A Robertson Thanksgiving
It was a bit more eventful than necessary, but after about 19 hours of travel time, I was back in Texas for Thanksgiving. A weekend in Fredericksburg/Luckenbach with the parents was dashed due to US Airways' mechanical issues and their inability to properly fuel a jetliner. And their HAZMAT team. Long story...I still had the entire week in San Angelo though. There would be food, family, and immense amounts of cleaning. Gigi finally gave us the OK to go purge her garage. For years, the garage has been a forbidden zone of boxes and treasures and trash. Every Thanksgiving, I'd sneak in when no one was looking and rummage through decades worth of stuff. There would be no sneaking this time.
Mom, Dad, Lynn, and I got to clearing. Two piles: "Keep" and "Don't Keep." The "Don't Keep" pile was about two trailers worth of trash. It included a footlocker filled with dirty carpet from the 1960s and a box of 50 year old spices that never got unpacked after a move. The "Keep" pile included my Granddaddy's World War II footlocker and the letters he and Gigi shared during the war.As we sifted through the clothes and old letters and 5th grade report cards, we discussed the merit of keeping some items as opposed to others. Each valued an object differently. Some were more into worth. Others found sentimentality the deciding factor. My hoarding tendencies have been suppressed recently due to a personal anti-clutter campaign. I was still able to recognize the sentimental however.Jimmy's art portfolio is one of the sentimental treasures we unearthed. Dad's brother passed away nearly twenty(!) years ago. His art has been stored in a canvas bag towards the back of the garage. The zipper to the bag was rusted shut. I carefully tore it open. Water. Water had seeped into the bag. Twenty years worth of water damage. Roaches crawled out from under the water logged papers. It was the closest I've ever seen my father to crying. We were able to salvage some, but so much more was lost.After three days of intense cleaning, the rest of the family arrived ready to celebrate a traditional American Thanksgiving fest. Eighteen dinner guests. Twenty five pounds of turkey. We gathered in the dining room. The blessing was said before the meal. For the first time ever, someone other than the male at the head of the table gave it. Gigi. There wasn't a dry eye at the table. She's preparing for the next stage in life. She's handling it better than we are.
The rest of the holiday was spent with family, which meant golfing. It's not a passion of mine, nor am I particularly good. When I have a good coach though, things change. Gigi and I shared a cart as we followed "the grownups" around the course. It was her first time on the course in six months. She lined me up over the ball. "Don't rush it." "Nice and easy." I'd crush the ball and she'd laugh like a schoolgirl. That laugh...
We left San Angelo about seven pounds heavier and absolutely exhausted. I got back to Seattle knowing future holidays will probably be different. That laugh echoed inside of me. That laugh...