Thanksgiving

My friend, S—, called the other day to thank me for the Thanksgiving invitation I’d extended to her and her husband, M—, in 2002. She’d just thought of it, and picked up the phone.

That year eleven of us gathered around my table—housemates, friends, spouses, some of us complete strangers to each other—graduate school our primary connection.

Everyone contributed some special-to-them dish to our meal. Of course there were turkey and stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy. There were roasted sweet potatoes and apples with a maple butter glaze and someone even opened a can of Ocean Spray cranberry sauce.

And pie. Oh yes, we had lots of pie.

M— and S— brought a double batch of M—’s mom’s famous biscuits, and I think they, like the rest of us, enjoyed sharing part of their own Thanksgiving tradition with their new acquaintances on the western edge of the continent. I loved seeing them at table in my home, smiling, laughing, enjoying everyone’s company, S— in her gorgeous red dress, M— in his natty suit and tie. It was a delightful afternoon and evening.

And S— just called to remind me of the occasion and to say thank you, again, for my invitation to a Thanksgiving celebration way back in 2002, for the invitation to celebrate a traditionally familial holiday in the company of people she didn’t really know, and had no idea she’d come to love. There were tears on both ends of the line.

S— is one of my dearest friends. I cannot imagine my life in the west without her gracious presence, her calm wisdom, her delight in fun and the funny, and her inclination toward gratitude. I am grateful for her, for her role in my story. And I love that she took a moment within her busy day to remind me of a shared and beloved celebration and to ask, “So, how about Thanksgiving at our place this year?”