Happy Thanksgiving

Every year, for sixty years, I have celebrated the fourth Thursday in November - Thanksgiving, U.S.A. In the 1950's, Thanksgiving meant making Pilgrim hats and American Indian headdresses, or tracing my hand on a white piece of paper and turning my five-year old hand into a brightly colored turkey. Thanksgiving eve was spent in the kitchen with my mother, chopping celery, and as I grew older, peeling potatoes. Thanksgiving morning meant the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. My mother would ooh and aah over the giant balloons, wondering aloud at how they could be held down, how they were inflated, and how much fun it must be to be lucky enough to parade with a giant balloon through the streets of New York. She would then sit down, with a cup of coffee and a cigarette in hand, to watch the Rockettes. She would tell my sister, Maureen, and me about Radio City Music Hall and Broadway, and the many wonders New York City held. The stories about the short time my mother lived in the "big city" were told every year, as she and the two of us watched dancers, baton twirling girls and marching bands, large oversize cartoon figures and I was hooked - I wanted New York.
Years progressed, one father left and a new one arrived (along with three new siblings), by then Maureen and I had been joined with a baby sister, Lisa, and overnight there were six children and within a short time, seven. Much changed, but the fourth Wednesday night in November would still find my mother and whatever child was recruited, in the kitchen, chopping, stirring, sauteing and preparing the dining room. Thanksgiving morning still brought the Macy's Day Parade and stories of New York, Broadway, possibilities, and the fostering of dreams. My mother, Patricia, died when I was sixteen. It was August and in a few months, Thanksgiving showed up. On the night before the Macy's Day Parade, I was in the kitchen duplicating what my mother had started when she was a child. I watched Macy's Day Parade and related the New York stories to my three-year old sister.
Fast forward to 2010. It is Thanksgiving morning. My two daughters are far from this place I now call home, my son also is too far away to be here now or last night as I chopped and prepared. There is a different man than the one my children call father who I now love and make a part of my life. Much has changed. Much has continued. The daughter with children was chopping and listening to Christmas music yesterday with her daughters and sons. They had Thanksgiving dinner last night, because my son-in-law had an early flight to see his father this morning. The tall blond daughter helped her sister with some cooking - she loves the preparing more than the eating. My son's daughter and son will make the Pilgrim Hats and Native American headdress. They will all watch the Macy's Day Parade this morning. We will be connected.
These sixty years have seen many changes. Death, divorce, remarriage, new in-laws, new friends, old friends moving away, me moving away, grandchildren, weddings, elderly parents, all a part of the expansion that is life. My daughters and I have been to New York. This year we took a tour of Radio City Music Hall and had our picture taken with a Rockette. My mother would like where I have gone and who I have become. Yesterday, November 24th, my mother would have turned eighty-five. I still miss her. This morning when I get my tea and turn on NBC and wait for Santa to show up at the end of the parade, I will thank her, as I always do, for planting those seeds of tradition, gratitude and wonder a very long time ago.
Happy Thanksgiving to each of you. May you find gratitude today and all through your year. May you watch the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade and allow our hearts to connect.