Autumn provokes tender memories. During an unusually swift October, I observed the dried-out greens from late summer transform into the dazzling panorama of drifting leaves that lined the streets and filled front lawns. As I did not write during the season’s passing, I write from the vantage point of a thoughtful November. While the colors are nearly gone, the emotions prompted serve as a melancholy complement. The sky looms large again with so little to block its expanse. The deer romp through the woods behind our property, camouflaged again into their winter bark hues as they blend in the muted background of newly shorn trees and scattered brush.
Thanksgiving is little more than a week away. As Neal and I prepare to be company this year with some contribution to a festive meal with friends, the inevitable ghost from the past takes hold.
I was living in Phoenix more than 30 years ago. My mother lived nearby in a charming condo. She hosted Thanksgiving dinner that year and I was on hand early to assist with the feast she prepared: succulent turkey with rich, dark gravy, alongside the dressing that had been stuffed in the bird hours before, with delicious side dishes that included the not to be forgotten sweet potato casserole, vegetables, rolls, and fresh cranberry sauce. The pretty dishware was flanked by candles and flowers. Meanwhile her apple and pumpkin pies, fresh from the oven, sat on the kitchen counter ready to be consumed sometime after the meal. While I have listed foods that most Americans eat on this holiday, my mother’s was cooked and baked to perfection. The turkey was moist and not at all overcooked. The pies were prepared with the flaky crusts for which she was known by family and friends. She was a stickler for “curb appeal”.
Obviously, many people can cook savory and appealing meals that garner comparable praise. But I don’t know them all. I grew up surrounded by gourmet level entrees, aromas that permeated the small rooms in the many apartments in which we lived during my childhood/girlhood. Holiday feasts added warmth and beauty.
I am missing those days lately. I see my mother’s flushed face aglow as she surveyed a weighted table, with appreciative guests gathered. I try unsuccessfully to hear her voice in my mind’s ear as I recall countless conversations over afternoon coffees on cool afternoons.
This time of year is associated with triggers from the past that haunt us all. Perhaps we all need to lean into our feelings and accept them. We are, after all, composites of the past and present. I wish to go forward with both.
