On Thanksgiving, millions of moms wake up early and go to work.
There is a turkey to roast. Potatoes must be mashed. Pies need to be in the oven. Cranberry sauce, gravy, and whipped cream require their vessels. Plates and forks, and knives are waiting to be set. Glasses need ice, and where are the napkins? The house, of course, ought to be in “company shape.”
Let’s be honest. That’s a lot.
It was a lot for my mother, and she loved it every chaotic minute of it. Thanksgiving was her favorite holiday. She liked them all, but this one, she’d take above all the others.
For weeks, she’d be lit up inside picturing the day – greeting her kids, seeing her grandsons and granddaughters instantly start running around the small house on East 39th Street in San Angelo, gladly accepting her daughters-in-law’s side dishes and offers of help, directing my happily distracted dad in last-minute errands or necessities. I remember she’d laugh when she couldn’t remember her own instructions or recipes.
Thanksgiving was her day. An American tradition, it was one my mother didn’t grow up with because she grew up in a little town in Mexico. She was 24 when she married my dad, who was 20, and they moved to America mere weeks after. I was born before they’d been in Texas a year.
Juanita Mendez learned all the traditions and holidays of her new country. Thanksgiving fit her sensibilities the best, because it’s about family, and family is big in Mexico. It’s a thing. The biggest thing, honestly. (She also quickly understood the importance of cornbread dressing on the fourth Thursday in November; I’ve never had any better.)
Millions of Americans will find themselves happily around a turkey again this year. Who knows how many pints of potato salad and dozens of rolls and helpings of dark and white meat will be served. Somebody keeps those statistics somewhere. I’m satisfied if you tell me, “It’s a lot.”
What I get out of it is what Mom got out of it – family under one roof, for at least one meal, at least one day a year, catching up on all the funny stories.
My last Thanksgiving with Mom was in 2018. She died on June 9, 2019. I’ll be at the house as usual with my family this year. Dad still lives there, and every year we do as Mom desired and we show up with our kids and sides and desserts. I confess, sometimes we cheat and order up a turkey or tamales.
But that’s OK. Mom didn’t mind a shortcut. It takes a lot to put on the show. Around here, it’s often hot (you know Texas weather; sometimes our sweaters itched and we wished we would have just worn shorts) and just as when Mom was with us, the day is mildly chaotic, noisy, and clumsy, and lunch is never really on schedule.
It doesn’t matter. It never did. We’ll be together for Mom. Thanksgiving was her day.
