Thanksgiving Whirled By

Thanksgiving whirled by this year--as, it seems, everything does in these, my Latter Days. All the planning, preparation, cooking, baking--and then, in a time no longer than an inhale/exhale, it was gone. And Joyce and I had fallen into bed, urging Morpheus to hurry: We were in need of his restorative services.

Our "guests" were our son (Steve), our daughter-in-law (Melissa), and their two sons (Logan, 14; Carson, 10). They arrived a little after four, bearing some gifts of food (fruit, carrots, etc.). But the most special gift they brought (besides themselves, of course) was a pumpkin pie that Carson had made from scratch.* He'd grown the pumpkin from a seed he'd planted in his own yard, made the crust--everything. And, although I can't eat much that's, well, fattening these days, I did have a bit of a sliver (maybe more than a sliver), and it was wonderful.

Carson slicing the pie he'd made

Joyce had prepared and roasted the turkey--had made cranberry sauce--had made sweet potatoes--had set everything up.

I had baked some cornbread a week prior (Joyce used some for the stuffing); I had baked some whole wheat sourdough bread; I had peeled and boiled the potatoes, which son Steve, far more energetic than I these days, mashed most effectively.

We gathered around the table and sang "We Gather Together," a hymn my family always had sung at the Thanksgiving table. We used .pdfs of the hymn from my grandfather Osborn's hymnal.

We ate and talked and laughed and had a remarkable time.

Then ... clean-up. And flopping on chairs and the couch and watching the energy of the boys and wishing I could steal some of it. Based on what I saw, they have plenty to share.

Eventually, it was time for them to go ... and so they went ... and Joyce and I looked at each other. We'd had our first Thanksgiving together in 1969. A half-century ago. And now, perhaps (probably), this was the last that we would/could host.

I suppose I should have felt relief. I didn't. I felt a deep sorrow for yet another thing that is now moving faster than I am. I thought of all those boyhood Thanksgivings with my parents and brothers and grandparents and friends, of our early Thanksgivings with our own little boy (born in 1972), of all the love and light and years that have passed.

And next year? Who knows? Age and health and ... you know. I hope I'll still be baking, and I can at least participate a bit. And with Joyce beside me, every day, for me, is Thanksgiving.


* Joyce and I were both curious about the expression from scratch. It comes, says the OED, from "the starting point in a handicap in the starting point of a competitor who receives no odds." Okay. Basically, from the original starting point.