The Best Of All Holidays

In the pantheon of major American holidays none stands higher than Thanksgiving.  There is no pressure of frenzied gift giving, no special services unique to one religion or another, and no marching bands loudly proclaiming one’s nationality. It is simply a time for families to take time out and realize some things are more important than work, politics, shopping, or any of the other myriad events that seem occupy so much of our time.

            The food recipe is fairly simple. It’s been around since 1621 when local native Americans – perhaps unwisely in light of later events – shared a meal with the newly arrived settlers just south of what is now Boston. Turkey, sweet potato, corn bread and pumpkin pie are now the basics, and modern-day cooks can add green vegetables or other types of pie. Certain things, however, are off limits. My wife is Greek and one year thought perhaps a few spanakopita – spinach pies --- would be just the thing. Absolutely not, I insisted. Tradition is tradition and must be honoured. History does not record any evidence of flaky pastry in Plymouth, Massachusetts in 1621.  However, it must be said that that one slight slip was quickly remedied and we now have a Thanksgiving table second to none.

No sign of spanakopita

            The holiday was first celebrated in 1789, and it was an on-again-off-again thing until 1863 when Abraham Lincoln declared it a federal holiday. Seems strange to create a national holiday of thanksgiving in the middle of a vicious civil war, but then maybe Lincoln needed something to take people’s minds off the carnage on the battlefields.

           Now it is celebrated pretty much the same way throughout the country from southern California to the coast of Maine, and many family members overcome major obstacles to get home for this one holiday. Travel writers often say that the Thanksgiving period is the single busiest travel time of the year.

            For me, I always associate Thanksgiving with the small town in Vermont where I grew up. Autumn was over and hard winter had not yet arrived. The trees had lost their wonderful mosaic of red, yellow, and tan foliage. Their limbs were now bare, and the dark greens of the spruce, hemlock and pine trees dominated the woodlands. Fields were beginning to freeze hard, and rings of ice were forming on ponds and streams.  The birds had long since flown south and small creatures of the fields and woods by now were nestled deep in their warm burrows. Outsiders – those people from Boston or New York – would say the air was cold, really cold. True New Englanders would only concede that the temperature was indeed bracing – maybe time to put on the long underwear.

            With the wisdom of 12-year-olds we would comment on peoples’ winter preparations while walking home from school. Who had enough good quality, dry wood precisely stacked and protected, who had sacks of sand ready for the icy roads, who had cleaned all the leaves from gutters to prevent ice from forming under the roof shingles? Meanwhile we would busy ourselves with the important things like checking that our skis were well prepared and edges sharpened, ice skates well polished, and hockey sticks recovered from under work benches. 

            Sharp edges on the skies were critical. Skiing in New England was different than in the West with all its luscious champagne powder snow. We in the rugged northeast weren’t used to such luxuries. No, our snow was rock hard and quickly turned to ice. If your edges weren’t sharp enough to carve around the icy conditions your race turned into catastrophe as you slid ignominiously sideways down the hill instead of going neatly through the gates. Very embarrassing when you’re 12 years old.

            My mother was usually exhausted by the time Thanksgiving morning rolled around. There were very few supermarkets in Vermont in the 1950s, and none at all around us. She had to drive to several different towns to get what she called the ‘right’ Thanksgiving ingredients. But cook she did. And by early afternoon we were ready to gather around the table. While we were a fairly small family, the number always seems to swell with stray friends or a distant relative. One year we were joined by recent arrivals from war-torn Europe and listened in awe as they gave a special thanks and recounted their experiences just trying to stay alive during the war and in its immediate aftermath. That was my first, personal introduction to the world beyond our little slice of rolling, green, peaceful hills.

            After the meal and the washing up, there was the obligatory touch football game. Football is a game normally played with 11 people on a side. However, on Thanksgiving the teams could number as many as 20 ranging in age from four to 74 as different families gathered to work off some of the excess food. This game had strict rules, such as how many times one’s sister was allowed to touch the ball. Score keeping was haphazard at best, and the game ended only when both sides were exhausted, frozen, or both. Then we would retire inside to a nice warm fire and watch a real football game on television before falling asleep fairly quickly.

The obligatory Thanksgiving touch football game

            Times, circumstances, and locations change. But it is gratifying to see that this most basic of holidays featuring family, friends and food is only getting stronger