My children have never truly experienced the Thanksgiving that I grew up with. I suppose no kids ever have the same traditions as their parents, but I was shocked by my 13 year old son’s reaction when I turned on the Macy’s Thanksgiving day parade. He was aghast.
“Ahh, what is that thing?”
“What thing?”
“Why is there an animatronic Chef Boyardee walking down the streets of Manhattan?”
“Because it’s Thanksgiving.”
We looked at each other quizzically. Had I really never put on the Thanksgiving parade for my children? What kind of monster am I? Oh, right. I’m the monster that spends three days in the kitchen preparing a feast for my nearest and dearest. I guess between basting the turkey, hand washing stacks of Thanksgiving-only serving dishes and cleaning the kitchen floor, I forgot to turn on the television.
It was interesting to watch this child watch the parade. There were both unintentional smiles over some childhood character that revived fond memories and expressions of horror when a character did not translate well to a 64-foot balloon.
“Jaysus! Like the Elf on the Shelf wasn’t already creepy enough?”
There was genuine confusion over the hoards of marching bands and then came the ultimate question.
“If this is a Thanksgiving parade, why is Santa there?”
“Because that’s what happens. Every year. He ends the parade.”
He waited expectedly for more. I felt a lot of pressure to come up with a good explanation for St. Nick’s presence at the ceremony honoring and commemorating a time of thankfulness for all that we have. He stared at me a minute longer. With a sense of defeat, I admitted the truth.
“It’s because it’s the Macy’s parade and by ending with Santa, they’re telling you it’s time to start shopping for Christmas.”
It was perfectly rational to my son, whom I’ve raised to question all attempts to sell him something and to regard advertising with a trained eye bordering on cynicism, that this jovial affair would have a nefarious, ulterior motive. He simply nodded and moved on.
But for me, it was a sad acknowledgement. It robbed a little bit of my nostalgia, took a chunk out of my childhood innocence and left me wondering why I always just accepted Santa’s presence as a given. I guess it’s because his happy ho-ho-ho-ing and gregarious waving always brought me joy.
It meant that my mother would start pulling out all the battered and dusty cardboard boxes, carefully labeled in her neat script. They were overstuffed with the items that would transform our house into a Grateful Dead-like, acid trippy holiday fiesta of ceramic Santas, three-foot-tall plastic snowmen and cardboard Rudolphs that would adorn the walls and doors of our house for weeks to come.
There would be musical snow globes and artificially scented, red and green candles. We even had a gingerbread house candle that we never burned because it seemed sort of twisted and morbid to burn down a house in the name of Jesus’s birth.
And even the horrible silver tinsel, that stuck to me like a vinyl car seat coated with my own sweat on a hot August day, left me with fond memories of tree-decorating and time spent together as a family, tossing the shiny strands of imitation icicles in huge clumps all over the finished tree, followed by a heartwarming Christmas television special that we all sat down together and enjoyed. Except for my mother. Because she was removing that haphazardly thrown tinsel and replacing it, strand by strand, across each branch.
But my son’s question brought the issue front and center. We could no longer avoid the fat white guy in the middle of the room. Santa stole Thanksgiving.
Year after year, it gets worse. He started coming after Halloween a while ago and I’m beginning to wonder if summer is safe. And don’t even get me started on Black Friday, now oozing back all over Thursday, like a Stephen King blob of misery, stealing tryptophan-induced naps and family memories.
There is a saying that’s been floating around the internet that sums it up well:
Black Friday. Because only in America do we wait on line and trample others for sale items
one day after giving thanks for what we already have.
I know, I’m putting a lot on the shoulders of the jolly ole man in the red suit. Of course it’s not the fault of the smiling, whiskered guy and his nine reindeer. We each have to take responsibility for shaking off our food comas so we can save a few bucks on the newest whatever that no one really needs.
When Brian and I asked our kids for their Christmas lists this year, we were greeted with blank stares. They could think of nothing that they wanted. After a few days, they came up with silly lists that reflected the whim of the moment, but in all honestly, they want for nothing. Not. One. Thing.
When they are adults, filling their own Thanksgiving tables and enjoying the company of those they love and adore, there will be no memories of what was under the tree at any particular time. But I know that they, like me, will cherish the memories of time spent laughing over the canned peas that Grandpa has to have every year and the fact that Grandma requires a one-to-one person-to-pie ratio. They will fondly recall the marathon sessions of Trivial Pursuit and that their father is quite possibly the king of useless information. And like me, they will (hopefully) recite the blessing that has graced every Thanksgiving meal I have ever had, the prayer that was once said by my late grandfather and is now carried on by my own father:
Our heavenly Father,
we thank you for the food before us,
the roof above us and for this family.
Help us remember
that a family is for growing up in,
for going away from and for coming back to.
It is for loving concern,
for helping each other
through happy times and sad.
With your blessing,
this family will always be together
in our hearts and in our memories,
giving each of us the strength
to live our own lives
and to be our own persons.
I found out this year, through a series of comedic texts between several cousins in a few different states that involved questions about my mother’s street cred, that even though some have credited my grandfather with writing this, it’s true origin is from The Waltons television show. Not quite as sentimental, but at least we’ve got our facts straight.
On that note, I hope you had a beautiful Thanksgiving. I hope you were not one of the many people forced to leave your warm house and cater to the rabid throngs of sale-seekers. I hope you had a wonderful and abundant meal. I hope that you had lot of laughs and most of all, I hope that every day, you have the love of a good family (whether by blood or bond) — because then you truly want for nothing.
If you, too, are scarred by the plastic tinsel that would show up under a couch cushion in May and is still likely holding strong at the landfill, try making an all natural, biodegradable garland for your tree. The website eHow.com has lots of easy and crafty ideas, but I like this best. I also like the added benefit: If you decorate with this garland and you accidentally leave your badly behaved dog unattended and he eats most of the things off of your tree, he’s less likely to die.
Edible Popcorn and Cranberry Garland
Materials
Popped popcorn
Cranberries
Needle
Thread
Instructions
Pop the popcorn. It is best to use popcorn that does not contain butter or oils, which could make the garland-making process messy.
Pour the cooked popcorn into a large bowl.
Pour the cranberries into another large bowl.
Thread a length of heavy-duty thread through a large needle until you have two sections of thread of equal length. Tie the thread with a large knot.
Thread a kernel of popcorn, followed by a cranberry, or you can create a different, more complex pattern. Continue threading the popcorn and cranberries until the garland is complete, but remember to leave enough thread to tie an ending knot.
Tie the ending knot and then drape the completed popcorn-cranberry garland strand on your Christmas tree.
Laurie Nigro, a mother of two, is passionate about her family, her community, and natural living. Laurie resides in downtown Riverhead and is co-founder of the River and Roots Community Garden on West Main Street.
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