“When you tell a story you automatically talk about traditions, but they're never separate from the people, the human implications. You're talking about your connections as a human being.” – Gayl Jones
We were lucky growing up. Not only did we have grandparents on both sides of the family, but great grandmothers as well. On Thanksgiving morning, we’d pad out of bed and watch the Macy’s parade searching for the giant Underdog or Snoopy or the lovable Charlie Brown as they floated their way down 5th Avenue. After breakfast, we would pile into the Country Squire station wagon with the wood paneling on the sides and head out from the suburbs of New Jersey to make the hour and a half drive into New York, to Yonkers or Brooklyn, for the annual holiday meal. Christmas was ours to have at home but the Thanksgiving and Easter celebrations belonged to our grandparents. We traded off. One for the turkey and the other for the ham.
It was our tradition.
At some point in the drive, Dad would start singing “Over the River and Through the Woods (to Grandmother’s House We Go).” Come rain, sleet, hail or snow, Dad would sing his Thanksgiving song. He had a couple of them in fact, that he brought out every year, songs that he saved for those special occasions and as we drove “Over the (Hudson) river and through the woods”, we sang along.
It was our tradition.
When we arrived there was much work to do. Under Grandpa’s watchful eye, the “men” would bring up the sheet of plywood from the basement and gently place it on the antique table, covering it with a white tablecloth. Grandma was in charge of the kitchen. She’d stuffed the artichokes and the mushrooms and made the eggplant parmigiana. On the stove, a pot of soup simmered, the tiny tortellini floating to the top, an indication that it was almost time to eat. My sister and I rolled the prosciutto and the salami and placed it on the antipasto tray. My brothers picked at our handiwork, putting the tiny black olives on the tips of their fingers and then, with great glee, proceeded to eat them off, one finger at a time. The turkey was in the oven and the whole house was filled with the smells of Thanksgiving, Italian style. I loved those moments. To me, that was the holiday.
It was our tradition.
And while I enjoyed it, I didn’t realize how important it had become until I got married, had children, and we had to start traditions of our own.
Many years ago I spent a holiday with my husband’s family. We had turkey and stuffing and mashed potatoes and gravy, all the things that you might expect to have on the holiday table. Surrounded by family, we talked and ate and then ate some more and when we were done and the dishes were washed and put away, I walked outside, sat down on a park bench and I cried. As wonderful as the food and the company were, the whole thing was wrong.
It wasn’t my tradition.
It was at that moment that I learned a life lesson. Traditions are important. They give us definition. They help us mark time and acknowledge our collective history together. Traditions are a language with which we communicate. They are a part of the story of who we are.
Believe it or not, it is also one of the things people seek therapy for. It happens to everyone. In that first year of togetherness, there are a lot of “firsts”. The first Thanksgiving gives way to the First Christmas or the First Hanukkah, followed by the First Easter or the First Passover. How will we do it? Where will we be? Who will we include? Do we have to invite Uncle Jimmy? And what about Aunt Marge? Will there be mashed potatoes or yams? Cornbread stuffing or chestnut? Homemade cranberry sauce or canned? Pumpkin or apple pie?
And does it matter?
I think so. Not the decisions themselves necessarily, but the act of making them.
And so we did. We began our tradition of spending Thanksgiving in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada many years ago. We’d pile in the car and drive up to the mountains to stay in a quaint little motel on the edge of a gold mining town. We’d wander through the streets sipping cocoa and listening to carolers as we window-shopped for holiday gifts at the local Dickens festival. When the kids were born, we took them along and we looked forward to it every year.
It was our tradition.
Take the time to celebrate together. Set the table and use the china. Hike in the mountains or play football on the beach. Make your own cranberry sauce from scratch or pull out grandma’s stuffing recipe that is yellowed and tattered with age. Invite the people you love, even Uncle Jimmy and Aunt Marge. Make your own tradition and then do it every year. Give thanks, in your own special way for all that is good.
Create a tradition. Connect.