Iola, Kimball, Nebraska 2011
In the past I called Thanksgiving the time when we all gather around and watch (and hear) old people eat. It was crass, yet accurate—flippant, but honest. It’s my nature to turn the things that make me uncomfortable into a joke, a blustery and acerbic observation, and in the process give the impression that I completely miss the point. I get it, though.
This year my last grandparent standing was laid to rest. Iola Evertson, my father’s mother passed away just eight days after her second youngest grandson—a fact she will never know. I know, though. I know and remember both of them, and I can’t help but see them through the lens of all of those family holidays. We saw each other times, of course—but never so consistently together, and that, of course, is the point.
I will miss all the people who have left my world, by whatever means, this Thanksgiving. I will also, however, be thankful that they were in my life at all, and appreciate everyone who has had the ways and means to stick around—as long as they chew with their mouth closed.
