The comfort of rituals/ Thanksgiving dinner (Nov.25, 2017)

The Comfort of Rituals/ Thanksgiving Dinner

Saturday  Nov 25, 2017

I’m well aware of the various meanings that can be attached to the Thanksgiving holiday. I’ve written about those and taught about them for years. But I’m also familiar with the nature of rituals and symbols—that they’re polysemic, that meanings are constructed; that individuals might interpret them differently from how the user intended. I also know that festive events function in diverse ways: social bonding, emotional release, personal affirmation, and more.

      Be that as it may, I didn’t think Thanksgiving would be celebrated this year (2017) in my family. The plan was to drive out to Madison, WI on the Monday or Tuesday before to spend the holiday with my 2 sons. Thursday evening, though, right before I had to go to my 6 pm class to teach intro to folklore (lesson on children’s folklore and the subversiveness of the game Mother May I), I got a phone call from my younger son (28). His older brother, (31), wanted us out there earlier. He has been dealing with (living with, battling, journeying with? There are no words to adequately describe this process…) colon cancer for the last 3 ½ years. After numerous chemo treatments and surgeries, he decided last summer that he wouldn’t do any more of those. He wanted to live to the fullest, and chemo couldn’t help him do that. Now his liver and lungs were full of it also.

       I somehow taught my class, and we left early the next morning for the 7 hour drive. My daughter (26) had already arrived, flying in from Ireland where she was working on a PhD in sociology. A hospice nurse met us at the boys’ apartment. She told us that Ian’s liver was shutting down and that there was nothing they could do. She didn’t know how much longer he had—maybe the weekend. He was sleepy but still lucid and very worried about us. I talked to him instead about the menu for Thanksgiving dinner.

        Thanksgiving had always been a significant holiday in our family (in a way, all holidays are given that both parents are folklorists). We talked about the various meanings and tried to open our home to others who were away from home or didn’t have family to be with. For us, the holiday meal brought together regional differences—New England (their father), the Piedmont and Appalachian South (me), and the eastern Midwest where all 3 children were born. Also, over the years, the menu had become more and more vegetarian and vegan.

My oldest child always enjoyed helping plan the meal and finding recipes, especially for turkey substitutes, since he’s vegan and has been since an early age. He developed his own way of roasting a Tofurkey loaf that made it a tasty centerpiece. I brought one with us for this Thanksgiving dinner. He was worried that he would ruin our holiday.

      On Wed., he was still here, and I started thinking I should do a shopping for ingredients. He approved, although he was rapidly losing ground. Thursday morning didn’t feel festive at all, but I started gradually preparing dishes. He was lucid enough to request vegan pumpkin pie, so I made a run with my daughter to the local coop that we knew carried such things. By the afternoon, the meal was somehow coming together—roasted sweet potatoes and white potatoes, roasted tofu loaf (from Trader Joe’s), stuffing, gravy, green bean casserole (made from scratch), apple waldorf salad, brussel sprouts, cranberry sauce, bread, French apple tart, and pumpkin pie. We had to eat buffet style and with plates on our laps since the apartment is small and also included Ian’s girlfriend and her housemate. I sat next to Ian with my plate, talking about each dish and the memories that come with it. He roused at one point to tell me that Fiona the cat wanted pumpkin pie. He didn’t eat anything, but he did join us for part of a video—Free Birds (animated story of how a turkey went back in time and changed the main course of Thanksgiving dinner to pizza).

     As I write this, I’m sitting next to my son, listening to his breathing. Just like I did when he was a baby and looked at him in awe of the wonder of his existence. The wonder is still there, although the breathing is different, no longer portending life. No words can adequately describe this experience—or ease the pain that accompanies it—but I find comfort in the shared meal, in the sharing of thanks through that meal of a life well lived, and in the knowledge that every year, this ritual will continue and the memories of this particular thanksgiving meal will stay with me and others, and that through it, Ian will be celebrated.