I would watch as mom’s eyes grew wide with excitement every year at watching the Miss America pageant on TV. This small-town girl from Cottage Grove, Oregon let her life dance through the efforts of others she’d trained and several times her students and protégé’s were on the televised pageant in front of her. Her mother had never let mine fulfill her lifelong dreams to become a Kodak model at age 14 and it fired the drive that burned within her. 

Much of the time, though she had superior gifts and skills, business was tough and money was hard to come by. We were always “tightening our belts.” That meant she worked full time and though she would try quick meals, we survived on less than excellent fare. Rice-a-roni, mac and cheese, spam, spaghetti.  When I got to college and ate regular meals in the dormitory, I thought I had passed into some sort of Paradise.  While others complained, I enjoyed the meals and the options.  My weight gain bore confirmation of my enjoyment.

BUT—there was one season in the year that drew my mother’s cooking skills to the surface and caused her delight for her buried culinary ability to stand and take a bow. That season began with Thanksgiving. Mom would be up at 4 and go to work extensively on some poor turkey who had offered the ultimate sacrifice for us all. She would make certain that bird was prepared just right and she would finally pop it into the oven with a satisfaction that declared “I’ve conquered it all again.” Then, she would go back to bed for a couple more short hours of sleep before the rest of us rose to meet the day.  And when we did—WOW!--our home was filled with the glorious aroma of cooking turkey. Our salivation glands began to get a work out in anticipation of the conquest to come.  Then mom busied herself with the “extras” that magically transform some food into a holiday meal. Mashed potatoes, gravy, corn, dressing, pumpkin pie with home-made whipped cream—all the elements that make for a superior Thanksgiving day. While she busied herself in the kitchen, the rest of us slept some more; while she continued her preparations, we watched football. At some point, we all kicked in and set the dining room table perfectly, as mom would want it to be and we would finish any other chore she wanted done because we were unwitting slaves in the Thanksgiving dance—we would gladly work for the meal that would come only a few times each year. Ah, but when she was ready, we all sat down in the dining room and raved about the feast set before us. We paused, gave thanks to God for His bountiful blessing and for mom, and we thanked mom--before, during, and especially after this glorious Thanksgiving meal creation.

Like many dads, mine would challenge any guest, relative, or kid to an eating contest on that day—and he nearly always won.  Of course, not without him sitting back, unbuckling his belt, and making more room for more food.  I chuckle now with the recollection. I never took his challenge because I wanted to get to the bottom line enjoyment—and I still wanted to at least be able to waddle to a comfortable chair when all was said and done. When dinner was done, the rest of our evening came alive with music, laughter, and penny-ante poker. Pop kept a big bucket of pennies in a Folgers Coffee tin that he would pull out year by year just for these occasions. It was an “innocent” game, but I recall one year when we lived in the heavily Mormon-populated community of Pocatello, my openness to “gambling ways and penny pitching” at school got me called in to the principal’s office and a public rebuke over the intercom!  I was the school’s newest troublemaker because I was leading a small gang of 5 or 6 others into the art of chance. By the time we’d arrived in enlightened Seattle, we were quite entrenched in what was simply our fun family tradition.

Now I’m in my mid-50s, my children are grown and gone with families of their own, my parents are gone, and the tin of pennies disappeared long ago.  But the memories are powerful—powerful enough to evoke the smells and feelings of a holiday celebration from 42 years ago.  I miss the players but am grateful that no matter how poor we were (and usually we were) we had family to enjoy. We would laugh until tears streamed down our faces--we would remember family and camping times when we were even younger. At times we’d fight over something trivial; we’d make up and go on. After all, it was Thanksgiving—we would never walk out on each other in anger. We were family. 

I write all of this as simple proof that Thanksgiving memories can still come back strong and true; perhaps my sharing can more quickly enable you to consider your own.  This time of year the meanings of the holidays can get swallowed up in the events and commercialism. One hears little in our media anymore about Thanksgiving—it’s the forgotten Christian holiday on the way to the hoped-for business bonanza of Christmas. This year, let’s do something different. Let’s get back to remembering--family, friends, blessing, fun, the heartbreaks and the making up, the reason we are together. And let’s especially take time to give thanks to Jesus for being so good to us. No matter how bad it may get in our economy, we still are alive to read these words and to remember. We are still—for now--the freest and the most blessed country in the world in terms of provision.

The Bible says,” In everything give thanks.” (1 Thessalonians 5:18) Let us fulfill that Scripture this Thanksgiving. Be certain to take the time to say thank you to Jesus for His bountiful blessings and to your family and friends. This year, let’s make a new Thanksgiving Memory.