by Lauren Jonik

“Please carry this in and give it to Nana — carefully,” my mother instructed when handing me the aluminum foil covered cherry pie she had baked. Leaves crackled beneath my feet as I walked up the stone driveway, past my grandfather’s rose bushes now dormant, to the front door of the home he built. The combined scent of turkey, pumpkin pie and coleslaw greeted me as I entered.

As a child, the last Thursday in November meant I would be at my maternal grandparents’ house. Holidays were divided between extended family — Christmas Eve at my paternal grandparents’ house (where Santa also always managed to drop by early and fill a stocking hung by the chimney) and Christmas Day at Nana and Pop-Pop’s. These delineations were set in stone and I grew up believing they were unchangeable.

Thanksgiving, depending on which date it fell upon, was also my grandfather’s birthday and my grandparents’ anniversary. Food was at the center of the celebration and was made by the women in my family who toiled in the kitchen, forever checking on that one last detail until the meal was served. My grandfather carved the turkey and laid slices of light and dark meat upon a large serving plate. Bowls of mashed potatoes, stuffing, green beans and cranberry sauce were passed from relative to relative. Someone — usually my uncle Rich — would accidentally keep the large serving fork used for the meat. When it was discovered, laughter would erupt at the predictability. These small idiosyncratic moments made me feel like I was in on the joke and part of something familiar and concrete. My cousins, brother and I sat at “the kids’ table,” a small card table placed adjacent to the main one. There was little hope of graduating to the big table, though my eldest cousin always managed to find an empty seat when dessert was served and someone had relocated to the living room to nap.

My maternal grandparents sold their home and retired to Florida when I was a young teen. Their absence was felt most strongly at the holidays. Our traditions shifted for the first of many times. We began going to my paternal grandparents’ house for Thanksgiving. During my mid-teens, when I was very sick with Lyme disease for several years, I still would go with my parents and brother for the day. I lay down in the guest room as soon as I got there, covering myself with an emerald and black blanket Gram made when she went through a knitting phase. I emerged for dinner — and dessert — only to return to rest while the chaos of clearing the table, doing dishes, and packaging leftovers ensued. My three younger cousins scampered through the house with the kind of exuberance reserved for boys under age 10.  

Being part of a family is to be part of something living and breathing. Traditions morph and change to fit the needs of the collective members.  Time carries on as our loved ones enter and exit our lives. When I was 17, the holiday was spent in mourning— my grandfather passed away on Thanksgiving Day. My mother spent the day in bed crying. I felt a deep longing for the gatherings we once had had. I mourned not only the loss of Pop-Pop, but for a kind of annual continuity I once relied on for grounding and stability.

But, fifteen years later, loss was redeemed when I gained a new familial role: aunt. I just had to travel half a world away to claim it. 

On Thanksgiving Day in 2007, my parents and I sat in a small café near the Venezia Santa Lucia train station in Venice, Italy.  The red tablecloth matched the fresh, bright tomato sauce on top of my penne pasta. The scent of fresh basil and oregano wafted through the air. I practiced my meager Italian skills as the good-natured owner who was serving us chuckled (I like to think he was laughing with me…). I felt certain we were the only patrons he would have that day celebrating a holiday of gratefulness, but if the portions were any indication, abundance was celebrated there every day.

We soon boarded a train and sped off through the Italian countryside towards Ljubljana, Slovenia, where my brother lived. He had married a woman who grew up in Slovenia. When they were expecting their first child, he was completing his dissertation for his doctorate. My sister-in-law inherited the use of a home from her father in a lush, verdant town in the foothills of the Alps near where she grew up.

We arrived after nightfall and in a small beige bedroom as Thanksgiving was nearing its end, I discovered a new kind of love. I held my three week old niece, Luiza, for the first time. Her brown eyes stared curiously and intensely. I understood the love my aunts and uncles had always displayed so effortlessly to me. I felt at once protective and thankful, but also hopeful that this child would heal some of the long-standing sibling tension between my brother and me. Over time, her presence did. New life had become more important than old wounds.

Having an international family meant that the boundaries of our hearts had to stretch. No longer were the traditions of my childhood a given. My brother and his family have moved several times in the United States and Europe. We’ve learned some Slovene words like hvala, which means “thank you” and prosim, which means “you’re welcome.” My dad has taken it a step farther — he sometimes answers the phone at all times of day by saying dober dan. It means “good afternoon.” More than one caller has been puzzled by the person they just dialed saying something that sounds more like “Doberman” than “hello.”  

This year, Thanksgiving happened in July when my brother and his family visited from overseas. Luiza’s younger brother, Lucian, age 6, wanted the experience of a turkey dinner with all of the fixings, especially his mother’s mashed potatoes. As much as I valued the stability of my childhood traditions, there is freedom, too, in embracing the here and now with flexibility.

There is no one right or wrong way to celebrate. The greatest tradition, after all, is simply being with loved ones — blood or chosen — and remembering how much we have to be thankful for.

Photo of leaves courtesy of: Timothy Eberly

 Lauren Jonik is a writer and photographer in Brooklyn, NY. Her work has appeared in 12th Street, The Manifest-Station, Two Cities Review, Amendo, The Establishment, Bustle, Calliope and Ravishly.

When she is not co-editing TheRefresh.co, she is working towards her Master’s degree in Media Management at The New School. Follow her on Twitter: @laurenjonik.