Grandmother’s house

“Over the river and through the woods, to Grandmother’s house we go…”  There are other Thanksgiving songs, but this one is the one that conjures up images of the many Thanksgivings we spent at my parents’ house in the Berkshires. It was a journey for all of us, and the drive from Philadelphia included crossing a few rivers. The house was big and roomy, and though my recollections may not be accurate, the feeling I have is that there was always at least some snow on the ground that week.

The menu was always something gourmet, almost literally as we’d cook from Gourmet, Bon Appétit or Food and Wine magazines. There were many hands, and children willing to do things like peel carrots or apples. I can’t recall precisely what year it was, but several years ago we hit on a menu that was deemed perfect, and we stuck to it faithfully. My sister Connie is the keeper of the black binder with all the recipes, stained and wrinkled over the years. I hosted thanksgiving a few years ago, and she handed the binder to me. It’s all in there including shopping lists and notes. I took good care of it, and it is back in her hands.

2010 was our last Thanksgiving at that house in Massachusetts. My mother died the following week. I’m sure she wanted to see us all one last time and though she was too tired and weak to join us at the table there was a place set for her. She got to say good-bye to each of us, and then she let go. It all went quickly after that. On Friday my siblings and I sat talking about her care going forward, we planned for the coming weeks. My brother and I were going the stay until the following Wednesday, when my sister Connie could come back.

Those last days (and nights) were some of the most intense  of my life. I kept a detailed journal, not so I wouldn’t forget, but so I would be clear about what happened when. It felt like one endless day, and by the time I left Wednesday I knew I wouldn’t see my mother again. We had arranged for someone to stay with her during the time between when we left and Connie arrived, and it was during that brief time my mother died. I got the call before I reached Philadelphia.

Since that year we’ve rotated the holiday from house to house. I don’t particularly feel my mother’s absence at Thanksgiving, though there are certainly moments I miss her, and wish I could talk to her. Unlike everyone else in my family who died suddenly, leaving a resounding echo, my mother had been slowly fading the last year of her life, and the loss was a gradual one. Each time I saw her  there was less of her, not just physically, her presence was diminishing. Her death was so much quieter than any other I’d experienced.

We are currently a two-generation family, and I think it will be a while before we add a new one. I recall Thanksgiving dinners growing up with twenty people, and using a ping pong table to seat everyone. Now we’re a smallish group; this year there will be ten of us. One of my nieces is traveling in Turkey, and we’re all a bit on edge, but we won’t talk about that. We will catch up, and reminisce and argue about whose recollections are accurate. We’ll cook and clean together, and toast absent loved ones both those gone forever, and those scheduled to return. We aren’t going to grandmother’s house, but we will be crossing rivers to spend the holiday with family and that sounds good to me.