Memorable Thanksgivings

Thanksgiving week is upon us, and as we prepare our feasts and plan our shopping, the inevitable flood of nostalgia descends, flavoring our post-meal conversations with reminiscence.

Always eager to indulge my inclination toward nostalgia, I offer these brief stories of Thanksgivings past to prompt you to remember and share your Thanksgiving memories.

Going for a drive. In 1981, my parents secretly packed the car while we unsuspectingly played in the yard all day. That evening after our traditional Thanksgiving meal, Dad piled us into the car for what he called “going for a drive.”

As dusk turned into night, my brother, Lee, and I repeatedly asked, “When are we going to turn around?” Dad responded each time with “Do you want to turn around?” That simple but profound question not only helped me embrace adventure and new experiences on that trip to Houston, Galveston, and the Texas Monument in San Jacinto, but the spontaneous trip ignited exhilaration and a life-long appreciation for new experiences. That spirit has fueled many of the choices throughout my life.

First Thanksgiving away from home. In 1991 I was a senior in college and working a journalism internship in Washington, D.C. My work schedule prevented me from having enough time to fly home for Thanksgiving, so I had resigned myself to spending it alone or with my rag-tag group of roommates.

But the Sunday before Thanksgiving, a couple from the church I had been attending invited me to their home for Thanksgiving. All I knew is that they lived in Arlington, Va., sang in the choir and had a teenage son. I had no better offers, so I graciously accepted.

On the day I learned they had also invited a young woman from church who was also working as an intern on Capitol Hill. And imagine my surprise when we arrived at their home and discovered the Flemings had two daughters who had been off at college this whole time. I had so many blessings to count that year as I enjoyed the company of several attractive ladies. And to think my parents were worried about me spending Thanksgiving alone.

Filling the garage apartment and endless turkey. In 1995 I was living in a garage apartment behind a historic home on Vineville Avenue in Macon, Ga. The one-bedroom apartment was above the garage and perfect for a hip bachelor, but not exactly spacious enough to comfortably accommodate a family.

In another exhibition of my Dad’s trademark spontaneity, they decided to bring my youngest brother, Lyle, and Maw Maw with them to Macon to spend Thanksgiving with me since work once again conspired against me being able to make the trip home. The bedroom sloped a little, so that the foot of my full-sized bed was lower than the head. Mom and Maw Maw slept in my bed, although Maw Maw kept rolling downhill, and Mom had to pull her back up. I slept on the couch in the living room with Lyle who had an air mattress. Dad was on an air mattress in the kitchen, which left him on the tile come morning because the air mattress slowly deflated overnight.

We made Thanksgiving lunch in my tiny kitchen, and there were leftovers for days. Mom laboriously packed the leftover turkey in serving-sized plastic bags. I wrote a column for The Macon Telegraph in March when I finally finished the leftovers. Dad is still bitter that he didn’t get a leftover turkey sandwich that year when they got back to Florida.

Losing Lanny. Our world was completely upended in 2013 when my father-in-law, Lanny Barron, passed away on Thanksgiving. He had been severely injured in a car accident on Nov. 1 of that year and had been in the ICU and then long-term acute care for four weeks before he died. There was nothing remotely traditional about that year, and our Thanksgiving has not been the same since.

Our family tradition when our kids were small was spending Thanksgiving with him and Cynthia in Sandersville. Before Barron was born, he and I would go deer hunting. I know, very out of character for me, but don’t worry, the deer were completely safe. We usually got together with Carla’s aunts and uncles and cousins for Thanksgiving lunch, and the boys and Carla’s cousins’ children would play together. Lanny enjoyed his grandsons.

It was a horrible Thanksgiving the year he died, but in the years since, I make time to remember him and be thankful for him.

Adventures in frostbite. In 2015, my parents made the trip up from Florida again, and Dad helped me smoke the turkey. I set up the smoker just outside the basement door, and because they were staying in the guest suite in the basement, Dad would occasionally open the door and check on the charcoal.

There’s an odd trick about the external doors in this house. You can open them without unlocking them. Dad discovered this at about 2 a.m. when he went out to stoke the charcoal. The temperature was in the 30s, and he was in shirtsleeves. He tried knocking on the door, but my mom didn’t hear. He tried all the doors, but they were all locked.

He tapped on windows, but the basement bedroom is interior to the house and has no windows. Freezing, he finally got Mom’s attention by banging on the back door. That year for Christmas we received a number of gadgets for hiding spare keys outside your house.

We’re still making Thanksgiving memories as our boys grow into adulthood. We cherish having them back home, and we’re glad Cynthia can be with us. We miss my parents, but one of these years we’ll be able to include them in the festivities again.

I hope you have a happy Thanksgiving. By all means enjoy the food, but savor the memories. And don’t forget to make some new ones.