The Thanksgiving Gift

The Thanksgiving Gift

I was driving home from the food store when this story came to me. There isn't much to it, just a little feel-good story about a moment in time with lives coming together and new relationships forming. Too bad it's too late for the season, but there you have it.

>>> >>> >>>

"So what are you ladies doing for Thanksgiving?" All that got me was a few blank stairs and some troubled looks. I wasn't entirely surprised, but I was disappointed.

My name is Chris Barton, and I turned 70 just last month. Officially, I retired at the end of the last semester, but unofficially I keep an office and I'm as busy as I ever was. Retirement for me means no more committees, no more obligations, and I get to do exactly and only what I enjoy. I'm busier than I've ever been and I'm loving it!

It's been my habit for the past 10 years or more to hire young students who are interested in becoming engineers and give them a little professional experience to build on and guide their future decisions. The department I work in is finally catching on to the reality that you don't need to be a master's candidate to do good work if your professor can sculpt the problem in an appropriate way. In fact, young students benefit hugely from the experience as it tends to inform their later decisions sooner. A few of us had to teach the others that lesson. I seem to find bright, motivated students who can handle the responsibility well, and to be fair I pay them for their work. Not every one of them goes into this profession, but most do, and I can't say that I've ever been disappointed by their efforts. A few work hard, decide this is not for them, and go off to explore other career choices, but most continue in their engineering studies of one subfield or another. I'm reaching that age where I see them exiting the tail end of their education and starting their careers, and it gives me a warm sense of accomplishment knowing that I got them started with a few opportunities and a little trust.

Increasingly, the students who search me out are young women. I'm old enough to remember a more sexist time when too many faculty thought that women couldn't do the work or wouldn't stick with it once they started their families, but those days are past, and the young women have proven them wrong in a big way.

That brings me back to the subject at hand. I'm sitting at a big table with three of the sweetest young women you'd ever want to meet and the fact that they are each among the brightest students I've ever worked with was never lost on me. Looking around the table at the blank stares, I quickly got the point. "No plans?"

They all shirked and shook their heads. I knew that each was from out of town and two of them were from far out of town as in another country, so I fully expected they had no plans for what is a rather short holiday.

"Well, I've invited a few people to my house for Thanksgiving. Why don't you join us?"

That seemed to earn me a bit of a confused response until Bridgette spoke up. "We don't want to be any trouble."

She always makes me smile. "You're no trouble. Thanksgiving is all about getting together with others and eating too much. You're all more than welcome. You can even bring your boyfriends if you like."

That earned me something between a scoff and a grunt. "What boyfriends?!" It was Zofia who said it, and she seemed to regret it the moment the words left her mouth as she looked at the other two with what I assume was an unspoken apology.

"Not to worry. There'll be plenty of single guys there. You might even find one you like." I was trying not to smile too much, but these were cute, sweet girls who studied too hard, and I had a pretty good idea there were young men out there who would recognize that if given half a chance.

"There are plenty of single guys here, but they're all geeks who are either too afraid to talk to a girl or trying too hard to impress us."

Boy, did I remember those days! "Hey, be nice. I was one of those geeks once upon a time. We're a little slow, but we learn eventually."

That earned me some smiles, but I started thinking maybe I should not have outed myself. Those aren't days I like to remember.

"I learned some valuable lessons back then like the three-strike rule."

"What's the three-strike rule?" It was Marie asking, but all three were staring intently. I had their attention now!

Thinking back, I remember her like it was yesterday. She was a tall redhead, athletic, with a bottom made for a man to worship, and I was a coward. I expected too much of a girl who turned out to be as shy as I was, and I have regretted it ever since. "The three-strike rule is like baseball. You don't strike out on the first pitch. You take a second swing at the next good pitch. Then if you get a third strike, you accept the result and look elsewhere."

"I don't understand. Who's pitching and who's swinging?" They were giggling at me now.

"Well, you are pitching just by standing there and looking cute. He's swinging, you call it a ball or a strike, and he knocks the clay from his shoes and waits for another pitch." These girls knew baseball and they understood the analogy.

"What if we throw a pitch and nobody notices?" I don't think Zofia was kidding and I was starting to have a very low opinion of the young men around here.

"Then it's just a warm-up pitch for practice. Trust me, if the batter doesn't notice, he may be playing for the wrong team, and you just wait for another batter to come along." This analogy was wearing thin, and I was starting to doubt my own advice.

I was remembering that painful lesson of years ago and regretting my own actions for what must have been the thousandth time when I noticed that nonverbal discussion taking place at the table. They soon seemed to reach a decision and Bridgette asked, "What can we bring?"

That question put a smile on my face. I learned a long time ago that when a young man arrives with a contribution to dinner, more often than not it's a six-pack of beer. To their credit, they do tend to buy good beer for a special occasion, but it's still beer. Young women do far better. "First of all, you don't need to bring anything. Second, if you do want to bring something, a salad or a pie will always be more than welcome." That seemed to earn me some approval. "You should know that some of the married couples are probably bringing nontraditional dishes, or maybe I should say they are traditional for their countries, but not for Thanksgiving, so we aren't standing on tradition here. Any and all food will be appreciated and enjoyed. It's going to be a very eclectic meal." In truth, this was my first year doing this and I had no idea how eclectic it would turn out to be!

For my part, everyone knew my story, or they knew the more public version of it. My wife of 43 years had died this past February. It was unexpected, and I suppose I was grateful for that. I wasn't prepared for it, but she didn't suffer. She just went to bed one night and never got up. The less public version included marriage to a depressed woman who seemed to want to live alone in a house but still have someone to spare her the need to interact with the outside world. It had become a lonely existence that I struggled with, but now I was learning to be sociable again. I was learning to live again.

I had decided rather spontaneously to throw this party about a week before when I overheard some of the married foreign students asking each other what they understood about Thanksgiving. They knew the story, but not the culture it was based on. I took the liberty of explaining that it's more about coming together than the menu, and that football didn't have one damn thing to do with it! Before I knew it, I was inviting them to my place for dinner. When they asked what they could bring, just as the girls had asked, I told them that anything they wanted to prepare would be great. That seemed to leave them with a curious sense of relief and confusion. Two of them came to me a few days later to repeat the question and I assured them that moo goo gai pan and massaman curry both went very well with turkey and cranberries. I only hoped I was right. From that point, the invitations seemed to take on a life of their own. I was even approached by a half dozen students from other departments that I had only met in passing, and before I knew it I had at least twenty people coming for dinner that I knew of. It turned out to be more like thirty-six. I had to stress that dinner was at two in the afternoon, and I prayed that not everyone brought a salad.

For my part, I set to work making pumpkin pies two days before, got the biggest turkey I could fit into my oven, and fired up the grill outside to bake some sweet potatoes. Oh, and I prayed a lot. This whole fiasco had the makings of a disaster that would live on in the oral tradition for generations to come where it would be handed down from father to son with tales of "...just one scrawny turkey... the thinnest slice of pie you've ever seen... and no football!"

It turned out I needn't have worried. I moved the television into the library where I stashed a bunch of folding chairs. I figured the living room would be suitable for conversation. What I forgot is that when a party exceeds a critical number, no amount of planning will be adhered to. However, I guessed right about moving the television.

As people began to arrive, they came with more food than they could eat. Think about it! Two adults and a young child arrive with enough food to feed five, and then another, and another, until soon you're searching for places to put it all. There was food from every continent and over a dozen different cultures until I finally realized that the turkey was just a formality. American's brought traditional dishes, which I was grateful for because I still felt I needed to set out a traditional meal to some degree if only for the symbolism of it all, but those dishes would be surrounded by the most pungent aromas and intoxicating flavors that a diverse group of friends could produce. And there was beer. Thanks to about ten young men who arrived with the expected refreshments, there was a lot of beer. I had anticipated this and brought two ice chests up from the basement along with bags of ice I'd bought the night before and stashed in the basement freezer.

The girls were fashionably late, and one brought her roommate. I saw them coming up the walk and asked several of the single guys to get the door and let them in. Yeah, I know what I did, but they didn't seem to realize it or were too caught up in the moment to complain. I'm not going to say the girls made an entrance, but the other single guys didn't take long to notice four attractive young women who arrived bearing food. By then we were using the kitchen table and countertop as staging areas for the upcoming meal and struggling to keep things warm. I needed help and the four of them promised to return to the kitchen when it was time to warm the casseroles, and then just to be sociable I enlisted the help of the single young men to also help to get out the plates, cups, and such and help slice the turkey when it was time. They seemed all too eager to help, and I wondered how long that would last?

Two of my married buddies ran back to their houses to get some portable grills, or they were sent back by their wives. I never really knew. A few other friends volunteered to help man the grills, and somehow everything was served up hot when it was time to eat. Don't ask me how it happened since, by this point, I was more of a spectator than a participant.

At the appointed hour I quite literally rang the dinner bell! I have an old ship's bell mounted in the living room and I rang it to get everyone's attention. "Dinner is ready. Help yourselves and find a seat wherever you can!" That earned me some smiles and I stepped back to avoid being trampled. There weren't nearly enough chairs, but the single guys seemed to be happy to sit on the floor or stand against the wall where they could talk with the young women, so nobody complained.

It's funny how a big meal can reduce a raucous crowd to quiet conversation. In a house where just an hour ago I could barely hear myself think I found myself strangely at peace with everyone in pleasant conversation as they tried a little bit of everything. If you should ever think that food is not the universal language, imagine looking across a room at three Iranian students and four Israeli students laughing and enjoying Chinese and Thai food for Thanksgiving, and then try to convince yourself that there cannot be peace in the world.

I made the rounds through the rooms just to make sure everyone had what they needed, which was laughably unnecessary, and eventually settled into a chair in the kitchen with a recently divorced buddy of mine and his lovely date. We talked about this being the most unique Thanksgiving either of us had ever attended, and then we compared our opinions on the latest campus politics and our preparations for winter before the second wave of hungry guests arrived to try the things they had not found room for on their plates in the first round.

In time, the football crowd gathered in the library to cheer their team on even if it was only their team for the next few hours, the wives gathered around the dining room table to discuss how their husbands remained a work in progress, and the single folks pushed the tables, chairs, and sofa to the edge of the room to make room for dancing. The unused sofa and chairs soon disappeared into the dining room and library, and a new equilibrium was found. Don't ask me about the music that was played. I'm too old to appreciate singers crying about romantic injustice when they just got their driver's license.

I spent a little time in the library trying to avoid admitting that I could not give a rat's ass who was playing or who won, looked in on the dining room only to have the entire conversation suddenly stop with compliments about a lovely dinner as the wives waited for me to depart, and set about rinsing some plates and stacking them in the dishwasher. That's when my three, now four, angels appeared to help me clear the mess. The young men were not far behind, so when they asked, "Can we help?" I said, "Absolutely! These young ladies will tell you what they need." With that, I dismissed myself despite several highly judgmental looks from the women that I decided I could live with. I was smiling too much at the success of my devious plan to be concerned.

It was about this time when I overheard the following debate between two students that had not been dancing earlier.

"I'm telling you that Die Hard is a Christmas movie!"

"You're out of your gourd. Die Hard is a classic haunted house movie with guns and criminals instead of ghosts."

"Yeah, but it's on television every Christmas, so that makes it a Christmas movie. Remember? He's there to meet his wife for Christmas and gets drawn into the heist?"

I just shook my head quietly and walked away hoping they hadn't noticed me standing there. I was starting to understand what the girls said about all the guys in the department being geeks.

Somehow, and to their credit, the women got the first round of dishes in the dishwasher and a few of the casseroles washed by hand before they were whisked back to the dance floor. I was doing a few more bowls and such, washing and stacking them on the now empty countertop, when a voice behind me said, "You throw a lovely party, Old Man. Are those girls working with you?" I didn't need to turn around as I knew the voice well, but I did, and I was greeted by a warm and knowing smile on the face I've known for years.

"Yeah." It wasn't much of a speech, but I said it with a smile. "...and they do excellent work."

"I can tell. Not three hours and they have those young fellows eating out of the palms of their hands." She was trying not to laugh.

Now I was trying not to laugh. "Yep. Excellent and fast. I hope they know what they're doing."

"Oh, I think so! I'm thinking I should get some pointers."

No, she didn't need any pointers. Maggie had decided to officially retire about the same time that I did. That was around the time that she started calling me Old Man while she playfully rubbed my nose in the fact that she is two years younger than me. Like me, retirement meant enjoying the work and learning to say no when it suited her. She had shown up at just the right time in more ways than one. Glancing into the living room and then back at her, I dried my hands as I asked, "Would you care to dance?" That caught her off guard, but not for long.

"What are they playing? It sounds dreadful."

"I'm sure it is. Would you like to dance?" All the while, I was drying my hands as we talked.

Smiling, but clearly nervous, she said, "I haven't danced in years."

"Good! Maybe you won't be able to tell how bad I am." I offered my hand to her, and I guess I convinced her, because she took my hand, and we walked out to the edge of the living room just as a slow number started.

"Thank God! I wasn't ready to try a fast one just yet!" That's how it started and for the next forty minutes we danced without anyone noticing, and we didn't notice them.

At some point the game must have gone into halftime because the men all came out to dance with their wives. The room was far too full by then, so Maggie and I retreated to the kitchen to wash a few more things and clean up just a bit in preparation for what was to come.

The husbands seemed to know the second half was about to begin because they all deserted their wives at about the same time, came looking for pie and whatever desserts and coffee were available, and then retreated to the library to watch the game. The wives showed a mixture of amusement and disappointment in different proportions until they adjourned to the dining room to continue their discussions of how to change their husbands.

The music was still playing, so Maggie and I took the opportunity for a few more spins around the floor as she seemed far less reluctant than she had been not too long before. The young women invited us over to talk, either to be polite or to gain assistance, and for the next hour we had a delightful time pretending that we were much younger than our years attest. When it was time to prepare for the inevitable wave of post-Thanksgiving sandwiches, they offered to help and of course the young men followed. It was a classic case of too many people in the kitchen, but by sending two young men to the basement for more ice and asking the other two to dump the water from the beer chests, it all worked out.

The game was over and for the life of me I couldn't tell you who was celebrating and who was mourning the outcome. We had bread and rolls with the usual condiments all laid out along with whatever leftovers that were still available, and that began a round of sandwiches made of every imaginable leftover and a few I would never have imagined. I don't know who first put stuffing on a turkey sandwich at Thanksgiving, but I did learn that night that when the stuffing runs out some pork fried rice will do in a pinch, or at least one person thought so. I also learned that Szechuan beef makes a very good Thanksgiving sandwich, and I never did learn the name of that Polish dish that I found went surprisingly well on a rye roll with some strong Chinese mustard.

In time the music ended, the television was turned off, and the wives all decided to call a truce in their efforts to remake their soulmates with everyone enjoying the conversations that seemed to flow naturally through the souls of everyone gathered. I was amazed by how the older couples drew the younger people into their conversations, asking their opinions and debating the value of generational music. That night I finally learned what a meme is as I tried to explain to the young ones that the word had a different meaning when I was young only to see them stare at me like I hadn't a clue. Maybe they were right. Either way, Maggie and I enjoyed them all.