Blessing The Memory

It is the single most vivid memory I have of Thanksgiving. It was 1983 and both my grandparents were still living. We had stuffed the little house on College Street with people and food and all manner of conversation. When the last Tupperware dish had been uncovered, Pa rose from his seat at the table to say the blessing.

It should be noted that my grandfather never approached this occasion with the intention of simply expressing gratitude and asking for blessing on the food. He took the opportunity to pray for people and weather and prosperity. He included distant relatives and whatever issues were currently uppermost in the minds of the citizenry. He commanded the kitchen as though it were an auditorium and there was no way to know how long his oratory would continue.

On this particular Thanksgiving, my mother, who had recently obtained a video camera, the kind that has to be hoisted not lifted, the kind that could produce a dent on the shoulder of the person holding it, stood in the corner and panned the room of bowed heads. My nephew, a little over a year old and just beginning to put together the idea of communicating in something other than grunts, was balanced on my hip as the prayer progressed.

After some time, but before Pa had gotten to the end of the prayer and the traditional inclusion of the "sick, afflicted, and oppressed," my nephew called out, "Stop!"

Snickers and titters of laughter swept through the room, all recorded for posterity. Undeterred from his patriarchal responsibility, Pa kept praying.

I can't say I remember another thing that happened that Thanksgiving, but the images -- the smell of turkey and dressing, the breeze from the open back door, the heat from the cooling oven, the closeness of all the bodies -- came back to me the other day as I made the menu for this year's observance.

There is, of course, a lot for which to be grateful, but honesty compels me to admit that the twelve months since last Thanksgiving have left me questioning the ease with which I normally approach the fourth Thursday in November. The weight of so much change and loss is too much for me to balance on my hip. There are moments when I want to yell, "Stop!"

And, yet, even as I grit my teeth and straighten my shoulders, I can't resist the other images that creep in from the edges of my memory -- the feel of soft baby fists resting on my neck, the crunch of pecans stop fluffy sweet potatoes, and, overwhelming them all, the perfect contentment of having all the people I love most in a single room around a single table.

That will never happen again and I can't help feeling sad even as I am reminded of the oft-repeated adage: Don't be sad that it is over; be glad that it happened.

This year, I decide, I can choose to be both.

Copyright 2024