by Carolyn Abell
In the year 2000 my son David was serving in the Navy, and was assigned to a nuclear submarine stationed at Pearl Harbor. Although his “boat,” as he referred to it, spent about half the time patrolling the Pacific, I knew he was going to be home for Thanksgiving, and decided it would be a good time to visit him in Hawaii. When I phoned him to tell him my intentions, he was delighted that I was coming, and declared “Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday!”
I have thought about that statement many times, pondering the circumstances of his life that had led to his love of this special day. He and his brother grew up in England and Germany, so they weren’t exposed to much of the American commercialism surrounding Thanksgiving. For example, they had no idea that the Thanksgiving Day newspapers would be ten times their normal weight, bulging with commercial ads, enticing and luring customers to that biggest shopping day of the year: Black Friday. And I don’t think any of us realized that some Americans would get up at 3 a.m. Friday morning, to be the first ones in line at the mall.
We made sure, however, that we always celebrated the holiday with the traditional meal of turkey and all the trimmings. Having access to the military commissary made that possible, since turkeys, sweet potatoes, cranberry sauce, and pumpkins are somewhat hard to find in many countries.
Knowing the day was uniquely American, we usually invited German friends to celebrate with us. They enjoyed hearing the story of how we came to observe this day of thanks, as well as sharing in the traditional feast. Now that David lives in Germany, he has continued this practice of inviting his wife’s family and other German friends to Thanksgiving dinner.
When I moved to Georgia in June 2005, I learned that my Abell relatives in this area always gathered in Enigma, at my Uncle Jule and Aunt Edna Abell’s home for Thanksgiving. They put up folding tables and chairs, and as many as 25 or 30 of us might be there in a sort of “mini” family reunion. Everybody brought food, and there was always more than we could eat. We talked and laughed, and children romped and played ball.
In the summer of 2008, though, Uncle Jule went to live in Heaven. Although Thanksgiving wasn’t as cheerful as before, we still kept up the tradition of going to Aunt Edna’s house. That year, however, she announced that since she was 86 years old, she just wasn’t going to be able to continue hosting Thanksgiving. Without even thinking about it, I simply popped up with, “I’ll do it. Everyone can come to my house.” So they did.
Last year was my first time as hostess, and I think there were only about 18 of us who assembled. Some had made other plans and opted out. But we had such a good time that the word got out, and this year I was expecting close to 30.
The holiday was tinged with sadness this time, though. On Sunday before Thanksgiving, my cousin Ron called to tell me that another cousin, David, had found his wife dead early that morning.
Gail was only 62, but suffered from several physical problems that contributed to declining health. We all loved her-- a kind, warm, and generous person who had fit into our family with perfect ease. We shared David’s grief over a profound loss.
Those of us in the area took food along with our love and sympathy, and attended a beautiful memorial service for her just two days before Thanksgiving. Her four younger sisters had driven up from Florida. Devastated by the loss of one they loved deeply, they clung to each other and shared tearful memories—sweet reminiscences of happy times and family love. At the end of the simple ceremony they turned loose a bevy of helium balloons, watching them until they disappeared into the heavens—symbols of loving thoughts and final hugs they hadn’t been able to give in person.
David said he just wasn’t able to make Thanksgiving, and we all understood. His immediate family remained with him-- comforting, consoling.
Twenty-two other Abells—aunts, cousins, children, and grandchildren, many of whom had traveled from other states—joined me for the regular day of giving thanks. We enjoyed a huge meal cooked by a dozen different members and brought together in a huge smorgasbord of mouth-watering, tantalizing deliciousness. Afterwards, everybody helped clean up, divvying up the leftovers (enough to feed another 20 people!) and taking them home to enjoy later, when they would relive and savor moments of family fellowship shared during our time together.
Our grand finale was to gather around the piano and sing hymns. After we had done everybody’s favorite, someone suggested a special song for Gail. A few more tears fell as we harmonized softly with “Swing low, sweet chariot, coming for to carry me home…”
copywrite 2010 by Carolyn Abell
