Happy Thanksgivings

Bee Gees Song of the Day: I Can't See Nobody

I cant see nobody...no, I cant see nobody.
My eyes can only look at you...you.

Ahhhh, it’s a fabulous day! Traffic was blessedly light. I have a hot cup of decaf coursing through my veins. No executives in the office to speak of. The promise of apple pie later in the day. The weather is dank and gloomy. Spooky when it’s dark out; with all the leaves swirling around one’s feet. It’s autumn and it’s beautiful. And it’s Thanksgiving.

I’m driving to New York to have a few days with my kids. Talk about thankful.

I’ve had some very good Thanksgivings. Mom used to just go all out at Thanksgiving and Christmas. The house would smell of turkey and stuffing and rutabaga and good things. Mom is the best cook ever. Gramma would send over pumpkin, blueberry, cherry, apple, and mince pies. We’d watch the Macy’s Day Parade on television all morning, a few cartoons thrown in for good measure (Popeye, Bullwinkle, Bugs Bunny, Tom & Jerry). Later, we would play outside – there was almost always snow up on the hill where we live. We'd build snow men and women, dig tunnels, carve out snow caves, jump on them and eventually crush them. Then we would come in wet, dirty and exhausted. We’d lay down on the floor with Dad and we would fall asleep curled up by the heating vent watching football.

There was the year my Virginia cousins came up for Thanksgiving; probably the first Thanksgiving after Grampa died in 1978. It is notable because Salem’s Lot was on. My cousin and I recognized in each other a certain loutish behavior; an instant and lasting camaraderie was struck. We still share it. It’s crude and insensitive, and I’m not going to go into detail. But it still makes us laugh.

Lots of wonderful Thanksgivings during my marriage. The men would go hunting, the women would stay back and cook. All the cousins would play together – remarkably little blood shed; we all have such good kids they all got along - and still get along - so well.

One year, one of my boys had made a loaf of bread in school. It was the size of his fist and was about as light and fluffy as a hockey puck. We placed it on the table prominently, we all had a piece. It was awful, but it made my son so happy to have contributed something for dinner. And we ate it.

Then there was the last Thanksgiving I had with my Gramma. I had invited everyone over to my home for dinner. 30 people, little ones all over the place, it was wonderful. Gramma had alzheimers, but she was still communicative, very innocent. I sat on the floor next to her and asked if I could get her anything, tea, more potatoes, anything. “Nope!” her eyes shone, “Evie says that if I eat all my dinner, I can have pumpkin pie!” I smiled, “That’s right Gramma! You can!” We talked a few more minutes and Gramma said, “If I eat all my dinner, I get pie!” “That’s right Gramma, you do! Eat up!” We talked some more, I tended to the rest of the family. As I passed Gramma again, she showed me her plate, “May I have some pie now?” I don’t think I can think of anything more beautiful.

Wow, this is making me cry actually. A piece of pie. A loaf of bread. A stupid joke. Would that we all could find joy in small things, in small moments and keep them with us. I’m so glad I have that memory. And you know what? I don’t think I can type anymore.

Happy Thanksgiving :)