Earl and I leave for Denver, Colorado, in the morning. He thinks we can pull out of the garage at 4 AM; I’m not so sure. Neither of us is packed yet; and it’s almost eight in the evening. It doesn’t really matter, because we’ll do what it takes to arrive at my aunt and uncle’s in time for Thanksgiving dinner, which is three days away. By car, Denver is only two days away.
Maybe I should be gathering underwear and collecting shirts to go with various slacks. Maybe I should be packaging my cosmetics and facial cleansers and hair dryer. Or my computer and iPod and Kindle. Instead, I’m sitting here reflecting.
This is our first Thanksgiving in our new home . . . only we won’t be here. I’m fine with this, as it’s far more important to me to spend time with my aunt and uncle. What I’m really reflective about are the changes that have occurred over the years since we began going to Denver for Thanksgiving. Or, more specifically, the changes that have occurred in the past ten years . . . the years we lived at the other house.
Early on, my sons visited more often. Now they’re busy. This year finds one son in Europe for the next few months and the other up to the eyeballs in his retail business. You can’t visit easily when you close the doors to your store on Christmas Eve and have to be back to open them the day after Christmas.
Then there’s my old neighbor, Clara. On any given night I would walk across our lawns and plop down on her couch for a chat and a cocktail. And we’d stare at the river that bordered the north side of our homes. The entire visit was always heart-warming. We still hope to continue this tradition, but it will take more effort since I now live on the other side of the river. She doesn’t drive at night, so the effort belongs to me.
It doesn’t matter if it’s that house or this. In ten years, Earl and I have settled into life in St. Joseph/Benton Harbor. He’s made a better adjustment than I, and I think this is because the community itself is conservative and appeals more to him than to me. Where he finds people who support his point of view, I bite my tongue. Where he’s joined the local rifle range, I’m searching for a comparable club of my own.
My best friend, Carol, is in India this holiday. I miss her. Even though she’s promised emails to keep in touch, so far they haven’t arrived. And I can’t call and hear her voice and offer best turkey wishes. I know they don’t celebrate Thanksgiving in India, but I hope she knows I am most thankful for our fifty-five year friendship. Regardless of what she and her husband eat on Thanksgiving.
My other close friends – Anne, Judi, Noreen (in alphabetical order, because there’s no way to prioritize their friendships) – have all touched base. For that I’m grateful. So may we all be recipients of Tiny Tim’s holiday toast: “God bless us one and all.”
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