Traditions Bring Meaning to the Holidays

Ah Thanksgiving! When people of every faith (or none at all) gather with family and friends to reflect on the good things in their lives.

Many cultural traditions play out this week. It’s the one occasion when most of us eat turkey. It’s the busiest time of year at airports. It’s when we untangle the colored lights, plug them in, and check whether enough bulbs are burned out to justify buying a whole new string.

There are traditions unique to each family. Some like the cornbread Stove Top stuffing mix while others prefer the herb flavored. Others mix the turkey dinner with traditional ethnic food. Some, for example, garnish sweet potatoes with layers of brown sugar and thousands of mini-marshmallows.

And what would Thanksgiving be without the crystal dish holding the traditional jellied cranberry sauce in the shape of a tin can?

It’s these folksy customs which add color and distinctiveness to a celebration. We have a little gem in my family which is repeated every Thanksgiving.

At some point during the preparation of the traditional meal, the cook, usually the host, turns to the guests who have congregated around the food preparation area, and from the heart, with all the feeling a major holiday can inspire, says:

"Ok. That’s it. Get the HELL out of my kitchen."

The first year of this request to vacate was at my sister's house. Her mother-in-law, several guests, and her sister, brothers, and nieces were milling around half prepared dishes of food, adding chaos to an already chaotic situation. The noise level had risen to the point where the two inhabitants of the adjacent living room were unable to hear each other. Without warning, my sister cried the famous words which have so oft been repeated.

Experience had taught those of us related to her by blood to do what she said. Her brothers, sister, and nieces left the kitchen immediately. Unaware of the risk to their health and well being, the less-experienced in-laws and friends laughed and remained huddled around the counters. I was too afraid to peek in and see what happened next.

Kitchens are instinctive gathering places. It probably dates to those chilly Thanksgivings celebrated by early homosapiens who lived in caves. To escape the relentless cold, all the cavepeople and their families and friends gathered around the fire for warmth -the same fire over which the cavehosts cooked the traditional mammoth meat.

In the 21st century, the living room is also warm, but as the guests arrive, they intuitively migrate to the kitchen, chatting happily as the cook/host struggles to create counter space.

Meanwhile, the living room, where chairs are carefully placed to facilitate traffic flow and maximize social interaction, is empty - except for the cats who have discovered that the appetizers on the coffee table have been left unattended.

Does Martha Stewart ever have to deal with this stuff?

Don't get me wrong. I enjoy my guests and I'm happy people like spending this special day in my home. I like talking and catching up as much as anyone.

But it's stressful to coordinate a large dinner which you only prepare once a year, juggling an unnaturally large bird which was frozen just the day before in a floppy disposable foil roasting pan, monitoring several side dishes which need various amounts of heating, checking on rolls which can easily burn, and timing it perfectly so that its ready to eat all at the same time.

About the point where the turkey is done, the corn needs 30 more minutes, and it's time to start the gravy - a delicate and precision operation which could affect the outcome of the whole dinner - I wave my baster in the air and bellow the traditional holiday plea.

Stunned, most people back away, out to what's left of the appetizers.

Fortunately, my momentary lapse in hospitality is forgotten as soon as the steaming gravy flows over the mashed potatoes.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Postblog from the Virginias: George Washington’s Nephew Slept Here

I may write a blog about what happened at the actual retreat, but it really was intense and I’m still processing. As you can see below, just getting there was an experience in itself.

I knew there would be rolling hills and in early November, a variety of colors from light brown to deep red, highlighting the heavily vegetated landscape. I knew that it made sense to fly into Washington DC to attend a retreat in West Virginia, only 63 miles – but at least two worlds – away.

I’m not unfamiliar with the region. I did time in the Old Dominion back when I was young.

What amazes me about the east is that everything is so close together. Yet these 63 miles from DC to WV, the distance from my Denver condo to my dad’s house in Fort Collins, couldn’t be more starkly different.

And the differences are sudden. When you cross a border here, you have really gone someplace.

I’m glad I sprung for GPS with the car rental.

The Virginias were not built on a grid. No road or highway goes in a straight line. When driving through “The District,” as some call the city of Washington, you start on a parkway. The GPS directs you to exit onto a little two-lane road which takes you to a major highway. Turn off onto another parkway going into suburban Virginia where you zig-zag over to a toll way which twists and turns toward the mountains, which (being from Colorado) you suspect is that little ridge up ahead.

Northern Virginia, at least this part, is dotted with gigantic new mansions. There is serious money up here. Everyone has room for horses and every home seems to have a greenhouse attached. Three or four story houses sit on lush grassy acres, the cuttings of which must be used to feed the horses.

I have never seen so many vineyards. Is Virginia known for wine? Sign after sign beckons me to come in for a taste, but I continue my journey, eager to reach my destination before dark.

I have the feeling that when it gets dark out here, it’s really dark.

There is no sense of direction when you are used to always having the Rocky Mountains on the west. Without the reassuring instructions of the electronic GPS voice, I wouldn’t have any confidence I was going the right direction.

Sure enough that little ridge marks the border to West Virginia. The mansions with horses suddenly give way to ordinary houses featuring multiple pickups in front. Vineyards yield to bait and tackle. The only large new buildings are churches.

My retreat is in an historic mansion which sits on a 300 acre plantation said to have once been owned by George Washington’s nephew. I have no reason to doubt the pedigree, but it does seem that to give anything legitimacy in these parts, there has to be some connection to old George, or at least Thomas Jefferson.

The problem with this mansion, though it dates back to the 1820s, is that the GPS doesn’t know about it.

This remarkable feat of technology, in communication with satellites high above the earth, directs me to turn off the state highway onto a county road and proceed for 20 miles. I’m then told by the feminine GPS voice to turn at the corner where a paved road, one lane wide, circles some scary, rednecky looking mobile homes.

“Mabel,” I hear clearly in my mind, “Where’s the shotgun? There’s a stranger drivin’ on our land.”

The pavement becomes dirt by a wood where four deer leap in front of the car just as the road comes to a sudden end.

“You have reached your destination,” the GPS happily intones.

Uh, no, I haven’t. I have no idea where I am.

I consult the directions I printed out on Google-Maps before I left home. They make no sense at all. I am lost.

Long story short (too late, I know), I get Zelda (the name I’ve given the GPS lady – we’ve grown close over the past few hours) to direct me to a Pizza Hut in the little town a couple of ridges over. After driving back and forth around West Virginia’s Panhandle, taking many false turns but seeing lots of beautiful country, I finally arrive at George Washington’s nephew’s plantation.

It’s only 63 miles from National Airport, but look how far I’ve come. It must have seemed a universe away two centuries ago. I guess folks back then knew how to get around without help from Zelda. Or else they were smart enough to just stay at home where they belonged.