Ah, Thanksgiving. Whether you love it or try to avoid it, it happens every year. Looking back at my life, I’ve realized I can compartmentalize my Thanksgivings into three categories.
First was my childhood, when I was surrounded by my family. I remember Thanksgivings filled with laughter, food, and of course, playing who can grab an ashtray for grandma before her cigarette dropped ashes all over the floor. In an off year, Thanksgiving could have as few as 12 people; on a good year, close to 30. It was not uncommon to see dinner rolls being tossed from one table to another (and that was between our parents).
When someone asked about saying Grace, at least one person would shout out, “Grace”, before Grandma gave a look and a proper blessing was said. The kids played while the food was being prepared and all of the adults had a role (you cooked or you cleaned, no excuses). Everyone looked forward to grandma’s pies, football, and each other’s company.
Next came all the years of single adulthood (and there were a lot of them). With Grandma gone and all of the cousins grown and many of them with their own families, Thanksgiving grew smaller. It was more of a nice family dinner rather than the celebration it had once been. Then I chose to move across the country and Thanksgiving lost most of its meaning to me (except I was “thankful” to have a 4-day weekend). I’d grab a bottle of wine, order take out, enjoy the quiet. Friends would invite me to celebrate with their families, but I usually declined. There were a good few years at the end of this period, when a bunch of us transplants had found each other and broke (naan) bread together, but being transient, they moved on.
Now, I find myself reinventing what Thanksgiving means to my family: my husband, our 3-year-old and myself. My husband grew up in Russia so he brings nothing “to the table” and my extended family remains on the West Coast so we have had to create our own traditions. My father-in-law traveled from Russia to meet his first (and only) grandchild in November 2010 when Alex was 5 ½ months old. That Thanksgiving, while the 3 adults sat around the dinner table, Alex had his first food. Every year since, my father-in-law has spent Thanksgiving with us.
Last year we also spent a night with our friends. Not friends from my old life, but ones we made when Alex was only a few months old. This time, it didn’t feel like the pity invites of my past, but more like an extension of my own family. With tons of food, boisterous laughter and Alex and his best friend playing on the floor, it was beginning to feel like my life had come full-circle.
I’m sure this Thanksgiving I will spend a few quiet moments thinking about the rest of my family and wishing I could be home. Then I will be reminded that this is my home now. This year, my father-in-law will be back and our friends added a new addition to their family. We will once again feast on food and love this Thanksgiving and I am eternally thankful for family, friends and new traditions.
Heidi Caswell has an M.S. in Child and Family Studies. When not working or cleaning, she used to enjoy nights out, kayaking and travel. These days she finds herself looking at bugs and finding sticks to drag through the dirt with her son.
