my parents to our home--then, after he had a major setback, at their house. A week before Thanksgiving, though, my dad fell, and could not get up--he was now completely bedridden, and they did not even feel like celebrating. I arrived four days early to help care for Dad, who was now in a hospital bed in the living room, and Alex and David drove out Thanksgiving Day. No one cooked a big turkey, or made cranberries the night before. There were no arguments over which sides to make or whether stuffing should be traditional or cornbread, or if sweet potato pie was better than pumpkin. Nope, we picked up a "feast for five" from a local BBQ restaurant--turkey with most of the trimmings, cranberries (canned), no sweet potatoes, and a pumpkin cheesecake. I transferred all the food into real dishes to make it more like the real thing, and, yes, my dad asked me to take a picture of it all.
But this year, there was no kidding about carving the turkey (it was already sliced), or whether the Detroit Lions would actually win this year, or how great the house smelled all day. And for grace, we held hands around my dad's bed, my brother said grace, and then three of us ate in the dining room alone, while Sheila fed my dad what could very well be his last Thanksgiving meal.
Yes, I said it. Perhaps his last Thanksgiving with us. Heck, it could even be mine, or Alex's, or David's. But still, Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday, even this year. It has been a rough eleven months--illnesses, broken relationships, arguments and conflict, and a funeral. I am thankful, so very thankful, for every day, and especially thankful for all the memories of Thanksgivings past--some painful, when thinking back on what was and now is lost, and some poignant, like the ones with three or even four generations around the table. But all of them, for all of them, I give thanks. Because thanksgiving is not about football, or parades, or food, or Black Friday savings, or even health or good times, although for all those things I give thanks. Thanksgiving is, by definition, giving thanks.
Thank you, God, for all of the memorable Thanksgivings I have shared with my family. And thank you, Dad, for teaching me how special this day can be.
