Look What You Started

by Donna Poole

Look what you started, Eve and Bruce! There will be twenty-eight of us here for Thanksgiving, Lord willing and if the creek don’t rise, as the old timers used to say. I’ll be thinking of you that day and how, when the kids were little, we used to sing, “Over the river and through the woods, to Aunt Eve’s house we go.” We travelled two and one-half hours from our home to yours every Thanksgiving Day. Our vehicle was stuffed with side dishes, desserts, and kids asking every ten minutes, “Are we almost there?”

When we finally arrived, our shoes joined the pile of others in the hallway, and we jammed our coats into the overstuffed closet. The kids tumbled down the stairs to the basement to join cousins where older ones watched younger ones, or no one watched anyone. There might be a Disney movie on the television, or a game of darts where more hit the wall then the dart board. Sofa cushions ended up on the floor with younger children somersaulting off the couch and piled together on them in a laughing heap.

John joined the men in the living room where if the football game hadn’t started talk about it had, and I joined sisters in the kitchen for hugs, kisses, and final food preparations.

If it hadn’t been done already, the brothers-in-law and older cousins all smushed into Bruce’s truck, went to the church, and brought home tables and chairs.

It usually got a bit crazy in the kitchen, and the men wisely stayed out of the way, except for Bruce who was allowed in to carve the turkey and the pork roast. Leaving at least one side dish in the oven, fridge, or microwave was tradition. Tradition also was Bruce grumbling that everyone had brought too much food.

Bruce wasn’t wrong. Everyone who was old enough helped carry the food from kitchen down the stairs to the basement. Tables may have grumbled under the weight of too much food, but family smiled at each other. When you’re Italian it’s natural to say “I love you” with food. When one of our children was very small his eyes widened at the display waiting to be eaten and he said, “I want dis, and dat, and dese, and dem, and dose!”

We all ate dis, dat, dese, dem, and dose, and somehow found room for pie with vanilla ice cream. Our daughter Kimmee still buys the same brand of vanilla ice cream for the holiday her Aunt Eve did, because it wouldn’t be Thanksgiving to her without it.

Cousins in highchairs became cousins in high school and years flew by. Married, and with children of their own, some still gathered at Eve and Bruce’s. It was a highlight of the year, a home filled with love and laughter, a place where are hearts were warmed with love of family, and where Bruce was sure to remind us to give thanks to the God who had given it all to us.

It wasn’t the food, wonderful though it was, that made those Thanksgiving days so memorable. It was being together as family; it was the love.

“Being a family means you are a part of something very wonderful. It means you will love and be loved for the rest of your life.”—Lisa Weed

Saying goodbye grew harder as years passed. No one had to tell us we wouldn’t all be together forever. When we knew beyond all doubt it was our last Thanksgiving because Eve was dying of cancer, my sister Ginny and I held each other and sobbed in the driveway. Even when we know we’ll have forever in heaven because we’re trusting in the death Jesus died for us on the cross, goodbyes are hard. Incredibly hard.

A dear friend says, “Death is a defeated enemy, but make no mistake, it is still the enemy.

Death can be a welcome relief to the one suffering, but it always leaves a trail of tears behind. Even many years later the memories of those gone bring tears, especially at holiday times.

We gather at our home now for Thanksgiving, and I hope the tradition of feeling cherished and loved continues here. I know if Bruce were here, he’d scowl, sigh, and say we have too much food. But Bruce is in heaven now with Eve, and so is Scott, my niece Shelly’s husband. Mary and Steve, my sister and brother-in-law from New York, couldn’t often join us for Thanksgiving because of distance, but Steve is now part of the family in heaven waiting for the rest of us.

We deeply miss the ones gone; there aren’t words to say how much, but I think we take Albert Einsteins’s advice. He said, “Rejoice with your family in the beautiful land of life.”

Family. It’s the place where parents and grandparents still sometimes see you as a twelve-year-old no matter how old you are, and you don’t realize how special that is until they are all gone and you are the oldest generation left. Then you wish there was still someone who saw and cherished the child in you and wonder why you ever wanted to escape that.

It’s like Dodie Smith said, “The family — that dear octopus from whose tentacles we never quite escape, nor, in our inmost hearts, ever quite wish to.”

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Well, dear Eve and Bruce, Thanksgiving has come and gone. The beautiful weather that was forecasted when I started writing this article quickly degenerated into something else. The creek didn’t rise, but the twenty-eight people shrunk to eighteen because of high winds and snowy roads. We missed the ones who couldn’t come. And we missed you; we always do.  

I’m sure everyone old enough to remember you thought of the wonderful Thanksgivings we had at your house. Eve, before you died you told us you hoped we’d continue the tradition of getting together for Thanksgiving, and most years we have. I hope when I join you in heaven, someone in the family will continue to gather everyone together for a day of love and laughter. I don’t care if they don’t fix turkey and ham, mashed potatoes and gravy, stuffing and all the side dishes. Even if they serve peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, throw open the door with a smile, and watch with a tear when everyone leaves, it will be Thanksgiving. It will be what you started.

The end

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These blogs are now available in book form on Amazon:

Backroad Ramblings Volume One: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Two: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Three: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter

Backroad Ramblings Volume Four: Stories of Faith, Love, and Laughter