Traditions End and Begin
In my thirteenth year on this earth, I discovered family Thanksgiving dinner. My Jewish father died when I was twelve years old and a new era began. It was filled with turkey, stuffing, assorted vegetables, and a variety of desserts. The new game plan was being thankful on this particular day known as “Thanksgiving.” All the festivities for this special day commenced at my grandparent’s house in Kansas. My mother was born and raised in Kansas and we moved there shortly before my Jewish heritage ceased to exist. Although, this tale might sound depressing it was quite the contrary. My grandparents were the center of the family and cemented many happy memories growing up.
As I read the essay, “A Wobegon Holiday Dinner” by Garrison Keillor parts did remind me of those Thanksgiving dinners from my past. “My aunts were powerful women caught up in a crusade to create vast quantities of food and stuff us with it and stuff the rest into Tupperware dishes and stuff them into the refrigerator.” (227) This sentence, although resembling some undertones of contempt and disgust reminded me of all the busy hands in my grandmother’s kitchen. Everyone had a job to do that day. My grandfather would ready the ingredients to make homemade ice cream, my mother and other ladies would be busy with their assigned food preparation, and the kids would be responsible for setting up tables and chairs. The smell of wonderful homemade food would permeate the house and everything centered on the anticipation of the dinner bell. The dinner bell…was in fact a real bell my grandmother would ring to let everyone know the food was ready.
I do not remember much of any arguments between family members as noted by the sentence, “I knew that Vietnam was bound to come up at dinner.” (228) Vietnam was alive and well during my childhood and two of my relatives contributed to that cause. I am fairly certain these types of discussions took place, but were secondary to this gathering. One added ingredient during our meal was the turkey being surrounded like a wagon train of quail that were hunted on my grandparent’s farm. When I mentioned this to my children who are predominantly suburbanites, they shutter and make choking sounds of the thought of eating a bird that wasn’t farm raised, slaughtered properly, and delivered with a belly button that pops when it is completely cooked.
My grandparents have been gone for many years and many of those traditions sadly… passed away with them. My children are scarce when the food is being prepared at our house, rush to the table, eat and then decide which of their friends they are going to visit. Of course, their next stop is being discussed via texting. I sometimes note that it isn’t proper to intrude on families on this holiday. They just roll their eyes and comment about me being old and out of touch. My wife and I try hard to bring the family into our home to provide our children with memories of laughter, jokes, and good food. I have given up on convincing our children this is a day of thanks because they just joke about the pilgrims and Indians. Counting our blessings is noted at best with hugs and kisses as they head out the door to their next social event. I sometimes sit quietly after everyone is gone wondering if they will remember these holidays as fondly as I do. These traditions like many others are special memories in my mind and heart. Why am I thankful these days? I am thankful that my family has not decided that a dinner on Thanksgiving should take place in a restaurant as noted in “A Thoroughly Modern Dining” by Richard Pillsbury.
