Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving.

The very word inspires some of the most vivid memories of my childhood.  It reaches into my heart and I feel like a fist is squeezing life into my chest. That’s how much the memories mean to me.  Much has changed.  Our family has outgrown the small home built by my grandparents with love and hard work.  Gone are the days where the kids sit on the steps leading from the kitchen and long to be 12 just so they can eat in that beloved living room!  Gone are the days where we set up tables in the living room for the kids while the adults eat at the long wooden table spanning the whole kitchen.  We don’t gather any longer to wash the nice dishes at the close of the meal and bump into each while crowded into an over packed but warm, cozy and safe home.  There are not enough homes still belonging to our family in a small area for everyone to walk up a hill, or down a hill or through a corral to gather in the same place.

Now we gather in a church.  My grandparents live in assisted living.  The family has moved and scattered. But those memories – how those memories live on.

I can remember the first real tackle I took in an after Thanksgiving football game we played in the front yard.  I remember the feel of my back slamming into the dead grass and the air rushing out of my lungs.  The concern in the voices of brothers and cousins and people I love that quickly turned into, “Shake it off” as soon as I stood up and everyone knew I was okay.  The best day was when I had earned the right to be the one to issue the tackle to the next young child grown old enough to the play the game.

There were hayrides. There were dances.  There were family talent shows and soups and long horse rides that lasted until dusk.  If I close my eyes in a moment of silence I can still see the cowboy hats of the men I loved lining the back wall of Grandma’s kitchen, I hear the laughter, I feel the joy and I taste the nuts we all cracked while gathered in this place.  My hands feel the lessons I learned in the kitchen. My ears hear the laughter that always accompanied this gathering, the organized chaos of conversations, the occasional shout of joy.  My eyes burn from the exhaustion because we never wanted to sleep. You see, we were too busy enjoying every second of being together.  I can taste the biscuits and gravy tradition of the Friday morning meal.  My muscles ache with the memory of work: there was always a Thanksgiving project.  Maybe it was building a garage or cutting wood, but it was always together.

There were always injuries.  We were a wild bunch.  The injuries accompanied the best memories though.  The year we hooked the old Volkswagen bug up to a tow rope and off-roaded it in the sage brush.  I’m certain I had an undiagnosed tailbone break that day. No matter.  It remains one of my most cherished memories.

We snuck in late to go to bed.  We lit campers on fire.  We stole pies from the garage and we ate them.  We broke bones.  We learned to swear. We learned to love.  We learned to work, to appreciate, to cherish, we learned true Thanksgiving.

Many years have passed.  We still gather in as full of a force as we can.  We cling to the traditions we can.  Our memories live on and I can only hope and pray that we are making memories for the new children who have joined us.

I started out writing this blog thinking I would do 30 things I was thankful for in the month of November, but instead, I think I will just let this moment of memories exist by itself.

That’s what I am thankful for: my lasting memories of this wonderful holiday.

So once in every year we throng
Upon a day apart,
To praise the Lord with feast and song
In thankfulness of heart.
~Arthur Guiterman, The First Thanksgiving