Passing the Baton

It is a matter of math, geography and history. The residence too small, the distance too great or the years too many. And so, like Goldilocks, there is but one house, in one location, with one young enough host to make it  just right. 

Thanksgiving is moving this year.

When I try to run through the long playing movie of my life, there are very few moments that have stood the test of time and remain available for review. Most of my existence has been lost in the fog, looking to me much like London with Basil Rathbone attempting to stay on the heels of the killer. But there is a single thread that remains, as ever, ready for the camera in my head. The fourth Thursday in November when we gather to celebrate us.

It is on Thanksgiving that I get to visit my mom and dad, my aunts and uncles, all who have long since left the land of turkey and stuffing, but still inhabit this universe. This day that I can forever smell and taste, hear the laughter that reverberates, see the smiles that begin so deep inside.

When I first emerged as more than an idea, the mantle lay in the hands of one of my aunts. I believed she lived on the other end of the earth, but in truth she resided just on the wrong side of the other end of the state. The next chosen one was actually three, all sisters, including my mom, all living in the same town, each taking turns as holiday central. Finally, their baby brother, my uncle, the youngest of five, he with the bocci court and my fifth grade teacher who had somehow morphed into his wife, took the reins. 

Each place with its own story to tell. The den we crowded into to watch football on the black and white TV. The children with our own room to dine. The bad photos my uncle took, the top of our heads mysteriously absent. The tall tales of our kite flying uncle. My dad sitting at the piano. No matter where we found ourselves, the four sisters  attached as one. The in-laws thisclose to each other. It was always different wherever we located. And always, always exactly the same.

And then one day it became our turn. We the first cousins, each the self acknowledged favorite. From the five siblings, the five families, we had become ten. And over the years we cousins spawned many more. Until we became a gaggle of yackers, sometimes exceeding 50 friends, relatives and relatives of relatives bending an ear. It was out of control and perfect.

As it had been in the generation before, so it became for us. The multitude of cousins sharing the responsibility, playing a game of tag you're it that has lasted for several decades.

Yesterday the family received a text from my daughter moving this party another generation down the line.

It is hard for me to accept that my folks, my aunts and uncles, are no longer in charge. I am that forever child on a Thanksgiving car ride to the other side of the world. Time standing still for me for seven decades. But it seems the rest of the world did not receive the message.

So now my first cousins and I become as did our parents. The ones everyone is beginning to worry about. The ones no longer at the center of the planet.

I look forward this year to once more sitting around the TV set,  but now with four football games on view simultaneously, to telling new tall tales and taking more bad photos, only this time from our phones. I will embrace a day that will be as it was once was and will remain no matter where housed, whatever generation is in charge, even with a new set of children wondering why they are being compelled to travel so far. 

For me, Thanksgiving will forever reside in but one location. The heart.