Howdy, Pilgrim

Here we are, another Thanksgiving looming over us. I don’t know what to say. Should we talk about the fallacy that is the first Thanksgiving? Should we stop to consider the ridiculousness that is believing a group of Wampanoag Indians welcomed the Pilgrims with open arms, taught them how to live these mean lands, ate with them, and just disappeared into the mist? Here, colonists, take this land and create a white culture dedicated to liberty and opportunity. We’ll just be over here not doing much. Don’t kill the thankful messenger. The Smithsonian agrees with me. But anywho, that’s not what we need to talk about today. I happen to love and adore Thanksgiving. It’s my personal chance to reflect on the grace that has occurred in my life, for the mercies bestowed upon me that I did not deserve, for the tenderness shown me that I haven’t always paid forward. Yet, it’s different now that I don’t have parents in this world. My kiddos are spread out more often that I’d like. Turns out (maybe take notes on this if your children are still under your roof) that kids tend to grow up and learn to live, think, and feast autonomously. They migrate to places where they cannot get back to you on a dime. They are surrounded by other wonderful people called in-laws, who share in your love and admiration of them and who also enjoy their company. They have to do this thing called “sharing the holidays.” Here I sit. No parents. No set plans. No menu. Thanksgiving orphans unite.

Now, put your tiny violins away. We have ample places to choose from regarding gathering and noshing options. Nevertheless, it’s not the same, because it’s not what I want. I want to stay up until 2 am on November 22nd baking homemade angel rolls. I have no idea why my mother called them angel rolls, but they were the most deliciously decadent yeast rolls you’ve ever tasted. The day that duty was handed over to me was one of the proudest moments of my life. Not just anyone could be trusted with the angel rolls, you see. I want to walk into my grandmother’s home on N. Kaufman Street in Seagoville and smell my mother’s dressing baking in the oven. Momma’s dressing was the culmination of 6 months of work. Technically a cornbread dressing, the secret was in the stash of breads she added. From the heel of every store-bought loaf to the uneaten hot dog buns, bread was not to be tossed after July. Instead, we would open the freezer door and add it to the gallon zip lock bag, stuffing it past its capacity. Something about all the spare bread – maybe because everyone played a small part – made the dressing unbelievable. If I sit here long enough, I can practically smell the sage.

When you lose a child, you lose tradition. Sure, life goes on. You learn to bounce along without too much fanfare. Still, time becomes a country road ridden in a car without shock absorbers. The bumps are more jarring. The potholes are deeper. There’s something called the one less factor. I made it up, so don’t go calling your therapist to ask why they haven’t taught you this theory. It’s just the fact that the screen door forever slams shut one less time than it should. There’s one less thunk noise from a grown-up kid kicking off their shoes when they walk in the living room. There are grandkids who were never birthed or even considered from the child that no longer exists. While I can invent all sorts of thought processes to help me cope with this fact, and believe me, I have, it doesn’t change the truth. My daughter is, indeed, not a pediatrician with Doctors Without Borders who doesn’t get to come home for the holidays. She is not a large animal vet snowed in outside of some tiny Colorado town. My parents are not on a cruise this year. They didn’t elect to spend Thanksgiving with my west Texas family. They just aren’t coming because they just aren’t here. It stings a little, even typing it.

And, yet I love Thanksgiving! Wanna know why?

I have Thanksgiving every day. There are two little rug rats running through my kitchen at this very moment. “Didi, did you get more snacks? Will you let us have candy and not tell mom? Can I use the rock tumbler? You told me we could polish rocks last weekend, but we didn’t. Can we turn on the television? Can we talk to the Google?” This was all said in 3.5 seconds. I spent over 8 years surviving on FaceTime hugs and kisses. I don’t have to do that anymore since they moved home. I am so thankful. I finally talked my husband into a third cat this year, then he blew my mind by suggesting we keep a fourth cat we were fostering. I am beyond thankful. My neighbors who live part-time in another state are back for the holidays. There will never again be neighbors like these guys. The gentleman reminds me so much of my father, with a well-organized garage, gadget for every occasion, and a gentle laugh that fits the moment like a glove. I am thankful. I write words that people read. Occasionally, they tell me nice things. Thankful. I have friends who don’t care if I wear makeup and love that I am void of facial fillers. Thankful. I have an abundance of sourdough starter. Thankful. I had this daughter and these parents. They shaped me in a way that makes it devastating to realize they’re gone, but grateful for presents gifted by their presence. I can’t think of a single thing that would be better, except for some dressing. Y’all have a happy Thanksgiving.