The table was set the night before, and the snow was falling.

All the boys could think about was, “Whose year is it, yours or mine?” – that is, whose year, Chandler’s or Preston’s, to pull out the neck of the turkey and then reach into this wet, cold, bloody carcass to remove what could be none other than . . . body parts?  A mixture of laughter and nervousness singled out one of them. This year, 2008, was Chandler’s year.

But this also meant that it was Preston’s year to cut the onions for the stuffing.  The skl goggles came out, in preparation for the onions and what brings on unwanted tears.

Of course, I had to remind both Chandler and Preston that these are the kinds of stories their children will love  hearing, along with their grandchildren, in the same way they love to hear my stories of being tortured throughout my childhood years.

So much laughter . . . and soooo MUCH complaining you’d think they were stacking bricks, as I had to do in my younger days (my dad was a contractor), and, of course, walk 10 miles to school barefoot in the snow…

But, of course, this is all they could speak about all morning, with great anticipation. They already had memories and tradition planted in their souls.

Both Chandler and Preston checked the guest list at least twice, laid out their clothes for the day, and were so excited about the “party” they said we were having this Thanksgiving day. What a beautiful thing: to look at Thanksgiving as a party!

As parents, we seem to get caught up in the pressure that holidays can bring and forget what our children already know and appreciate so well: all the magic.

Then, with stuffing prepared and turkey in oven, on went the gear: long underwear, ski pants, jackets, hats and gloves.  Chandler and Preston, excited to hit the slopes on the first day of ski season, grabbed their ski boots, buckled them up, kissed me goodbye, and off they went, skis in hand and smiles on their faces.

I finished up all the final details and was now ready for a perfect Thanksgiving Dinner. The phone kept ringing with new guests coming, so I kept adding to the table.

3:30 came. Snow was falling. The boys were now dressed and ready for the guests to come.

Friends began to arrive, covered in snow, immersed in the sounds of laughter and holiday cheer.

Chandler decided that he wanted to carve the turkey this year. So we pulled the 28-pound(!) turkey out of the oven. A mood of hushed expectancy spread throughout the room. Then the silence broke with everyone exhaling at once, “Ahhhhhhhh . . . .”

Now this was of course the cue for me to take over, insisting that NO one touch the turkey for at least 25 minutes. You’d have thought that I said 25 hours.

With every minute that passed, Chandler came to see if it was time yet.  The guests were all so happy, celebrating the fact Chandler was growing up, becoming a man.

Finally, the time was right. My friend, Jennifer, offered to be teacher in the mastery of the Art of Turkey-Carving. You would have thought that Chandler was the butter the turkey baked in, with the glow of his smile.

Beautiful platters of food were set down. Friends gathered around the table.   And, as I remembered so tenderly last year the circle of thanks, I, too, passed it on.

Tradition.

Thanks to all my friends who helped make this Thanksgiving especially one to remember. And I am thankful for all the new possibilities of the new year.

Mary Dawn, Bob, Daryl, Tiffany, Kendra, Eric, Jennifer, Alyssa, Deb, Noah, Simon, Marie, Jamie Lee, David and, of course, my two sons, Preston and Chandler.

Ciao for now,

Deana