Traditions

Thanksgiving was always the same every year. Magical. I didn’t even realize how magical until those years were long gone.

I remember the bustle of getting ready. All of us getting dressed up and looking nice. I was the kind of kid who loved dressing up, so any opportunity to wear a pretty dress, shoes that clicked when I walked, and style my hair was exciting. I didn’t have many of these opportunities.

We always brought green bean casserole. Wrapped in newspaper and tucked inside two paper bags in opposite directions. My mom made it and my dad carried it. Piping hot.

We’d bundle up and pack into the car to drive over to our friend’s apartment building. There was almost always snow on the ground. It was always cold. And I would always curse my need for pretty shoes when boots would have been the better choice. We were all excited.

Even the elevator ride was an adventure. Us kids would try to remember which door was Cindy’s. We only came over for Thanksgiving. It’s funny how it all started.

My mom wanted one holiday without my dad’s family. She wanted one where she could actually relax. I love my dad’s family, but they are a lot. I totally understand my mom’s request.

Basically, my dad was still friends with his childhood babysitter and she became friends with my mom. This babysitter happened to be dating a guy that my mom had gone to high school with and he hit it off with my dad, so they became good friends. And they all became a friend group even after those two quit dating. This is how it was when I arrived in this world. Thanksgiving was at the high school friend’s sister’s apartment.

Their sister came too. With her son. And my dad’s old babysitter brought her daughters, who actually babysat us on occasion. We’d all pile in, filling the hallway with shoes and coats. It was so warm and cozy in that space.

I remember being so confused by the separation that happened next. Why did all the women huddle in the kitchen and all the men around the football game? I knew why us kids were banished to the bedroom to watch ET, again. But why did the grownups continue these stupid gender roles?

Because it was wonderful!

I remember laughter tumbling out of the kitchen. The many pots of food on the stove, the pans in the oven, the platters ready and waiting. Each woman had wine and an ease about them I rarely saw. A kinship no man could understand. There was magic in that kitchen. As they took turns stirring and seasoning and pouring they filled that room to bursting and then let it spill into the dining room as the food was laid out on an elegant spread.

I remember the quiet conversations from the living room. The deep voices uncharacteristically calm, subdued. Their whoops and groans as the game played out. A shot of sound cutting through the buzz of the announcer. Beer in dark brown bottles was the drink out here. There was no tight knot of worry or toughness in them. I felt safe and comfortable walking by to see what the adults were up to. They brought this relaxed calm to the table with them and spread it around.

I hated ET. I still won’t watch it. I mean, I tried to watch it with my kids. They love it. I just can’t. We watched it every year. And every year my dislike of it was one of the running jokes. Until we tried Batman Forever and then The Nightmare Before Christmas (which I hated the first few times, but is now one of my favorite Christmas movies). So they tried to find something for all of us, but we were quite the age range. I still love the memories of the movie.

I had no idea some families put kids at a different table. It was never that way for us. We all sat together. Passing the plates around, using our manners, making sure everyone got some of what they wanted. We all talked to each other. Everyone was heard, everyone seen, everyone loved. It was all so organic and natural.

My parents and their friends really created a very magical childhood for us kids. I have always been grateful for it, but am also often struck by deep waves of gratitude when I realize how few people had a village raise them. How many parents are trying to create all of that alone. How small my own kids’ village is.

I sometimes get a bit teary eyed thinking about those early traditions. A lot has changed since then. There was a time when I didn’t even know if I could create the same relaxed joy for my own kids; or for myself. But I’ll leave that for another story.