What if This is the Last

What if this is the last time that we all gather around the table for Thanksgiving?

Holidays come with their own brand of stress but this one could be particularly anxiety producing. Thanksgiving has always brought stress and trepidation for my mother whether it was celebrated at our house or that of one of my aunts. She might stress slightly about food preparation, but most of her anxiety was around family dynamics. For me, it was exciting to anticipate seeing all of my relatives. I imagined playing games with my cousins and having so much fun. The funny thing is, it was usually not as much fun as I imagined. I had “thin skin” as they say; my feelings were easily hurt. They all lived in the same town and went to school together which made for closer relationships. I lived on the other side of the river, six miles away. Many of those holidays I found myself in the company of the adults, running to sit on my fathers lap when someone made me cry. Sometimes it was to my grandfather chair that I would run. He secretly professed that I was his favorite even though he said he loved all his granddaughters equally. I loved being “special” even if it might have been the source of friction with the other granddaughters.

There was never any question about whether our nuclear family would be together, Mom and Dad, Bill and me. We were a unit and always attended family functions together; always coming and going in the same car at the same time until I dared to move away. I am the one who split the family up. I am the one who married and took off for other lands. In the early days I would return occasionally for holidays and with me I brought extras. Audra, Jacob and Leah filled out the family table and made for even more joyous holidays. The noise level rose and the variety of foods increased as we brought new recipes from Memphis, Owensboro, Ann Arbor and finally from the land of fruits and nuts. The California kids brought colorful language to the table along with those colorful new dishes. Little did they know that grandma considered “pissed” a bad word and one should never even slip and utter anything close to the f-word. But they were from California, “that’s the way they do things out there.” They didn’t know any better.

What they did know was that Grandma and Grandpa would be waiting for them when they arrived from the airport; in the same old house where I had grown up; with the same old furniture and the same old furnishings that smelled like an antique store. No doubt there would be a Texas sheet cake, warm from the oven sitting in the middle of the table, begging to be eaten. They didn’t even have to ask if they could cut it while warm. They knew just where the knife was and Grandma would be reaching for plates. This is the place where food means love. Of course, there is no use of that word, but not much doubt about its existence when there is warm Texas sheet cake.

Whether it was Thanksgiving or any of the other big holidays, food would be prepared as it had been for generations. The women would slave over the hot stove and the men would watch sports until called to the kitchen, at least until I brought Mark into the family. He never seemed quite comfortable hanging out with the guys, talking about guy things and waiting to be called to the table. He would rather be in the kitchen for girl talk and he was the number one dish washer. I picked a husband like no other guy in the family. Looking back I wonder why we never knew. I wonder why we never considered that possibility that he was gay. Then again there was Audra, Jacob and Leah; pretty good cover wouldn’t you say?

When the men were finally called to the table, the windows would be steamed and my mother’s cheeks would be bright red, but the table would be filled with all the old favorites, turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, Grandma Kennedy’s stuffing, green Jello salad, green peas with butter …and that strange looking stuff from California. There would be the usual clamor and discussion around seating. The thin ones would be directed to slide to the back against the wall. It is funny to see how that changed over the years! Who is skinny this year and who’s not. What never changed was my father’s seat at the head of the table. No one would dare sit there. Once in awhile one of those kids from California might unknowingly try to sit there. Maybe they did it on purpose to hear his decree, “outta my chair.” Everyone would laugh and the chair was quickly emptied.

We never bothered with a Thanksgiving prayer. The Hamiltons aren’t much for public or private displays of faith. My dad never carved the turkey either. For us it was a useless tradition only observed in sappy holiday movies. We were more interested in ingesting the meat than appreciating the beauty of the golden browned carcass. As with most food preparation, carving was woman’s work, done before the bird reached the table. My dad was usually the first to be served and my mother would make sure he had everything he needed before sitting down to enjoy her meal. It has been her practice to always see to his needs before attending to hers. So many times I have asked him not to make her get up and retrieve something from the refrigerator for him. So many times I have asked him to get his own coffee when his meal was finished and she was still eating. It was a waste of words. They have their own ways that are not my ways and I have tried to love him in spite of what I perceive as his disrespect for her.

At the head of the table, my dad sits in honor for what he provided, his kingdom, his legacy, his offspring. He has always been faithful to that place at the head of the table. He has always been there. I can’t remember a time without him in that place. There he sat with his back to the door and his face towards his family; protector and provider. As a little girl, I believed nothing could get past my dad to hurt us. No person or beast would ever enter that door to do us harm. My dad would never allow it. At six foot three, and somewhere around two hundred and forty pounds, trained in martial arts and handy with the rifle that always sat to the left of the door, my dad was a force to be reckoned. No question the real man was tough but the little girl’s fantasy was able to leap tall buildings in a single bound.

This year, like years past, Dad will take his place at the head of the table, but it will be in his wheel chair. My mother will serve him first and make sure that he has everything he needs before she puts food on her plate. But he won’t be able to eat much because the cancer has spread to his stomach and he is already having a hard time eating more than a few bites at a time. What I hope he enjoys most is the lively conversation of grandkids who have become young adults with hopes and dreams and challenges. I hope he will know how much a part of them he is and will always be. I hope he tells the old family stories and reminds the kids of all the things they love about him. I hope we can enjoy each other, laugh, cherish the time together and stay in the moment. We know this could be the last time, but in the moment there is nothing more we could need or want but to have those moments. To think about the future would be to steal from the present. God, help us stay in the moment.