By G. E. Shuman
Thanksgiving, in a word, and as a
word, is a mouthful. The long, feasting-table-length wish of “Happy
Thanksgiving!” fills the air with syllables, and the mind with
fond memories of food and family. The very thought of Thanksgiving
Day, to many of us, brings an anticipation of aromas wafting from
warm, turkey-scented kitchens. Gravy-drenched garlic potatoes,
steamy stuffing, pickles and pies all come to mind when we ponder
this casual and cozy, butter-basted, late November holiday. It’s
the day of pilgrims, Indians, and cornucopias that we learned of as
young children; the day with the name which even begins with the
‘turkey’ letter. Yum, yum!
This coming holiday will be the
forty-third Thanksgiving Day Lorna and I have celebrated together as
husband and wife. Some recent Thanksgivings have been spent at the
home of one or another of our adult children, and those times are
wonderful. Still, over the years, most of these family feasts have
taken place right here in our old Barre, Vermont home.
To Lorna and to me there has always
been something special about such times in this solid, well-aged
place. Home is a house where your memories reside, and that is
likely what makes this one so special to us. The sturdy, tall,
thick-walled, elderly rooms of this house nearly echo with sounds of
holidays past; of hours spent here, sheltered from the cold world by
those big walls, and by big love. Here we have cooked dozens of
family-sized Thanksgiving turkeys together, and have stuffed them all
with stuffing of only slightly varying stuff. We have also stuffed
celery and pumpkins here, have opened scores of cans of cranberry
sauce and peeled hundreds of potatoes, all for fleeting, passing,
Thanksgiving Day dinners. I enjoy the notion that even earlier
families who occupied this old home had their own holidays filled
with scampering children and sumptuous kitchen scents. Their
Thanksgivings were certainly graced with laughter and love, smiles
and silliness, and grand kids and gratitude, as are ours. At least,
I hope that they were.
Over these years our own Thanksgiving
menus and recipes have changed little, but, with the passing of time,
the company around the table has, necessarily, changed greatly.
Years ago grandparents came to help us celebrate our first years
together. Years later, our parents and cousins occasionally shared
our feast with us and our then-young children. In more recent
Novembers, people who look somewhat like those small children we used
to have come and bring children of their own to sit around that same
old table. How wonderful, and yet how strange that we have now
become the grandparents; the elders at the feast. Such positions
hold great joy, but also at least a bit of trepidation for me. I
know in my heart that, as our family grows ever-greater in number,
such future family times must be growing ever-fewer for Lorna and me.
Maybe that is okay. We are here together, again this year, and that
is enough for now. We do our best to live by faith, and will
anxiously await and always enjoy as many family Thanksgivings as God
allows us to share.
Years ago we, somehow, found a recipe
that I wish you would try this year. It has filled us to
overflowing, time and again, and has been the very basis of many
nearly perfect Thanksgivings for us. To follow the recipe, you
simply turn this holiday's name around a bit, and remember to make
Thanks-giving Day a day of consciously, gratefully, giving thanks.
1 comment:
I am thankful for friends like you and the little catalysts you sprinkle that cause us to use our imaginations.
Post a Comment