Thanksgiving 2020 ~ A Day to Remember

Next Thursday is Thanksgiving. Today I’m remembering Thanksgivings past ~ in both Minnesota, when I was growing up, and later in Colorado. Thanksgiving for me, will always be a melancholy, bittersweet holiday. Although I have wonderful memories of Thanksgiving, for me the holiday is as much about loss, as about celebration.

Minnesota Thanksgivings were always at my house. We had a very modest home, without a real dining room. Instead, we had a small, compact table that could extend to hold a lot of people. We set the table up on the porch with the heater going because, after all, this was late November in Minnesota. Grandparents were included until they were no longer with us. Aunts and Uncles were always invited, including my godmother, Aunt Margaret, and her husband, Uncle Pat, my mother’s sister, Aunt Fran, and my cousin Lori. 

My mother did all the cooking, which didn’t make her very happy, even though people always said she was the best cook in the family. Aunt Fran volunteered to bring a loaf of bread. Because most of the people at the table didn’t drink alcohol, it was a very sober meal, made extra quiet because most of the people were painfully shy and didn’t know how to make conversation. My strongest memories were of my Uncle Pat’s outlandishly horrible table manners and the mountain of dishes that needed to be washed, dried and put away after the meal. I missed the people who were no longer there.

My first Thanksgiving away from home was in 1965, as a student at the University of Denver. The small group of students who were not married (I don’t think there were more than ten of us) organized our own Thanksgiving. We ate off paper plates so we wouldn’t have to wash dishes. We had all the traditional foods ~ turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes and gravy, pie ~ and a lot of wine. We laughed a lot and later went to a nightclub for dancing and more drinking. We made the most of the holiday, knowing we would all scatter after graduation.

When I joined the Hein Famly in 1967, I learned what Thanksgiving was supposed to look like. My mother-in-law, Dorothy, loved Thanksgiving. She grew up very poor so having a big table full of food to share made her gleefully happy. The Heins had a big formal dining room and added extra tables, if necessary, to accommodate children, spouses, grandchildren and extra people who were told to “stop by in time for dinner.” Dorothy made it clear that Thanksgiving would always be at her house and we were all expected to be there.

Dorothy and her sister, Margaret, cooked the turkey and guests filled in the menu. The house smelled wonderful and there was a lot of wine, before, during and after dinner. Gradually the table became smaller, as people died and some moved away. We toasted the people who were no longer there until our last Thanksgiving in 2007. Dorothy died the following January, at the age of 97. 

But my strongest Thanksgiving memory was ten years earlier, in 1997. Jason and I had just come home from Dorothy’s, stuffed with turkey and pie. Garth was living in Winter Park. Just as I was getting ready for bed, the phone rang. My sister was on the other end of the line. 

“I need to let you know, Dad just died.” 

“Oh, no. What happened?”

“Mom made Thanksgiving dinner, like she always did. All the dishes were washed and put away. Dad pulled down the shades, sat in his chair, and died of a heart attack.

“That was a very nice Thanksgiving!” were my father’s last words. 

Dad was such a good man, full of gratitude, always able to do what was right. 

Thanksgiving will inevitably be the holiday when I remember Dad and all the other people who are gone from my life. It is a day for good memories, even more than good food. It is a day for sending blessings to those we love.