Thanks(giving) for the Memories

by Doug Kaufman

My kids love helping to decorate the house for the holidays. At Halloween, we carve pumpkins, hang (not so scary) ghosts in the windows and put out all of the other decorations we’ve accumulated over the years.

Christmas is even better: starting with the tree, our entire house is festooned with garlands and glitter, snowmen and Santa Claus. The only thing the kids like more than putting the decorations into place is rearranging them in an ever-changing display.

Somehow, though, sandwiched between the other holidays, Thanksgiving has come up short in the decoration department. Except for a few old pilgrim figurines, a ceramic turkey with a broken tail feather and a gigantic platter covered with a Horn of Plenty, the proper decorations seem to be sadly lacking. As the Better Half and I rummaged through the attic the other day in search of any Thanksgiving decorations, we were frustrated that we could find no turkey-shaped pillows or hand-carved pilgrim hat candles.

But one small, brittle, hand-shaped piece of construction paper suddenly had the power to send me back in time to those earlier Thanksgiving feasts, well, not those of Squanto and Miles Standish, but from when I was a boy.

Thanksgiving produced the best food in the world and I could eat as much – or as little – as I pleased. My parents’ rule of "You’ll eat whatever we put on your plate" was amended for this one day to "You can take anything you want, but if you put it on your plate, you’ll eat it." Starving children around the world played a huge role in my formative years.

It is somewhat ironic that although I remember the table laden with all sorts of interesting, exciting foods, I don’t remember actually eating them. Brussels sprouts? Peas? Salad? Forget about it.

It was all about the turkey.

As that golden bird was carried ceremoniously to the center of the table to be carved with great care by the head of the household, you could almost hear the thoughts of those assembled: White meat? Dark meat? Would it be juicy and delicious or dry and disgusting?

My siblings and cousins watched breathlessly from the "kids’ table," anxious to have our first taste of the main dish, knowing that huge straining platter held the only thing standing between us and sheer delight.

For all those available options, my plate usually contained four things: turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy, stuffing and green bean casserole, all separated as far as the plate would allow.

For me, the bird itself was only the beginning of the celebration, and I would rely on the staples to carry me through to the finale of Thanksgiving: pumpkin pie and whipped cream. As children, we were convinced that dessert was what we were truly thankful for. Not much has changed today. My kids too believe that once they’ve had their piece of turkey and pile of potatoes they’re ready to move on to more important things.

It was in the attic that I was reminded of what is truly special about Thanksgiving – and it’s still all about the turkey. As I carefully turned over the brown paper turkey sporting yellow, red and green feathers I found my name written crudely in yellow crayon on the back. I can still picture sitting in one of my classrooms at Sharon Elementary, tracing around my outstretched fingers with a jumbo Crayola.

Shaking off the cobwebs and returning to the present, I dug a little deeper in a shoebox and came up with even more handprint turkeys. This time, they were those lovingly crafted by each of my three kids since they’ve been old enough to hold their hands still. Some, like mine, were cut from construction paper; some were simply drawn with crayon on the back of bank envelopes or other scraps of paper. But each was a valuable piece in our family history, because it was, in effect, a growth chart of The Oldest, The Middle One and The Boy. Each of them reminded us of something amazing the kids have done over the years.

It’s obvious to me that these simple little creations are, in fact, the perfect decorations. While so many other holidays have become complex celebrations of "things," Thanksgiving remains relatively simple. It is about memories: those meant to be savored and those yet to be created.

The way I recall it, our family Thanksgivings always rivaled a Norman Rockwell painting. Of course, after these many years, it’s possible that my own Thanksgiving Day memories are no longer entirely accurate. But they are more vivid. This year I’m more thankful than ever for what’s been and what’s to come – and that’s just the way I like it.