It's mid-October now. Most people are thinking about Halloween at this time of year. While the thought of super cheap chocolate the day after the ghost and goblin holiday has crossed my mind with pleasure, I've been more focused on the holiday following it: Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving is far and away my favorite holiday. I could write pages and pages about past Thanksgivings, but I won't. However, my Aunt Greta (who just recently moved to town with her family) was over the other night and told me a story from a Thanksgiving when I was little, probably two years old, she said. I've been thinking about it a lot lately, and I'd like to share it.
Every year at Thanksgiving, my mom's side of the family (there are seven children on my mom's side) would get together for a few days. There were lots of us cousins running around, and all the aunts and uncles decided to start this tradition where all the kids make candles (or maybe they just did it once and it stuck). At bedtime we pulled them out, turned off the lights, lit all of the candles, then sang the "Goodnight Song" to each child individually and let them blow out their candle. [For those of you who are not familiar with the Goodnight Song, it's to the tune of "Goodnight Ladies" from The Music Man (but without the cheeping). Instead of "ladies," just plug in the child's name.] It was soft, slow, and harmonious, with Uncle Floyd adding in his own high tenor descant every now and then.
This was always the highlight of my Thanksgiving holiday. There was something magical about all those flames flickering in the darkness illuminating the young faces of my brothers and sister, my cousins, my aunts and uncles, my grandparents, and somewhere out there in the shadowed ring of adults around us kids, my parents. These were the people I loved most in my young heart. I cherish the memory of that lullaby and those candles and all the warmth and love that enveloped us.
As we got older, our candle designs got more and more creative. We made fun shapes instead of just sticks; some of the boys worked match heads into theirs, hoping they'd ignite as the candle burned down and reached them; the last year we did it, I worked mine into the shape of an E. It became a burden on my mind somewhere in my teens that one day I was going to have to give this part of Thanksgiving up. One day I'd be too old and would have to take my place with the adults. I hated the thought of that. I hated the thought of growing up.
Apparently, there was one year when I was very young (two years old) that I missed out on the candle tradition. This was the story my aunt told me the other night. My mom wanted to put me to bed, but everyone was being slow getting around to the candles, so finally she just decided to put me to bed without it. Later, I guess when she came up to check on me, she heard my little two-year-old voice singing to myself alone in the darkened room, "Good - night, Wiz'bif.... Good - night, Wiz'bif...." She went back downstairs crying and told the others about it (knowing my aunts, they probably cried with her).
When Greta told me about that the other night (this was the first I'd heard of it), I couldn't help it. I cried, too. I'm not entirely sure why. Partially because I miss my mother so much, and the rest of my family. Just picturing that mother-baby relationship and my mom crying... Imagining the scene of me singing to myself. It made me so sad! It's so strange to me to think that that was me in there singing to myself. That little girl was me. And look at me now. Could I even be the same person? I'm not saying who I am now is bad, but I'm certainly not that little girl. And I guess I just wish I was a little more like her. More innocent, more trusting of other people, more time spent in play, and less time working or worrying. I wish I still cried when I thought I hurt my Blankey's feelings because it was pink and I said my favorite color was blue. I wish stuffed animals still had consciences, and I treated every human soul like it was the most important in the world. When did I get so judgmental? When did I get selective about showing compassion to another person? Always on the outside, but what about in my thoughts? When did it become so important to be strong, and by strong I mean completely self-reliant? I think I've really lost something along the way, and I want it back. I want to be like that little girl I used to be.
Growing up is a funny thing. There's no way you can pass through life without it changing you in some way. I just didn't realize how closely you have to watch to make sure you're changing in the way you want to be. If you just go along, roll with the punches, you'll grow and stretch to fit your needs, but that doesn't mean you're growing in the way or direction you should. But it's also kind of a comfort to know we're so malleable. I can change to be who I want to be, no matter how far I've strayed from my original person. Developmentalists say that life changes you all the time, but your core will stay the same. I saw a glimpse of my core in that little girl Greta told me about, and I want to get back to her more.
My mom's side of the family hasn't gathered for Thanksgiving in the last few years, and it's broken my heart every year. I don't see my family nearly as much anymore, and that's a hard thing for me, after all the years of being so close. But even with the ever-increasing distance our busy lives put between us, I would do anything for them, and I will always love them so dearly. It's wonderful to know that feeling is reciprocated in the hearts of all my family. Almost every single one of my relatives from these Thanksgivings made the journey to be at Etienne and I's wedding this past May. They came from California, Louisiana, Missouri, Tennessee, and Indiana to be there, and I know it was a sacrifice. And once they got there, they all worked so hard to help get things ready and running smoothly! I was so touched by all of this, but I was stopped dead in my tracks when, just as Etienne and I were about to leave, I heard all of them start singing in the crowd, "Good - night Elizabeth, Good - night Elizabeth, Good - night Elizabeth, You're going to leave us now." Tears were streaming down my face, and I'd never felt more blessed in all my life.
The memories of all the years of candles and singing and each of us kids having our moment to be the sole recipient of all that love will stay with me till the day I die. I hope someday when I tell my kids about it they'll beg for us to do the same thing at Thanksgiving with my parents and my siblings and their kids.
My once-strong hope of all of my mom's side getting together for Thanksgiving is almost non-existent now. But, if we ever do, I know what I'm going to do. Grown-up or not, I'm makin me a candle!
Though I'm sure you'll hear from me before then, I hope everyone has a wonderful Thanksgiving holiday! Etienne and I plan to spend it in Ohio.
Love to all!
Elizabeth
