Peeking During Prayers and Other Thanksgiving Truths
We’re skipping this week’s Mid-Week Lift for a Year-End Thanks
My grandparents had white carpet in their bedroom. They also had a withered, incontinent toy poodle. Its “fur” was the same color as the carpet—except for a few spots where the local Stanley Steemer had done their best. Well, Taffy—that was the dog’s name—had some permanent brown spots as well…
Why would anyone have white carpet anyway?
I drove past their old house when I was back in the South a few weeks ago. It was my grandmother’s birth home. I haven’t been inside for 28 years, but it will forever be the place where “Thanksgiving” resides in my memory.
Silver candelabra on the table…
Cranberry sauce in the blue flowery dish…
Turkey at the head of the table for carving…
All of us sitting around the table, holding hands, heads down, and eyes closed as my grandfather says the blessing.
It was peaceful, which was rare. Only a week prior, I had watched my dad get his lights knocked out by the man who was now (then) thanking Jesus for the bountiful meal spread over the table. Dad still had a bruise under his left eye.
I liked to peek during prayer. Was everyone REALLY praying, or was this some sort of odd tradition that we did because the generations before us did the same? Every now and then, I’d catch someone else peeking. It was usually my sister. For what it’s worth, I still like to hold hands before I share a meal with my family. Guess it’s one of those odd traditions after all.
During these holiday gatherings, we never shared what we were thankful for. I think that’s just in those silly holiday movies—you know, the ones that are another version of Cinderella but this time in Aspen?
I was always thankful my dad was home.
He only came back around during the holidays, and we had a court order to spend the weekend with him. It was a rare chance to “catch up” with my father. One holiday, we actually tossed a football in the backyard for a couple of hours. I’d seen that in a movie. One holiday, he brought a lion.
Yep, a lion.
Spending holidays with my dad was a little unusual in hindsight. I mean, it caused a series of holidays in my early years to be completely devoid of my mother, who I lived with. I had a “holiday” family and a “when you’re done with your court-mandated” family. I loved them both, but I’m really curious where some of these “family” judges got their advice back in the ’80s.
In later years, I spent many Thanksgivings and Christmases with my mom, but those early days were always disjointed. I also had divorced grandparents, which, as a kid, was great—more presents at Christmas and birthdays. However, negotiating whose house to visit first, where to have dinner, and whose spare bedroom to take became an annually shared algebra equation. When I got married, it became calculus.
In 2001, my wife and I decided to see what our future child might look like while on a road trip from LA to Las Vegas. As luck would have it, Buffalo Bills in Primm, NV. happened to have just the type of device required. In hindsight, we maybe should have just smiled. However, despite the results, we decided to have kids anyway.
Over the past twenty-six years, my own little family and I have built traditions, which has been relatively difficult given our gypsy lifestyle. If anything, I find tradition in just being together. It’s a moment to not worry about what’s happening in other places in the world. It’s time to forget any project or piece of work that’s nagging for your attention.
We mostly do “friendsgivings” now. In fact, we’ll do a couple of those because we are blessed with a great group of friends—and thankfully, none of them have white carpet. However, if we find ourselves in another one of those “movie moments” where they go around the table asking what we are all thankful for, I think I’ve got a pretty good answer.
I’m thankful for change, growth, my family, and mostly, I’m thankful I get to be around as a dad.
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.