It’s
time to take down the Jack-o-lanterns and witches and put up the turkeys and
pilgrims. But, I am looking at the
storage boxes, the same ones that I’ve lugged up the stairs from the basement
for the last ten years (or more) and they seem bigger and heavier this
year. I’m not feeling very much
energy for the project. In fact I
was tempted leave these turkeys in their box this year. It’s not quite as electrifying a
project as it was then my children were little and would enthusiastically
embrace each new season’s décor with wonder and awe and glee at the prospect of
anticipating what was ahead.
They
will still help find a spot for the pilgrim family and they will help with the
welcome turkey we always put by the front door. But it will take a little coaxing and cheer leading to get
it done. The thing is, I really
believe it’s a tradition they will remember long into the future and so I think
it’s important that I dive in and get the project rolling, even if it feels a
little like a chore.
Who
knew it took actual work to keep these traditions alive and well. I never saw it coming. The traditions I grew up with were
simple and straightforward, but traditions I still to this day hold near and
dear to my heart. Among the
countless things I have to be thankful for every year is that I have those
childhood memories of Halloween trick or treating, Thanksgiving meals together
and Christmas anticipation of stockings and presents.
What
I don’t remember is how it all got done.
Of course I know now that’s because I wasn’t doing any of the work back
then. But I still know right where
we hung the reindeer and where we put up the tree. That’s the gift my parents
gave me and, of course, the same one I’m trying to give my own boys: the gift
of happy traditions that travel seamlessly and effortlessly from pumpkin
carving to turkey carving and to tree cutting.
But
behind the smoke and mirrors that create the illusion of ease and perfection is
hard work and nerves of steel. It
would be easy to say I just decided not to decorate for Thanksgiving this year.
It would be easier to let someone else cook the meal for the extended
families. It would be easier to
house the holiday chaos anywhere else but here. It would be easier to let someone else find ways to entertain
a crowd that includes moody teenagers, dementia, special diets, and fragile
off-balance walkers poised for a fall at every step. It would be easier to let someone else clean up the spilled
drinks, dripped gravy and inevitable broken dishes. It would be easier just to let the TV entertain the crowd
instead of putting on a bingo tournament or organizing front yard football
games. It’s tempting to say let’s
go on vacation instead and forget the whole thing.
The
only problem is that old adage; hard work is it’s own reward. It really is
true. It’s hard work to make these
days of celebration happen but there is an undeniable reward when I fall into
bed at night. I know the truth is,
I really don’t want to be anywhere else.
The whole entire day is our family holiday; the repeated menu that every
person here can recite from memory, the chance to see how the kids have grown,
to be together warm and full, the chance to have some laughs, take some
pictures, play some games, build some memories. And then once it’s all over one of my son’s will say, “That
was fun!” And the other will
complain that we don’t get to have that same meal more often. And I will know in my heart that my
mission has been accomplished.
While
it may be exhausting, and it’s certain not to be perfect, the end result will
be good enough and somewhere deep inside these two boys of mine, there will
live a warm memory of how our family celebrated the holidays at home.
