Thanksgiving

The clean, crisp air that let you know autumn was losing ground to winter.  The smell of the dried, brown leaves we were rolling around in and throwing at each other.  The warmth of the kitchen pulling you in and the busy aunts shooing you right back out.  A house full of family and friends.  Uncles interrupting the Star Wars TV marathon to yell at the screen during a football game.  The fresh slices of pumpkin roll that would make me forget about that galaxy far, far away.

These are the memories I have of Thanksgiving.  Not of any one Thanksgiving in particular, but rather of an amalgamation of all the Thanksgivings of my childhood.  In recalling these past Thanksgivings I find an interesting omission.  Though the holiday was usually celebrated in all its gastronomic glory at Grandma’s house, my memories of Grandma on that particular day are in short supply.

With two decades worth of Thanksgiving holidays, I’m not able to relate a single story about Grandma.  Not one tale of her setting an oven on fire.  No memory we now fondly recall of the Thanksgiving when Grandma laughed so hard she peed or when she drank enough Manhattans that she finally let slip an f-bomb.  Not even one instance of her berating me when I did or said something stupid; and I know I must have given her ample opportunities.

Maybe it’s because I always spent the day running around outside and/or watching the battle between the light and dark sides of the force.  Perhaps it was my relegation to the kids table (a place I still occupy but now consider a position of honor).  Maybe all I was really focused on at the table was the pumpkin roll that seemed to be taunting me, driving me to eat faster and faster.  In other words, maybe the stories are out there and I was just never a participant.

Sure, it’s possible.  But the dearth of good stories over so long a period of time, with so many family members present, seems odd.  If I had to wager a guess I would say it was all due to Grandma’s design.

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Grandma created an unparalleled familial ambiance on Thanksgiving.  She created an environment that could entertain all age groups while allowing her to prepare a feast.  The unseen preparation in the days leading up to Thanksgiving and the lithe movements between ovens, stoves, and guests on the day of could only be the result of meticulous planning.  She drew up plans and executed them to perfection.  This ensured that the day was about the family as a whole and didn’t result in her, or anyone, becoming the center of attention in such a way that it created a memory.  We didn’t get material that becomes fodder for a “good story” down the road.  We received an atmosphere of comfort and caring that brought us closer together.

I wasn’t too young or too distracted to have any specific memory of Grandma on Thanksgiving.  I don’t remember anything outlandish that makes a good story because nothing ever happened.  Stories like that are born from spontaneity and Grandma wasn’t spontaneous on Thanksgiving.  It was too important to her.

None of this means Thanksgivings were boring or unmemorable.  It’s to say that the memories aren’t selfish.  No one incident outshines the whole to the whole’s detriment.  I remember Thanksgivings exactly the way Grandma wanted me to.  They blend into each other by design.  At Grandma’s house, individual family members and friends came together, if only for a day, to form one loving cohesive unit.

I’d much rather have all these memories blended together than to be able to call up one funny story from one specific year whenever I think of Grandma at Thanksgiving.