The day after Thanksgiving, wan sunlight slanting in windows, light snow falling despite the sunshine. (Thin cloud cover explains both the thinness of the light and the snowflakes drifting down.)
A realtor had arranged to bring some people this morning around ten, that had me up real damn early to do the daily clean-out-stove-and-get-it-cranking-all-over-again routine so the space would be warm and cozy when people came through before pulling myself together and heading into town. (Was up real damn early the day before Thanksgiving as well, a ton of errands and other work waiting to be done, forcing stove routine and gym visit to happen at obnoxiously early hours. Found myself in athletic gear doing exercisey hooha at 6:30 a.m., my bod complaining, me uncaffeinated, wearing a stunned expression of genuine suffering.)
Have reflected quite a bit about the holiday -- my favorite holiday of all the ones that spring themselves upon us during the year's parade of months. No religious overtones, no gift-giving -- just appreciation, spending time with friends/loved ones/family. I don't always find myself at a dinner, and it doesn't matter -- I love the feel of the day, how quiet it gets. A day of calm before the goofy commercial storm of the weeks that follow.
Some of my most vivid memories are related to Thanksgivings past, the clearest and most potent with family. Images of the childhood me seated at the jury-rigged table in the small dining room of our small house. The table (actually two small tables shoved together) covered with plates, bowls, platters. My mother -- not even close to being what I would call a fine cook during the rest of the year -- outdid herself on occasions like this. Got up early, labored in the kitchen for many hours, produced a spread that I took for granted in those years, it being what I always saw on Thanksgiving and Christmas. And the fact is, it was a stupendous meal, so wonderful that the fleeting thought of it gets my salivary glands cranking. The closest thing to a banquet that our small tract-house ever saw. The only time of the year that I remember seeing faces from outside the nuclear family at the table -- the two older brothers' sweeties; my father's ancient, crotchety mother; my godparents (whom I barely knew and who barely knew me -- why they were my godparents I can't explain); guys the oldest brother knew from the Coast Guard, far enough away from home to make the trip to join their families undoable, materializing in our dining room instead and disappearing immediately after (understandably -- there was nowhere for anyone to stay in the cramped house).
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Sunrise, late November, northern Vermont:
España, te echo de menos
rws 6:42 PM [+]
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