A Loud Thanksgiving Thanks

At 9:00 a.m. on Saturday morning, our house was quiet, but that didn’t mean we were not busy. My wife, Lori, and I spent the past days getting ready to host Thanksgiving that day. We moved our celebration from Thursday to accommodate schedules.

Folding chairs were brought up from the basement; leaves were put in tables; extra plates and silverware were pulled out.

Tablecloths, windows, bathrooms, and floors were washed, and the carpets cleaned.

The big cooler had to be wiped down so that it could be filled up. I love it when that happens.

Multiple shopping trips had brought in napkins, beer, wine, pop, ice, and food.

Lots of food.

A simple, but great ritual was taking place. The house would be full.

One year ago, I wrote about the horrible impact Covid had on the holidays. Our family decided it was best not to get together in our usual custom, so we skipped big Thanksgiving and Christmas gatherings.

It sucked.

I missed the bond that happens when our family is together. I missed the volume that comes along with that bonding. The talking and laughing, handshakes and hugs.

So, on Saturday morning, the delicious aroma that wafted through the house made me smile. But it was not from the big turkey cooking in the oven, or the tasty items on the stovetop, such as sizzling bacon waiting to mingle with tomato sauce and green beans (Weiten beans, as I call them). Or the other belt-busting dishes to come – stuffing, sweet potatoes, ham, pies, bread, veggies, cookies, etc.

I was smiling because it smelled like loud.

And I planned to stuff myself with a heaping plate of loud. Then have seconds.

Much to our pleasure, loud did not disappoint.

Sometimes it came in big groups and sometimes it was a combination of several. Add in a few kids and it became loud and entertaining. A true bonus.

You know the loud is good when the non-loud moments become noticeable. This rarity happens while everyone is eating, as forkfuls of food get shoveled down.

It made me chuckle, reminding me of an era when my mom was alive during Thanksgiving. God bless her, she loved to cook, but her recipe for stuffing was frightening. It contained liver, raisins, nuts, apples, and was often burned. My kids tried to spread their helping around the plate to make it look gone, but grandma would soon be standing behind them dishing out more. The “do we have to eat this?” look they gave me came with a sympathetic nod. Then a moment of accepting silence.

That said, I would pay a king’s ransom to have her awful stuffing again.

Back to the present day. The guys eventually ended up in a cloud of smoke in the garage. Belly laughs, sports, and other subjects that cannot be printed here get covered.

Inevitably, family pictures were taken, and we got some great shots. All were good, but one that stood out to me was my son with his near two-year-old daughter on his shoulders, next to my nephew from Tennessee and his almost three-year-old son on his shoulders. These two cousins grew up together and now their kids played together for the first time, communicating by laughing and yelling in a language only they could understand. That was better than dessert.

As I saw them in this chicken-fight pose, I could not help but think how cool it would be if my dad could get me on his shoulders again. Being wheelchair bound, 95 years old, and a frail 120 pounds, this was not possible. But as I thought about it later, I came to realize that he had already lifted me as high as he could. I have been on his shoulders from the day I became a Bertok.

He was by far the quietest one in a loud house, but as my cousin once said, “he’s earned the right to not talk.”

I don’t know how many more Thanksgivings he will attend but am so grateful that he is here now. I guess the same can be said for any of us as the only guarantee life offers is that things change. Therefore, we need to appreciate the gift of each other and work hard to ensure that the loudness continues for a long, long time.

I am so very thankful it has returned.