Half the Holiday

Dearest Rachel –

I was getting serious flashbacks from 2020 yesterday morning, honey. You remember that year; we’d all been tested for Covid before Thanksgiving, for the sake of the folks (and, I think, at the recommendation, if not requirement, of the government when it came to such gatherings at the time). Yours and Daniel’s came back negative, but mine insisted that I was suffering from the illness, but presenting no symptoms. As a result – especially since Dad had emerged from his bout with sepsis the previous year, and his immune system has been fragile ever since – I was required to stay home from the family Thanksgiving festivities, which turned out to be the last one we would have as a complete family.

I wouldn’t say you were exactly distraught about it, but you were audibly confused by the mixed results we got back from the testing facility. “I French kiss him all the time!” you lamented to Lars, “How is it possible that he’s got Covid and I don’t?”

As charmed and amused as he was by your protestations, the rules were the rules, and I was instructed to stay home, and keep myself occupied on the computer at our bedside like I often did. You made sure to bring plenty of leftovers home, so I could at least enjoy a hot meal afterwards, but you wound up having to cut short the time with the family in order to get back to me. Had everything gone like most Thanksgivings, where we would get together again as per usual the following year, it would have simply gone down into family lore; “oh, that’s just Rachel being Rachel, you know,” not unlike the story of your mom greeting me that one Thanksgiving before we got married with a boisterous “how the hell are ya, Randy!”

But of course, that’s not how things worked out, and that abortive attempt at Thanksgiving ended up being another melancholy vignette in our last year together.

I can only hope that the same thing doesn’t happen this time around, as this year turned out to be eerily similar, after a fashion. Jenn was going to host the family dinner, but as yesterday morning dawned, she realized that she was dealing with something of a head cold. Nothing too serious – nothing that would even slow her down, as far as I could tell – but given Dad’s precarious immune health (which, let’s face it, is always going to be a problem from now on), it was decided between her and the folks that they would not be coming over, and if Daniel and I were to spend the holiday at her place, we would not be welcome at Meema and Poppa’s for some time thereafter. Such was the news that she relayed to me by text even before I started in on the green bean casserole.

It’s a good thing I had been convinced not to get cute with other culinary experiments, as they wouldn’t have been properly enjoyed by all.

Eventually, after some back-and-forth, it was decided that I would do what little cooking I was assigned, bring the casserole over to Jenn and her family, at which point they would ladle what they wanted into a serving dish for their own use. At the same time, she would provide me with disposable containers that she would fill with the dishes she had prepared for the meal, and Daniel and I would take them over to the folks’ place for the four of us to enjoy. Thus, with four of us at one place (Jenn, Bill and the kids) and the other four (Mom, Dad, Daniel and I) at another, we would spend the holiday divided into halves, for safety’s sake.

The irony is that, just last week, when we’d barely been home for twenty-four hours from Israel, Daniel and I had to pass on coming over to the folks’ place for our usual Thursday repast, because Daniel was dealing with a cold of his own that had just overcome him as we were preparing to leave Jerusalem. Now, thanks to someone else’s head cold, we were collecting on that rain check by having dinner there the following Thursday, despite joking barely the day before how that wasn’t going to happen this week, either.

Other than that, honey, there wasn’t that much to remark on about the whole holiday. By being basically like any other Thursday evening meal (other than that it started some time between two and three, rather than at about five-thirty), it felt more like our weekly meal than an annual get-together. Oh, we boys (including Dad, of course) hung out in the family room watching football together, which is something that doesn’t happen on just any Thursday afternoon or evening, but otherwise, it felt more homey and familiar than special – it felt less like a real holiday, and more like an extended version of our weekly meals.

And I don’t know what to think about that. There’s something lost in not having the whole family around the table; certainly, there wasn’t the wide-ranging conversations that one tends to associate (for better or for worse) with the holiday. At the same time, by feeling like our more frequent get-togethers, it felt more comfortable, less formal, and that can’t be all bad.

I wonder how Jenn and Bill and the kids were doing, on the other hand. After all, they had to prepare to leave today for Iowa for a football game that Bill had to work with as a member of the collegiate staff; did this give them a little extra time to get ready, so they could get a jump on things this morning? Or did yesterday just feel like an equally comfortable time around the table yesterday, with just the immediate family together? As I wasn’t there, I could only speculate, just like I might about that last Thanksgiving you and Daniel attended without me. Those are stories that, such as they are, aren’t mine to tell, and I won’t hear from you about them for some time yet to come.

Until then, though, I’d appreciate it if you’d continue to keep an eye on me, honey, and wish me luck; I’m sure I’m going to need it.