A Letter to My Son (Why We Had Your First Thanksgiving at Waffle House)
NOVEMBER 2018
A Letter to My Son on His First Thanksgiving
OR
Why We Had Thanksgiving at Waffle House
I’m watching you on the baby monitor while I write this; a fleece onesie-covered leg and one tiny foot poking out of the blanket, your chest rising and falling with the lull of sleep, completely content in the little world that surrounds you. Today was your first Thanksgiving, and nothing went like I had planned. You’ll learn soon enough that your Mama is a planner, and everything about this day was structured to create a memorable first Thanksgiving, with pictures of you in a flannel shirt and a bib that said something like “My First Thanksgiving” or “Mama’s Little Turkey.” I had bought a table runner and placemats to go with the coral dishes I had chosen, small blue mason jars holding succulent plants and a name card would stand at each person’s place, a blue vase already stood in the middle of the table ready to be filled with the sunflower arrangement I would select when I picked up the preordered holiday meal on Thanksgiving morning. I had cocktail napkins that said “Thankful” and matching dinner napkins covered in fall leaves. I practiced the table setting and stacked every plate, cup, napkin, and piece of silverware on the buffet in the dining room.
It has been a strange time for your family and this holiday was going to be hard on us all for different reasons. Our family traditionally gathered at your Nana’s house in Mississippi, but this year there was too much heartbreak and separation, and we were in Phoenix, so far away from trying to rally anyone together to make it seem like it always had. So, we had invited your grandmothers and your Aunt Jessie to be with us here in Arizona. We would start a new tradition, and it was going to be fun, dammit. I was determined. I had spent what felt like a whole paycheck and ordered the full meal from Whole Foods: a roasted turkey, cranberry salad, cornbread dressing, creamed potatoes and gravy, macaroni and cheese, dinner rolls, and a pumpkin pie. The only things I was going to make with my own two hands were a sweet potato casserole for you and a chocolate pie for your daddy. I knew how to make neither, but I wanted to make each of you your favorite desserts on our first big holiday as a family of three. Guest rooms were ready, the house was clean, everything was organized and planned just so. All of a sudden it was Tuesday and your CiCi (my mom) was set to touch down at 8:30, and your GiGi and Aunt Jessie (your dad’s mom and sister) were scheduled for the 11:30 flight.
But then CiCi came down with some kind of seasonal flu-like sickness, and Aunt Jessie wasn’t able to get on the plane from Nashville – she too had come down with something the day of the flight. GiGi somehow escaped the country-wide sickness and boarded her plane, arriving in Phoenix that night.
The next morning, I found myself in the dining room, staring at the dishes and décor I had stationed, ready to create a perfect Thanksgiving table, one that would certainly photograph well for a ‘Happy Thanksgiving’ social media post. I looked at the napkins that said “Thankful’ and at a little sign that said, “Gather here with grateful hearts.” Then I thought about all the food we had ordered, enough food to feed for Thanksgiving lunch and several rounds of leftovers over the next two days, even enough I knew that I would shamefully end up throwing some of it away. I turned to go back into the kitchen, and there you were: playing on the floor with stacking cups. You looked up and saw me then, and you grinned the widest smile, proudly displaying your three new teeth, pulling yourself up on the cabinet to stand and then taking a few steps towards me before plopping back on the floor. You crawled the rest of the way to me and threw your arms around my neck when I bent down. You smelled like baby shampoo and the cinnamon oatmeal you had eaten for breakfast. I was hit with an overwhelming need to make everything beautiful for you, to create a world of good things and good deeds, to make things better. Holding you close, over your shoulder, I looked at the dining room table, the napkins that said ‘thankful.’
After you were asleep, I Googled ‘homeless shelter near me,’ and called the first number on the list. A recording attempted to direct me to the right extension, and I sat down listening to the options, thinking about how I could be making a very different kind of call to this same number tonight, looking for shelter for our family if there was nowhere else to go. Thanksgiving dinner would be the last thing on my mind, and I felt silly at all of the planning I had put into one meal. One silly meal. I reached someone on the phone and explained that we had quite a bit of food and not as many guests as expected, and could we bring the food to the shelter on Thanksgiving Day? Was there someone who needed it there? The woman on the phone said it couldn’t have been better timing, that everyone at the shelter had been donated a meal from a local food bank…all except one family who had just come into the shelter that evening. A couple and two young children. They would have nothing special to eat for Thanksgiving without our food. I told your Daddy and GiGi my hopeful plan, and we agreed that this was a better way for the food to be enjoyed.
It’s been a while since we’ve lived in a big city, and I guess I thought that preordering food meant that we could whip into Whole Foods, someone would load the dinner into the back of the car, and we would be on our way. Everything was paid, and we were ready to go, or so I thought. Everyone else had devised the same plan obviously, and I found myself trudging through a two-hour line to pick up the preordered food while you slept in your car seat in the car with Daddy and GiGi. The line moved slowly, winding through the produce section, inching so slowly. Nat King Cole’s calming timber wasn’t working its magic on everyone in the line, and I felt for the Whole Food’s employees, each one most likely wishing he had put in a time off request sooner than the coworkers who did. Your Daddy joined me to wait, and we tried to guess what everyone’s story around us was on this Thanksgiving Day. No one looked happy, and after an hour I laughed to myself. We were probably the only ones waiting in this line to pick up food that we would never eat. Giving wasn’t going to be easy this year, but I was determined that it was going to be worth it.
The food was finally loaded, and I tucked the ‘Thankful’ napkins I had bought into the bag with the meal. We drove farther into the city, passed buildings that were boarded and sidewalks littered with garbage. We found the shelter and parked. Several residents were doing laundry in the room by the main office, a few children were playing in the parking lot. The shelter director met me outside and I handed her the box of food; she wished me a happy Thanksgiving and I turned to walk back to the car. I glanced at the shelter windows, with their broken blinds. The children playing in the parking lot were quiet, watching me. I smiled and gave a little wave. They smiled back, a little wave.
We didn’t talk as we drove away, the only sounds were ‘Jingle Bells’ on the radio and you, slapping your hand on the cover of your favorite book, ‘We’re Going on a Bear Hunt.” We drove for a while until someone spotted a Cracker Barrell and GiGi went in to find out about the wait for a table. The word came back: two hours. We called around to several other places and heard similar news. We drove towards home and I saw a Waffle House sign, with very few cars in the parking lot. Inside was bustling with the clank of dishes, the calling out of orders, the sizzle of sausage on the griddle, the smell of waffles and butter thick in the air. We took an empty table and put in our order, and I put two dollars in the juke box, choosing Bing Crosby’s White Christmas to lead the play. We all ordered breakfast and you laughed loudly from your high chair, squealing with delight at the hubbub of the restaurant and smiling broadly at anyone whose eye you could catch. Wilder, your first Thanksgiving was the All-Star Special at Waffle House. And it was delicious.
But I still wished there was something more for you on this day.
When we got home, I busied myself in the kitchen attempting to make both the sweet potato and chocolate pies, and a couple hours later, we all spooned up pieces of the non-photogenic versions of these classic dishes, pretending that they tasted like they were supposed to, mouthfuls of sweet gooey goo. But you didn’t mind, and you clapped your hands together, laughing, enjoying it so much that it made my heart ache.
I wanted you to have the perfect first Thanksgiving, with a roasted turkey and too many sides, sitting at a table that could have been a spread for a Real Simple cover shoot, everyone going around the table to say for what we were most thankful, everyone smiling toward someone’s phone for a group picture that I could post with a cheerful holiday greeting. But looking at your smiling face, it hit me that to you, this was the perfect Thanksgiving. And one day, I’ll tell you that you celebrated this holiday by giving away every piece of Thanksgiving food that you had, to someone who needed it more. And later that night, when i rocked you to sleep, you smelled like cinnamon and sweet potato pie, and I had everything I could ever need to be truly thankful.
Happy Thanksgiving, friends. May you hold close to the ones you love and love them with all of your heart this holiday.
