If you’re reading this editorial the day this paper published, we at The Post-Record would like to wish you a very happy Thanksgiving.
Hopefully, you are sharing this distinctly American holiday with your loved ones, eating a warm meal and giving thanks for the small joys in life.
In my family, Thanksgiving always meant my favorite aunt would drive back “home” (Appalachian Pennsylvania) from her super-cool bachelorette pad (in exotic New Jersey) and my Pennsylvania Dutch grandmothers would cook their tastiest recipes (give me whoopie pies over pumpkin pies any day). It was a holiday filled with celebration, feasting, laughing and — always — wrestling my little brother for the biggest piece of the wishbone so all my childhood dreams might come true. (Sadly, due to what I suspect was one too many years of getting the small piece of the wishbone, I am not an astronaut and my boyfriend is not Billy Idol.)
When I married into a half-British family and moved 3,000 miles from my own tribe, Thanksgiving became less about big gatherings and more about having a day off to walk the dogs, do laundry and maybe get a full eight hours of sleep.
This year, though, the old traditions are making a comeback: I’m cooking for nine people, including exes, new partners, childhood friends, teenagers who would probably rather be hanging out with fewer “olds” and four dogs who likely will be dreaming about dropped turkey pieces and spilled gravy until Christmas rolls around. (And, yes, I’m fighting teens and dogs alike for the big piece of wishbone. Billy Idol is still out there and the Space Force is forming, you know.)