I have a complicated relationship with Thanksgiving. Let’s get that out of the way.
As a little girl, I wouldn’t have been able to describe my feelings about the holiday. I just knew to brace myself. Chances were there was going to be drama at the table, along with the turkey and stuffing.
If we were going to spend the day with my dad’s parents, that meant my mom would start grumbling about having to go there the Sunday before. If we were going to spend the day with my mom’s parents, that meant my dad would start grumbling about having to go there the Sunday before.
On my dad’s side, it was quiet day. The challenge was to keep a conversation going. I didn’t spend anywhere near the same amount of time with them as I did my mom’s parents. I was still pretty shy around them so I was quiet too. Dad didn’t talk much. Grandma Barney and Papa Mike were also...not conversationalists. (Yes, that’s what they had me call her; I never got a straight answer as to why. Her name was Mildred.)
On my mom’s side, it was chaotic. It wasn’t a big family, six adults and two children altogether, but they made up for their number with the amount of dysfunction they created. No one shut up at that dinner table. And as my mom used to put it, my aunt and grandma swore like truck drivers. (Irony: my grandpa was a truck driver.)
At some point, someone had the good idea to invite Dad’s parents over to Mom’s family’s Thanksgiving. That took a lot off of our plates. We didn’t have to work hard to pepper the conversation with mundanity. Other people at the table took care of them and included them and I think they enjoyed being there.
The food? The actual dinner? Well, if you’re a regular reader, you know about my picky eater status. I either ate mashed potatoes or Grandpa ordered me a pizza. An unspoken travesty at the table: neither grandmother could cook well.
Later on, I figured out that Thanksgiving with my family meant tension and stress.
Are grandma and grandpa going to fight? Who’s going to drink too much?
We would rotate Thanksgiving dinner locations. If we hosted, I would have the added fun of family bullying me into playing piano. God, I hated that. At one point, I put a brandy snifter on top of the upright piano as a subtle hint for tips. (My rebellious side started to come out in smartassery.)
The women worked for days shopping, prepping, then cooking. Then cleaning up. The men showed up from the living room to eat and then returned to the living room. As a little girl, I remember thinking, wait, who are the dum-dum’s here? The men who don’t do anything or the women who let them get away with it?
Right when I was supposed to be starting my independent single girl life, my parents finally split up and holiday life changed in a big way.
Divorced child syndrome hit hard. Pass the gravy and the guilt.
When Mom reunited with her high school sweetheart, she left everything and everyone behind. I stood there at a Thanksgiving crossroads with decisions to make.
Who’s talking to whom this year? Whose house am I going to for turkey dinner? Do I go to Dad’s and not Mom’s? Do I go to my grandma’s house and leave both parents in the lurch? Do I go to Mom’s and leave my dad all alone? Thanksgiving at Mom’s house meant spending the day with all of these new people, her new family.
All of a sudden, I had a stepfamily. I was never fully comfortable hanging out at the holiday table with my own family and now I had a whole new set of strangers to deal with. And guess what? They had their drama too. Three kids came with the new husband. They were loud and abrasive and worst of all, they were rude to my mom.
As a young adult, I thought, wait, isn’t Thanksgiving supposed to be the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade? Football? A nap and then round two?
When I met G, he introduced me to a different kind of Thanksgiving. We drove to this little town in southwestern New York called Cuba. This little town was the center of G’s family. Both sides of his family grew up there. His uncle John was a retired fireman so when that side of the family hosted Thanksgiving, they used the firehouse. Long tables were set up that held bowls and platters of food, including uncle John’s own pureed squash recipe. Oh, that luxurious squash dish. Heaven.
This was the antithesis of my childhood turkey day. I was beside myself. There were so many people there, no one could focus on me or target me.
People hadn’t seen each other for a while so they were happy to see each other and catch up. Bonus: uncle John would take the little kids to see the fire trucks. Because I was the new girl, I asked to join in. So a bunch of six year-olds and I climbed all over the trucks and had a blast.
As a married couple, G and I started hosting T-Day at our house. I was the boss for once. I loved setting my holiday table. I had beautiful chargers for underneath the dinner plates, cloth napkins, water glasses, and wine glasses. I made place cards so I could use my calligraphy skills. My favorite part was making the centerpiece, fresh flowers, fresh fruit, candles.
My mom and her husband would drive down and join G’s parents from Syracuse. When the four of them were together, they found a new pastime, poking fun of me and G. I focused on the fact that at least they had a good time. That’s what a host wants, right?
We said grace, G gave a toast, and I made everyone go around the table and say something they were grateful for, even with their rolling eyes. After dinner, we went for a walk if the weather was decent that late in the year in Michigan. We watched some football and packed up leftovers.
The next day we’d kickstart Christmas. If G’s stepmom was there, she’d get up early to do some Black Friday shopping. I was a good daughter-in-law and went with her once, scored some points.
Thanksgiving 2015. Mom in a hospice bed in the living room. She’d only live a week more.
People brought us containers of food from their Thanksgiving leftovers. We had football on the TV. And Mom was lying there in the middle of it all.
What was I grateful for then?
I think the first Thanksgiving we had after 2015, G’s parents came to Naples and I made dinner. But I hated every minute of it. I was still swimming in grief. I cried myself to sleep every night and I couldn’t wait for the holiday weekend to be over.
For years, when I saw Thanksgiving coming on the calendar, my psyche knew it and wanted to relive that time. Dread started settling in. Memories floating up.
Then, G said, “Why don’t we just order some food?” It was just the two of us and I didn’t have to do much work that way. I could just rest and get through the weekend as peacefully as possible.
So that’s what we did. It made life a lot easier.
The only year since then that we celebrated big was with my friend, Ramon and his husband. We met at a dinner party in Chicago and we decided we loved each other by the time we poured our second cocktail. We decided to have Thanksgiving together. Planned the menu, shopped. Ramon set a gorgeous table. We cooked together, music playing, wine flowing. It was the first Thanksgiving that mattered since I lost Mom. I was still exhausted, but I had so much fun and could finally feel some gratitude.
I’m clear headed enough now that I know Mom wouldn’t want me to give in to the dread. I can still feel its pull. It’s there, knocking on the door, but I don’t think I’ll open it and let it in. There’s no space at my table for dread and discomfort anymore.
Instead, I’ll plan a killer menu, play for hours in the kitchen, and serve some peace along with the turkey.
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Thanks again for reading! I care about you. Have an extra helping of greens this week.
***Written to The Jayhawks’ Back Roads and Abandoned Motels.
This was a beautiful piece, Kim. I love the bits of laughs (the tip jar!) sprinkled throughout what I’m sure was a tough post to write. I hope you had a wonderful, peaceful Thanksgiving 💕
Love this one Kim, so glad you decided to look this one in the eye. Pass the peace, x