It's Thanksgiving Eve. And we are home. No road trips or plane rides. No traveling whatsoever. And no one coming here either. It reminds me a bit of being a Thanksgiving orphan in NYC when I was a starving artist, either stuck with working at the restaurant or short on cash to get home to California. Sometimes, Mom would come out and we'd have Thanksgiving in the city with my brother, sister, brother-in-law, and whomever else was in town who couldn't get home. And those were some of the best nights ever. Nothing like a bunch of theatre types crammed into a tiny apartment all day, drinking and smoking and yapping away. My mom would eat it up like candy. And we all loved it.
It also reminds me of my first Thanksgiving away from home. I had just moved out to NYC, and was working at Triplets Romanian Steakhouse down in Tribeca. I was the new guy, and didn't get a lot of shifts, and money was very tight. In fact, the week of Thanksgiving, I had only one shift. Thanksgiving itself. I asked if I could have it off, but my bosses said no. They were identical triplets, separated at birth but reunited later in life. There was a documentary about them. (For more info, click HERE) One trait they all shared was a lack of empathy for new workers wanting to go home for Thanksgiving. And worse, on the day of Thanksgiving, I showed up ready to work, and they told me the books were light and I could go home if I wanted. Which I did. I told them I'd be back in two weeks. My car, and old Hyundai Excel, was parked in Jersey. I ran home to my tiny studio, grabbed a few things, headed to Jersey, and drove West. Somewhere in Ohio, I got a speeding ticket. The cop wouldn't let me off with a warning, even after telling him my sad tale. It was raining, and once it was clear I was on the hook for about sixty bucks, I asked as many questions of that cop as I could, just to make him stand in the rain. Petty, I know, but satisfying in a juvenile sort of way. I got home a few days late, but still managed to have some left overs, and of course the turkey sandwiches. I like mine with a lot of mayo, cranberry sauce, and tons of black pepper. That's it. It took me three days to drive from New York to San Jose. The thought of those sandwiches floated in front of me the whole way, all along Interstate 80, from Omaha to Winnemucca and finally over the Sierra Nevada past Reno and home. The sandwiches, and seeing friends and family, was worth it.
Holidays are strange, in how they conjure up the past so effortlessly. Good times and bad occupy the soul on holidays.
I remember the last Thanksgiving with my mom. She had been told by the doctors that she had about two years of life left in the spring, and we were all trying to figure out how that could be. I often got very high and tried to convince the Moon to intervene on her behalf. It didn't work. So we all gathered at the house, one last time. When I was a kid, we would rotate who hosted Thanksgiving between my mom and her two sisters, Aunt Mary and Aunt Alice. There'd be a ton of food. Aunt Alice always made Aspic, and Aunt Mary made Mince Meat Pie. And Uncle Bruce always said grace. Those were the rules. The rest I don't remember, other than it was awesome. Usually, we'd take a walk after the main meal but before dessert. On that last Thanksgiving, all the aunts and cousins gathered at my mom's house.
It was great to see everyone. And quite terrible. It made it all very real.
I had just met Lisa, my wife, and was full of love and joy. But at the same time, misery and sorrow. I was bursting with happiness at meeting the love of my life, and crushed and near insane at the idea of a world without my mom in it.
Like I said, holidays are strange.
Even so, I remember the love at that table, the laughs, the food, the joy in each other. Even though mom was dying, there was joy in being alive.
I find that holds true to this very day.
We are all not quite where we want to be this Thanksgiving, or with everyone we'd like to be with. Some are separated by miles, some by more permanent obstacles. But even so, we carry a bit of each other with us. In the dishes we make. In the jokes we tell. In the favorites old movies we watch.
A tradition my wife has that is now law is that we watch the original Miracle on 34th Street Thanksgiving night before we go to sleep. Sort of kicks off the Christmas season with magic and love.
This year, in what might be a new tradition, I'm making a mincemeat pie. In honor of Aunt Mary. And Aunt Alice. And my mom. The Three Ladies of Thanksgiving's Past, who always have a seat at the table.
Here's a song. It's Lyle Lovett's Family Reserve. Enjoy. And eat some pie.
