Monday Morning Musings:
“We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures.”
–Thornton Wilder, The Woman of Andros
When I was child
My little sister and I broke bread
For stuffing
On Thanksgiving morning
As we watched the parade
On TV.
One Thanksgiving morning,
My father took us out
So my mom could cook
Without interruptions.
We were dressed as pilgrims
Or Indians perhaps,
Me with my hair in two long braids,
And the waitress fawned over us,
Or perhaps she was flirting with my dad.
I can’t be sure now.
The restaurant,
I seem to recall,
Was empty,
Which seems strange
On Thanksgiving, doesn’t it?
And perhaps the whole event
Happened in some other way,
But this is what I remember
On that Thanksgiving Day.
Thanksgiving dinners
For me
As a child,
Meant crumbling slices of white bread
Into a large pot
While watching the televised parade.
I don’t even remember the meals.
And I certainly didn’t appreciate
All of the work
My mother did to prepare them.
Later,
When I was a bit older,
It was my mom making cranberry sauce
In the squirrel mold
That stood out.

We never understood why
After turning the mold
Onto the platter,
She then raised them together
High in the air
And rested them on her head—
Strange,
But dramatic.
And we looked forward to it
Every year.
My daughters took over
The bread-breaking chore
When they were young.
Crumbling the bread
And
Eating pieces,
Thinking I didn’t see them.
We’d place their hand turkey placemats
On the table,
But as their hands grew larger
The placements no longer appeared.
Where are those placemats now
I wonder?
This year,
My younger daughter,
Hands woman-grown and
With a wedding ring
On one long, slender finger
Tore the bread with me,
Loaves and loaves
Crumbled
Into a large soup kettle,
As we spent the afternoon together,
The day before Thanksgiving,
Watching Netflix
And enjoying tea, cookies,
And companionship.
After she left,
I waited for my
Older daughter and her wife
To arrive.
And I sat with them while they ate
The Wawa hoagies
My husband had bought for them.
(No Wawa stores in Boston!)
And we talked
And I was so happy to have them here
And willing to sleep
On an uncomfortable bed
In my daughter’s childhood room.
I’m profoundly aware
That many throughout the world
Are suffering,
In pain,
Missing loved ones,
Perhaps without a home,
Food, or water.
And I am deeply grateful
For what I have,
Our traditions
And crazy family.
I think of our Thanksgiving dinner—
The ritual unmolding
Of the cranberry squirrel,
Now done by my sister-in-law,
With encouraging advice,
Laughter,
And glasses of wine.
The scurry to get everything to the table,
The fifteen minutes it takes to get everyone
To actually sit down.
(Why does it take so long?
Another mystery.)
What do you want to drink?
Wait, where’s the corkscrew?
Oh, I’m sitting over there.
But the food,
Of course,
Worth the days of cooking.
The Thanksgiving favorites
Prepared every year.
My daughter and I discussing how much
We love stuffing.
“It’s good we don’t have it all the time,”
She says.
“Then it wouldn’t be special,”
I say.

The various conversations going on
Across the table,
Whispers and glances between couples,
The newlyweds smiling and hugging,
The children restless,
Holding two fingers up behind heads
Preserved forever in photographs
Of this night.
Secrets and stories.
Talk of jobs,
Family,
Gossip.
The under-the-table pokes.
Yes,
More wine–
Please!
And then dessert—
Pies and pumpkin cheesecake
And chocolate port, too.
You know,
In case the wine was not enough.
My mind hovers
Seeing each moment
Frozen,
Stilled
And replayed,
But connected to all the Thanksgivings
Of my life.
Each memory
A little bubble of time
That floats to the surface
To be tasted
And savored.
Sparkling water of the mind.
This holiday is special to me.
Not because it commemorates
A feast shared by
Pilgrim refugees
Who called themselves
Saints
And the Wampanoag
Who lived there.
(Well, those who had survived
Earlier exposure to diseases brought by
Europeans).
And they didn’t have pumpkin pie
And they probably ate venison and shellfish,
And they did not have our cranberry squirrel,
But no matter
No,
For me,
Thanksgiving is beautiful
Because it evokes my past,
The scents,
The taste,
The history,
The love,
And connects it
To the present
And the future.
Each bubble of time
Sparkling,
Glimmering,
Floating
And popping
To make way for the next.

I am grateful, too, for all of you who read my blog and for the comments you leave. Thank you for your encouragement!
This may interest some who want to give and provide hope to others.