On Thanksgiving Day, we grabbed a few clif bars, a baby carrier, and some light sweaters. The five of us zoomed through the desert landscape to our favorite secret hiding spot – where the trees implore you to slow-down and the creek pries the worries from your fingers. The yellow leaves fell in swirls around us. The crunch beneath our boots whispered “grateful, grateful” as we wandered.
When we got home, Tim made homemade pizza – piping hot, melted cheese, $3 dough from a mid-town pizza shop.
Later that afternoon, we broke out our fanciest wine glasses, filled them with sparkling cider, and stood in a circle. Each of us took a turn to toast to the things we were thankful for. The glasses clinked after each person’s impromptu speech, with Tim cautiously eyeing the 2-year-old’s wobbly glass.
It was the kind of hushed day that I treasure and seek.
On Friday and Saturday, there were other feasts – with turkey, stuffing, and cranberry sauce. Aunts, uncles, cousins, and great-grandparents in their 90’s gathered ’round. I brought my famous cheesecake to one and we brought coffee, plates, and cups to the other. (I have yet to cook a turkey and it’s not exactly on my bucket list).
I also printed out turkeys on cardstock and we had a “great turkey hunt” in the backyard for all of the cousins and cousins-once-removed. The kids sat in a circle and I read aloud Sarah Gives Thanks. My aunt pulled out a word game and we played it around a card table with gusto – and I thought about my grandma, who loved words so much.
Three parting thoughts. One, it’s awful nice to have “older kids” and be able to almost have a conversation. Two, there’s something marvelous about having a baby, despite the missed conversations. Three, someday I’d like to have a slightly-bigger house and host dinner parties. That IS on my bucket list.