Memories of Family

Being that this is the week of thankfulness and a concentration on the thoughts of family, I've been thinking about family gatherings of years past and I'm finding that my memory is growing short. For example, I spent the first 8.5 years of my life in sunny California, feasting over turkey and trimmings in 70 to 75 degree weather. I'm sure that after the feast, I probably ran outside to ride bikes with friends or play in my yard; however, I can't remember really doing this. I know that I must have because my mother cooks with a vengeance during this time of the year (country, soul food...there's nothing like it! Collard greens, baked macaroni and cheese, cornbread dressing, sweet potato casserole, squash, dirty rice...ah!). She's all about the fine china, the crystal water goblets and the good silver, too. I do remember helping her shine the silver and set the table. I remember it was during this time of the year that I relearned when to use whichever fork (work from the outside in, people). But, I don't remember eating anything. I don't remember if we invited company at her big, walnut dining table. I don't remember if I enjoyed the meal. I don't remember if life was even good, during this time. Strange, huh?

Fast forward to my life in Nashville with parents who barely spoke to each other and meals on the second floor of our split-level, rented home with the red shutters. I remember, again, helping my mother shine the silver and set the table, but I don't remember eating. I don't remember Christmas dinners either and we lived in this home for ten years. My father was off the road and always home during this time. I don't remember him carving the bird. I don't remember him sleeping after the big meal. I don't remember enjoying it. Why don't I remember eating?

My college years, my mother was already living in Utah and I remained in Tennessee until Christmas time. I would go to my best friend's for Thanksgiving (since my father's apartment never felt like home and he usually ate at some one's home whom I didn't know). I remember eating. I remember laughing a lot, eating and napping on her couch in their too small family room. I remember eating here, even though they were never thorough about the job they did in washing their dishes (this grossed me out most of the time, but I insisted on helping with the pre-cleaning process during my visits at Thanksgiving). I needed to enjoy a holiday meal after being subjected to cafeteria food for months on end.

Nineteen hundred and ninety-eight in Centerville, Utah for Thanksgiving...my first Thanksgiving with my mother in years. I remember that day and all the Thanksgivings after it. Lots of food, lots of laughter and lots of joy. I suppose, now that I write this, my memory has faded on Thanksgivings past because the joy was limited in my youth during that time. My father was usually on the road, or I was living in a house with limited love. I'm sure the meals were lovely, but the actions weren't worthy of memory. Those times that were worthy were kept in the forefront of my mind. I suppose these are the memories I will pull from when my mother is no longer here and I'm left to do the Thanksgiving preparation on my own (I don't want to even think about that right now).

So, here's what I'm thankful for: I'm thankful for my happy memories of family, friends and joyful times...for a comfortable home, for frequent laughter, for reasonable health and an able mind.