After crawling from Massachusetts to New Jersey almost twenty years ago, taking seven hours for a four-hour trip, Blake and I decided that we would never travel on Thanksgiving again. We would create our own tradition, and we began inviting people to our home who had nowhere else to go for Thanksgiving. We have had anywhere from our immediate family to twenty-five people bulging the sides of our modest home.
…to grandmother’s house we go!
Three years ago, that all changed. My parents could no longer take care of themselves, so we moved them to a small apartment attached to my sister’s home in rural Pennsylvania. Since then, Thanksgiving has been spent with my sister and her family so we could have some holiday time with Grandma and Grandpa. Because my brother and his family also join us, all of the cousins have a chance to reconnect as well.
The horse knows the way, to carry the sleigh through the white and drifting snow—oh!
Wednesday morning, Blake and I arise at about 3:00AM to pack the car for our trip. We cram five duffel bags into the back well of our mini-van, and hold the well shut with the cooler full of pie fixings, cinnamon buns, dinner rolls for Thanksgiving dinner, and bagels and cereal boxes for when the kids get hungry in the car. Fortunately, though clouds filled the night sky, they suggest rain—not snow.
Over the river and through the woods…
At 4:00, we rouse our five sleeping kids. They drag themselves and their stuff to the car, climb into their predetermined places, cover themselves with fleeces, and continue their sleep. Seven large bodies now fill the car and steam the windows. It is astounding how many cars are already on the road at 4:30 in the morning! Fortunately, we sneak through the hot spots, Worcester, Hartford, the Tappan Zee Bridge, without hitting rush hours.
The kids wake up in New Jersey. David, our middle son, rubs his eyes, and begins talking to no one in particular.
“Where’s the bridge?”
“What bridge?” Lizzy is already awake.
“The big one.”
“We crossed it an hour ago.”
“You mean we’re in New York?”
“No—New Jersey. Almost Pennsylvania.”
“This has been a really short trip”
“You were asleep, dope!” Sarah chimes in.
“Can I have a cereal box?” Daniel comes out of hibernation and is sniffing for some food.
We cross the border into Pennsylvania and stop for a potty break. The kids roll out of the car, unfolding arms and legs, stuffing pillows and bags back into their seats so they don’t fall onto the damp pavement.
Blake buys coffee for himself, Lizzy and me, and we resume the trip. Everyone is awake (sort of), so we click on the James Taylor CD—one of the few artists that we all love. It calms the grumpies, and we settle back for the last leg of the journey. We smile at the passing signs: Kutztown, Virginville, Gouglersville, and the Fruitville Pike.
…till Grandmother’s cap I spy!
We pull into my sister’s driveway at about 11:15. The trip is faster than usual. We climb the back steps and meet my sister on the deck for hugs with the usual jokes about lead foots and early mornings. We all gently hug Grandma and Grandpa, their fragile frames smaller than our last visit.
Hurrah for the fun! Is the pudding done?
The kids disappear with the cousins. My sister and I begin the preparations for the feast. The house begins to smell of Thanksgiving spices.
Hurrah for the pumpkin pie!
I don’t know how many years it takes for a new tradition to be established. I know that the kids now say that this trip is ours, but I wonder how many more traditions they will have. And whether the pie will taste the same.
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