Thanksgiving

Interrupting the story again to touch on Thanksgiving. How can I not? I think Thanksgiving is a very creative holiday, definitely a part of my process, and certainly should count here.

Growing up, my holidays were probably much like yours: Lots of family gathered around one big dining table, a few satellite tables nearby, and the obligatory kiddo table. There were always at least two gigantic birds, enough other food to feed small African nations, happy spirits of the soulful and liquid variety, lovely tables set, scenic outdoor images from the windows of the candle and fireplace glow inside, and usually a slack handful of otherwise dinnerless friends/boyfriends/fiancés of my relatives. This is what Rockwell had in mind.

Christmas seems to hold more tradition in both the American sense and of course the religious sense, and although Thanksgiving is strictly American and traps tradition, it’s somehow looser. This was made evident to me during our time in Lativa. Those were the very best Thanksgivings.

Truth told, although our American clan I’ve written about before looked for any excuse to get together, Thanksgiving was special. It meant sharing in an intentional way our heritage, our nostalgia, and of course, our thankfulness.

Finding a turkey was always part of the anticipation. That generally started in September. Turkeys weren’t raised in the Baltics, Polish turkeys were skinny, and no one wanted to even think about a Russian bird. If we got into a pinch, we might settle for a Scandinavian hen, but the angling always started at the American Embassy—they always ordered a pile of Butterballs and had them delivered hard as rocks through the Diplomatic Pouch. None of us were embassy employees and our State Department status at the Peace Corps (1) wore out, and (2) didn’t have any clout to begin with. So we had to buddy up to someone in order to save the rest of us from a pasta Thanksgiving (which Lisa would have pulled off, but still…). The problem was that this embassy tribe of employees was usually pretty transient. As soon as one of us got to know any of them, their term was up and they were going home, but once in a while (usually with an invitation to our infamous gathering), some Secretary of Something would tack on a 25 lb. bird for us. Otherwise there was smuggling. If one of us had an autumn trip to the States lined up, or visiting family, we would bring back a turkey or two. The American’s didn’t care if we took it out of the country, but the Latvian’s always scratched their heads at us bringing it in. That frozen ball shrinked-wrapped in plastic with English all over it appeared mighty threatening notwithstanding the pop-up indicator.

So once the stress of the turkey was over, we could look forward to the rest. Scrounging ingredients to make American side dishes, fudging recipes to make things taste like Grandma’s, and the crazy routes and distances we would take to make it “home” for Thanksgiving was always part of the fun. See? Creative!

More often than not, Lisa would host Thanksgiving. For one she loves to cook and entertain, and for another, she has a house and the space for often 30 of us. One year, actually I think it was the year Lisa was in the States after having given birth to her second daughter on Halloween, we rented a villa (for lack of a better word). It was a big old house, with lots of land, rolling hills, a barn and a sauna. We had the complete run of the place. I think about 20 of us spent the weekend there, cooking and decorating, sledding, keeping the heat going in the house, reading by the fire, general monkeying around.

Thanksgivings were always very cold, beautiful, delicious and made us all the more thankful to be together in sometimes God-forsaken Latvia. And they had become infectious. By this time our Thanksgiving gatherings had created something of a buzz in the international community and everyone wanted to experience what we had that day. Often we had foreign guests, and they were always very cautious not to steal the show or trample on our heritage. They knew they were guests; observers to our Americana.

I think back on those days, remember how hard we worked to create something special for each other through all the senses. Those holidays inspire me to work every day at creatively creating comfort, safety, warmth and love. Thanksgiving is absolutely part of this story.

And I wish you all a happy, memory-making, creative, inspiring and bountiful Thanksgiving!

Curveballs

Clearly, emotions and tensions were running high that Christmas in Florida. My mother, aunt, grandfather and I, who were all there living in the thick of it, were reeling from our sudden loss and trying to deal with our own shock and grief while trying to soothe each other—and it wasn’t working very well. Winnie was a rudder. She was an irreplaceable touchstone for all of us, and coming to terms with what her absence would really mean was devastating.

Needless to say, it was a somber Christmastime, and I was grateful for my husband’s natural detachment from such emotional curveballs--he had the energy to carry on with the children and keep me somewhat attached to their reality. I’ll say this about him: he is an expert at dealing with the here and now. He always finds a way to stay grounded in crisis, and he’s a fixer. Sometimes to a fault, but at that point in time, I loved him for it.

With that said, what happened next seemed to come entirely out of left field, but in retrospect, this is exactly how my husband operates. In the short time between my grandmother’s death and Christmas, he told me he was offered a job. A good one. In Chicago. And they would pay to move us. And he took it.

Behind

Oh boy, am I behind! It's hard to write about the past when there's so much present going on! Anyway, on with the story...

We were in the new house for a little more than a month before we went to the US for a three-week Christmas trip in 1999. We were set to go to my mother's, who at the time lived in Florida, for the holidays and a 60th wedding anniversary party for my grandparents, which was the prelude and really the biggest reason for making the trip.

It all felt very rushed having just moved and then packing up again for a long trip, although, Florida in December was certainly something to look forward to since we’d already had two months of winter. It was all sorted out, though, and we’d arranged for friends to live in our house while we were away. It was still so new and there weren’t any other houses around it at the time, therefore it would have been very unwise to leave it empty.

So after almost 24 hours of travelling with a 4 ½ and 1 ½ year old, we’d arrived at my mother’s in sunny Orlando running around without big heavy coats and boots. My grandparents, Winnie and Bill, rushed over—they hadn’t yet met Caroline and were anxious to get their hands on both kids and me, too. My grandmother and daughter quickly found kindred spirits in each other. They traded coy smiles and then Caroline with wide eyes fondled everything sparkly about Winnie (there was always A LOT!). Winnie affectionately dubbed her, “Tilly” and little did she know that in a few short months “Tilly” would inherit the moniker of “Mini Winnie” for her verbal and willful yet beautifully poised traits so clearly personified by her great grandmother, a true original. We had a great visit, laughing until crying, and lots of tight squeezes that told me I was safe in the arms of those who love me and believe in me most.

I suppose like most people, I had very special relationships with my grandparents, particularly my grandmothers. From Winnie, I learned how to charm with a confident, quick wit; how to dig into the bigger picture of things; how to squeal loudly when very happy, and how to sob deeply when very sad; how to wear jewelry; how to sew; and how to be relentless with personal convictions. From my Grandma Carol, I learned how to entertain; how to make others feel accepted and special; how to shop; how to carry on a conversation even if I’m bored to tears; how to identify many trees, flowers and birds and marvel in their beauty; and how to honor tradition. Both of them, two very different women, taught me how to be very creative and resourceful, love with my whole heart, put all my faith in God, and arrange furniture. I know I am Winnie’s treasure and Carol’s jewel, I know they hope and dream for me, I know they see pieces of themselves in me, and I know that they are full of pride and protection for me. I adore them just as much.

Anyway, just two days after our little homecoming, Winnie fell asleep in the beauty parlor chair she sat in every Saturday morning. We had a funeral instead of an anniversary celebration. The trip was turning out to be something different…and that’s not the half of it.