Did turkeys take longer to cook in those days? They must have. I woke to the aroma of roasting turkey and the three families and assorted guests didn’t come until 4. It was forever.
My mother–then a widow with a 9-year old son–began the tradition in 1943 by asking three families to join them. By the time she met and married my father during the war (no accident–he was related to one of the three families!) and I came along, Thanksgiving was an institution. The warmth of those days is with me still.
The four families celebrated everything together: holidays, birthdays, new homes, summer. It wasn’t until I was 12 I realized I wasn’t actually related to one of the families. But it didn’t matter. We loved each other. We were family.
Thanksgiving Day was another opportunity to give thanks for each other, for our traditions, for God’s goodness. My dad always offered grace: “Give us grateful hearts, our Father, for Thy many blessings. Make us mindful of the needs of others. Through Jesus Christ our Lord.”
“AMEN!” the 25 or so at the table said.
We sat at a table expanded by ping pong tables my dad shaped to fit our dining room table and covered with a tablecloth my mother made in 1943. The tablecloth was a focal point of our celebration. On it, carefully embroidered by my mother and grandmother, were the signatures of everyone eating at that table since 1943, and notations of where those absent were.
Before dinner everyone looked at The Thanksgiving Cloth. “Do you remember?” “Look how grown up her signature was that year.” “Oh–Johnny was away at school that year.” “Here’s John R’s . . . that was his last Thanksgiving.” “She brought her roommate.” “Tom was in Vietnam.” Do you remember… do you remember. . .
Our celebration was always open. Friends came. Out of town relatives and guests came. Last minute arrivals were welcome. There was always room for one more. And their signatures would be carefully embroidered on The Cloth.
These were powerful lessons for the children. Families matter. Traditions matter. God matters.
After dinner, we gathered around the piano. My “funnest” friend sang “Goodnight Irene” to his wife, Irene. We sang “Five Foot Two, Eyes of Blue” to my brown-eyed sister-in-law. After old time favorites, we began singing Christmas carols as we drew names for our Christmas Eve gift exchange.
Did it take longer in those days for Christmas to come?
What are you thankful for this Thanksgiving?
