Yesterday we spent the day transforming the house from fall to winter celebrations. We cut the two Christmas trees that we had tagged in October: a cold, wet drizzle falling, reminding us that it was still November. The dogs stuck their heads out the window as we drove through town, making us look a bit like a float in a Christmas parade. Our final stop was the Burke farm to pick up garland and a pile of wreaths. Driving home my hands, now covered with pitch, stuck to the steering wheel.
By end of day wreaths were hung and lights strung. Sitting down to stream a movie in the light of our Christmas tree near the warm fire, my feet propped on Paul’s lap, we both quickly dozed.
Today heralded the return of the Christmas fair in a neighboring town. It had long been a family tradition ,pre-Covid of course, and its return was joyous. We walked through the double glass doors of the town auditorium, headed directly downstairs to grab lunch and were delighted that the traditional menu had not changed a bit: a hot dog, chili, or a chili hot dog. We sat down and I breathed in the blue-green walls of the basement. As with all communities, the auditorium has always acted as a catch-all for town and school activities. The basement houses locker rooms for basketball players: the concrete walls hold tight the smell of ancient sweat and, if you sit quietly, you can almost hear the squeak of sneakers. We sit in our coats and happily eat our dogs then push back our aluminum chairs that have come from the seemingly unending stack in the corner, and head into the fray. There are tables everywhere, people selling maple popcorn and syrup, lemon curd and fudge. I buy a handmade potholder from a woman who looks familiar. Paul and I split when he begins to try every free food sample available. I wander past jewelry makers, potters and photographers. My favorite booths are the ones that have older women sitting behind them, their handwritten signs next to the hats and mittens they have been knitting throughout the year. One lady tells me that the proceeds from this fair has always paid for Christmas gifts she buys for her family. After hearing that, and not needing a hat, I scan the booth and find a small sheep ornament knitted from white wool. She smiles at me and puts it into a paper bag. I find beeswax candles at a booth and choose several for presents. I strike up a bee-related conversation with the shop owner and she stuffs a flier detailing bee keeping classes in alongside my candles. I have a feeling we may see each other again. It takes a bit of time to find Paul who has a pretzel with homemade dip on it in his hand when I do. As we walk to our truck and waiting dogs, I try to find words to explain the feeling I have about returning here. It is almost like the release of breath that I have been holding too long. I feel filled at the return of something so familiar and I realize that I could not feel this fullness without having felt the empty.
Thursday was Thanksgiving. A small gathering of five, including us, excluding dogs. We spend the morning boiling our potatoes, punching down dough risen for rolls. Sauteeing Music garlic from our garden fills the house with its wonderful smell and I mash fresh cranberries with an orange, licking the pungent taste off my fingers. We had baked a Jack O’lantern that we grew this summer, afterward cutting through the orange flesh with a long knife and pressing the water out of it for two days in the downstairs refrigerator. This morning we use the pulp and make our pumpkin pie. As time grows short I hurry and set the table, bringing out dishes that belonged to Paul’s mother. My grandmother’s glasses, that only make an appearance at holiday tables, are set carefully at each place. There is a happy hum of chaos in the preparation. I stand back, check the table, lift a pot lid or two and sniff the wonderful smell of roasting turkey. When everyone has arrived and the wine poured, we sit back talking quietly. I take in the people that I love in the room but make note of the people missing; as Josh tells us his deer hunting story, I look over at the chair in the corner where my father, now dead almost two years, always sat. I can almost see him leaning forward asking for more details. I watch Josh laugh, remembering the laughter of four brothers in this same room. We use Josh’s phone to face-time with each family. In the corner of the screen I watch my mother wave and Ethan, in Los Angeles, waves back. The conversations quickly morph into the teasing and laughter that is the hallmark of family. We blow kisses, send salutations, offer congratulations and catch up in general. The details of preparing suddenly much less important than this.
I am full and I have not yet taken one bite.