Celebrations change with time

When I was little Thanksgiving meant all the cousins were coming, along with at least a few relatives whom I didn’t recognize. Grandma would bake pies; her favorite sugar cream; and my favorites custard and pumpkin. Sometimes there would be a black raspberry pie oozing with raspberries my mom and I had picked earlier in the year.
The kitchen would fill with the aroma of beef and noodles. Stinky green beans would simmer on the stove. Usually there was ham but never turkey. Always there was oyster dressing loaded with sage. The quivering and wonderful cranberry sauce bearing the ridges of the can would make its yearly appearance. There must have been other stuff like rolls with homemade butter and probably more home-grown vegetables that I would avoid, but I don’t remember the specifics.
The house was warm and the table stretched from the kitchen and almost to the living room. Everybody talked at once. After dinner we kids would go outside to investigate the barn or the duck house or to pester the sheep. We climbed around in the haymow and explored the far reaches of the farm. We didn’t go back into the house until some adult called us in to say goodbye.
The gatherings were a lot smaller after Grandpa died and eventually petered out. I got married and had the ill-advised idea to host Thanksgiving our first year of marriage. The pie ended up with the crust somewhere in the middle. The table bore teeth marks from our puppy. One uncle had died by then and that cousin was lost to our family. Another had a falling out with my grandmother and no longer associated with us any more than necessary.
All of my grandmother’s many siblings celebrated with their own families instead of ours. Still, it was a good holiday, with my in-laws and immediate family gathered together. We ate oyster dressing loaded with sage.
Later, we did the married thing where we went to both families on the same day. We would go to my family for a huge meal then to his and eat again, or vice versa. This persisted through my first marriage and during my second. I hosted the dinner for both families only one more time. Occasionally we go to Texas to have Thanksgiving with my daughter.
All my uncles and in-laws are dead. The cousins are scattered across the country and I haven’t seen some of them in decades. We go to my mom’s for the holidays and take her out to dinner. My brothers stop by for a visit then it’s off to their own in-laws for the rest of the day.
Nobody cooks any more although I usually bake something to share. The house doesn’t ring with the laughter of children. The youngest children live half a continent away and will spend the holiday with family that loves them as much as we do. The one who lives close is a teen who prefers to spend time with his own cousins instead of an old aunt and an increasingly feeble grandmother. There is no farm, only cookie-cutter houses with no outbuildings to explore.
Times have changed. Yet, the reason for the holiday remains the same. We give thanks, not with ritualized prayers or thinly disguised sermons, but with our very souls. Our families may be battered and worn but they are ours. We gather with those who know us better than we know ourselves. We give thanks for those who love us and talk about the ones who are no longer here. We are grateful that we are still able to spend time with each other.
This Thanksgiving, I hope that you can gather with your loved ones. I want you to share good food and good memories. There are always things to be thankful for, if only for the chance to see what the day will bring.[[In-content Ad]]