Outside The Box

A few short years ago, when relentless time was beginning to overtake my parents, and the empty chairs around our Thanksgiving table were already noticeable, there came the very last family gathering when all my mother’s children sat down for a meal together under her roof. We didn’t know it was the last. One rarely does.

I remember helping Mama in the kitchen that day, and her frustration at being unable to bring it all together like she had done for so many years. We all stepped in to help stir the pots, watch the timer, and fill in all the gaps, taking care not to make it seem like we were taking over because she was having a hard time, but she knew.

Eventually she concentrated on making her special cranberry salad, a dish straight out of the 1956 Good Housekeeping cookbook which helped feed our family for all the years she labored with love in that small kitchen. Her hands trembled long before she finished making the dish, but finish it she did. Later that day she wrote down the recipe and gave it to me with a smile, saying, “If you’re nice to her, you might get Tracey to make this for you sometime.”

The next several Thanksgiving visits included home healthcare workers, hospital rooms, and nursing homes. Mama was in a wheelchair for the last Thanksgiving we shared with her, unable to speak or to feed herself. A few days after that, Tracey and I got married at home so that she could be a part of the wedding. It was the last time she ever smiled, except for that brief moment when she opened her eyes one last time, alone with her beloved husband of 55 years, to say goodbye.

The Thanksgiving after that, Dad and I brought out all the old family Christmas decorations, and he told his favorite stories while we decorated the tree and listened to Mama’s Christmas music collection. We didn’t know it would be the last time we ever did that, but I made a couple of videos. One day I’ll be able to watch them again.

During the years between that last family gathering and the day when my mom and dad were together again, there was much driving back and forth across the mountain. Some of the joy went out of the holidays for a while as they became reminders of what was lost as much as occasions for celebrating. But you have to eat somewhere, and on one hungry drive, we discovered a Chinese restaurant that was open on Thanksgiving.

The food was excellent, the service was friendly, and the atmosphere was relaxed. They were open on Christmas Day as well, so over the years, Tracey and I created a family tradition of our own, and on this most recent Thanksgiving Day, we were bellied up to an outstanding buffet. No shopping required. No dishes to wash.

You might be surprised at the number and variety of people who gather at one of the only restaurants open on the holidays. There is the elderly couple whose kids didn’t have time to visit. Over there is the young couple who couldn’t stand the politics at the dinner table, and another for whom family gatherings are major causes of indigestion. There is another who just moved to the area. They wish they could be home for the holidays, but their families are too far away.

In the back of the restaurant is a large family who are all in on the “no shopping, no dishes” plan. The low rumble of laughter and conversation is a welcome relief from the gravity of all the memories that have descended upon many of the tables. It’s just what the old man eating alone, wearing the Navy veteran hat, was hoping to hear, hoping also that someone would notice that hat, thank him for his service, and strike up a conversation. When you see him, speak to that man.

Tracey and I thoroughly enjoyed our feast this year and basked in the pleasure of each other’s company, so grateful for memories that once filled the seats around our table, the love that has kept us together, and the Grace that has kept us alive and healthy. We have our memories, like clouds that can gather for a storm, but now they are much lighter and decorate the sky more than they darken it.

On the drive back home, I was contemplating the blessing of extended family during these years of farewells. We are remarkably spread out around the globe now. I have a brother on his way back from the Philippines, another in Philadelphia, and friends from Africa to England to Argentina. We have family from New York to Vancouver, Philadelphia to Florida, and close friends in between.

I’m reluctantly thankful for the pixel power that allows us to stay in contact, yet it often feels a bit empty. Pixels are no substitute for the warmth of gathering under one roof or sharing a meal at the same table. Many would concur, which is why we suffer the gauntlet of holiday travel for those precious few hours of real companionship.

I spent many years traveling, and at times lived or fancied myself living in places far away from family and friends. I cherish many of those memories, but none are as precious as the memories that grew from roots. The strength of our nation was rooted in the soil and grew with families whose lifeblood branched into neighborhoods, communities, villages, and small towns.

Civilization, they say, began with and is defined by the city, but somewhere along the path to urbanization, we broke something. The culture that grew out of our economy consisting of shopping places that line the highways between sprawling masses of humanity, far from the sources of everything that sustains them, is missing something that no Hallmark movie can replace. It’s good to travel, but in the end, trees make a better forest than tumbleweeds.

I’m grateful for all the years, all the holidays I was able to sit at a table with the family I grew up with, the grand and great-grandparents, aunts and uncles, and cousins. I’m grateful for being able to travel far and wide, and even more grateful that I realized in time that I preferred trees to tumbleweeds. I’m grateful that my roots held, and I was home in time to receive that cranberry salad recipe, which I’m about to read again shortly, but there seems to be something in my eyes at the moment.