A long time ago, before my life became chaos, my family had
traditions. When we lived in New York City, my parents took me to the Macy’s
Parade. I remember sitting on my father’s shoulders looking at the balloons,
marching bands and waiting for the big moment when Santa would arrive. We
watched the parade from somewhere around Columbus Circle – 59th
street. And so, we would get home fairly early and head across the Washington
Bridge in our 1948 Hudson. We would be having our dinner with Sophie, my
Godmother and my mother’s best friend, and her siblings, George and Mary.
The three had purchased a house together in Clark, New
Jersey and lived there. It was a fairly large house and my parents and I would
sleep in a guest room. As I got older, I slept by myself in the wing which was
both a bedroom and guest area.
George was a big football fan. But the NFL didn’t dominate
the day like it does today. There was a traditional morning Thanksgiving game
in Detroit every year. But the annual game in Dallas was well in the future, as
the Cowboys didn’t join the NFL until 1960. In that era, high school and
college football ruled. People would go to see the local high school finish the
season against its arch rival. And then the afternoon was devoted to college.
George always wanted to watch the battle between Texas and Texas A&M and
dinner was scheduled for around five after the game was over. By then, everyone
had a huge appetite and your’s truly would get a drumstick. That evening, we
would gather around the television to watch a family movie such as “March of
the Wooden Soldiers” on a black-and-white television with a giant 21” screen.
After my parents separated, my mother and I would still
visit them for the holiday. But Sophie was becoming very ill with rheumatoid
arthritis. It is a horrible disease. It fiercely attacks the joints and as
Sophie became more and more disabled, her fingers were twisted beyond
recognition. As she was at her worst, she stubbornly sat in a special chair and
slowly broke up the bread for the stuffing. She only added seasoning as cutting
vegetables and meats were beyond her ability. At dinner, everyone would rave
how good the stuffing was, but we all piled on gravy to take away the dryness.
It was the last time I saw Sophie alive. She died the next
year as she spent her last days in a morphine-induced has to relieve her of her
incredible pain. By that time, I was living at Bonnie Brae Farm for boys and I
didn’t attend her funeral. I cared very much about that woman. She was caring
and consistent. She loved me almost as much as my mother. But she was calm and
consistently kind, unlike my mother who was ravaged by alcoholism.
The next year, George and Mary weren’t up to it and so we
were left to our own devices. George died a few years later and the last time I
saw Mary was at my mother’s funeral in 1985.
As I grew older, I would avoid the drama of dealing with the
cooking of a huge meal and take mom out to dinner at a restaurant. After I got
married, we would have the ex’s family and her at our apartment in Queens. When
we moved out to Long Island, Thanksgiving celebrations were held at the ex’s
sister and sort of alternated years between her family and my mother. In 1984,
my cousin Rita was aware my mother had gotten lung cancer and arranged for a
Thanksgiving dinner at her home in rural New Jersey. Her mother, my Aunt
Nellie, was mom’s sister. After my parents separated, my mother became
increasingly angry with their family and it reached a point where she said she
would refuse to go to my wedding if they were invited.
That Thanksgiving was the last one with any family. Before
the next one rolled around, both sisters were dead and after the funeral, I
lost touch with my cousins for almost 25 years.
In my dysfunctional life, traditions don’t last. The
Dover-Morristown High School football game on Thanksgiving is a thing of the
past, disbanded when the state went to a state championship format. And Texas
and Texas A&M are no longer in the same conference and don’t play one
another. Perhaps worst of all was the result of my divorce. I lived in Oregon,
where my son and the ex live, for a few years. And my son had to play a
delicate balancing act about who to invite for the holidays and when. Once upon
a time, I had a hope that my parents would get back together that lasted until
my father died. I still hold a hope that the ex and I will be able to go to
events involving our granddaughter. But that too, seems unlikely.
***
But even though I’ve managed to ramble for about 800 words,
that isn’t what this story is about. It’s about the Thanksgiving of today.
If there is one thing I feel thankful for, it’s my job at
Bonnie Brae. On weekends, I sit at the reception desk and connect the boys who
live there with their parents, friends and relatives. It is gratifying work. I
often have the opportunity to permit parents to unload on me. It’s extremely
hard to be separated, especially during the holidays. Most of the boys will go
home this weekend. But there are some who can’t.
Some of them have parents who have long since disappeared.
Others have parents that the juvenile justice system has been forced to ban
from seeing them. Many of the boys have had so much trouble with the law they
aren’t permitted to go home for a visit without court permission. And some
simply can’t handle their lives as it is. We have ongoing suicide threats,
especially close to the holidays. There are those who are still unable to deal
with the temptation of drugs that were so available in their neighborhood. Too
often we have boys who have been clean and sober for many months come back
under the influence and have positive urine test results.
So they will spend their holiday in their cottage. And they
will be upset, perhaps to the point of acting out irrationally. Most of the boys
in their cottage will be home. But they won’t. I can’t really blame them for
their rage.
And so, as you give thanks today, please say a prayer for
those who are in crisis. As for me, I will spend my Thanksgiving working with
these boys and their families. The feast at home will be the next day.
