The older I get the less I enjoy the holidays. One reason for the appeal may be its disassociation from the requirements imposed by religious holidays. Such celebrations include some lovely traditions and I’ve enjoyed taking part in those ceremonies. The observances, however, are by definition attached to particular doctrines that have always felt insular to me. Or maybe worshipping isn’t something with which I’m comfortable.
I do miss Thanksgiving, though.
The holiday long resisted the unrelenting commercialization attached to other holidays both secular and religious. That’s changed as Black Friday, the biggest shopping day of the year, has burst its seams and is now encroaching on Thursday with a vengeance. I suppose enough people are so bored with the Thanksgiving routine of food, football and family that they’d prefer to submerse themselves into the insanity of long lines, aggressive crowds and pitched battles over the last movie-inspired toy or the deeply discounted must-have sweater. Me, I’ve never experienced a Thanksgiving awful enough to persuade me to hang out with strangers desperate to spend money in order to score bargains. Better the psychopaths you know, etc.
If I’m being honest, of course, Thanksgiving’s tie to food is what gives it special appeal. I love turkey and stuffing, sweet potatoes and cranberry sauce, whatever vegetable is served and virtually any kind of pie, preferably smothered in whipped cream. And is there anything more heavenly than raiding a refrigerator to make turkey sandwiches, usually the same day? I don’t think so.
The idea of a family gathering warms the inner recesses of my heart. I know for many people the day represents excruciating hours in the company of people who make you want to rip your hair out. Not me. My fondest memories of the holiday date from early childhood. I’ve had some enjoyable Thanksgivings since then, especially in the company of boyfriends with surprisingly decent relatives, warm and inviting folks who made me feel welcome. But nothing compares to those early family Thanksgivings.
I grew up the middle child in a suburb of a middle-sized Midwestern town in the 1950s. My family on my father’s side also consisted of a number of second and third cousins as well as a few maiden great-aunts enjoying a rather robust old age. Although most everyone 
back then lived in a house, my first ten Thanksgivings were held at the Brynwood Country Club. My grandfather had joined several like minded men to start the club in 1929. As to why Morris Stern—successful lawyer, school board member, court commissioner and perennial Socialist Party candidate—ended up as a co-founder of a recreational club, the answer proved simple: he hated injustice and loved to play golf.
Until the mid-twentieth century, many establishments that offered leisure time activities, including golf and tennis, allowed only Protestants. So my grandpa and a few of his cronies began Brynwood. While the club served as a social, cultural and recreational center for the city’s Jewish community, it opened its doors to anyone who could pay the dues, including Catholics, Mormons, African-Americans, Asians, men and women. The great right fielder Hank Aaron played golf at Brynwood. Another distinction: the club’s bylaws required new members donate an amount equal to their dues to the charity of their choice. Country club members were affluent, certainly, but also at least superficially reminded of their duty to help those less fortunate.
I learned the history of the club as a young child, by which time Brynwood had established itself as a local center of Jewish social and cultural life. It also happened to boast a world-class golf course. What I remember about the place was the sheer opulence, at least by our young standards. One approached the elegant main house past the stone gate and up a drive. The clubhouse boasted a vast entryway with crystal chandeliers and broad center staircase that led to a cozy library dominated by a massive wood-burning fireplace. The kitchen appeared equipped to service a palace. On Thanksgiving, we had the run of the place and we tore up and down the deep plush carpeting, ducking into the women’s locker room to ogle the marble dressing table with toiletries tucked into cut glass decanters.
Thanksgiving was a dress-up affair. Until I rebelled at nine years old—coincidentally the year I demanded my own room—my mother dressed me and my younger sister in identical outfits, custom-made by a dressmaker living in an old tenement on the city’s lower east side. I can’t remember his name but I remember the numbers tattooed on his right arm. He made us matching red sailor outfits with starched white collars and corduroy jumpers in deep blue. He also made us Thanksgiving dresses, which we wore once a year for several years. Except I may have cheated and worn it on a couple of other occasions. That’s what one did with one’s favorite outfit.
How I loved that dress! Full skirt of black and white taffeta. White piqué on top with matching taffeta bands around the short sleeves. Worn with a full crinoline we bought at a department store. Always worn with black patent leather Mary Janes and ankle socks. Heaven.
The wood-paneled dining room, usually reserved for weddings 
and formal events, belonged exclusively to our family on Thanksgiving. Our group at its largest consisted of about forty people. We sat in a room equipped to hold three times that many and felt like royalty. Given Grandpa’s stature as the club’s first president, perhaps we were.
As head of the family, he began the dinner with a toast to family and friends, usually invited by my bachelor uncle. He also carved the turkey, which was brought to the table by white-coated waiters, along with all the other dishes and served family style. The “kids’ table” was an innovation I suffered through in later years but Thanksgiving at Brynwood meant we all sat together, children and adults. Obviously no one in the younger generation glanced surreptitiously at electronic devices held below the table. No one sulked or sighed either. I think the event represented an implicit trust. We’re going to treat you kids to a grown-up evening. Don’t let us down. We didn’t.
Nothing even approximating that long-ago ritual attends me these days. I appear at someone else’s home or I have a few people over. As has become increasingly common in our fractured society, sometimes I go out for dinner with a friend or two. I’ve offered several times to help out at the local soup kitchen. I’m on a waiting list; apparently they are swamped with volunteers.
Oh well. I still watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade, eat cranberry sauce and crave turkey sandwiches. If I end up on occasion in the company of children, I watch them with the eyes of a little girl in a taffeta-skirted dress racing down the halls of a palace.
I thought about my protagonist as I recently tuned into yet another show about what lies beyond. Television writers and producers appear fond of the idea that we can reach out to, talk with or even resurrect the dead. Every show features a skeptic (always a person of science), a believer (usually associated with a classic religion like Catholicism), a child (because they are more open to what is inexplicable—or maybe more easily manipulated) and some new age person who assures the ones who are grieving that their beloved is “happy.” Honestly, though, the focus isn’t about the comfort of the departed souls but about comforting the survivors. Once we let go of the idea the deceased might be suffering in some unspeakable place or wandering aimlessly about, the needs of those puzzling over life and death become paramount. They’re the ones left behind to hurt and also to fret about what happens next. The departed presumably already know.
