When I was growing up, every Thanksgiving weekend, my grandfather took the whole family—two sets of aunts and uncles, my parents, my brother, and me—to Carmel-by-the-Sea.
We stayed in the same old rambling hotel with the Mexican-tiled grand staircase and the upstairs hall carpeted in a pattern of cabbage roses perfect for playing hopscotch. We had the same rooms: my grandfather on the ground floor, in a room opening onto a patio adjacent to one aunt and uncle’s room; my brother and I upstairs next to our parents, with a shared bathroom in between and radiators that knocked during the night. The other uncle and aunt had a large corner room, with a view over the hotel lawn out to the Pacific.
We drove down Thursday morning in time for lunch from the Mediterranean Market, a place that fascinated me with its olives packed in oil in huge glass jars, its garlic strung from the ceiling, and the curtain of beads covering its entrance. We ate marinated mushrooms and salami spread out on blankets at the public beach, where the fine white sand squeaked under our feet.
Cocktails—plenty of cocktails—always took place in Lloyd and Alberta’s corner room. There was always a communal walk into town, to browse Ocean Avenue shops (my favorite: Thinker Toys and Rexall Drugs, with its old-fashioned glass vitrines and tall, wooden shelves reached only by ladder).
And, without fail, the obligatory after-dinner “constitutional” from the hotel down to the river and back, all nine of us walking abreast along dark San Carlos Avenue, as my uncle taught me, starting with the left foot, First they hired me, then they fired me, then by golly, I left. Left. Left, right, left.
There was never any traffic or street lighting, and the pine trees grew tall and gnarled from the wind and fog. Little cottagey houses—for which Carmel became famous, and then infamous, charm giving way to Thomas Kinkade-like kitsch—lined the road. Instead of street numbers, they had names. Hide-Away. Dahls’ House. Sea Breeze.
While other holidays—namely Christmas dinner—were often fraught with tension over Nixon and my cousin’s hair length and cigarette smoking, Thanksgiving seemed apart. True, there were no gifts, but that was part of why it worked so well—fewer expectations; less stuff.
Getting away provided more breathing room. That was the gift—thanks to my grandfather. I come from an opinionated, weepy, hard-drinking clan, and staying in a hotel in Carmel diffused the tension. My brother and I could run around the halls without being told not to touch our fussy uncle’s things, and I could explore the mysterious lobby ladies’ room with its flocked wallpaper and old-fashioned pull cord toilet.
My father could go out and stretch his legs when the togetherness grew oppressive; and at Thanksgiving dinner, we had a menu. The hotel served the traditional meal, of course, but they also offered lamb chops and hot-fudge sundaes, options that increased the sense of opportunity, of spontaneity, of fun. I loved knowing that all across the country, families were digging into turkey and pies while my father and I cut into lamb chops and grinned at each other over hot fudge.
In the late 1970s, the Carmel trips stopped. The Thanksgivings since blur: more turkey; no more hot fudge. I moved to New York; my parents moved to the South; my aunt and uncle started renting their own cottage in Carmel. My grandfather died in 1981; my brother in 1994; my parents, aunts, and uncles all gone now too.
My cousin remembers Thanksgivings in Carmel—we talked about them just yesterday—but he’s thirteen years older and our details differ. He recalls Bingo games and my grandmother, who died when I was two, having a separate room from my grandfather.
The notion of family around the table has enlarged, now including friends or being a guest at someone else’s table in Michigan or Connecticut or, one year, Poitiers, France.
I suppose Thanksgiving will always mean hopscotching on cabbage roses and learning Marine Corps marches. It’s easy to memorialize the past—to fetishize it. Years of loss will do that to you.
Life and love, though, have a way of pulling us forward. This year, I’ll be part of a family again. Thirteen of us, gathered around C’s mother’s table, in the house where he and his brother and sisters grew up. It’ll be all new for me, but oh-so-familiar for them. I’m bringing Brussels sprouts – his mother and I have agreed to refer to them as “greens,” to ward off any bias – and I’ll disguise my dislike of sweet potatoes, his Mom’s signature dish.
His family’s an opinionated crowd, too, so I imagine I’ll feel at home, though it won’t be Carmel. I’ll have a moment where I recall the past, and then I’ll turn to whoever is seated next to me, and bring myself into the present, where joy and sorrow and gratitude and memory mix together as one.