There are some things Chris wants me to write, and I will get there probably, but not this week. This week is “getting the finances up to date,” put up the tree, put up the lights, clean up the living room of Friendsgiving stuff, do all the laundry associated with Friendsgiving (hint: it’s a lot), dishes upon dishes… You get the idea.
Chris talked about his version of Friendsgiving, and I wanted to throw my two cents in. Well, maybe more like $0.25, but anyhow… 😉
Years ago, when I still lived with my parents and was not yet adult, Thanksgiving was both a joy and a horror. My mother, bless her heart (said in Ally’s most southern ma’am voice, thick with sarcasm), was an abusive and alcoholic soul, and she made every holiday miserable. But I got to see my Hungarian grandparents, which was almost always a happy thing. As with all things that involved my mother in any way, it was very complicated.
We would wake up early, and my mother would be resentful and angry about it. These days, I realize it’s because she was likely hung over, but I don’t know that for certain. In any case, we would have a light breakfast which my father would make (my mother generally didn’t cook), and then we’d get dressed in our nice clothes and go on the two hour car ride out to my Nagymama and Nagyapa’s house. The times it was just myself and my father were nice. We had things to talk about, music we could share, and it was generally pretty chill. With my mother there, it meant we played what she wanted to listen to, and we didn’t talk much because it bothered her, and you really didn’t want to bother her.
We’d arrive at my grandparents’ house about noon or 1pm, and the turkey would just be coming out of the oven. Nagymama would always cook a massive turkey, 20+ lbs every time (in fact I didn’t know they came smaller than that until well into my adulthood!), and stuffed to the breaking point. My father would carve it up, my mother would set the table (something she was good at, thank heavens), and I would help organize the platters of food. Nagymama would bring out a big pot of turkey neck soup with perfectly clear broth (always simmered, never boiled) with homemade noodles, bits of fresh turkey meat, and a single large carrot in the center of each person’s bowl which you had to cut up with your knife. We would enjoy our soup, and then Nagymama was up again, bringing in platters upon platters of food.
She’d grown up in Hungary, in MezÅ‘kövesd (mezo kovesh-d), which sits nestled in the shadows of the Carpathian Mountains. They were just south of Poland by about 40 to 50 miles, as the crow flies, but the mountains were in the way. My Nagyapa had been drafted into the Russian army at gunpoint during WWII, and escaped when his squad was slaughtered by the Allies. He lay under piles of his dead comrades until everyone left, then crawled out and walked some 400 or more miles home. He only ever talked about it once, and after that he’d just pat my hand and tell me “Nem bántsad,” or “Nem zavar.” They had nothing for a very, very long time. When they came to the new world, they came with a handful of photographs, two sets of clothing, their son (my father), and hope. They turned that hope into a tobacco farm, which turned into big money. They were hardly millionaires, but they were vastly comfortable.
I’m telling you all this because their ability to put that food on the table was a part of their showing that they had “made it.” They were rich, and they showed it not by wearing ostentatious clothing or having expensive cars or things, but by feeding their family, often to excess. For five of us (me, mom, dad, and Nagymama and Nagyapa) a 20+ lb turkey was ridiculous. It was how they showed they could take care of us, though. And it was delicious, and it was cooked with so much love.
Fast forward to Christmas Eve, and my Scottish grandmother would do something similar, with sausage rolls, a clootie dumpling, and all manner of yummy things. And whiskey, of course. Some of it she bought pre-made, and some she made by hand, and it was all done with love. Grandma and Grandpa lived much closer than Nagymama and Nagyapa, so I saw them more often and had a much closer relationship with them. I spent many weekends with them, getting away from my mother. I spent an entire summer there once, taking summer classes at a school local to them, also to get away from my mother. But I digress…
When I moved out of my parents’ home, I moved 2800 miles away, as far as I could get without falling into an ocean. It was probably a stupid thing, but I made do. I lived lean with my boyfriend of the time (who is still my oldest and one of my best friends, some 35+ years later), in a tiny basement apartment for quite a while. We had very little, because I had no skills, being a high school drop out, and he was working doing programming at the very tail end of the dot com era. We were okay until the bubble burst, and then we were in shitsville. But every year, I would scrounge money and get a chicken or turkey, and have people over. Most of the time, it was just the cheap stuff: bird, potatoes, green beans, salad. Maybe sweet potatoes. Rarely a pie, because I couldn’t bake then, and couldn’t afford to buy one. Sometimes a friend brought one, and we feasted. But it was enough. There was food to share. And leftovers went home with whoever was the poorest of us (usually me, but not always).
That started a tradition for me. When I lived on the west coast, none of my friends were near family so we’d all get together at my house for Thanksgiving. When I moved to Maryland and then to New Hampshire, that was no longer the case. Most of my friends lived near their families, or were well off enough to fly out to visit. That meant Thanksgiving wasn’t something they could attend. Rightfully, they were spending Thanksgiving Day with their families. But boy, that Saturday was wide open.
Because of Chris and his DecTen day, we tried a couple of different dates, but eventually settled on the Saturday after Thanksgiving as our feast. Over the years it has evolved into something so much more than it started out as. At first it was just a few friends who could come over. We’d have 8 or 10 for dinner, and when you counted all our kids, that was pretty much “just us.” But here in New Hampshire, I have many friends. I’ve gotten together with people in the reenacting communities. I’ve become close with a vast number of folks (on all sides of the political spectrum), and they’re all pretty amazing. Friendsgiving is generally a “politics free” zone inside (though there’s always space outside for those who wish to enjoy such conversation). We encourage people to share all the things they’re thankful for, and it’s a long list.
This year, I am thankful for our ability to help out a friend who was direly in need. Our helping her with some groceries might actually end up meaning she gets to keep her house instead of having to sell short, which we didn’t know at the time, so I feel doubly blessed. I’m so glad we had enough on hand to be able to make such an offering. I’m thankful that I had space at my table to invite a friend who turned up being in town over the holidays, with no family of his own here (he’s a travelling nurse, so he never knows where he’ll be, and this year he was here). He mentioned on Facebook that he was looking for a Friendsgiving to attend, and I extended the invite. It was wonderful, and he fit in well with our quirky crew.
I’m thankful that there are presents under the tree, that the lights are up (and no children were harmed in the putting up of said lights), and that I’m finally ready to start the Christmas baking. I’m thankful for a last minute invitation to set up and vend at a Dickens Christmas event this weekend (Sat. Dec. 6th, 4-8pm at Red Apple Farm in Phillipston MA, if anyone wants to visit!), as it means I have the opportunity to make a few bucks before the Christmas break. I’m thankful to be taking a good friend to a Christmas concert fund raiser on Sunday afternoon, for her birthday.
I go through rough patches, like anyone. But I try very hard to keep my eye on the prize. I have a good life. I have enough. I don’t need a lot of shiny baubles or fancy clothes. I have enough food to keep me healthy, enough clothes to keep me warm, a home full of warmth and love, and I’m fairly healthy (and getting better all the time).
What are you thankful for?
