I Don't Dwell Upon My Dead Parents

Of course I think about my parents during the holidays.

On each Thanksgiving, I think about how hard they worked to make Thanksgiving dinner for us. Their roles were traditionally split, with my father in charge of the meat and my mother in charge of the fixin’s.

My Dad would make his stuffing (each additional year measured by the additional salt and sage he’d add as his taste buds slowly withered and died). His greasy, turkey-grimed hands would stitch up the turkey, always complaining about the lack of skin available with which to suture the cavity and hold in that bready goodness of ground turkey neck meat and giblets with sauteed onion and celery.

Mom would boil and whip potatoes, thicken the drippings with butter and flour for gravy, cook up the corn and bake the green bean casserole. Unlike father, whose cigarette would always be clamped between intense lips, she would wait for her smoke until after dinner, never complain, though always holding back a level of stress and anxiety as she hoped everything would turn out just right.

My father strove for the perfect turkey. With respect, he never achieved it. But his efforts were epic. He insisted on grilling his 20lb turkeys on the grill he himself had made, but no motorize spit could handle the weight of turning those massive carcasses. So, he found a heavy-duty motor, welded his own metal spit almost big enough to have jousted a knight, and fired up the coals.

The poultry was inevitably dry, but the endeavor made up for it.

My parents put this kind of herculean effort into each holiday—the tree and presents on Christmas, and the candy- and present-filled baskets on Easter. In many ways, they were one of my inspirations for the holiday spotlights in Fortune Falls.

But, I don’t find I mourn their passing much, and that confuses me. I see so many people mourning and missing their parents 5, 10, 15 and 20 years on. I feel like there is something wrong with me for not dwelling more on their life and death.

I also know, however, that I spent the better part of three novels resolving my loves and regrets for my parents. Anyone who has read my novels knows that parents are a key part of my novels. I suppose, in some ways, I resolved at least a fair amount of my emotions working through those storylines.

I also know that my parents raised their children to be independent and self-sustaining. I do firmly believe that my father would be hugely disappointed in my if I dwelled on his death, or my mother’s. Instead, I do my best to honor their live by living how they would have wanted me to live—to be responsible, self-sustaining, thoughtful and courteous of others, and a welcoming host to family and friends.

Each holiday season, I feel closer to my parents not because I dwell upon them, but because I have the opportunity to best reflect who they were: to be generous, loving, giving, and hard-working.

I also know I still have a long way to go to be the very best people that they were. I fear so much of this world has an even longer way to go to match the quality of my parents’ generation.