Giving Thanks

Stuffing balls, green bean casserole, pecan pie, turkey and ham, corn on the cob, sweet potato casseroles, real mashed potatoes and gravy, BBQ meatballs, deviled eggs, more stuffing balls, and a handful of other side dishes were what awaited us every year for Thanksgiving at Grandma Jeanette's house. It was my favorite holiday. It was the one time that that side of the family ever real came together. Nana would slave in the kitchen for days with me, the handy side kick, keeping her company. My job mainly consisted of doing the dishes and testing the food.

Of course, this was before her husband came down with a nasty case of Alzheimer's, and the flower shop closed, and her husband's children quit calling her family and showing up at her home for major holidays. Before she had to visit her dying husband in a nursing home every day, just like she'd had to do with her first husband. Before his disease had driven everyone but her away and she was left to take care of him, alone. Before he died and she moved to a sunny paradise in hopes of finding happiness again and improving her own health. Before Thanksgiving became a haphazardly planned congregation of random people, that I didn't even know.

A small turkey, canned corn, a store bought cheesecake, a few casseroles, and a bunch of foreign dishes brought by strangers. This is what our grand meal had been reduced to. It was no party. It was stuff and cold, and lacked familiarity. I felt like the pilgrims, sharing a meal with people who's customs were alien to me. It was no longer my favorite holiday, as no Thanksgiving was complete without my grandma.

This Thanksgiving dry-spell lasted three circulations of the earth, before my grandma began coming home for Thanksgiving and cooking with me again. Except this time, she put me in charge. She was now my side kick, tasting my food. Thanksgiving never returned to it's grandeur, but the warmth crept back into the holiday, and I realize the only thing I'd been missing was my Grandma.