The Salt of Memory
This year I set my Thanksgiving table with my grandmother’s green goblets. Her yeast rolls rose in my fridge (so slowly that I nearly panicked). The family cornbread dressing was prepared and baked.
When we sit down at the table, I remember all the years of watching my grandfather jiggle the ice in his empty glass with a sly wink, the melting cubes tapping melodically against the cut glass, a teasing signal to his wife that he was out of sweet tea. I see both her face and his at our table, a table full of not just children and friends, but memories.
Because it’s not just my grandparents I’ll remember.
I’ll have my friend Emily’s green beans, glistening with bacon and dijon and garlic, green beans I couldn’t do without, though I’m having to do without her after getting to celebrate together for the last two years. She already texted me that her son missed my grandmother’s rolls this year.
I’ll have mashed potatoes that carry the memory of the missionary aunt who showed me how to use a potato masher, and also the military friend who brought me the best mashed potatoes I’ve ever eaten when I was on bed rest with the twins.
I’ll have batik napkins that remind me where I came from, a little bit of Indonesia on the table made for our family by a friend as we celebrate an American holiday.
As I straighten the candles in their holders, I’ll have the memory of my friend McKinzie, who once told me, during our pre-Thanksgiving, pre-dawn run together, how much she loves a beautifully set Thanksgiving table. I ate her pumpkin biscuits for breakfast this morning. Across the country, she’ll be serving my sweet potato casserole (unless she finally decided it wasn’t worth the risk of diabetes and cardiac arrest).
When my children wash the dishes, I’ll have the memory of doing so with my sisters, half a world away, heating the water in a pot on the stove first, singing loud, annoying songs to try to get a rise out of our mother, shouting with laughter when she came into the kitchen, giggling, to snap us with a towel, just like her mama used to with her and her sisters in a farmhouse in a small town in Tennessee.
I’ll have the memory of my mom, making us all sing Thanksgiving hymns and share two popcorn kernels’ worth of things we’re thankful for. I’ll have the memory of my father’s punny jokes and the twitch he gets in the corner of his mouth when he thinks he’s been funny.
I’ll have the memory of the Thanksgiving I split between my family and the Man’s, my father-in-awesome driving me from one house to the other, my husband’s family loving well a young, pregnant wife when their son was far away in a war zone.
I’ll have the memory of three Thanksgivings without the Man, as I lean closer to him, holding his hand beneath the table, glad just to have him home, home and safe. The turkey he smoked will just be bonus points.
There are memories woven throughout these celebrations, opportunities to stop and say thank you. Without the memories, what’s on the table is just food. It’s not a cause for a holiday. It’s not a moment worth stopping for.
If we leave out the memories, and the thanksgiving that grows naturally from them, we leave the salt out. Everything becomes tasteless.
Sometimes, we’re afraid to let the memories in because they bring with them the tangy sting of tears. We don’t want to remember those unable to join us at the table because we think that holidays should be happy!happy!happy! and we don’t want to taint the happy! with the grief and loss that is inevitable for those who have lived fully and well.
Let’s not make this mistake.
Today, may we welcome in the memories, letting them bring out the flavor of the day through thanksgiving. Instead of pushing away the memories that sometimes bring tears to our eyes, may we hold the door for them to come in…and let them be a catalyst for thanks. And may we make some new memories to carry with us into the future years of celebration.
