My Eightieth Thanksgiving… I’ve still got it

This was my eightieth Thanksgiving…obviously I don’t remember my first one–I was only required to eat, burp and not create too much havoc.

Over the decades I have collected a variety of memories. Generally we went to my father’s side of the family. One year it was held at my aunt and uncle’s farm. The pigs had been released into a corn field to eat any of the leftover cobs–the children were sent to a field to round up the pigs. I hated it and knew farm life was not for me!

This year we went to my daughter’s for the Thanksgiving feast. Only the second year since my husband’s death—I was still feeling a little tender. It did not deter us from having a beautiful spread—reminicing, and enjoying each other’s company.

Later in the day my granddaughter and her family–currently living with me in what I call a Temporary Multigeneration Commune–complete with a baby and toddler—went off to paternal grandmother’s gathering. All seemed well…
…until the next morning, when I awoke to the unmistakable chorus of violent vomiting. My granddaughter, pale and miserable, whispered, “I’ve got food poisoning.” As she flops into my bed and turns over the toddler to my able care. 

And just like that, Great-Gram sprang into action—drawing on my many years of sick children and grandchildren–I was able to provide care to yet another generation. I spent the day tending to all, coordinating reinforcements from my daughter and the neighbor, and making a heroic dash to Walgreen’s for Sprite and Squirt, the universal cure-all of family illnesses.

Meanwhile, the Thanksgiving leftovers languished untouched in the refrigerator, slowly aging until time for the garbage can—the pumpkin pie—I rescued and rewarded to myself. A woman must maintain her strength, after all.