My Memories of Thanksgivings

Ed and I got married on the day before Thanksgiving 48 years ago in the Logan Temple. We joked at the time that it was so we would always have something to be thankful for in the future.  The one thing I have not been grateful about is that we never go out to dinner for our anniversary because it is always Thanksgiving.

 Thanksgiving has been a special time for us as we remember our years together as well as all the other blessings we give thanks for at this time of years. We have been truly blessed with health, adequate money for our needs, children, grandchildren and one great-grandchild, and opportunities to travel all over the world. The blessings of the gospel are so precious and they enrich our lives and help us appreciate all the other blessings.

Growing up in Bountiful, my dad worked at Hill Field and he always invited military men who had no family to Thanksgiving dinner with us and we always had lots of extended family to eat dinner with us. However, for Ed and I, Thanksgiving dinner has always been a more nuclear family affair.

Part of that is because for over 22 years we lived in the military and never lived near family. So Thanksgiving dinner was just Ed, I and our children. I don’t recall us sharing dinner with friends very often although I am sure we did a few times. It was always more a personal family time.

Another tradition also made our Thanksgivings different--there is a military tradition that the commander always eats dinner with the troops in the mess hall on Thanksgiving Day. So Ed would dress up in his dress blues and we’d go to the mess hall each Thanksgiving Day and eat dinner with Ed’s troops. It was a formal occasion and all Ed’s troops would greet us as we mingled with them.

This was not a fun social occasion, mind you, but a command performance! So Ed wanted his own Thanksgiving dinner afterwards. When we came home from the mess hall I would roast a turkey and make all the fixings for a Thanksgiving Dinner for Ed, I and the children! The first few years I thought he was joking about me making a big Thanksgiving after eating at the mess hall, but he wasn’t—he had to have his own homemade turkey dinner.

Eating at the Mess Hall

As he advanced in rank and we continued to go to dinners with his troops, I couldn’t convince him that THAT dinner was thanksgiving dinner; he insisted that NO—that was duty. Dressing in dress blues and talking politics with all his troops and being on command was NOT Thanksgiving! So I continued to cook a Thanksgiving dinner after enjoying Thanksgiving dinner I had not made in the mess hall.

 Ed loved Thanksgiving. He could feast and feast and watch five days of football. For me it was drudgery! I spent days in the kitchen preparing and cleaning up while everyone else enjoyed the holiday. Ed could not understand why it became my least favorite holiday. Especially during the 20 years I worked full time, I dreaded all the time I worked during my “time off,” cooking and cleaning for Thanksgiving and never got a moment’s rest. I was almost glad it was over and I could get back to my paid job.

Marlowe, My Christmas Baby

There were several times I had a reprieve from cooking a Thanksgiving Dinner. One was when Ed was in Vietnam during his two tours. Both times I was pregnant with our sons. Our first, Marlowe,  was born three weeks after Thanksgiving so I really had a lot to be grateful for; the other was born three months after Thanksgiving. I don’t recall having a big Thanksgiving Dinner with my Dad and siblings in Utah either time.

Ed Leaves for Vietnam Nov 1970

The year Ed left for his 2^nd tour of Vietnam was rough; he left for Vietnam several weeks before Thanksgiving (when I was pregnant with my third child, and my oldest had not yet turned three). I remember I was so overwhelmed and discouraged about being alone with my little ones for a year while Ed was flying helicopters in a war zone. However by Thanksgiving I had realized how grateful I was for all the blessings I did have; I did have the spirit of Thanksgiving that year—thankful for all that I had instead of complaining of what I didn’t have lasted me all year.

Two other times were when I was in the hospital on Thanksgiving. One time I was in Alabama and had just had a mastectomy and was recovering, but still in the hospital. My brother Gary and his wife Patty had Thanksgiving with my family at home (I have no idea who made dinner). I was just so grateful they caught the breast cancer early. The other time I was in the hospital in Sacramento, and again my brother Gary and Patty came to share Thanksgiving with my family. I was/am grateful for family who support us in our trials. 

Eventually I realized how petty I was in resenting all the work involved in preparing a big Thanksgiving dinner. I also realized I was always going to be cooking a big Thanksgiving dinner, so I cut back in many ways, and enjoyed the season. Ed helped by preparing the potatoes (one of my most hated jobs) and made his favorite recipe, sweet potatoes. I have bought the pies, instead of killing myself making them. I’ve bought rolls, (who cares if they are not homemade), and often cooked a turkey breast rather than a whole turkey. I’ve even bought salads. But I refuse to compromise on one thing; I refuse to make stovetop stuffing instead of the real thing.

After we retired from the military and moved back to Utah, we joined in with my dad and the extended family again in large Thanksgiving dinners, but again, Ed still wanted his own roasted turkey at home so he could have leftovers. So often we would go to a big extended family feast and afterwards, we would come home and I would put in a turkey. Since my dad passed away, we haven’t had the large extended family dinners, and again it just had dinner with whichever of our married children and their families lived nearby, and Bryan.

Ed reading to Aiden, Thanksgiving 2010 in Chicago

Last year we did something we have never done in all 48 years; we flew to Chicago to spend dinner with Diana, Jason and her new baby, Aiden in Chicago. It was truly the first year I can remember I did not roast a turkey. We left Bryan in Utah so he ate Thanksgiving dinner with friends and with Athena’s family. [The last eighteen months  we have “abandoned” Bryan for every holiday in the year (plus two of his birthdays) while we were in Los Angeles for Ed’s lung transplant, in Australia and New Zealand, in Chicago with Diana, and in Seattle with Marlowe and his family. Don’t feel sorry for him, though; he had four different invitations for Thanksgiving when he publicized he was alone for Thanksgiving and didn’t mention Athena being here]. 

Although I have quit griping about always roasting a turkey no matter where we have Thanksgiving dinner (except for last year at Diana’s house in Chicago), I realize how grateful I am for all our bountiful blessings—material, spiritual and emotional. I am grateful for my family, being able to be together as a family at Thanksgiving and if we cannot be together then, being able to talk to them often; being able to have all we have to eat, even if I have to cook it. I am grateful that they all have jobs; that we live in a free world. 

And someday, before I die, I am going to thoroughly enjoy Thanksgiving like men do—by not preparing any of it, and just relaxing and doing what I want all day! 

Thoughts on Veteran's Day

World War I officially ended when the Treaty of Versailles was signed on June 28, 1919; however, because the fighting of “The Great War” ceased with an armistice that went into effect on the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, of 1918, this date is generally regarded as the end of the “War to end all wars.” When President Wilson proclaimed November 11 1919 as the first commemoration of what would become first Armistice Day, and later Veteran’s Day, this day was to be “filled with solemn pride in the heroism of those who died in the country’s service and with gratitude for the victory.”

Whenever I think of Veteran’s Day, I think of all the veterans of all the wars who have fought to keep our country free—from the Revolutionary War soldiers to those fighting in Iraq and Afghanistan. I think, too of the victories that have preserved our freedoms, both in war, in law, in elections—all of these help to make us free.

As a member of an Army family for 23 years, I have seen many instances that have made me feel patriotic. I have seen many military parades where my heart has swelled with pride in our fine soldiers. I have seen my Air Force flyovers when I realized how grateful I was for those proud aviators who trained and served in far off bases. I have seen scenes on television of armed forces fighting and dying on foreign soil. All of these remind me of the price our soldiers pay for our country.

I also recall times when I have seen individual incidences of respect for our country. I remember going to a movie theater on a military base at Livorno in Northern Italy, and as usual, the Star Spangled Banner played as the flag was displayed on the screen before the regular movie. Everyone in the theater stood and saluted or put their hand on their heart except a bunch of teenagers who were goofing off and being disrespectful. My husband went over to them and told them to stand up and be respectful to the flag, and to those who were fighting for their freedom. They were more respectful after that. It was such a small thing, but I remember how proud I was of my country, and my flag at that moment . The simple act of standing at attention while our national anthem played while we watched a movie on a military base reminded me of the freedoms I took for granted that our soldiers serving in that nation, far from family and friends, did not take for granted. 

My son, Marc, said that he will always remember how proud he was of his dad at that time for reminding those youth how important it is to respect our national anthem and our flag, even in such an informal setting as a movie theater.  He sent me an email saying that the incident was one that "I have written down as one of the defining moments of my life.  It made me realize the importance of standing up for what you believe and hold dear, whether it be respect for our country, or our religious beliefs.  It takes courage; I hope I can have Dad's courage to stand up for what I believe." 

I remember another time while we were stationed on that Italian base. There were international tensions, and our country dropped some bombs on Libya. Libya couldn’t bomb America, so instead they attacked some Italian islands they could reach. It was a tempest in a teapot, but some Italian politicians became angry against America. As civilians we knew nothing that morning, but as our teenage son walked through the Italian villaggio on the way to school, an old Italian woman swore at him and spit on him. Our son had been told not to walk to school because of the incidence (and had done it anyway). After being spit on, he went home, got his boombox, loaded the tape, “I’m Proud to Be an American” in it and played it loudly all the way to school. By that afternoon all students were bussed to and from school with soldiers with M-16s on the buses as escorts to prevent problems.

There were anti-American protests outside the base so it was closed to all but Americans. Mormon missionaries were told to stop wearing their name tags and to stop proselyting temporarily because they were a symbol of America. Eventually everything blew over and became normal again, but it reminded us how really free we are in America. I am grateful for those soldiers all over the world who live in places where it isn’t always easy to live as an American so the rest of us Americans can enjoy our freedoms.

I remember my first experience with the military when I first joined Ed at Ft. Wolters, Texas while my husband was going through flight school. I lived in a tiny apartment on the reactivated base and every morning I heard reveille play at 5:00 am. I couldn’t hear where it was coming from and at first I wondered if it was ghostly music from World War II when Ft. Wolters was for a time the largest infantry replacement training center in the United States. Eventually I realized my mistake, but it reminded me of all the soldiers who had passed through Ft. Wolters on the way to first World War II, and now on their way to Vietnam.  How many of these soldiers who passed through Ft. Wolters lived and how many died? How many who heard the same haunting sounds of that reveille as I did, died during their army tours?

Unfortunately, the Armistice signed on the 11^th hour of the 11^th day of the 11^th month in 1918 did not end all wars. The Americans still fighting on foreign shores need our support whether we support the wars they are fighting or not. Veteran’s Day this year on 2011 is a day set aside to honor all America's veterans for their patriotism, love of country, and willingness to serve and sacrifice for the common good. 

The original proclamation suggested that some ways to commemorate Veteran’s Day would be:

·         with thanksgiving and prayer and exercises designed to perpetuate peace   through good will and mutual understanding between nations;

·         with parades and public meetings and a brief suspension of business beginning at 11:00 a.m.;

·         with the display of the flag of the United States on all Government buildings;

·         with inviting the people of the United States to observe the day in schools and churches, or other suitable places, with appropriate ceremonies of friendly relations with all other peoples.

How each of us remembers the service of these veterans is an individual decision. How will YOU commemorate Veteran’s Day this year?

Where were you when . . .

The recent anniversary of 9/11 made many stop and pause to remember where they were when they heard the news about the Twin Towers being attacked and destroyed. It made me think of the other memorable moments in history when I was a witness and where I was when I heard the news. 

Terrorist Attacks on the NYC Twin Towers, Pentagon, etc. Sept 11, 2002 

I had just arrived at Holbrook Elementary School the morning of September 11, when a teacher came running out of her room to say that a plane had crashed into the Twin Towers in New York. It was an hour before school would start so I ran to her room and watched the drama unfold. When we realized it was a terrorist strike that involved multiple strikes, we worried what was happening to our nation. However school went on, and we tried to calm the students and not to let them dwell on the situation. School did not let out early, as I now realize many companies and universities did, as we did not want to traumatize the students. 

But as fearful as that day was, I remember looking to the prophet, President Gordon B. Hinckley for assurance, and that evening, he spoke at a previously scheduled Mormon Tabernacle concert that was turned into a memorial service. “Dark as is this hour,” said the Church President, “there is shining through the heavy overcast of fear and anger the solemn and wonderful image of the Son of God. It is to Him that we look in these circumstances.” 

In General Conference a few weeks later, in his first message, he told of the terrible sacrifices and despairs of the Saints as they were driven West, giving up everything. But there was hope in their hearts and they looked forward with hope, just as we look forward with hope. He encouraged us to look forward with hope to the challenges we were facing. I remember that the sorrow and fear I had felt since the terrorist attack lifted as I heard the prophet. I looked forward with hope again.

Space Shuttle Challenger Disaster, January 26, 1986: 

This explosion in space killing seven astronauts, including a civilian, a teacher, shocked all of us who thought our space program was infallible. I remember being in my Italian class at the University of Maryland in Vicenza, Italy, the night we heard it had happened; all of us were shocked and dismayed. We couldn’t study; we couldn’t concentrate, but none of us wanted to go home. 

We wanted to discuss what had happened and how it would change our world. Would there be more space flights? Would they shut down the shuttle program? My husband was in the military and we wondered how it would affect his career, or our situation in Italy.  

First Vietnam POWs Released, Feb. 11, 1971 

This day may have gone unnoticed by most people, but for Ed and I this was a heart-rending and never-to-be forgotten day. I remember staying up all night waiting for the flight to reach Manila in the Philippines where the prisoners walked off the plane into freedom to be examined by doctors. It was the middle of the night but I cried as we watched their names being flashed on the screen to see if we knew any of them. 

I remembered a night in 1968 while Ed was in Vietnam when I had gone to a Waiting Wives group (other women whose husbands were serving in Vietnam). I had gone in a car pool and when we dropped an Air Force pilot’s wife off at her house, there was an official US Air Force car waiting in front of her house. Her husband’s plane had gone down over North Vietnam and he would be a prisoner for years. She would eventually divorce him before he was released in 1973. 

Ed, Marlowe & me approximate 1969

Ed had a high school classmate, Larry Chesley, who had also been a Vietnam POW in North Vietnam. We both watched anxiously that night those first prisoners were released and many others prisoner releases until he was freed in 1973. I thought how easily it could have been Ed who had been captured sometime during his two tours of Vietnam. We later found out one of Ed’s flight school classmates had been a POW for years, and we have his book, as well as Larry Chesley’s book, and the one with my friend’s husband’s story.  

Man’s Walk on the Moon: July 21, 1969 

It seemed the world stood still that night about 10:00pm as we watched the TV to see Neil Armstrong step off the space module and into history. We had even let our 20-month old son stay up late to see the momentous occasion. I was 8 ½ months pregnant with my 2nd child, and I’d hoped that she would be born around the time of the walk on the moon, but she waited another six weeks to arrive. I cut out the front page of the Fort Worth newspaper and decoupaged it onto a board to save to show my children the day history changed and man no longer was earth bound.  

John F. Kennedy Assassination: Friday, Nov. 22, 1963 

It is easy to remember where I was when I heard Kennedy was assassinated—Ed and I were getting our wedding license. Actually I heard something at work at the Beneficial Life Company just as I was leaving to get my license but it was rumor and no one knew anything for sure. But by the time Ed and I got to the Salt Lake City Building, it was official and everyone had TVs and radios blaring the news—Kennedy had been shot and they thought he was dead. We got our license despite all the brouhaha and I actually got back to work, where of course no one was working, everyone was glued to the radios (no one had TVs). 

Ed was listening so intently to the radio in his car that he rear-ended the car ahead of him at a light (but didn’t do any damage). I don’t think anyone did any work, but we stayed at work the whole day. Monday was an official day of mourning so we got the day off, and I could get ready for my wedding which was on Wednesday. However, it was a very sad time. 

My wedding was overshadowed by the unexpected death of the president. People were speculating President Johnson had a hand in the assassination since it happened in his home state, and since he was rushed to be sworn in as President before he flew home with the body—all things which were false. 

Our wedding day

How history’s great events imprint themselves on our memory usually depends on how tangentially it affects our lives. Many others shared these same historical experiences, but that memories are so different, or they might not even remember the event. That is part of the joy of memory!

The Key to My Dreams

Can you wrap a dream in gift wrap and give it to someone? Can you tie up hopes in red satin bows and make them come true? The Christmas of 1961 my parents found gifts that were the key to my dreams and changed my frozen heart to one filled with optimism.

Christmas of 1961 was cold and bitter, but I seldom felt its frigid bite because my heart was enclosed in a casing of ice. It was my senior year of high school, but I had allowed one decision (to not go out for pep club) to warp my whole year. It had appeared to be a simple choice, based on the fact that I didn’t care for sports and I had responsibilities at home. However that one choice had drastically changed relations between my friends and me. Furthermore it had changed how I viewed my future.

My friends went to school early to practice for pep club. They stayed afterwards for the games and activities. I walked to school by myself, hid in the library at lunch, studied during the pep rallies and pretended that I was happy. My friends planned excitedly to go away to this or that college, while I began to question whether college for me was an impossible dream. Rather than mention my fears, I withdrew from the few activities that I still participated with my friends in, and embraced my resentment like a prickly hair shirt. When my friends filled their wish lists with luggage and clothes for their college life, I didn’t even dare make a wish list.

It was more than pep club that divided me from my friends that year, but pep club was an easy scapegoat. My older brother had left for a mission for our church which put an economic strain on our family, but my mother’s failing health spelled doom to my dreams of college. My dreams of going away to college seemed selfish and impossible.

Perhaps if I had talked about how much college meant to me it would have been different, but I couldn’t. I was terrified if I said one word about college, the bitter truths that ruled my life at home would shatter my hopes like brittle glass. It was easier to hold the pain inside, letting it freeze my hopes and distort my attitude. I became secretive and resentful. Rather than enjoying the season, I made life miserable for everyone.

When Dad offered to take me shopping, I griped that I had too much to do. When Mother asked what I wanted for Christmas, I snapped back, "Why even ask? We can’t afford anything anyway!" My younger brother and sisters quieted in my presence, fearful I’d bite their heads off as sport. Eventually most of my friends began to avoid me.

My mother knew that I was unhappy, but I obstinately refused to tell her what had blighted my life. Perhaps I felt that it would be one more heavy burden for her to carry so I refused to let on how much college meant to me. My sweet mother with her gentle smile and unselfish heart had quit high school to support her family when her father died during the Great Depression. She was very intelligent, but she had never even been able to finish high school. In some unexplainable manner, previously I felt that I needed to get an education both for myself and for her. Now that my college dreams seemed impossible, I buried my hopes beneath a surly attitude and made myself miserable. I knew no one could find the key to unlock my dreams.

That Christmas morning dawned cold and clear. I growled when the younger kids tried to entice me to see what Santa had brought because I knew that what I wanted most could not be found under a Christmas tree. But I was wrong.

Santa hadn’t left a bushel of expensive trinkets for any of us. But my parents, with perception and hope had unlocked my heart with two unique and special gifts—a small bound book of Emily Dickenson’s poetry and a vinyl soundtrack of my favorite musical, Carnival. I looked at my mother and began to cry.

“How did you know I loved Emily Dickenson?” I sobbed.

“I called all your friends until I found out what you’d been talking to them about. You’ve always wanted to be a writer, and Sharon told me that your favorite poet was Emily Dickenson. The book will be useful when you begin your English studies at college next fall. Linda told me that you loved Broadway musicals. I hope you like the one I picked out; maybe it will do until you see one on Broadway someday.”

My dad was mumbling about the gifts he wished he could have given me. He said that when he won the lottery he’d buy me bushels of Janzten sweaters. But I didn’t hear him.

Through my tear-filled eyes, I could see their vision for me. It was a vision that I hadn’t dared dream about—that my mother would not live long enough to see.

Gifts are merely symbols of what we would really like to give others. For how can you wrap love inside silver paper? How can you place a red satin bow around dreams? How can you gift someone with hope and confidence? That Christmas my mother had searched for the key to my dreams. And she had succeeded.