Friday, November 18, 2016
GHOSTS OF THANKSGIVINGS PAST
S. Lee Manning: Holiday seasons can be difficult. The
memories of holidays past, of family members no longer present, of times that
have disappeared, can cast a pall over the present day. For some, Christmas is
the hardest holiday. For me, Thanksgiving is when I most acutely feel the
ghosts of what has been and what is no longer.
When I was young, Thanksgiving meant a gathering of the
clan.
When my own kids were young, my husband and I became keepers
of the flame for Thanksgiving, but the holidays were usually smaller. Other
cousins, friends, nephews would expand the circle on occasion, but the core
remained my husband and I, our kids, and our parents.
It was a family cooking affair. My husband was on turkey and
gravy. I did side dishes. The first time I recreated the sweet potato favorite
from my youth, I proudly placed my creation on the table. My mother leaned over
to admire and promptly knocked her wine glass over, shards of glass spraying
across the perfectly bronzed marshmallow top. “It’s okay, I got it all,” she
said as she tried to scoop out the slivers of glass. I took it away and threw
it out. In subsequent years, I made sweet potato casserole without incident.
Every year, we’d eat a large breakfast, sometimes at the
local I-Hop, planning to sit down to the feast at around two. Usually we’d underestimate
just how long the turkey took to cook. Most years, the button on the turkey
wouldn’t pop until closer to three o’clock. The kids would be hungry and
cranky; my husband and I would be annoyed at their ingratitude, and the voices
in the other room would rise.
There were the usual family fights. Religion. Politics.
Temperature. My parents liked the house at 80 degrees, and we accommodated, but
we’d be cooking in short sleeves. “Put a sweater on,” my dad would yell as the
sweat literally poured down my face. “You’ll catch a cold.”
But finally we would sit down to the feast, with glasses of Beaujolais
nouveau for the adults and sparkling cider for the kids, and indulge in the
comfortable and familiar food that we ate once a year. We’d take a late
afternoon walk around the neighborhood. Tree branches bare of leaves, our
street glowed with the fading light of late afternoon in November in New Jersey.
We strolled past the brick and stone Colonials that had made this neighborhood
the showpiece of Trenton when it was built, and then feeling virtuous, we’d return
to eat pie and ice cream.
The older generation is mostly gone now: my parents, Jim’s
mom, the aunts and uncles in Cincinnati and Dayton, alive only in our memories.
Yesterday, Jim and I traveled from our current home to our old home
in Trenton where our son, Dean, still lives, and we’ll be here for
Thanksgiving. It will be a quiet affair. Just four of us from the family: Dean,
his partner, Jim, and me. Our daughter and her husband, who live in LA and can’t
afford the exorbitant plane fares this time of year, won’t be here nor will my
sister nor any of my cousins who are scattered across the United States. There
are good things about a society that is so very mobile, but it does mean fewer
people at holidays. There will not be many more Thanksgivings in this house –
we will be selling it within one or two years, once Dean is finally ready to
move out.
It looks like Thanksgiving in our old neighborhood. The
unraked brown leaves blow in the November wind, and here and there, a pumpkin left
over from Halloween still adorns the steps of the houses that remain just as
stately as when our children were small. Some of the more ambitious neighbors
will be decorating their homes with lights for Christmas before the
Thanksgiving leftovers are even cold.
But it doesn’t feel like Thanksgiving. It feels small and
kind of sad. I am haunted by the ghosts of Thanksgivings past, by memories of
the large extended family gatherings of my youth, and of the smaller but sweet
celebrations here in this house. I keep
remembering the end of Catcher in the Rye, “Don’t ever tell anyone anything. If
you do, you start missing everybody.”
Still, things change. Life is a continual ballet, twirling between
sadness at the loss of the old and joy in the new.
So it’s time to recreate the holiday. I’ll make my sweet
potato casserole, this year with Vermont maple syrup instead of brown sugar, and
the stuffing will be gluten free for Dean’s newly discovered gluten
sensitivity. Maybe expand the circle: invite
acquaintances who are feeling bereft to join us this year. And remember, even
as I miss those who won’t be here, I have so many reasons to be thankful.
Recipe: sweet potato
casserole:
Bake 6-8 sweet potatoes until soft. Peel. Mash with half a
stick of butter, 1 teaspoon cinnamon, and maple syrup to taste – a minimum of a
cup. Spread evenly through a greased casserole dish and top generously with
marshmallows. Bake at 350 until marshmallows are brown. Avoid dropping glass
into dish. Serve.
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What a wonderful story over the years and all the changes. It sure takes me back, too. The recipe for marshmallow sweet potatoes is frighteningly appealing! My mother made sweet potatoes with a sprinkling of baby marshmallows that I still remember ... and with lots of butter. Yum! Thanks for all the memories!
ReplyDeleteGreat post, S. Lee, about family memories and how "life moves on" - while we keep the best ones close. As for that sweet potato recipe - boy that sounds delicious....can't wait to try it!
ReplyDeleteLOVE sweet potatoes! Thanks for the recipe and have a Happy Thanksgiving!
ReplyDeleteIt is sad, Sandy, that holiday tables are less filled now. You evoke my feelings well and describe past scenes beautifully. I love the fighting over the room temperature! It is a good time to take in people who have no family at all. Happy Thanksgiving, all you Rogue Women!
ReplyDeleteThank you for the kind words. I always find fall and Thanksgiving to be a difficult season. This year, perhaps more so. Wishing everyone a wonderful holiday.
ReplyDeleteAs my husband, Wes, and I have become empty-nesters, we also struggle with the decreasing numbers around the table. More, we struggle to figure out what this next chapter of life will be. I was lamenting this to my youngest daughter one day and she paused, then said, "Mom, you have to look at this as an adventure. It's exciting. You and Dad can do whatever you want to do." It reminded me of something I said to her as I dropped her off at college and reassured her that she would find a life out there. Me? I'm thinking I might want to live near water, write more books and, frankly, I'm really looking forward to more grandchildren.
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