And then, in 2008, I decided to part ways with alcohol, which changed everything. Or it changed the way I experience everything. Most of it is good. The holidays, unfortunately, particularly Thanksgiving, are one of the few exceptions.
It began with one of my brothers. I plan to explore this one more thoroughly someday, but that doesn’t mean we can’t have some sharing right here and right now. It’s the holiday season, after all. He’d had Thanksgiving at his house for a few years in a row. At his house, his wife made the turkey according to her specifications (she read somewhere, or perhaps heard from her mommy, that stuffing can turn toxic, which strikes me, in hindsight, as a spectacular metaphor). At his house the guests included his wife’s uncle and his partner, his and his wife’s children, around whose schedules everything revolved, including the ringing of the telephone, and a group of his and his wife’s friends. At his house the dinner was served on matching flatware from matching bowls and platters on a dining room table with extra leaves so that it could be expanded to seat everyone. Like most of their possessions, the table was expensive, but, also like most of their possessions, it had not put a dent in their budget because it was a wedding gift. Even though this meal was held at his house, I like to cook on Thanksgiving, so I always brought a lot of food with me.
So imagine my surprise when, in early November that year, my brother’s beleaguered, put-upon and yet accusatory response to my mention of Thanksgiving: “God, seems like you could do it at your house once in a while.” I will never forget the shock I felt at the end of that telephone call. Since that year was perhaps the last before he and his wife and their children moved to California so that their children could grow up to be more like my brother’s wife’s people than his own, coupled with the fact that our father was clearly in his final days, I had believed that it was going to be really nice, or maybe even special, to spend an afternoon and evening together. In a way that’s both tragic and worthy of celebration, when it comes to members of my family, I made a vow to never, ever entertain such foolish sentiments again. And thus far, I’ve honored it.
Then there’s my friend who I’ve known for 10 years or so. He’s a writer but he’s also quite good at remodeling and building and he’s one of the most well-read people I know. He’s also quite an entertainer, and every year, the week of Thanksgiving, he calls me to tell me that he and his boyfriend are going, as is the custom, to some long-standing mid-day meal hosted and attended by what my friend describes as the bitchiest group of queens in Portland. But after that, my friend always informs me, he’s cooking a huge meal, which he’ll be serving to “half the town” at his place. Somehow, though I’ve been hearing about this gathering for many years and I’ve lived in Portland for many more, I’ve never been part of that particular half of town. I’m almost proud of that.
Many years ago one of my friends introduced a routine so weird I’m still not sure what to call it. After a family gathering, he would say “My mother asked how you were and said it would have been fine if you’d come to dinner.” This usually happened right after Easter, as I recall. Then, after my mother died, he started railing about how much he dislikes Mother’s Day. To which I finally said, “Don’t worry – she’ll be dead before you know it.” So I suppose what happened last year was an upping of the ante on his part, although I’m not sure because I’ve never broached the subject, nor do I intend to. We went out for breakfast right before Christmas, and as we sat there my friend started telling me about an old acquaintance who was in town and how he was being avoided because he was, according to my friend, one of the most annoying, deceitful people to ever come along. Finally, my friend said, “Oh yeah, and he was always invited to our house for holiday dinners.” Clueless to a point that defies description? Or, fully aware that I was on my own for Christmas, just really mean spirited? While I’ve considered this particular person a friend since I was 30 years old, neither explanation works for me. Nor does the friendship.
But other things do work, and they work quite well.
I do remember that it was rainy and cold on Thanksgiving in 2008. I remember thinking, several times, that being in my house, by myself, on a holiday bedazzled with togetherness was the definition of personal failure. While I don’t remember what I made, I do remember walking down my street in the late-afternoon darkness, terrified that I would run into someone I knew and have to quickly come up with something believable if asked where I was going in the pouring rain with a dish covered with aluminum foil. Because going to a Thanksgiving potluck organized and hosted by one of the many nearby Alcoholics Anonymous groups I’d discovered over the previous two months would certainly turn out to be something I’d later recall as a low point, which is a funny thing to remember, three years later, because it was anything but.
