I remember back in the day when Thanksgiving break approached during school. Like the grammar and high school times. 

There was a half-day Wednesday, and then we’d drive up to my grandparents, who had a house on a little island in Lake Hopatcong, NJ. While that might sound bougie, think more bug-y and rustic. 

My mom is one of ten, and I’m the fourth oldest out of approximately one million grandkids. (There are 65 greats and grand-greats now!)

I remember this week, though, the week before Thanksgiving. I would start planning my outfits. What was I going to wear that half-day-Wednesday so I could show up to the island looking cool and fashionable for my aunts, uncles, and cousins?! What fancy outfit would I wear to the big dinner, where I was OFC at the kids’ table?

To be clear, no one cared. I’m sure no one ever noticed my outfit. However, I can name five of those Wednesday outfits to a tee right now, and I can’t remember yesterday. Also engrained in my brain is how many ways one can rock an asymmetrical haircut. I dominated that category. 

It was the anticipation of charades! The fire in the fireplace! The smell of the lake! Putting on all of the dress-ups. Hanging with the older cousins and babysitting the younger ones so the aunts and uncles could go out. Doritos and actual soda and dried-out turkey (sorry Grandma) and mashed potatoes with eight pounds of butter. The nervous churning of the stomachs waiting in anticipation to see who Grandpa would call on to say grace. And if it was you, forgetting every word under the pressure. If/when you did remember, you got the reward of “squinchy-face,” the label we gave the look my grandpa gave when his pride was overflowing, and he was trying to hold back the tears. (There was a lot of squinchiness with that many grandkids, NGL.) 

Then…the hours of dishes. The walking across planks of wood in the dark the years they drained the lake wondering who thought this was a good idea. The charades games that always ended up in tears. The revealing of the perfectly planned outfits…that no one noticed. 

It’s weird the rituals we have. Or interesting what holds in our memories. It’s curious what we care about and what we think people care about. How we can hold on to traditions and have the (fake) memories that we reflect on that get us through. 

Then we grow up. Times change. Houses get sold. People get older. You’ve now become that weird older aunt/uncle. (Maybe just me.) 

Next week, Mike is headed to see his mom. I’m headed to Naples, FL, to meet my bro and two of his kids to watch approximately ten hours of field hockey tournaments a day for three days. My parents will be with my sister and her family. My aunts and uncles and cousins will be gathering in various locals throughout the East Coast, putting on their Turkey Day best. 

The outfit I’m planning for next Wednesday is currently which sweats will be the most comfy to drive in for six hours. I still rock an asymmetrical, although a bit more subtle, because some things never change. 

I think what I am reflecting on during this season of thanks is how much does change. How many expectations we have around what it’s supposed to be and what it’s supposed to look like. What used to be the huge, chaotic, family production that I counted down the days for has now become a chill hang on a field hockey field with my bro and two nieces. 

That, actually, sounds kind of perfect. 

Because my brother has a squinchy-face tendency himself. 

I’d like to think (and I do hear reports!) that I am the “cool aunt” that my Aunt Dottie is/was for me to my nieces. 

I’ll find some Doritos and buttery mashed potatoes to house. 

The traditions carry on. Same, but different. 

I will plan a better Wednesday outfit than sweats. Because the Wednesday before Thanksgiving will always signal some sort of anticipation for me. The kind that gets calmed by family hangs, be it just a few folks or the full-on crazy. 

Either way, I’ve got a lot to be thankful for.

Happy Thanksgiving. 

We’ll be back to our regularly scheduled newsletters the week after next.