Another Utopian Thanksgiving

If I had my druthers, my utopian Thanksgiving guest list would read like the ultimate fantasy football roster of party planning.  I would invite all the people in my life I really like, which, we all know is code for people-who-make-us-feel-good-about ourselves-when-we’re-with-them.  Because who doesn’t like to feel good on Thanksgiving?  And if we’re not feeling good by just being in the room, we might be tempted to look for other ways to feel good about ourselves, like drinking too much and/or eating stupid quantities of rich, fatty, or sweet foods.  Thank goodness Thanksgiving doesn’t revolve around drinking or eating.  Or being forced into small spaces with people we don’t feel good with.  Wait.  Hold the phone.

I would invite a few fun celebrities: Amy Sidaris, for her decorative flair; Sofia Vergara for her sizzle; Tracy Morgan would keep everyone on their toes and Alan Arkin for his dry running commentary.  I would invite my son.  He’s not a teenager, yet, so we still get along.  And maybe I would borrow a couple of especially adorable pre-schoolers and puppy dogs to curl up in my lap later on when the haze of tryptophan settles over the living room like an opium den.  I would invite my elementary school phys. ed. teacher, Miss G, but I lost touch with her years ago.  She made me feel good about my thwarted efforts on the balance beam and miserable fails at dodge ball by asking me to demonstrate the Alaman Left, which I did with finesse, during our square dancing unit.  It would be fun to see her again. 

I would invite my therapist, but that would be weird.  I would have to pay her, which would get pricey and potentially awkward at the end of the meal when it was time to hand her cash.  I know my therapist isn’t my friend but she makes me feel good about myself or at least makes me feel good about my efforts to improve and evolve.  I suppose I could slip her an envelope with a plastic container of leftover creamed onions.  Though, bound by all that pesky confidentiality, she might be a little lackluster as a dinner companion. 

I could invite some old boyfriends who where really funny and entertaining as long as I could put them all on a bus before they got so drunk that their ribaldry turned sour and they got handzy with Sofia.  And I would invite my minister and a few especially fascinating cabbies I’ve had over the years.  Nothing like a well-traveled woman-of-the-cloth and a know-it-all New York City taxi driver or three to add a little zest to the table conversation.  I suppose then the cabbies could take my ex-boyfriends back to Brooklyn.  That would work out nicely.  The celebrities would leave by limo and my therapist could give Miss G and my minister a lift home.  The kids and puppies would have to be returned before they began to melt down at the witching hour but my son could stay as long as he helps clear. 

Dinner is sure to be a whirl, but it would be lonely preparing Thanksgiving with none of my extended family there.  Alan Arkin might just be in the way whereas my dad vacuumed before holiday family events.  It would be nice to have a doddering old dude with a great sense of humor puttering around the house, but there’s no replacing my dad since he died, even with central casting’s finest.  I suppose I would miss the inside jokes and clandestine looks that my sisters and I share behind my mom’s back while she’s cooking—I must say—a consistently darn good turkey, year after year.  Although Tracy Morgan would give an incomprehensibly hilarious toast, it wouldn’t resonate the same way a few simple heartfelt words of gratitude from my brother-in-law would, especially this year now that my aunt—displaced from her home at the Jersey Shore-- lives with my Mom ever since Sandy.  Amy Sidaris is very funny, but so are my sisters, and as long as we’re on our best behavior we can usually hold out like a time-release capsule of decorum, keeping off each others’ nerves right up until keys slide into ignitions the next day. 

It’s not that I don’t like my family, I do.  I even love them.  It’s just that they’re also the triggers for just about every psycho-emotional idiosyncrasy I struggle with.  There’s no telling what might rear its ugly head when the kitchen gets too crowded or someone brings up the election.  So, I’m a bit wary.  But I’m also growing when I’m with them.  I’m learning to listen with detached compassion and not take anything personally.  I’m challenged to be patient and forgiving.  I’m learning to keep my mouth shut, walk out of the room if I need to, take three deep breaths and let it all go.  And with each Forced Family Function there’s a better understanding of where I came from, which I can use to inform where I’m going.  Heaven knows our past layers of resiliency have served us all well lately.  What’s one more?

So, perhaps the utopian Thanksgiving isn’t the answer.  With my true family I can sneak open the top button of my pants after turkey.  I can also be immensely grateful for what I have as I grope to become a better self.

Storm Concert

Sandy started out the way rock concerts do, thousands of people all looking forward to the same event, giddy with anticipation, a unified base of excited fans.  Hurricane preparations reminded me of the Springsteen tailgate I enjoyed only weeks before.  Coolers were readied; I donned warm comfortable clothes.  Focused on the same event that night, throngs of us were excited about the experience, fairly sure of the outcome.  As the tiny spec of Bruce leaned into the mic, his heart beat with ours to every familiar lyric.  From far away I looked down at a sea of bodies jumping and swaying below, arms fist-pumping to songs that united us--  a single-minded organism of nostalgic desire, craving our youth.  We owned these songs and they informed who we became.  We were a community that night.  There was no downside to the concert, no aftermath, only a happy shared memory between many hungry hearts.  

A few weeks later, millions braced themselves for the next shared experience.  Sandy united us again, giddy with anticipation.  As the media frothed I was proud of my calm preparedness.  I filled coolers with ice and readied warm comfortable clothes.  It was exciting and I was focused and ready.  I felt fairly sure of the outcome.  My son and I welcomed the power outage as one does an uninvited yet inevitable guest and lit burned candles around the house, giving our home a campfire glow.  We wore our headlamps and listened to seventies rock on the radio.  This was fun, I told my son.  And it was for a while.  Then the storm leaned in and with each downed tree and terrifying swell, my heart beat faster with responsibility and uncertainly.  There was no carload chorus of smiling singing friends to back me in this, I was alone with my son in the storm and my choices were my own. 

With every fierce and yowling gust of wind and beating rain, I perked up to the voice in my head whispering that this storm was not like the others.  Although I’d been riding out hurricanes on the Jersey Shore since childhood, my confidence eroded.  I wedged couch cushions against the windows.  I moved the bed downstairs.  But I wasn’t in this alone, not really.  Friends texted and I read their threads as they moved their families to the basement and strapped on bike helmets, just in case.  I welcomed their senses of humor.  One friend reminded me to breathe.  The texting continued until—one by one—their phone batteries ran out.  But we were in this together, I thought, as I extinguished the candles.  This knowledge calmed me and somehow I slept. 

Tuesday morning our shared experience splintered into thousands of stories—some brimming with luck and some ravaged with misfortune.  I was one of the lucky ones, in too many ways to count.  Friends with power offered my son and me a guest room and I accepted.  My mother found safety, solace and Boggle with her sisters.  Her beach house was unscathed, but information was scant.  Then as the days passed without power, a new normal emerged.  Talk of hot showers and thawing food supplanted jabber about soccer games and carpools.  Schedules dissipated and time slowed.  Rumors of devastation crept in.  One family with power opened their home to ten families without.  A makeshift commune blossomed of group meals and kids’ camp games, charging stations and workspaces.  For a week I experienced peoples’ abundant generosity and heard of others’ hoarding and panic.  As new routines and basic needs were secured, more and more distant friends stopped by and checked in to make sure my son and I were okay.  We joked about wearing the same clothes for days and listened to stories of midnight gasoline forays.  Then the homeowners went on vacation, gave out keys and incredibly, let the commune stay. 

It’s true that we have many selves, reserves of personalities to draw upon befitting the times.  We have a storm self, a vacation self, a weekend self and more.  Some of my friends had beach houses devastated by the storm, bastions of golden nostalgia, faded by the summer sun.  Their hearts and houses were wrenched from their foundations last week.  Their crisis selves emerged.  They were unified with their neighbors by shock and disbelief.  But friends and strangers rallied like angels.  They sighed then reached down to pulled up the floors. 

We’ve all shared this storm.  It’s now part of who we are.  Some neighborhood relationships brightened with the warmth of shared generators and community meals while others drew a cold breath, preferring to eat and sleep alone.  But community was there for the taking, for those who craved it, they didn’t have to look far.  Resilience, tenacity and a sense of humor kept us going; it keeps me going even now.  We own this storm and it will inform us—like it or not-- as we continue to evolve.  It has dared us to laugh and brought some to tears.  It has amplified who we are at our cores; it has carved a notch in our souls -- like a song that gets under our skin and becomes part of who we are.