Inside the Glass house, oh so long ago, the day after Thanksgiving was a most magical time to me. The whole world seemed to change, the edge of daily deeds blurring into a sparkling hope of what's to come. As a child, growing up in the late fifties and sixties, there was much to be gained from being young and impressionable. A time when women wore "dresses" to clean their homes, and moms went to every single PTA meeting ever, and martini's were made and ready for the days to end and evening to begin.
My dad had a CB radio, that was as much "toy" for him as it was a communication device to make the world seem smaller and more cosy. Every night, as he made his way home from work, we would hear his voice announcing "KBV3871" on the box in the corner of the kitchen. We would all perk our ears, and come running to hear him tell my mom via the magic of radio waves to "get a cold one ready, I'm almost there." It was my pleasure and duty to run to the basement, feeling the hard, cold cement steps descending deep into our beach house, and grab a cold Miller from the fridge, popping it open to present to a tired Pop as he came through the door.
My mom would have her apron on, the table having been "set" by myself and my sister, and carrying each hot dish over to set on the hot pads placed "just so." It happened this way every single night for as long as I could remember. At least, on a normal night. The night before Thanksgiving was different, offering not only a change in routine, but in atmosphere. My dad never had to work the next day, so our dinner was made up of small bits of "specials"... easy dinners to make and clean up, making short work of our time at the table. Once we cleared up, and the last dish was dried (yes, dried...as in, with a towel...no dishwasher in those days, except the ones named "Kris and Sheree") the fun and the work would begin.
Pie dough was made, with lots of "sneaking" bits and pieces when "the mom" had her back to the bowl...(love pie dough to this day, despite all her warnings that it would give us "worms.") Pie filling was put together...none of that canned stuff for us. Sugar started to sparkle and slide around on the countertops, and even the floor a little, added to the dusty flour spillings that were inevitable. Cherry pies, pumpkin pies, and ...my favorite, pecan pies were "built" and baked for the huge family gathering anticipated on the morrow. More serious food prep started happening, starting with the big naked turkey and the pink fat ham that was studied and prodded before setting into the grooming of the main courses. Dressing made, and stuffed into the cavity (gross) of the bird, glaze made to brush over the ham... green bean cassarole put together so it could be just thrown into the oven at the last minute. And the painstaking slicing of the potatoes for my mom's special Augratin potatoes that everyone asked for each year. (Not me, I called them "all rotten" potatoes...wasn't a big potato fan, even then)... It seemed that night lasted forever, and I was tired from my head to my wee toes when I finally got tucked into the bottom bunk.
The next day always brought a flurry of activity, and excitement. Mom usually made our "Sunday best" dresses, and we had pretty clothes to put on right after a quick breakfast of Life cereal and (eww) milk. The house smelled good from the moment I woke up, and the warmth of the cooking and the activity made my new clothes scratch and itch, and I had to hurry to zip up my dress before it made me crazy with discomfort. I always disliked getting dressed up, and prefer to live in jeans and sweatshirts now that I have a choice. Even on Thanksgiving. Our house filled up quickly, with the stomping off of boots and shoes of the incoming relatives, cousins squealing and whining and laughing and playing... kids getting shoo'd off to the basement or any other room but where the adults were gathering. My sister and I had to politely stop whatever we were doing, as the commands started coming like contractions of birth, closer and closer together until it was dinner time. We set up the "Little Kid's Table" since there was never a big enough table for all of us to fit around. That "little kids" table is a big joke even today at family gatherings, since my cousins who never made the "cut" as adults still feel a bit ostrasized when it is brought up jokingly.
I loved our Thanksgiving Day gatherings. I look back on my family of old, with such mourning... I miss us. I miss all of us that have finished their journeys, leaving those of us behind grieving. But in my memory, it is always the grand-ness and the love and the warmth and the laughter that stays with me. After such a day, you would think the day after would be a let-down. But it never was. It was another beginning ... and the permission for us to welcome the Christmas holiday to our year. The day after Thanksgiving was a welcome to the world of lights, and presents and kindness and hope. And, for me, it expanded my imagination for many more years than it should have, for I welcomed the world of Santa Claus to my home.
My father made Christmas at our house. He WAS Santa Claus. Never would I have believed that my little dark haired daddy who was so reserved and quiet in his demeanor, was that magical HUGE presence in white beard and big black boots....but there you go. Even when we lived in a tiny little trailer, I would be in awe at the Christmas Magic that I woke up to. Between my dad and my mom and her wonderful baking, and the decorations that came out each year, handled gingerly and lovingly, ... the little candles shaped like choir members and angels and Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus...never lit, heaven's no, and for that I am thankful. They were a part of Christmas tradition that I counted on without even thinking about it.
My dad's role in the decorating, besides putting up lights outside in the middle of cold Michigan winters, was to put up the tree. Whether we had a real tree or a tree that we put together with sticklike branches that fit into holes on the "trunk" my dad always outdid himself. I remember one year he got a "movie camera" and he put the "trunk" up of the fake tree, take a shot with the camera of it, stick a branch in, take a shot, stick another branch in, take another shot..etc until the whole tree was up, bulbs and all.... then he played it back to us and with the magic of movie-making the tree grew in minutes right before our eyes.... the more charming for the rare catches of mom's hand slipping in and out as he captured the tree "growing"...
And Christmas morning...oh my. We got presents that we didn't even know we wanted. He went "all out" for Christmas for us.... later, my mom told me that our grandparents used to scold my dad for "spoiling" us each year, but it never phased him. My parents must have stayed up all night putting together such a magical display of wonder for us... when we got up on Christmas morning (wee morning) all a-shaking and big-eyed, my dad was already behind the movie camera all set up for our first impressions to be captured forever on film. He never failed to amaze us, and never ever did he let us NOT believe in Santa Claus.
To this day, the day after Thanksgiving brings back those memories and so much more. I miss my dad all the time, but knowing how much he loved this time of year, I think of him even more. He gave us many gifts, some of which I remember and cherished, and some that have gone the way of forgotten things... but I realize the best gift he gave me, that he gave us, was the gift of himself, and of his heart and of all of the every day things he did for us that we don't even think about. He gave us a love for all things "family"... and I miss him. I work hard to give my family that experience of "magic" and the awesomeness of imagination and hope that he gave to me. When my time comes for me to leave, for my own journey to "end" I hope my boys will think back to the traditions of our holidays and see what gifts they really are. The spirit of love runs in families. The spirit of love is THE gift that I wish for all of you. Namaste.
