It may be a silly thought. I’m sure that people do make a
happy Thanksgiving at restaurants every year. And probably have for as long as
there have been restaurants and Thanksgiving.
In my case, I have been luckier. Ever since before I was born, my family has
held Thanksgiving dinner at home. For
the past 59 years, at my mothers home. Sometimes it was just a few of us, other
times there were tables set up all over the house. But it was always at my
mother’s house.
And although this delighted me, it was not always a hit with
my former wives. But still it was
tradition that reached back into my past much farther than they did. And I was
inflexible.
Other holidays have fallen.
Mother’s day, Easter, and last year even Christmas, all home cooked
meals that were outsourced, not to carry in, but to dine out. I didn’t
complain. I realized that if I was in my
late 50’s that put my mother in her early 80’s.
Cleaning and cooking for holidays is hard work. It doesn’t matter if it’s for five or thirty
family and a dozen or so strays and their families that my mother would
befriend and, for a day, make them feel as at home and as much a part of the
family as I did.
We all pitched in to help cook and prepare. But it just got
to be too much. So one at a time the holidays fell. But no matter what happened I still had
Thanksgiving.
Until today.
Now I realize that thanksgiving is celebrated across the United
States .
And everybody SAYS that it is a day to reflect on friends and family and
the few or many gifts life had bestowed on you. People SAY that, but I felt
it. I didn’t realize just how much I
felt it until my Mother told me about two weeks ago that she and my youngest
brother were looking for a restaurant to make thanksgiving reservations.
I smiled. I don’t
know why I smiled. I certainly didn’t feel like smiling, I felt like running
around the room like a spoiled three year old, smashing thing indiscriminately
and screaming “No, no, no, no, no!!! “
But I smiled. I
offered other alternative and the discussion was long, but in the end
fruitless. Today my mother, my brothers,
our sons, and even a new great grandson ate thanksgiving dinner… out.
It took me a while to wrap my head around it. And I am not a good enough actor to hide my
displeasure in the entire affair. We had
eaten many meals at this particular restaurant before and the food had always
been good.
Today I didn’t like a bite of it. However, I couldn’t tell
you if it was any good. I didn’t taste
it. I did my best to make light of everything that I was hating, but I’m not
sure I fooled anyone. It wasn’t a
tantrum, It wasn’t moping. My thanksgiving was broken and I was realizing that
it wasn’t the food.
Since I was nine or so, my brothers and I had been living in
a true matriarchy. My mother was the
head of the family. You just didn’t say
no, because you never wanted to disappoint her.
My middle brother traveled from across country to see her. His eldest son and my eldest son brought
their families from states away to see her too.
And my mother was now eighty-three.
The three hundred pound gorilla sitting in my lap was not
about loosing a home cooked meal. It was
about loosing my mother and perhaps my family. Would we still gather in years
to come after my mother was gone. Or would we, like so many other families be
relegated to seeing each other only during some five or ten year reunion.
These are questions to which I have no answer. I cannot
answer. It’s not just up to me.
So the next gathering is Christmas. And we will be eating out. But my attitude will be different. I won’t be
secretly grousing about the food. Because
the food won’t matter. The place will
not matter. Only holding my family close
for as long as I can will matter. And
marking every moment we share together.
And that will matter most.
Be Well.
