Finding Thanksgiving

I met the whole Aronie clan for the very first time on Thanksgiving in 1965. From the stories my boyfriend, Joel, had told me, they sounded very normal, Bostonian proper, formal even. I come from loud, hyperbolic, funny folks whose self-deprecating Jewish humor was our first language. 

I must have changed my outfit 11 times. I worried about my hair and my raucous laugh, and the inability to literally curb my enthusiasm, censor any four-letter word that might roll off my tongue before I could stifle it.

I wanted to bring the exact right house gift. Joel had told me his father made his own wine, so wine was out. His mother was a baker, so pies were out. When I suggested I make Susan Stamberg’s (NPR) famous cranberry relish, he told me they only ate the canned stuff. 

I finally settled on an actual house gift, a gift for the house. I chose a very expensive Dansk salad bowl. I told the saleswoman it was for my hopefully future in-laws, whom I was meeting for the first time, and if I hadn’t stopped her, she’d still be wrapping and ribbon-curling.

We arrived at their home in Needham, where Joel’s father’s chicken farm was in the back and where Joel kept his horse that he sometimes rode to school. Actual chickens and real live horses were about as far from my upbringing as if he had said they raised porcupines and he rode a unicorn to school.

But within minutes, I knew I was home. I had been looking for normal, and apparently they had been looking for hyperbole. It was a match made in heaven.

I should have known my future family would be easy and real and not intimidating, the minute I heard they preferred the canned cranberry sauce. And the first thing that Joel’s dad said before we ate was, “This holiday is about gratitude. How lucky we are that when we’re hungry, we get to eat.” 

I had truly found my second family. 

Therapists say holidays are the hardest time for folks. Returning to the family of origin seems to throw people back into their old roles. They regress and lose the growth and wisdom they acquired in the space and time they have been away from their triggers and their patterns, propelling the whole family dynamic into old battles and old behaviors.

I didn’t see that during that first Thanksgiving –– or any of the next 40. 

The TV was never on. No one knew NBA from NFL. No arguments. No regressions. Conversations went from the need to replace lead drainpipes to discussing how long the Ottoman Empire lasted, to a few of us breaking into the Four Lads song:

Istanbul was Constantinople 

Now it’s Istanbul 

Not Constantinople 

Every gal in Constantinople 

Lives in Istanbul

So if you’ve a date in Constantinople

She’ll be waiting in Istanbul.

There were fights, however, but not over politics, religion, or how to load the dishwasher. No, what we fought about was the skin. The crispy brown skin on the meat. It wasn’t a physical fight, but I learned early it was frowned upon when I peeled off half the top of the turkey and plopped it on my own plate. I behaved a bit better after I got the side-eye from my fiercest competitor for the delicacy. 

They say all good things must come to an end. Whoever “they” are must be a pessimist, and mean. But maybe it’s true. Because my dream Thanksgiving ended not with a bang but with a whimper. My in-laws both died. My youngest son died. My favorite cousins moved to New Zealand. One of my precious nieces lost touch with reality. The Thanksgiving that I tried desperately to keep alive got smaller and smaller, until I had to admit a door had closed, and I needed to wait until a new door opened.

And guess what? It happened. A big, beautiful designer door blew open. Tomorrow, my son Josh is having us for the holiday. The whole family will be there. 

I’m making the relish. He’s opening the cans. 

And with this year being one of the toughest for many, we will make sure we remember the holiday is all about gratitude.

And I think I’ll make my own turkey at home, and just bring the entire skin.