Grateful for Your Time

Firstly, I'm happy to inform you that my trousers do still fit… for now.

This really is a holiday miracle because it's been Thanksgiving week here in the Valley (and all over the US), which means calories and cholesterol snort in the crumbling face of healthy eating.

Thanksgiving is a confusing holiday for those of us who transferred to America as adults. With Christmas, there's a theme of twinkly lights and Santa Claus. With New Year there's the reflecting of the old, and welcoming in the new. But for Thanksgiving, the theme seems to just be “All you can eat.”

Here in Tweddley Manor, we had a lovely time even though we were one Tweddle short. Ferg took on the proper American tradition of a concoction of travel nightmares by flying across the country to be with his girlfriend in Philadelphia. We missed him, but there's something undeniably beautiful about navigating timetables and travelling hours to be with the one you love. It's what any parent would want for their kid, even if it means that kid is gone for the holidays.

So, Lachlan, Mark, and I celebrated with a delectable bundle of American, Canadian, and Scottish pals here. Eating, drinking, laughing, and generally agreeing that this year, most of all, it’s good to find something to be grateful for, we all acknowledged we were supremely grateful for each other.

And of course, I cooked too much food that I served up in some serving platters I have from my Mum’s ‘best dinner set’ from back in the 70s: brown, orange, and yellow with big flowers.

When I was a kid, I wasn't allowed to touch what I saw as giant platters in case I might break them. Now, when I look at them, they seem pretty small.

So much of my Mum’s taste in decor in the 70s would fit for Thanksgiving. When I was growing up, the wallpaper in our living room was brown with a big yellow and orange onion-shaped pattern. It was like some psychedelic harvest season the whole year round.

I laughed, telling Lachlan about it, and he smiled, thinking it funny and weird. But it’s not the same for him. He was never in that room. And he never will be.

It's strange how fast things pass. Even this Thanksgiving seems like a while ago, because though only a couple of days have gone by, we've been at several other harvesty eating events since. (Like I say, it's a proper miracle my trousers still fit.)

Life moves on.

This time last year, we were in Scotland. This time next year… who knows? It's good to not think too far forward. Not that there's time to in between gatherings. You have to hand it to these seasonal holidays. There's so much bonhomie, you can almost forget what a shit show we’re living in.

(Though I did meet a woman at a party the other night who said she's managing her rage against the world by going to axe-throwing nights.)

We eat, and we drink, and we talk, and we eat and drink and we talk some more.

Yesterday Lachlan told me he’d been invited to a Friendsgiving and wanted help as to how to bake cookies. It’s funny because I remember ‘baking cookies’ with him years ago, when what that meant was me doing all the cooking while he sat on a kitchen chair, his chubby little legs still too small to reach the floor, while he waited for the bowl and the spoon to scrape out the leftover cookie dough. Now he’s all business, measuring and consulting recipes, slipping trays in and out of the hot oven with remarkable ease.

I like that he’s going out with friends. And I like that he’s baking cookies for them. But I’m still getting my head round the fact that now he really doesn’t need my help.

I guess, like all holiday seasons, Thanksgiving comes with a big helping of nostalgia.

I’ve reached the age when I’m no longer spending holidays flying across country to be with the one I love, because the one I love has his slippers on and is sitting on a chair in the living room. And if I make holiday cookies, there’s no one to fight for what’s left over in the bowl, and I can put them on my Mum’s best platter without asking anyone for permission. I can message friends, some who are ill or have been going through surgery, or I can take a quiet moment to think of how loud the laughter once was with some who are no longer here at all.

Life is an hourglass, and each grain of sand, a moment. And the sand runs relentlessly in only one direction, and there is no turning the hourglass over. Once the moment has passed, it has gone. It only exists in memories.

And sometimes I want to gather them all up, and say, “Remember this. Remember these moments. These mattered with you and I. I miss this. I miss us. I miss who we were.” Which is ridiculous because everyone knows you can’t hold fistfuls of sand in your hands.

So this holiday season I am thrilled to tell you that I can still fit into my trousers. For now. And that one son is flying back home today, while the other is sleeping late after partying with friends. And that the one I love is wearing his slippers and reading about bees in the living room.

And that this moment. This time. This seemingly simple happening might one day be a memory that is so beautiful and so clear that it might take my breath away. So I will not waste it with feelings of what once was, or fears of what one day might be. I will live it.

I think that’s what they might mean by gratitude.

XO

PS: If you click on the heart emoji to like this post, the elastic on my pants will expand like planetary nebulae. That’s a total lie obviously, but it won’t half do wonders for my algorithm.

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Grateful for Your Time - Audio