We promised we'd gather for Thanksgiving--even when we didn't want to
Sun 20 Nov 2011 17:36:21 | 0 comments
In my family, Thanksgiving is not only a time for reflection but also a time for forgiveness.
It hasn’t always been that way.
Before my mom died, she made my five siblings and me promise we’d get together for Thanksgiving after she was gone.
“Promise me,” she asked. “Promise me that no matter what, you’ll always get together for Thanksgiving.” In turn, we all promised to do what she asked. Our vow seemed to settle her down and bring her peace. How strange that of all the things she wanted was to know that we’d continue the tradition of getting together as a family, without her.
Maybe she was recalling what had happened after her mother died, how viciously she and her siblings fought over the estate, how nasty they talked to one another. My siblings and I grew up hearing them fight while hiding in the next room, pledging to one another that we’d never be like them.
When mom took her last breath, years had gone by without hearing the voice of several of her brothers and she couldn’t remember what they had fought about. It was something, I know, she regretted.
“Promise me,” my mom asked again.
When she died, my siblings and I behaved just like she hoped we wouldn’t, dividing her things with increasing tension, saying harsh words on the way out of the door. At the time, it seemed ok—we lived in separate states, existing among friends, units unto ourselves, not acknowledging what was missing or left behind.
When that first Thanksgiving after my mom’s death rolled around, one of my brothers offered his home and one by one, the rest of us reluctantly said we’d be there.
After all, we had made a promise.
“I really don’t want to do this! It’s such a long drive, the kids are so little,” I told my husband, already making excuses. “What a drag to travel so far just to have dinner with a bunch of people I don’t want to see anyway.”
“You promised,” he reminded me.
That year, the hugs at the door were forced and the small talk, nerve wracking. The football games were a welcome distraction since it meant we really didn’t have to talk to one another.
That year, my little sister and I had a huge blowout that ended in slammed doors. We both swore we’d never talk again.
And we didn’t. For a whole year. Until Thanksgiving. I had made a promise to be there and so had she.
Once again, forced “Hello’s,” along with obligatory hugs and lots of small talk. “Great haircut. Have you lost weight? How’s the job?” I wasn’t too interested in the answers, but at least we weren’t fighting.
As we stood in my kitchen preparing dinner, all of us chopping onions, dicing celery and peeling potatoes, the conversation grew less stilted as we settled into the scraping rhythm of the vegetable peeler. My little sister and I began reminiscing about playing “Barbies” under the ping-pong table, Trick or Treating as Raggedy Ann and Andy, of her seeking safety in my bed during a thunderstorm. We laughed about listening to Supertramp in the basement and about the mirror on top of the stairs where she had watched me get ready for the prom.
“I wanted to be like you, you know,” she told me.
As the pile of potato peels grew I couldn’t help but notice how alike our hands were—our fingernails, the veins on top and even the way we grasped the peeler. When I looked up to tell her this, she was already asking, “Can you believe how similar our hands are?”
“No, I can’t,” I answered, both of us smiling. It was all the
“I’m sorry,” either of us could muster, but enough for us to be more thankful for one another than not. It helped to be reminded we have a lot more in common than not.
Last month, while lunching with a friend, I complained to her about the latest drama going on in the lives of some of my siblings. This friend, who is twice divorced, has no children, no siblings and recently lost her mother and father looked right at me and said, “At least you have a family.”
As my siblings and their families sit around the table this year, keeping the promise we made to my mom almost two decades ago, we are mindful of missing both my father, mother and of the fact that we almost lost our oldest brother in January of this year. All six of us are getting older and who knows how many more Thanksgivings we have to spend together.
We still fight and I’m embarrassed to admit that some of us still let weeks and sometimes, months go by without speaking. But when Thanksgiving rolls around, one of us offers our home and the rest of us show up. Disagreements get worked out, the differences in our personalities disappear, walls come down and oftentimes, before the potatoes are mashed and the table is set, all is forgiven. When we ask, “How are you?” we’re actually interested in hearing the answer and good-bye hugs made at the door bring tears.
When the long holiday weekend is over, I know another year will go by until I see some of them again. And more than likely, throughout the year we’re apart, there will be disagreements between us. But when Thanksgiving rolls around, we’ll get in our cars, hug at the door, make dinner together and stay up way too late catching up and giggling.
And once again, I’ll be reminded that these people, with whom I share memories, eye color, voice inflection and expressions, have more in common with me than not.
And for that, I am thankful.
Diana Keough is a Pulitzer-prize nominated journalist, the mother of four sons and co-founder and editor-in-chief of ShareWIK.com.
Read more Diana Keough articles, here.
©2011 ShareWIK Media Group, LLC
It hasn’t always been that way.
Before my mom died, she made my five siblings and me promise we’d get together for Thanksgiving after she was gone.
“Promise me,” she asked. “Promise me that no matter what, you’ll always get together for Thanksgiving.” In turn, we all promised to do what she asked. Our vow seemed to settle her down and bring her peace. How strange that of all the things she wanted was to know that we’d continue the tradition of getting together as a family, without her.
Maybe she was recalling what had happened after her mother died, how viciously she and her siblings fought over the estate, how nasty they talked to one another. My siblings and I grew up hearing them fight while hiding in the next room, pledging to one another that we’d never be like them.
When mom took her last breath, years had gone by without hearing the voice of several of her brothers and she couldn’t remember what they had fought about. It was something, I know, she regretted.
“Promise me,” my mom asked again.
When she died, my siblings and I behaved just like she hoped we wouldn’t, dividing her things with increasing tension, saying harsh words on the way out of the door. At the time, it seemed ok—we lived in separate states, existing among friends, units unto ourselves, not acknowledging what was missing or left behind.
When that first Thanksgiving after my mom’s death rolled around, one of my brothers offered his home and one by one, the rest of us reluctantly said we’d be there.
After all, we had made a promise.
“I really don’t want to do this! It’s such a long drive, the kids are so little,” I told my husband, already making excuses. “What a drag to travel so far just to have dinner with a bunch of people I don’t want to see anyway.”
“You promised,” he reminded me.
That year, the hugs at the door were forced and the small talk, nerve wracking. The football games were a welcome distraction since it meant we really didn’t have to talk to one another.
That year, my little sister and I had a huge blowout that ended in slammed doors. We both swore we’d never talk again.
And we didn’t. For a whole year. Until Thanksgiving. I had made a promise to be there and so had she.
Once again, forced “Hello’s,” along with obligatory hugs and lots of small talk. “Great haircut. Have you lost weight? How’s the job?” I wasn’t too interested in the answers, but at least we weren’t fighting.
As we stood in my kitchen preparing dinner, all of us chopping onions, dicing celery and peeling potatoes, the conversation grew less stilted as we settled into the scraping rhythm of the vegetable peeler. My little sister and I began reminiscing about playing “Barbies” under the ping-pong table, Trick or Treating as Raggedy Ann and Andy, of her seeking safety in my bed during a thunderstorm. We laughed about listening to Supertramp in the basement and about the mirror on top of the stairs where she had watched me get ready for the prom.
“I wanted to be like you, you know,” she told me.
As the pile of potato peels grew I couldn’t help but notice how alike our hands were—our fingernails, the veins on top and even the way we grasped the peeler. When I looked up to tell her this, she was already asking, “Can you believe how similar our hands are?”
“No, I can’t,” I answered, both of us smiling. It was all the
“I’m sorry,” either of us could muster, but enough for us to be more thankful for one another than not. It helped to be reminded we have a lot more in common than not.
Last month, while lunching with a friend, I complained to her about the latest drama going on in the lives of some of my siblings. This friend, who is twice divorced, has no children, no siblings and recently lost her mother and father looked right at me and said, “At least you have a family.”
As my siblings and their families sit around the table this year, keeping the promise we made to my mom almost two decades ago, we are mindful of missing both my father, mother and of the fact that we almost lost our oldest brother in January of this year. All six of us are getting older and who knows how many more Thanksgivings we have to spend together.
We still fight and I’m embarrassed to admit that some of us still let weeks and sometimes, months go by without speaking. But when Thanksgiving rolls around, one of us offers our home and the rest of us show up. Disagreements get worked out, the differences in our personalities disappear, walls come down and oftentimes, before the potatoes are mashed and the table is set, all is forgiven. When we ask, “How are you?” we’re actually interested in hearing the answer and good-bye hugs made at the door bring tears.
When the long holiday weekend is over, I know another year will go by until I see some of them again. And more than likely, throughout the year we’re apart, there will be disagreements between us. But when Thanksgiving rolls around, we’ll get in our cars, hug at the door, make dinner together and stay up way too late catching up and giggling.
And once again, I’ll be reminded that these people, with whom I share memories, eye color, voice inflection and expressions, have more in common with me than not.
And for that, I am thankful.
Diana Keough is a Pulitzer-prize nominated journalist, the mother of four sons and co-founder and editor-in-chief of ShareWIK.com.
Read more Diana Keough articles, here.
©2011 ShareWIK Media Group, LLC
©2011 ShareWIK Media Group, LLC. All rights reserved. ShareWIK does not provide medical advice, diagnosis or
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