NONFICTION         

 "friends, neighbors and visiting relatives would fill their plates," 
                                      Photo by Weebly.com                                    

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THANKSGIVING
by  Donna Kaulkin

Who doesn’t love it.
 
I loved it even when I had to sit at the children’s table, kicking and poking my cousins with playful glee, as I took my knocks from them.
 
I loved the stuffing and dark meat, pies bursting with apples or pumpkin filling, cream pies oozing with bananas.
 
I loved the warmth of hugs from my elders (but not the pinches), listening to their gossip and watching their complex interactions and my sensitive mother’s reactions.
 
I loved it all, and eagerly took on the role of hostess when I married and moved to a new city, far from my clan. Under a sparkling chandelier, my dining room table was set for 12 with china we’d hand-carried from England and gleaming silverware. Serving platters were carefully arranged on crisp celadon linen, around a straw cornucopia of autumn fruits and flowers.
 
Along with appetizers, there’d be a perfunctory tip of the hat to gratitude, then my husband would bring the carved bird from the kitchen, shouting, “Dig in!” and friends, neighbors and visiting relatives would fill their plates, partaking of all that our bountiful lives afforded us.
 
Over the years, the cast of characters changed. Babies evolved into teens, new faces replaced those lost to divorce, illness and death. Eventually, I sold my house and moved to a large apartment, where my Thanksgiving tradition continued. I invited foreign families of my son’s Washington International School classmates, who contributed new dishes to our sacred ritual.
 
A few years later, when that son, Michael, moved to San Francisco, married and announced a baby on the way, I packed the china and linen, the silverware and cornucopia, and headed for Walnut Creek, California. My sisters had moved to the Bay area in the 70s, as hippies, my older son lived a stone’s throw away in Los Angeles, and suddenly I was awash in family again.​

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​So, on my first California Thanksgiving, though it was a tight fit in my new condo, my table was extended with four leaves and once again graced with my beautiful things, sans chandelier. It was fun to be together after so many years, on my favorite holiday.
 
But the time came when one guest requested a vegan meal, another gluten-free, and yet another, pescatarian. My limited kitchen skills were tested as I prepared salmon, as well as turkey, and re-heated a multitude of vegetable casseroles. I was frazzled. The thrill of the holiday was gone.
 
That was the year I bequeathed our Thanksgiving tradition to Michael and my daughter-in-law, Georgianna. They had just restored an old house in Oakland and could easily accommodate family and friends in their massive dining room.
 
I transitioned well, never looked back with longing to my hostess days. We dined on turkey and Dungeness crab and kvelled over my grandson Philo, who at five years old was the only child at the table and would remain so. Eventually, he tried his hand as chef and regaled us with home-made focaccia and other delectables, as he grew.
 
In my 70s, I decided to move to Rossmoor and downsized for the umpteenth time, bringing only necessities, my art and photos and small keepsakes. After the movers placed my beloved dining room set and boxes of China near the elevator, to be picked up by a charity, they found me sitting on one of the chairs, crying. I felt so foolish. Crying over mere things, at my age. After a lifetime of real losses. But the guys were lovely, accustomed to these events, and one brought me a serving bowl and platter that had not yet been packed. “You can keep these, Mrs. Kaulkin. To remember. We’ll find a place for them in your new home.”
 
And then I really cried.
 
And life goes on. Covid-19 hit and Thanksgiving went on hiatus. One of my sisters moved to Portland, and Philo went off to college. This year we are merely five, plus a friend, planning a Thanksgiving celebration at the Lafayette Park Hotel. Where they feature shrimp, salmon, abundant vegetables, along with Sir Tom. And a good time will be had by all.

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​​Donna Kaulkin is an author of a novel, Brenda Corrigan Went Downtown, and has written plays, a musical and poetry. Since the onset of Covid-19, she has taken numerous Zoom writing workshops, developed a memoir; “My Lost Boy” being an excerpt from it. She is a freelance writer and editor, specializing in aviation and the arts, and was a managing editor at US Pharmacopoeia and an editorial director at McGraw-Hill. She has a BA in English from Georgetown University and served as president of the American News Women’s Club from1999 to 2000.
 

Other works in this issue:
Nonfiction:  
​The Dance of Love

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