Thanksgiving is full of memories, but there's one I'll never forget

Pulling a scattered family back together for a reason we couldn't have imagined

In America we’re blessed with a number of wonderful holidays, but for reasons I can't fully explain, Thanksgiving is my favorite of them all.

I suppose this may be because it revolves around family and food, which have always been two of the favorite words in my vocabulary.

I've written about Thanksgiving on a number of occasions when I was a columnist for the local newspaper, recalling ones that were especially memorable for me, and even one time sharing my world-famous broccoli casserole recipe that resulted in a shortage of this prized green vegetable all over Yolo County.

I'm sure the famed French Laundry in Yountville now has it permanently on its $390, 11-course tasting menu.

I remember when I was a kid that Thanksgiving was the one holiday where we would all be home. We might spend other parts of other holidays at an aunt’s or uncle’s or a cousin David's home, but on Thanksgiving Day everyone came to our house. Sometimes they came from North Dakota. Other times from North Davis.

The Packers and the Lions were always on TV early in the morning and, since they didn’t have domed stadiums and fake grass in those days, it was fun to watch Vince Lombardi gritting his teeth against the wind as he urged Green Bay on to greatness.

I could only imagine how much fun football in the snow must be as I sat in my pajamas sipping hot chocolate in front of the television.

Dinner was always scheduled for 2 o’clock, but never came off until 5, an excruciating three-hour miscalculation during which every potato chip, pitted olive, bread-and-butter pickle and carrot stick in the house was consumed.

The smell in the house was, of course, intoxicating. And nearly unbearable.

Sometimes the kids got their own table at Thanksgiving

But as wonderful as those childhood memories were, they all blend together when I think of the time not so long ago when we celebrated Thanksgiving on a day other than the fourth Thursday of November. It was 1987 and all those brothers and sisters had grown up and scattered, some near, some far.

And, as happens in so many families, it was nearly impossible for us to all gather together as we once did on Thanksgiving so many years before.

As we tried to determine who would be where when, it became obvious this was one of those Thanksgivings when we all had other commitments and obligations, as pleasant as those commitments and obligations might be, for they involved loved ones, too. Just not loved ones who had been a part of our childhood.

However, one genius in the family - I think her name was "Mom" - discovered we would all be in the relatively immediate area on the day before Thanksgiving. And, while it seemed like certain sacrilege and maybe even a crime against America, that same person suggested we cook a turkey and have Thanksgiving dinner together on Wednesday night before going our respective ways the next day.

Now, any time you suggest to me the possibility of two full Thanksgiving dinners in the same week, I’m going to be in favor of it, strange as it seemed. Kind of like opening presents on Christmas Eve instead of Christmas Day.

Forget that it might seem weird to eat cranberry sauce on an ordinary Wednesday night in late November when the Packers and the Lions weren’t on TV, it was still a plan with considerable merit. The vote was unanimous. Attendance at this special banquet would be 100 percent.

So there we all were, gathered together just like in the old days, only on the night before Thanksgiving. We didn't even bother to turn on the TV, afraid it might break the mood.

Presumably, my brother and I put our shirts back on before dinner

There were Mom and Dad and brothers and sisters, several of whom had become moms and dads themselves. Yes, the grandchildren were there, too, and the house seemed full indeed.

Once the blessing was shared and the gravy passed, it didn’t seem so strange to be eating Thanksgiving dinner on a Wednesday night after all. In fact, it seemed like an excellent idea indeed.

It was, predictably, a wonderful time to reminisce, to talk about how things used to be and to catch up on each other’s lives. Dad carved the turkey with gusto and laughed heartily at all of our stories. Grandchildren ran circles around the dinner table and squirted whipped cream straight into their mouths instead of putting it on their pie.

It was the best Thanksgiving ever.

We couldn’t have known then why we were all brought together that night.

But the next morning, Thanksgiving morning, my mom called me on the phone and said through her tears, "I can't wake Dad up."

Dad had unexpectedly slipped into a coma and he died 13 days later without ever regaining consciousness.

He was 76 years old and had devoted his life, his heart and his soul to the woman he loved and their five children. In his eyes, we were all shining stars.

It was the last Thanksgiving we were all together as one, and I thank God to this day for that one last wonderful Wednesday.

Reach me at bobdunning@thewaryone.com