As I write this, cases of Covid-19 continue to soar beyond anything that science may have expected. I don't feel the particular need to document that for posterity. There won't be a moment in future history in which this will be forgotten or not referred to. Pre-Covid Days will be the source of millions of opening discussions and grandchildren will have something new about which to roll eyeballs. The fact that we will never be the same will be not a fact but a way of life. That new "never same" will one day be business as "usual" and none of this could have been predicted. Despite what so many ardent citizens profess, most of this could NOT have been prevented. Human beings just aren't made that way and without leadership, they fail miserably at just being human. Period. End of sentence.
I have been out of the country for at least five Thanksgiving holidays. My family hasn't counted me in their plans. Life has gone on with turkeys circling around me and my absence at the table has been well-tolerated. Were I twelve years old again, I am sure that would not be the case. Were I twelve, here's how it would have been.......
My grandparents lived in the Bronx, New York in the house my mother grew up. They occupied the ground floor and my grandfather's brother, Peter, the top floor. Two brothers, their wives and a total of five children all called it home and all returned for holidays. Thanksgiving meant a full-house, both floors. This meant weeks of preparations, dozens of trips to local food stores, and huge waves of excitement as the women of the house anticipated the beginning of the holiday cycle. Guest lists were never discussed. Everyone, without question, would be at the table. As the years went by, more chairs were added to accommodate new family members, some requiring orientation to the ways in which true Italian immigrants celebrated a true American holiday. The words "I've never seen as much food" were spoken by at least one new guest per year. Never failed. It took my grandmother an entire week and two stoves to prepare and lasagna was just a starter. No, I take that back......the foil-wrapped chocolate turkeys, one for each grandchild, they were the real "starters" and she never forgot them. Nor will I. Nor will my brother, as confirmed during a phone discussion yesterday. Years later, my own mother continued the tradition and added a new one, the gift of an Advent calendar. My children knew that the holiday season had begun and then, years later, my own grandchildren thrilled at the very same simple gestures.
The Thanksgivings of my childhood and young adult life were warm and cozy. The memories, worth millions. The pain of visualizing the now-empty seats at the table, still fresh and new, each time.That table. Huge and mahogany. Opened to its fullest, covered with pads and a huge cloth. If it could speak. There were political discussions, arguments, endorsements, rulings, outbursts, demands and commands, most of which, led by my grandfather. A post-dessert expectation. We all knew it would be coming and we all sat through it. As we grew up, we developed our own ideas and opinions. As the years moved on from the forties through the seventies, the generation to which I and my cousins belong, moved on as well. There were health-related discussions. Fears, anxiety. Assurances that came not from doctors but from family members who skillfully practiced the art of wishful thinking. Pronouncements of "but your haven't lost weight....so that's a good sign", coupled with "you'll be fine" interrupted the rantings of my tireless grandfather. My grandmother never participated in discussions other than to say "That's enough Louie!" when she realized that the bliss was being overtaken by the views of our patriarch. She usually won and out would come the pies. And the fruit. And the nuts. And the naps. And the setting sun.
Before departing, we would have made our way up the stairs and wishes for a happy Thanksgiving would have been exchanged with cousins and second cousins. Then, off into the evening we'd all go. My brother and I, asking our father to please, please put the radio on in our car. Cousin Brucie and music to dream on as we clutched our little chocolate turkeys and headed home, our house, the place where Christmas would be celebrated, just weeks after Thanksgiving, by the very same group of people.
Fast forward (and it does seem like all of that was just "yesterday"), Thanksgiving 2020. Abandoned in the cold of the night, two little chocolate turkeys, purchased with love of tradition and care, left behind on our patio by their recipients, along with two "winter face masks". Remnants of a dinner, the day before the actual holiday, outside. On our patio table. No first cousins, no second cousins. Just the setting sun and the last two chocolate turkeys I will ever purchase. The final attempts at normalcy. There's no turning back. I'm just so comforted by my memories, those I can still share with my brother and husband and am saddened by the lack of interest in holding on to traditions and in being a part of future memories on the part of my own grandchildren. Their memories will be shrouded by the memory of a Pandemic, nothing more.
