By Margaret Inoue
I love the memory of how my mother would say, “WELL, this has been the BEST Thanksgiving, EVER.”
Maybe, that year, as happened most years, my older brothers would have teased my older sister and she would have burst into tears, running from the dining room table, through the living room, up the stairs to camp out for the rest of the day, top step, right there, so you kind of had to excuse yourself and step over her if you wanted to get to your bedroom or to the upstairs bath.
I love how this was so routine, the teasing and the tears, to the point that I could almost feel myself sitting there saying, “Wait for it —- wait forrrrrr iiiiiiit —- now!” as soon as we sat down to dinner.
I didn’t do this with glee or malice; it was just part of the holiday script, like remembering to say grace before you ate because company was over or because it was Thanksgiving.
It was as routine as my mother’s safety-first, over-cooked turkey (“It’s done, so I’ll just give it another hour.”), the jars of pickled peaches finally opened and getting to put canned black olives on every finger, wiggling them around in the air, eating them off, one by one.
I love how my sister got so she’d leave a book up at the top of the stairs so she’d have something to do, following her flight of deliverance.
I love how my mother, Helen Lambert, would always make it my job to take Carolyn’s plate upstairs and sometimes I’d take mine, too, to keep her company.
Not always, though, because I knew I’d be missing out on the good stuff from downstairs.
After all of the hubbub, pie plates empty, whipped cream melted into puddles, my mother, unflappable in her ability to find joy, would say, “WELL, and I think that I’m correct in saying this, this has been the BEST Thanksgiving, EVER.”
And she meant it, this constant, post dinner prayer of gratitude.
Divorces could be announced, news of people dropping out of school, car crashes into utility poles, pickup trucks flipping on icy roads, all rehashed, and my mother would still say, “WELL, even though (and here you could fill in the blank with some family calamity), this has been the BEST Thanksgiving, EVER.”
We got so we’d all chime in with her on the “EVER,” even my sister, who had often soft-footed it back into the room by this point.
My mother is long gone, but my brothers and sister and I still get together for meals. Like mom, I cook. Unlike mom, I make them help to clean up. I know it will make them feel good if they are useful.
We don’t fight anymore, much. It’s very rare we go off tether.
As before, although then it was expressed in the odd fits and starts of youth, we love each other.
We are kind and, after having worked the kinks out over all those years, we’ve become tenderhearted and long on compassion for each other.
I no longer load my fingers up with black olives, although sometimes I’ll put one on, for old times’ sake.
We often say, “This was the BEST Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, 4th of July, EVER,” when we are together.
And it’s true. We mean it. These playful people, cubs without claws – we delight in each other.
I love knowing that Mama is with us, as she always is, that constant in our hearts. I love knowing that she is having the best time, the best time, EVER.
