Thursday, November 18, 2010

Unlike Halloween, which you know I hate, Thanksgiving enjoys a guaranteed spot on the shortlist of approved holidays. For one thing, it is the keeper of fall and the vanguard of winter, my two favorite seasons. This is the time of year when I pony up for the special tier of FedEx delivery to whisk deep-dish Giordano’s straight to the front door, complete with a flourish of dry ice. Delicious as it is, though, the pizza is only part of the story.

It’s more about family, I believe. I think I almost vomited when I wrote that? Perhaps you already did. But indulge me, if you would. Growing up, I remember looking forward far more to Christmas than Thanksgiving because, let’s face it, disposable income isn’t a luxury available to children. Indeed, I adopted a pragmatic stance early on, where the tree and other trimmings, festive as they were, ultimately acted as hindrances to the transference of loot. Nowadays, Thanksgiving takes top billing. Honestly, could I receive anything around Christmastime that I couldn’t buy for myself, any other day of the year? Yeah, I know that’s not the true meaning of Christmas, but I’m sure you get me.

The draw of Thanksgiving, from a reductionist perspective, is food, which is delicious. More to the point, it is food with other people. Grazing, really. There are no presents to complicate matters. The day itself is a rare configuration of events that cannot be bought. It is also a time to reflect, and I’m reminded of my most prized fall memory with family: Saturday morning, chilly air filtering through the open screen door, old man reading the paper, mom in the study, strains of classical musical, the smell of scrambled eggs. More than a decade and a divorce later, it is a memory in the truest sense, but it happened, and it’s mine to keep. Perhaps that’s what family is–the members may change and the geography may alter, but what remains is a chance to procure more of such memories, and then guard them, jealously, as if they were secret treasures.