I’ve loved the weekend of Thanksgiving as long as I can remember. As a kid, we would go to my Grandmas tiny house filled with food and love and (bickering) and it was so hot we always dressed in layers. The day after, we’d meet back at Grandmas and head to the mountains to cut down our tree. Oh, Washington, I miss your face. Saturday would be filled with turkey sandwiches and pie while dad sang the Statler Brothers Christmas album stringing lights on the tree.
I still love the weekend, of course. Its lack of family in a home that is full of love and big enough to hold all of the people crammed into Grandmas little house, we make do, the four of us. I cook, no short cuts, everything is homemade. I love a day in the kitchen. I always have to call mom at least once to remind me if I put dill in the deviled eggs or if I should tent the turkey. That helps a little. To be cooking “with” her. I see her rolling out dough for pies…..
We’ve been gone 12 years. Every year I get sad. I can’t help it. Everything has changed since we left. But in my heart, the pictures in my head, the memories are all beautiful. I miss being in that tiny, hot house. I always will.
Now I get to make these memories for my family, here. I have a hard raising them here, alone. No kids table, no running around with cousins, no memories of the time there were so many presents in the living room we had to put the coffee table in the entry. But I will do my best to pass on the magic. As long as it’s in my heart, I will work to fill their lives with it.