There were crushed acorns and wet leaves on the driveway. The storm windows were barely up, the deck dark and wet. The pool cover sagging with ice and twigs. The faint smell of woodsmoke. Unmistakably Thanksgiving.

I thought it might be fun to relate my memories of a typical Thanksgiving day. And the best way to do that is describe it's four phases.

The first and most difficult phase was PREPARATION. If you were part of this phase, it was probably your own fault. My mother sensed your weakness and you were culled from the herd. Therefore you were going to be working. Really working. Not "take out the garbage" working.

Maybe you were handed a pumpkin and told to make pumpkin pies, or a basket of potatoes or squash and instructed to peel them. For the especially unfortunate, you were there a day early to steam clean all the carpeting in the house as if you worked for Servicemaster and had the holiday shift.

The preparation phase required mental resilience. It helped if you had been a prisoner of war; hardened to these ordeals. It did not help to act surprised by your assignments, no matter how big or unrealistic they were. No sense asking why they weren't finished by some worker or other unlucky relative a day or a week before.

On the green chalkboard over the radiator in the kitchen, lists were scratched in a barely legible shorthand; reciting the "chores" to be completed. Pewter dishes to be removed from the towering cabinet that stretched to the ceiling in the den, then washed and dried and stacked. Silverware to be cleaned, and it would lay scatttered and tarnished on the kitchen counter like grains of sand on a beach. There was a mop and a vaccum on the back porch that would be in someone's hands soon. Pine sol would be in the air like a scented candle.

In the great living room, Handel's Messiah would be making its seasonal debut. My father the conductor was in there, shuffling around and singing, starting a fire or tinkering with his harpsichord. My mother would shout from the kitchen, "Turn that down, I can't hear myself think!" And, "Are you busy in there? Can you give us a hand?" The music would continue to play unabated and the questions would remain unanswered.

The next phase was ARRIVAL. There were always some early arrivals, who would be directed to the kitchen, there to be assigned to various duties but spared the fate of the endentured. They were usually people that my mother had encountered somewhere and had invited. Unknown to most, they were from school or a church or a foreign country and needed a place to be on Thanksgiving. They could have been guests or hired workers, and it was hard to tell by the way they interacted with my mother.

A familiar arrival was Father Kret, wearing a long wool coat and a beret. Carrying a musical insrument under his arm and a sheaf of music in hand, he'd walk in the back door and beam a smile. He would appear after saying mass at Tolentine or Sacred Heart if Father Vader couldn't. Father Vader would likely already be in the living room, sitting with his arms up on the golden velvet chair by the fire, a glass in hand. Always smiling, cheeks rosy from the winter wind and the sherry.

Almost everyone used the back door.   If the front doorbell rang, it was a clue that the arrivals were not well known.  They'd usually arrive with pies, at my mother's request.  She offered the pie assignment as a proxy for cooking and bringing the turkey. The side table would barely hold them all, like a giant bake sale at St. Walter's.   My mother would bake a few herself, and they were entered into the competition with a hand-crafted look next to the the production versions from Baker's Square.

During the arrival phase, the kitchen would overflow with people speaking in loud voices; talking across the counter and across the room at children or siblings or strangers.   Then the back door would bang open into the stainless ovens and announce another group, carrying packages and more pies.

Like numbers on 'now serving' tickets, guests seemed to follow an arrival time order. The last arrival was often Mary. Never arriving alone, she would bring a cadre of famous or eccentric guests, some of whom spoke english and many of whom were beautiful and interesting.   Vicky would arrive, inconspicuously elegant.

The next phase was DINNER.   Imagine you're studying in the University of Chicago Library at a table about twenty feet long and some artist in a tweed jacket shows up and starts dismantling it. That would be my father.   Maybe he told them he was doing some kind of restoration work.   But eventually that table found its way to our living room; covered in china and silver; laden with centerpieces and services and crystal.

The food was always served in the kitchen. The early arrivals would still be there, working and chattering in a foreign language. My mother's face would be flushed with exhaustion; still in her apron and pulling dishes from ovens as the lined formed; racing against the clock like an Iron Chef contestant.   The dishes spread on the counter like a buffet at the Drake Hotel; roast turkey, gravy, stuffing, honey-baked ham, mashed potatoes, yams, cranberry, mushrooms, green beans, salad, home made bread, muffins, and more. Some dishes were never seen, pulled from the oven or microwave or back porch after everyone had left, fogotten in the excitement. Guests moved through the buffet and into the dining room.

The gathering was never without the clergy. Always the fathers Vader and Kret, but sometimes others. And, for many years, our two beloved nuns, Stevie and Annie.   This was about the time that my mother would begin to look teary-eyed and more flushed.   The grandchildren would be quieted. Standing around the great purloined table, everyone would be instructed to hold hands, and, now joined, the invocation would be delivered by the ranking religious delegate.   Then, as hands were about to pull apart, my mother would add her final ad-hoc thoughts.   They were, "thank you God for this fellowhsip and for all my children here today and for my loving husband Jack."   Meg would snicker under her breath and imitate her, and my mother would shoot her an evil glare to top off the prayer.

Then, the dinner phase would conclude in about twenty minutes. Like a great city that was designed and built over the centuries only to be destroyed in a day, it was over quickly. As the dust settled, grandchildren scattered and Mary would disappear into the November night.

Last came DEPARTURE. It might also be known as the concert phase. The pies would become the center of attention, along with music. In the baroque living room, by the fire and the antiques and the art, family members sat on chairs or on the floor and listened to impromptu concerts.

Father Kret played his saxophone, clarinet, and flute. And often, we were the audience to a remarkable man, a gifted pianist and professional musician who would sit at my father's Bosendorfer or Harpsichord and play like the icons on his albums. Sometimes, Father Kret and the pianist would play together. The children would sit on the floor and the musicians would interact with them during the interludes.   Like a catholic teacher, Father Kret would tell them stories about music or folklore, singing them the scales on the different instruments.

In the dining room, board games were brought to the big table. As Pictionary or scrabble were arranged, the pie would be distributed. The brother-in-laws would escape to the den to watch the football games. They were contented to be by themselves, and few words were spoken between them.   They were there for the duration, until the sisters were released.

Dishes were then finished in the kitchen. The fires burned to embers. The guests would begin leaving and my mother would be pressing them to take leftover turkey and cold mashed potatoes and whole pies. On the chalkboard, someone would erase all of my mother's lists and subsitute their own satirical versions, such as, "John paint the garage" or "Cathy clean the attic" or "Carlos split the atom."   Of course, "Mary, have fun," and "Meg, read the Red Badge of Courage" were added, usually by Meg.

Then, the last phase complete, it would end. As we got older, this phase would include minivans being warmed up and babies being wrapped in blankets.

Each of these phases was important.   In each, family and guests fufilled roles that made the experience special. The result was that every Thanksgiving was full enough for a lifetime of Thanksgivings. They were joyful and stressful.  Peaceful and chaotic.  Rich and wonderful. They are what has defined us.  And for that, I am forever grateful.

Thanks mom and dad.

#seasonal

A lifetime of Thanksgivings