Happy Thanks

We only moved once when I was a child, from one neighborhood to another just across the road. I suppose I’ve become more mobile as adult, having lived in some 20 dwellings since flying the nest, some of them just roofs and walls to me; some of them becoming as familiar and comfortable as the navy blue This End Up corduroy couch in my childhood living room. We moved from a modest neighborhood before the start of my 5th grade year, to the more modest section of older homes in a nicer neighborhood. Even though the new house was as only about a mile away from our first, it was a big change in my small world. The back of our new neighborhood was filled with sprawling homes, with large manicured lawns and giant trees; trees like the ancient beauties behind out first home that used to dot the landscape, interspersed among wild fields and around the grounds of an old farm with bramble berries we snacked on during afternoon walks. This was before it was clear cut for a giant cookie cutter subdivision that started 5’ feet from our fence line. This new house was bigger than our first, and it was a mess and needed a lot of work and love, but it had good bones. And after a year of fixing up the new house, we decided we would host Thanksgiving dinner for all of our small family for the first time. Both sides. 

Growing up, we didn’t have much extra money. My parents somehow always found the means for my dance and piano lessons and for gymnastics and joining sports teams for my siblings. Sacrifices for these activities came in several forms, which we didn’t notice as much until we were older and met families who didn’t have to make the choices my parents’ budget dictated.

We had a large station wagon and a 17 year old Volkswagen Beetle, that we rode around in, despite having the back floorboard rusted to the point of having a hole large enough to push things through – random things, like drink cups or toys. Our favorite ride time entertainment was to drop things through the hole and then whip our heads around as fast as we could to watch out the back window to see it tumbling in the street behind the exhaust pipe. Of course we didn’t understand our little game was littering, even though Mom reprimanded us for doing so each time. We took small vacations; usually day trips to the mountains or down to the Outer Banks, and my parents expanded the experience by peppering in historical facts and stories. While visiting Richmond for one of these day trips, passing by St. John’s Church, mom told the story of Patrick Henry’s famous speech where he proclaimed “Give me liberty, or give me death.” My little brother, who was a constant in the rear facing backseat of the station wagon was very quiet for a while after Mom’s historical accounting, until his little voice uttered from the way back, “I’d take liberty.” My last job was in a restaurant in the Churchill neighborhood of Richmond, where I’d pass St. John's each day, and never could I drive by without hearing his 5 year old voice, advocating for liberty.  

Some years were more difficult than others. My Dad, an avionics engineer who worked with the Navy, was gone every now and then for long stretches, not with the same frequency or duration as many of our enlisted neighbors, but had to go to sea for weeks or a few months at a time. Somehow my amazing mother managed it all by herself. I marvel at the spouses and children of those in our armed forces, having to carry on without their family members, who are often gone more than they are home. One time when my Dad was somewhere in the South Pacific, long before email was a thing and letters often took weeks, his pay was held up by some kind of error, and having no other income, Mom put a $600 sign on the windshield of the station wagon and sold it to pay bills, leaving us with the VW Bug, and our game of littering.  

When not away for work, or one of my brother’s travel team soccer games, my Dad was working on the house. When you don’t have extra money, house repairs become a very creative activity of balancing, how it works, how it looks from the outside, and how to do all of this while maintaining the peace and budget of a busy five member household. The house repairs started as soon as we moved in. Carpets were ripped out, new appliances arrived, and my father honed his home improvement skills to mastery levels as he made our new house, our home.

As we readied for our first hosted Thanksgiving dinner, repairs kicked in to high gear. Mom wanted the house to look great from the outside, even as the inside was still a long way off. Our house sat next to a main road, and the fence facing this road was in disrepair. My Dad’s artistry with wood really started to blossom as he worked to redo the fence. He created his own design, removing each board, replacing the rotten ones as needed, and cutting each top to his custom shape and then painted it all in Colonial Grey paint.  

By the time mid-November rolled around, he had completed the fence side that faced the road and it was beautifully done.  He had the other two-thirds to finish after Thanksgiving and in anticipation of getting it done quickly, he decided to paint a welcoming message to our arriving family, meant to be funny, as it would only be visible from inside the house and only up for a few days while he finished the project. He grabbed a can of silver spray paint, and began to spray 4 foot tall letters on the fence spelling out “Happy Thanksgiving.” When he came to the end of the fence section, only “Happy Thanks” made it; there was no room for the “giving.”  

That was our last Thanksgiving with my grandfather. I still remember the old wallpaper in the dining room, that served as a backdrop for the buffet my mother had prepared. I remember the two types of cranberry sauce, the homemade kind with real chunks of cranberries, and the ribbed congealed mass that was plopped out onto the serving plate right from the can, which was my favorite. The stuffing lathered in gravy, the green bean casserole with its ubiquitous crunchy French onion topping, and the intoxicating smell of the turkey warming in the oven, even now, these smells take me back to that day.  And of course, I remember “Happy Thanks.”  It was pretty hard to forget.  

The quick repair plan for the fence was sidelined, by a rotten bathroom shower stall, replacing a hot water heater, and the death of my grandfather. “Happy Thanks” was around for four more Thanksgivings.  It was there each day as we got ready for school, looking out the window of the one working bathroom we all shared. It was there when my Dad was away at sea.  It was there, visible through the bay window of our kitchen, as we ate dinner. It was in the background of homework struggles, and backyard play dates, and stood as a decorative barrier to our escape artist beagle. Happy Thanks. Each day during these years of our development we were reminded each day, to be Happy, and give Thanks. And while there was no room on his sign for the giving, the giving was always there by the sacrifices, hardships, knowledge, joy, and love my parents provided to us on a daily basis.  

And while painting a 4’ by 20’ sign in your own home this Thanksgiving may not be part of your decoration plan, I share my memory of the shiny silver letters as a reminder that each day should be about being happy and giving thanks.  For when we are happy, and express gratitude for all our many blessings, the giving will always appear. That and a little bit of humor goes a long way. Wishing you a Thanksgiving filled with joy and warm memories for the future. Happy Thanks! 

Sara is a new Ocracoke resident who today is grateful for getting to celebrate her parents’ 50thwedding anniversary last week and for finding a Scotch Bonnet yesterday in the surf.