Lots of holidays merge to a blur for me, but not Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving stands out.
Thinking of childhood’s Thanksgivings, with our family of six sitting at a traditional table, my father skillfully carving with a beautiful Sterling silver carving set, an artifact from bespoke childhood, a life left behind decades before.
Thanksgiving during trade wind crossing of the Pacific on the Research Vessel Alpha Helix, bound for Indonesia, a steam table with what was really the most traditional menu ever, even the marshmallow sweet potatoes. Or were they yams?
rilled turkey with a GF and some expats on the beach at LA Bay in Baja California, a sacred space.
Anchored in blustery winds off Buck Island, north of Albermarle Sound, NC, waiting for safe weather to go south. Instead of turkey, dinner was built around a small canned ham.
A cold, grey Thanksgiving in Paris, in a rented apartment that turned out to be stripped to cold, grey concrete, but in love and enjoying every moment.
Visiting family in Round Lake, NY. Sitting around after a long dinner Michele winks and we go off to our room and create our beautiful son.
Falmouth, Maine, at my sister’s. Reading the names of first generation immigrants, going back hundreds of years. What lives they must have led. Thankful.
A three generation dinner with Michele’s family, but she is so sick she retreats to a bedroom. The next day she decides to enter hospice.
After thirteen days out of sight of land on a 42 foot sailboat: a sun drenched Thanksgiving dinner on the patio at Nanny Cay, British Virgin Islands.
Five years gone. Finally able to have another Thanksgiving in the home. My son a real adult. Good friends. It was time.