Sometimes the best thanks are those we feel for the simple, tender mercies that we are blessed with in our day-to-day lives.
I have a rule in my house. My wife and kids think I’m some kind of Thanksgiving Nazi, but RULES ARE RULES and THANKSGIVING COMES BEFORE CHRISTMAS! I love Thanksgiving. I don’t DO Christmas music until tomorrow. Black Friday for me is less about shopping and more about OK-you-can-turn-on-the-Christmas-music. But for some reason, the Costcovites and Walmartians believe that it is OK to by-pass Thanksgiving and skip RIGHT TO CHRISTMAS. How is it that in September in Las Vegas (temperature: 92° F) the aisles of seemingly every store in the valley are filled with lights and ornaments, fake trees and stockings?
Drives. Me. Nuts.
Before I wake up Friday morning, I want Thanksgiving. I love it. I love the turkey and the stuffing and (especially) the sweet potatoes. Pumpkin pie? I’m all over that. Homemade rolls? Yes, have some. Turkey Bowl (or Turkey Trot, this year)? I’m in. Eating too much and watching football on TV and just enjoying time with family? There’s nothing better. It’s my favorite holiday, bar none.
This year, for the first time in my married life, I found myself at my in-laws’ home for Thanksgiving. Truthfully, it’s the first time in my entire life, married or otherwise, that I’ve been to their home for Thanksgiving, having not come to their home BEFORE I knew their daughter either. We’ve done Christmas several times, and we’ve done summer, and even some other times of the year when the kids were on year-round school and had track breaks, but I’ve never been here for Thanksgiving. It’s a first.
The careful reader will recall that the last time I visited my in-laws, some eleven months ago, I had a WONDERFUL time with DELTA (Don’t Even Leave The Airport). The non-careful reader can get up to speed by reading that story here. You would think that I would learn from my past mistakes, but you’d be wrong. In my own defense, I offer the following: (i) I was the proud owner of several vouchers because of the 2015 debacle; (ii) my wife is loyal to a fault to certain brands, and DELTA (Don’t Even Leave The Airport) is on that list; (iii) my DELTA (Don’t Even Leave The Airport) American Express permits me to bring my suitcase with me when I fly WITHOUT an additional fee (how nice); and (iv) I already have the DELTA (Don’t Even Leave The Airport) App on my phone, and who really wants the headache of downloading another airline’s app? Hence, we flew DELTA (Don’t Even Leave The Airport) again.
Checking in for our flight was mostly painless (see item (iv) in the immediately preceding paragraph). Getting up at 4 in the morning to get to the airport on time was mostly painful. The airport, well, it was a near-disaster. DELTA (Don’t Even Leave The Airport), apparently in a criminal conspiracy with McCarran International Airport, had decided that RIGHT NOW was a good time to completely overhaul the ticketing area, so there was construction everywhere. DELTA (Don’t Even Leave The Airport) also decided that it was NOT a good time to overstaff for holiday traffic. Oh, and EVERYONE AND THEIR BROTHER decided that Saturday morning was the perfect time to fly DELTA (Don’t Even Leave The Airport).
The ticketing line, which was also (conveniently) the line to drop your bags if you’d pre-checked-in, wrapped through approximately three-quarters of a mile of Disneyland-esque switchbacks, wrapped around the elevator and escalator, along the wall of the airport another half-mile to the outside door.[1] There were people EVERYWHERE. There was a DELTA (Don’t Even Leave The Airport) employee who dutifully explained to us that THIS was the line for checking baggage, international flights, domestic flights, it-doesn’t-matter-what-flight-you’d-better-just-stand-in-this-line flights, but we could, if we wanted to, try curbside check-in. Of course, DELTA (Don’t Even Leave The Airport) had exactly two (2) employees at the curbside check-in, and the line extended all the way up the sidewalk. Da*ned if you do, da*ned if you don’t.
[1]All measurements are approximations made under the influence of very little sleep and a healthy dose of irritation.
Oh, and then there were the signs: “BAGGAGE MUST BE CHECKED 45 MINUTES BEFORE YOUR FLIGHT.” We were not going to make this flight. Not. A. Chance.
But we stood in line because that's what good American travelers do, shuffling forward eighteen inches at a time with each person that moved up in line, sliding our bags alongside us. After twenty-five minutes, we still hadn’t reached the Disneyland-esque switchbacks, and the minutes were ticking away. We were not going to make this flight. We were essentially doomed to be stuck living in the airport, waiting for another family of saps that didn’t show up on time to miss their flight so we could take their seats.
Clorinda had wandered off [note to self: consider getting one of those baby leashes to keep her close by in public places] and was talking to a DELTA (Don’t Even Leave The Airport) employee. Clorinda had entertained the idea of trying for the FBI after she’d graduated from college, and she displayed some outstanding interrogation skills in breaking the DELTA (Don’t Even Leave The Airport) employee’s will. Or at least getting her to tell us that we could take our luggage to the gate and they would check it there, AS LONG AS THERE WAS NO LIQUID IN THE BAGS!! This requirement is of vital importance, because although my daughter’s bottle of conditioner COULD NOT be used to blow up a plane if it the luggage was checked directly through DELTA (Don’t Even Leave The Airport), we were certainly putting EVERY OTHER TRAVELER in MORTAL DANGER by bringing it through TSA and then checking it at the gate.
That meant that one of us had to run those half-empty bottles back to the car. Being the fattest and slowest, I was unanimously voted by the other two to be the runner. Nike! Nike! Nike!
Somehow I made it, and then huffing and sweating like a pig, I pushed my way through TSA with my suitcase and my carry-on. Kathryn and I stood several spots in line behind a young mother who was more intersted in taking selfies with her baby than in getting her 23[2] pieces of baby-luggage through TSA, but we finally got through and ran (me sans-shoes) to catch the tram out to the D-Gates. At the gate they took our luggage, gave us a little slip of paper to prove we’d actually checked our bags, and on to the plane we went.
[2]See note [1], supra.
I wish I could say it was all good from there, but, hmm, actually, it was all good from there. Everything DELTA (Don’t Even Leave The Airport) did after 7:30 AM was on point. Well done DELTA (Don’t Even Leave The Airport)! It’s moments like that endear you to my wife. And it’s understanding that makes it possible for people like [me] to tolerate a [company] like yourself.
OK, that’s enough rant. This wasn’t supposed to be a rant entry. (Although that could be a great compound word: “rantentry [rant’-uhn-tree]: to enter or record extravagantly or in a wild or vehement way in a blog, book, register, list, etc.” Get Webster’s on the line pronto.)
Our time here has been great. Clorinda’s dad picked us up at the airport. They tell me that it was 70 degrees and sunny on Saturday morning, but by the time we arrived it was 40 and dropping some form of semi-frozen water from the sky. Good thing I’d come prepared with my best Las Vegas winter-wear: a hoodie. We got to their house and enjoyed a wonderful dinner courtesy of Clorinda’s mom. Sometime after midnight Clorinda’s sister and her husband, with their five kiddos in tow, arrived from St. Louis. (Funny moment: my nephew walked in, looked right at me and said, “Hi grandma!” Either my efforts to get in touch with my feminine side are working, or his grandma has really let herself go.)
 |
| Clorinda and Kathryn outside of Clayton's dorm. |
 |
| Selfie (threefie?) right after the mens basketball game. |
Clayton took us to his favorite place—a true college-town sports bar. There are three colleges between Buena Vista and Lexington, so there were a ton of young people around. We ordered our food, including an order of wings as an appetizer that were, in all honesty, the best I’ve ever had. Clayton had homework, so we took him back to his room and we went and crashed at the hotel.
<side_rantentry>I appreciate hotels that offer a continental breakfast. It’s convenient and I can usually cobble together a decently healthy meal out of the options. The Best Western had the standard accoutrements: bagels, oatmeal, a waffle iron, fruit, milk, juice, etc., as well as the hot foods. I grabbed some fruit, bacon, and a cheese omelet. The fruit was good, the bacon, while crispier than I prefer, was bacon, and then the omelet. The first bite caused me to believe that they might filming an episode of Chopped in the hotel kitchen. Or Fear Factor. The filling would best be described as (and this is a technical term) cold, curdled goop. I opened the omelet and was presented with a sizeable schmear of (cold) Cheez Whiz. And by “sizeable schmear” I mean there was more Cheeze Whiz than any normal human should eat in one sitting.
I tried. Really I did. But I could not finish the second omelet. JUST KIDDING! I didn’t go back for seconds. Are you kidding? I couldn’t even get the first one down.<\side_rantentry>
The highlight of Tuesday, and one of the absolute highlights of the trip, was the opportunity to ordain Clayton as an Elder. He had called me a few weeks ago excited to tell me that his Bishop had interviewed him and was recommending him for ordination. [For you non-Mormon-ites, the LDS church has a lay ministry and men are ordained to the priesthood and covenant to serve others through their lives. All members have opportunity to make further priesthood covenants with the Lord in LDS temples. It’s kind of a big deal.] Clayton had invited his coach to come and we were there with a member of the Stake Presidency, so it was just a small group. President Clark told us all about his interview with Clayton and how impressed he was by Clayton’s understanding of the oath and covenant he would be making. It was a distinct honor to pronounce a blessing on Clayton.
We headed back up to Pennsylvania later that evening. Clorinda’s brother and sister-in-law, with their four youngsters, came Wednesday. In all there were 19 people (five of whom were age 7 or under) in the house. It was a little bit crazy, but it was great to have them all here. Clorinda’s brother and family live in New York, and her sister’s family are in St. Louis, so we don’t get to see either family very often. (That’s not all of her family mind you. In addition to New York and Missouri, she has siblings living in Texas, Washington, New Mexico, Utah, and Las Vegas. We get to see her brother in Las Vegas pretty regularly, but not the rest of them. That may be by design (theirs, I mean—I’m not the easiest person to hang out with).) It was fun to have all those little kids. And the older ones, too. I particularly enjoyed watching Kathryn win the shy ones over. I even got in on the fun with them.
 |
| Kathryn and her cousins. |
We were able to Turkey Trot on Thursday with our kids and the older niece and nephews. Truth be told, I was more hobbling than trotting, so Clorinda, her mother, and I just walked it. Clorinda’s nephew took 2nd place in his age group. He thought he was winning only to discover that a kid that looked older and finished just a few seconds before him was actually 16. Augh! There was some cross-over on the course so we got to cheer for Ethan as he was almost finishing before we had made the first ½ mile. Clayton ran well (he had to run one as assigned conditioning) and Kathryn even ran. I did NOT come in last place, although I was neck-and-neck with a senior-citizen pushing his wife in a wheelchair and a woman on crutches. There were some toddlers that had been involuntarily signed up by their parents that gave up halfway through, and I think I beat them.
 |
| Kathryn found a pineapple on the turkey trot. |
I cannot say enough good about Thanksgiving dinner. My mother-in-law went all out and we had everything I could have asked for. The food was great, the company was wonderful (if loud), and we just enjoyed each other’s company.
 |
| The whole crew. |
 |
| My beautiful dinner date. |
 |
| Clayton and his cousins. |
But I couldn’t shake this feeling of melancholy that had settled in around me. It didn’t feel like Thanksgiving should feel.
Marien left on a mission in June. It’s been five months since we’ve been able to speak to her, and although we get weekly emails, we won’t get to talk to her until Christmas day. I was missing Marien something fierce. My favorite part of Thanksgiving is spending it with my family, and a full one-fifth of my family was not here. Worse yet, Clayton’s campus is less than 150 miles from where she is presently serving, so at one point I was just a couple hours from where she was. THAT was a hard thing for an old man. It was bringing me down.
It’s times like that when the Lord reminds you that he knows who you are. Right after our dinner, while watching a little football on TV, my phone buzzed and there was a text from some random North Carolina phone. Attached to it was a picture of my favorite missionary and her companion smiling ear to ear as they enjoyed Thanksgiving pie. It was truly a tender mercy for a dad that was missing his daughter. (I am such a softie.)
 |
| Sister Fontano and Sister Hirsche living the dream. |
I am grateful for all of the tender mercies I’ve experienced this week. For Clorinda, who got us tickets through DELTA (Don’t Even Leave The Airport) and then tricked the DELTA (Don’t Even Leave The Airport) employee into telling us how we could actually make our flight on time. For Clayton, who has been adulting at SVU, living on his own, passing his classes, and playing volleyball, and who gave me the opportunity to ordain him as an Elder. For Kathryn, who has entertained her little cousins endlessly through this trip, causing eruptions of laughter and joy from 2-year olds that sometimes act like 2-year olds, and who got out and ran that Turkey Trot. For Marien, who is serving the people of North Carolina and serving the Savior, and for a random person I’ve never met who sent me her picture on a lonely (as lonely as a dad can be surrounded by extended family) Thanksgiving evening. For a mother- and father-in-law that gave us a room to sleep in, warm meals all week long, and who are shining examples of love and generosity. For brothers- and sisters-in-law, nieces and nephews that filled the house with enough laughter and tears, games, stories, gymnastics, jokes, and smiles to last until the next time we can see them, and for a brother-in-law that treated my family to a movie and drinks from the snack bar (giggle-shots, HAH!). There is so much to be thankful for if we just slow down and look for it.
Maybe that’s why it’s my favorite holiday.
No comments:
Post a Comment