A Thanksgiving Story
When my younger sister -- the last of us five children -- left home in 1974, my parents built their dream house and moved to the east bank of Ohio's Ashtabula River. Deep pile carpet lined the house, bright turquoise like the glacial lakes of the Canadian Rockies. A high ceiling, flanked by large windows, angled out toward the river. The fireplace -- the heart of the house -- was crafted of hand-laid slabs of river stone from floor to ceiling, layer upon horizontal layer nesting together, resembling the far bank of the river.
The ceiling, fireplace, and windows dwarfed the room's furniture and, along with the expanse of choppy sea-blue carpeting, created a sense that the space was more a swimming hole than a constructed room. We grown children returned there periodically to immerse ourselves in the comfort and turmoil of our family.
As an adult I look back on my growing-up years with gratitude. I recognize the solid foundation my parents gave me: to honor all humans as one family, to fight City Hall, to disdain status and the abuse of power, to be continually awed by the natural world.
Yet as a child, I lived in perpetual terror of my father -- his volatility, his outbursts of rage and violence -- and each trip to his home also returned me to the vigilance required during my childhood years. I monitored every breath to avoid his anger and could never rest in his presence. His size accentuated his power over me. Tall, large-framed, with big square hands that could slap me across the room. When enraged, his chocolate eyes turned to obsidian. This was my daddy. My demon.
In 1987, my siblings and I gathered at my parents' house for Thanksgiving, traveling from our homes in various states. Thanksgiving was my favorite holiday, the one I made a special effort to spend with my family regardless of where I lived or the distance I had to travel. Despite the conflicts, I drew nourishment from our intimacy and shared values. Rich Jewish food and humor flowed freely, as did political debate. I treasured the tranquility and ever-changing nature of the Ashtabula valley, and I delighted in the company of Arran, my parents' bear-like golden retriever, and Nina, their feisty basset hound whose independence inspired us all.
My parents' dining room was too small to comfortably hold all of us for the Thanksgiving meal when in-laws, "outlaws" (unmarried partners of family members), and grandchildren were present, so we set up tables in the living room. That Thanksgiving, following a family tradition, we each shared something we were grateful for immediately after the meal. Suddenly my father barked, "I want this goddamn mess cleaned up -- NOW!"
We froze. Dad was angry again. Once that happened, there was no turning back -- or so we believed. My heart flailed in my chest, as it had all my life when terrorized by him. I squinted hard to see through the fog of family patterns to make out a shape, a shadow, a hint of a new way to respond. Shaking, I took a deep breath, and out of my mouth came the words, "Have you ever considered that you can just ask for what you want? That you don't have to get angry -- that maybe we'd cooperate just because we love you?"
My father fell silent. Self-consciousness replaced rage. After a moment, like an actor who'd just been handed a revised script, he said, "This mess is really bothering me. I'd appreciate it if everyone would chip in and get things back in order." We stumbled over how to respond, no more certain how to act than he. Finally I said, "Sure -- we'd be happy to."
My father took leave of us, heading for the bathroom. Perhaps his patriarchal habits created the notion that he was exempt from cleanup. As likely, he just didn't know how to be with us without his anger, familiar as a gun on a cowboy.
No Thanksgiving tables were ever cleaned up faster than ours that year. In fast-forward we whisked plates, glasses, and silverware to the dishwasher, leftovers and salad dressings to the refrigerator, the navy-and-white Guatemalan tablecloths and napkins to the hamper. Pots were scrubbed in record time. The card table was rushed to the garage, folding chairs lined up in the front closet, the dining room table returned to its regular position. A speedy hand sweep of the floor, and our work was finished.
We lined up on the couch, breathless from our aerobic cleanup, suppressing giggles so Dad would not hear. Emerging lighthearted from the bathroom, he looked around, thanked us, and asked if it was time for pumpkin pie.
I was never again afraid of my father.
This story is excerpted from Losing and Finding My Father, an almost-finished psychological memoir about navigating the loss of a parent as a transformative pilgrimage.
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