It took nine hours for me to travel from my house to my aunt’s on Thankgiving. Nine hours, when it should have taken three. It was like Gilligan’s Island meets Groundhog Day, but not as funny and with a whole lot more swearing.

Oh, we had adventures: torrential rain, traffic, near misses and even a few mechanical issues. (And that was just the backseat!) It was quite a journey and by the time we arrived, the familiar smells, sounds and hugs were the antidote to my foul mood. It was all worth it. Completely.

I haven’t had a Thanksgiving with my side of the family in twelve years, a full year before my first child was born. My three girls have only ever known my husband’s side of the family; we are so lucky to have them, they are wonderful people. Despite the love and tradition on his side, I’ve always longed for my children to know my side of the family – quirks and all. A relocation this past year meant my family was within driving distance. I’ve been waiting a long time for this Thanksgiving to arrive.

When the table was set and the food presented, I helped myself to a fair portion of sentimental reflection. Our memories are tied to senses and mine reveled in the tastes, sights and sounds of my youth. Everything, from the way the food was cooked to my grandmother’s china, spoke to me of home.

As we enjoyed the feast, we played the “What are You Thankful For” game. But first we set a ground rule: the Big Three (health, family and friends) were off the table (too easy).

The predictable litany of work, kindness of strangers, food, etc. followed. When my aunt spoke, she described her love and gratitude for the new house and the ability to shut off entire portions of it through  the multitude of pocket doors she discovered after purchasing it last spring. And by “noises,” she meant grandma’s television. There’s only so much Judge Judy a person can stand. Who knew the elderly were so into sensational justice? “To pocket doors!” my aunt exclaimed as she thrust her glass into the air.

Grandma’s turn came and she was happy for the move, for family (we let her break the Big Three, she’s almost eighty) and to be able to use her favorite china.

Me: Grandma, I love these plates. What’s their story?
Grandma: Oh, these were Mimi’s. And I had to fight like hell to get them back.
Me: Mimi? She was grandpa’s mom, right?
Grandma: Yes, and she was a thief! A downright thief!
Me: Come on, grandma. Really?
Grandma: She wanted to borrow them but then she wouldn’t give them back. She stole them!
Me: Maybe she didn’t remember…
Grandma: Oh, she knew. (pause) Well, I showed her I guess.
Me: Yeah, I guess you did, Grandma. (slight pause) She’s dead and you got the plates!
Grandma: You’re damn right I did.

And without any rehearsal, everyone raised their glasses, “To Mimi!”

Isn’t family just grand?

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