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Wednesday, November 22, 2017

Thanksgiving Memories...

Thanksgiving was the beginning of the annual "season of peace" at my house. It was the only prolonged period of getting along in the calendar year. The only time when it really felt like a home and a family. The only time of consistent good memories. 
We'd have company (That's guests to you non-north-easterners) that we'd often not seen since the previous Holiday season. Music played in the living room. (The rest of the year, music only played in my bedroom, and it kept me sane) The house smelled of spices and evergreen. 
Thanksgiving we typically went to my grandmother's house by the Philadelphia Airport. She had a huge dining room table and lace table cloths. It was one of two days each year that my grandfather didn't get loaded...the other being Christmas. My grandmother loved having us there. She loved cooking and doting over us. She set out a tray with celery sticks and cream cheese, olives, and pickles. There was the ever-present leaf-shaped glass dish with jelly spearmint leaves on the sideboard. 
We said grace. We laughed and we ate. It was the only time we really acted as a family and it was almost perfect. Thanksgiving day ended and the next day -when I was little at least- we'd take the train into center city Philadelphia to the John Wannamaker store and see that massive toy department, so big it had a monorail that circled high above. My mom would stick me and my brother and my cousin Stephanie on it while she and my Aunt Donna and my grandmother shopped below. When we were done, we slid down a slide into cotton batting and then had our picture made with Santa, next to a little signpost that said "North Pole: 5372 miles" (or something close to that) We'd watch in awe as the now-antiquated light display twinkled, and John Facenda's matchless voice narrated the Christmas Tale. People said "Merry Christmas!" Even people who didn't celebrate Christmas said it and nobody was offended. They seemed to really mean it.
We'd circle toys in the Sears "wish book" and each evening we'd open the doors on the Advent calendar. We'd take McDonald's gift certificates to our favorite teachers and cards to our friends. 
Christmas would arrive and we'd have regular guests. Faces I loved. Faces that brought light and joy and laughter into our tense house. Faces I haven't seen in a long time now. I had a lot of Aunts and Uncles who weren't really my aunts and uncles. I don't know if they do that everywhere but they sure do it in Philly and the surrounding areas. My Aunt Donna was my mom's only sibling. She and my uncle Jack and cousin Stephanie were always there. My "Aunt" Ruth an "Uncle Ed." Other assorted "left handed uncles" as Poppa John once called them. Aunt Marna, Uncle John, Uncle Bill, Aunt Sandy, Neighbors, friends. People who never gathered under our roof during the rest of the year, would stop at Christmas. For me it was magical. There was a friendly crowd I could get lost in. There were people who asked me about me. I was seen.
In the midst of it all was my grandmother. She had an alabaster nativity set she would bring out each year. The figures were hand painted. The little stable made of real wood. I can feel it in my hands right now as I sit here thinking about it. She loved pumpkin pie and candied yams. I never understood the yams until I was an adult. Now I love them as well. 
I think it's her that I miss the most each Christmas. Her voice, her sweetness, her anticipation of her family returning to her house each Thanksgiving. Her being with us each Christmas. I think, looking back, she too recognized the brief period of normalcy in an otherwise tense and dysfunctional family life. 
It reminds me of the power of this season. The quiet, almost silent, reminder that under each Christmas ornament, behind each gaudy string of lights, buried beneath all the crass commercialism and naked greed...but standing out in bold relief to the efforts of the world to silence it, is the truth of this time of the year. 
Jesus.
A baby in a manger. A scandal, hidden in the flesh of a tiny baby. God Himself...among us.
My dear friend Rick put it this way almost 25 years ago: "He was born in a barn and murdered on a trash heap. And I have trusted my SOUL to Him. He was the Son of God, nailed to a cross, with spit running down His face...and I call Him LORD."
The baby in that Nativity scene is why my family declared an annual truce. He's why the wanderers find their way home each year. He was what kept my grandfather sober for two whole days out of 365. He was the unseen but not unrecognized guest at the grown-up table...and the kids table. He was present in the toy department, he disguised Himself as Santa, and He lay awake all night on Christmas Eve, even if I never noticed Him there in those bunk beds with my brother and me. He authors all the happy memories.
He knits us together as the year comes to an end. He was heralded by a star, announced by angels, worshiped by lowly shepherds. He is still, the reason for this season. 
And, while very much alive right now, He is also part of every memory I have of this season that begins this week.
A dear friend that I care about very much reminded me tonight that these are the Holidays. And that enough time has been spent on politics, (and will doubtless be spent going forward) Politics will be there in January. Starting now, until then...I'm focusing on the season. It's only here a little while each year. I'm going to drink deeply.
Happy Thanksgiving everyone. Make this season the best one yet.

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