We’re going to be spending Thanksgiving at my aunt and uncle’s huge house up in the mountains, with lots and lots of relatives there; we’re bringing the pies. It’ll be good to have all the other relatives around to dilute our family; we’re on our best behavior in front of other people. Maybe most families are.
All I can think about as I wake up on Thanksgiving morning and smell the pies baking is: What should I do, what should I do, what should I do?
Holidays are about traditions. In my family, for Thanksgiving we have three kinds of pie: pumpkin (of course), apple (no surprise there either), and this raisin custard pie that makes this our family’s Thanksgiving. I always have at least a tiny slice, even though I don’t like raisins when they’re cooked into things, just because it wouldn’t be Thanksgiving otherwise.
All I can think about as we drive up to Aunt Liz and Uncle Steve’s is: What should I do, what should I do, what should I do?
At Aunt Liz and Uncle Steve’s house, another tradition is that we all go around the table to say what we’re grateful for. A lot of families have a tradition like that, I imagine. After all, the holiday is called Thanksgiving. As with the raisin custard pie, it wouldn’t be our Thanksgiving if we didn’t do this, but the tradition can also be, shall we say, a bit hard to swallow.
Uncle Steve made the rule that we can only say one thing each, because we have a couple of relatives who shall not be named who are what my father calls “pompous windbags” and would talk forever otherwise. And hearing a long list of someone else’s “blessings” can make you start to hate the person just a tiny bit. So the one-thing-to-be-grateful-for rule is a good one. But picking that one thing, to say out loud in front of everybody, can be hard.
It’s a total cliché to say you’re grateful for your family. But if you don’t say that, does it mean your family ranks lower on your gratitude list than the clever and interesting thing you say instead? And if you say “my health” (which I would never say, it’s more what old people say), then the other old people who have cancer or shingles or arthritis might start feeling even sadder. You don’t want to sound boring. You don’t want to sound braggy. You don’t want to sound smug. I’m telling you, it sounds nice to go around the table sharing blessings, but it’s more dangerous than you might think.
This year, when we sit down at the huge, long table in the soaring, stone-walled great room, my little cousin Molly goes first. She’s four, and she’s grateful for her new puppy; my six-year-old cousin, Tobias, is grateful for the dollar the Tooth Fairy gave him for losing his first tooth. We’re off to a good start.
Uncle Randall is grateful for a “terrific season” in his construction business, which translates to being grateful he made a lot of money this year. Not so good. I hope Dad doesn’t say he’s grateful for being named top orthodontist for the seventh year in a row.
Too soon my family’s turn comes.
Mom: “For the two most wonderful kids in the world.”
That’s sweet, but does she really think Hunter and I are more wonderful than all the other kids in the world, not to mention all the other kids at this very table? I decide I’m being too literal.
Dad: “That we’re all together once again this year.”
A safe one.
Hunter: “For being alive.”
For the first time I think how terrified he must have been when the Subaru careened into the tree. Not just: Oh my God, my parents are going to find out I borrowed the car. But: Oh my God, I might die.
I don’t have time to process this thought, because it’s my turn. I should have come prepared, given we do this every single year, but I was placing my faith in the power of inspiration. Everyone is looking at me. Uncle Steve, who has a teensy tendency toward being a control freak, has another rule that you can’t take more than a minute to come up with your thing. For all I know, he times us on his watch.
“Autumn?” he prompts, as the seconds tick down.
“For my brother,” I blurt out. “I’m grateful for Hunter.”
I definitely hadn’t planned to say that. But what if Hunter weren’t alive? What if he had had a funeral instead of a court date? But I didn’t get too carried away: I certainly didn’t add anything like For Hunter, who is the best brother in the world.
Anyway, now we’re on to my great-grandma, who says, “I’ll echo Hunter. Every morning when I get up, the first thing I do is read the obituaries, and if my name’s not there, it’s a good day.”
Everyone laughs.
Hunter didn’t react when I said mine, and he’s not looking at me now. Maybe he wasn’t even listening. Very few people pay attention to things the way I do. This goes along with my tendency to overanalyze even tiny things like what I’m going to say for Uncle Steve’s gratitude round-up.
Am I grateful for Hunter? Well, I’m definitely grateful he’s not dead. And that he’s not as mean to me as he was before. Those are two big positives in my life. But despite what I just said, I don’t think Hunter is what I’m most grateful for. Even if it’s wrong to love a friend more than you love your family, I love Kylee more than I love Hunter, because she’s never been mean to me ever, and that means more than that Hunter’s not as mean as he was before.
If I was being totally honest—and a big family holiday meal is not the time to be totally honest—what I’m most grateful for is being a writer. I love being a writer. It’s what gives magic and beauty and purpose and meaning to my life. It’s the biggest part of who I am. And I’m grateful that I wrote something good enough to win a contest. Maybe that’s a braggy thing to say, and I wouldn’t have said it out loud in front of everyone, but it’s true.
If I love being a writer more than I love being Hunter’s sister—and let’s face it, being Hunter’s sister has not been a ton of fun these past few months—does that mean I’m ready to email the form back to the contest people?
Or not?
I’m pretty sure I know what I’m going to do, but I wait until Sunday night to send the email, anyway.
I’m crying as I type it.
I’m crying even harder as I press Send.