Everything changes. Everything. Nothing remains the same
forever. That’s life. Even cherished family traditions that lasted for
generations can gradually fade away. Such is the case with my life.
When I was a kid, Thanksgiving was a day to be
cherished by sharing a staggeringly good meal while basking in the warm glow of
my very tight, extended Sicilian family. After watching “Babes in Toyland –
The March of the Wooden Soldiers” starring the magical Laurel and Hardy, my
parents, brother and sister piled into whatever jalopy my father was driving at
that time for the long trip from Fort Lee, NJ over the GWB, down the West Side
Highway, through the Battery Tunnel, past the Verrazano Bridge and on to my
grandmother’s house on Avenue W between Ocean Parkway and Coney Island Ave in
Brooklyn.
When we arrived, the aroma of the feast to come was already
filling the air. My grandmother, my mother’s mother, and matriarch of the
family, was already hard at work preparing a magnificent meal for my aunts,
uncles, cousins, and us. Shortly after, she would be joined by my mother and aunts
to complete the repast. My grandmother would have shopped for days to search
for the very freshest ingredients to use. Nothing but the best would be good
enough for her family. I remember sitting (on a vinyl covered chair, of course)
quietly in the living room, unseen, listening to them talk while they cooked,
solving all the world’s problems while I inhaled that incredible aroma!
My family had emigrated from Sicily and as had so many
immigrants, combined the traditions already considered American with those from
the Old Country. The result was a multi-course feast that if you were to order
in a restaurant, would cost hundreds of dollars. It included soups, salads,
fruits, nuts, different pastas, a choice of meats, wine and, of course, turkey.
It would all be topped off with dolce and a demi tasse. Perhaps,
an anisette might be offered, too. It was a classic melting of the Old
World with the New that was so important to my us.
My mother’s whole family, including her siblings with their
children, i.e., my cousins, would be there. In keeping with an Old-World tradition,
there were always TWO tables. One, of course, was reserved for adults. The
other, located in the basement, was for the kids. Access to the adult table
would have to be earned. That’s just the way it was. And, do you know what, even
the kids didn’t mind. It all seemed to work.
But that time has passed and many of the key players are gone
– long gone. Years ago, after my grandmother had died, I was married and owned
a big house. I tried to maintain the tradition, but life got in the way, my
marriage collapsed and it did not last very long. I don’t have any children and
by some strange twist of fate, neither do my siblings. My partner, Amanda, has
a son, but he lives in Tennessee. So, our families have shrunk considerably.
There simply aren’t that many of us around anymore. So, for the last few years,
it’s just been me, Amanda, and my sister Joanne for a quiet dinner. For his own
reasons, my brother has decided to go his own way.
But this is not a “I’m lonely. Look at what has my life
become?” kind of posts. Not at all. The memories are great, as were those
incredible meals! They will be with me for as long as I live. But what is
important to me now is to be with the people who mean the most to me.
It’s simple. I don’t care if we share a pizza. I just want to be together.
THAT’S what matters. It always did.
I am thankful for having love in my life AND for the
memories, too. THESE are the things that last and are ALWAYS something to be
thankful for. I wish the same for you, too. Look and you will find it.
HAPPY THANKSGIVING
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